Thing I did not expect to be doing this evening:

Cleaning egg off of the ceiling fan.

I'll save you a lot of time, in case you were thinking of experimenting:

If you leave eggs to boil and don't come back for an hour, they will look like this.

I left mine for what I thought would be ten minutes, got caught up on the computer (damn you, Virtual Villagers II!) and very shortly — or not, as the case was — thereafter, heard some odd shifting noises. At first I figured the dishes in the drying rack were settling, which happens.

And then I heard a distinctly non-dish noise. An … wait for it … eggsplosion. It really was a popping sound, and I thought, crap, someone's in the apartment. But what I learned was that the dog seems to know when it's a people noise versus a thing noise, and she could give a crap about thing noises, unless they're immediately next to her. She didn't move a hair. So I got up to investigate and remembered the eggs.

I remembered them mainly from the charcoal smell, more than anything
else, and then I saw that several eggs (there were eight initially) had
just gone kerfluey.

Some egg got on the window, some on the ceiling.
And some on the ceiling fan. To say nothing of the floor, the stove,
the countertop.

The ones I could save, I did; a little blackened shell gives them a, well, Cajun appeal. Or not. Anyway, I hate wasting food.

I feel like karma is working against me; had I been on that Delta flight I'd have been in Austin, not cooking eggs. And not bashing my left second-to-smallest toe in vaulting over the dog gate. That hurt like a mother this morning, and now the toe — which flexes and otherwise doesn't seem broken — is several nasty shades of brown and purple.

The good thing to come out of the eggsplosion? Well, there are two.

No. 1
I had this thought process going (because this egg thing has happened before, just not nearly so spectacularly):

Gosh, I should remember when I put the eggs in better.
Gee, I should watch the clock.
If only I had a timer.
Oh, right, a kitchen timer!
No, you moron: An egg timer.

This thought process is similar to the one I had in finally connecting the long-uttered phrase of my youth "this house is like Grand Central Station!" with the actual locale which was, in fact, as busy as Grand Central Station (or Terminal, for literalists).

And No. 2
The leftover egg yolks went directly into my organic, four-legged disposal. So the dog was happy.