The official winner of the St. Patrick's Day Giveaway (according to a random number generator) is Katie Did. Congratulations! There wasn't an email attached to the comment so if that is you please email me at LaurenRaeGallagher@gmail.com to go about claiming your prize.
Good luck next time to everyone else!
Anyway, today I would love to tell you a hilarious story of St. Patrick's Day in the Gallagher house but honestly it was boring. Ryan went to the NCAA games on Saturday and I stayed home and organized my office/library and then on Sunday I just made a traditional Irish Dinner and then we drank a couple of Black and Tans and fell asleep. So...no adventures to speak of.
Unless you count alphabetizing all of my books as an adventure.
|Part of My Library|
It was sort of raining in Chicago and when that happens my dogs refuse to trot along into the front yard and use the facilities. So I have to bundle myself up and slap a leash on them and drag them across the street where they usually huddle in grass and look miserable whilst I say things like, "It's just a tiny bit of water, not the end of the world DAISY." and "Oh dear lord I hate the rain, if I was a dog I would totally refuse to go outside when it was raining."
So this particular day I belted myself into my coat* grabbed my gloves and the leashes and stomped barefoot out onto the front porch. Not, as you probably guessed because I forgot about how shoes work, but because the front porch is where I keep my Ugg boots. I only use these boots for taking out the trash or taking out the dogs. They are beat-up and gross and I don't like to have them in my sparklingly clean (you keep your mouth shut RYAN) house so outside they remain.
*Sidenote: The belt on my coat is very tricky in that one has to be adept at both belts and tying knots to properly seal the coat. So sometimes I ask Ryan to do it for me, which he does grudgingly. One time one of his friends called to see if we were coming to brunch and Ryan was all, "Yeah I'm coming, I just need to strap Lauren into her coat first." It was not hysterical.
I pick up the first boot and as is my custom, jam my hand into it to make sure there are no snakes or spiders hiding in the toe (in retrospect a flawed practice.) All I feel is fuzz so onto my foot it goes.
I pick up the second boot and do the same. Except this time my hand comes into contact with something. At first I am like, OH that is where my one sock went the other day (the day when Ryan came home from work and I was only wearing one sock and he was like, why are you only wearing one sock? and I was like, Huh.) So I start to grab the thing to pull it out but it starts to squirm and my whole world goes still. As if in a trance I draw my hand out of the boot, place it back down on the porch and go back inside where I start jumping up and down and crying and squeaking like a mouse in a boot.
Eventually I calm somewhat down and retreat back upstairs, where I wash my hands countless times and drink juice straight out of the carton because I've been traumatized. Ryan gets home about half an hour later and I tell him the dogs need to go outside. "Ok......." he says and looks at me all oddly and then gingerly approaches me and gently rubs my arm like I am some sort of priceless objet d'art and I am like "WHAT Ryan?"
"It's just that you're standing in the middle of the kitchen drinking orange juice out of the carton, which you only do when you are traumatized, and also you are only wearing one boot."
So I told him the story about how I TOUCHED A MOUSE and he thought it was hysterical obviously because of how he always thinks things that are not in fact hysterical are hysterical. And he laughed and laughed while I stood in the kitchen glaring at him and tapping my boot.
"Are you just about finished?" I finally ask.
"How do you know it wasn't a rat?"
And then I took me and my orange juice off to the shower where I let the hot water run over me and comforted myself with the fact that I have delicate lady feet and a rat probably could not fit in my boot and that at least the mouse was keeping warm.
Just in case it had been a rat though, I made a small sign and attached it to the boot that was still on the porch. And then over the course of the night as Ryan came up with increasingly horrific ideas as to what I had touched, I made other signs.
Here is my boot today:
There was another sign that said "This is also not birdhouse, No Bats AND No Robins!" but I guess the elements took it. Or an ironic bird used it to feather its nest.
So that is my tragic tale.
Now I must go, I have to research buying one of those tiny cameras doctors thread into bodies to help diagnose and treat diseases. So that I can thread it into my shoes to look for wildlife, obviously.