I plopped down on the sofa, which is really a love-seat, and not nearly long enough for an adult to sleep on, but I do, because I have a very nice bed that is also exceedingly uncomfortable and puts knots in my back. I pulled open a book that claimed to spoof the coming of the new millennium and began to read, when I reached up to turn the page and saw that I had some white goo on my thumb. Surmising that it came off my shirt, I thought back. What could this be?
Immediately, I knew. It was lotion. I had dripped it there while getting ready for bed the night before. So I rubbed it into the palms of my hands, as they were in need of some softening, and thought about how fortunate I was to have some lotion without being awakened by aggravating thoughts of how dry my hands were and how much I couldn’t afford to let my skin get any older than it was. 
But a nanosecond later, I realized that my palms were sticky, and then my mind flashed to that cinnamon roll I had yesterday morning, and I recalled that my Great Aunt Candace was a proper Southern belle and had corrected me once when I said "cinnamon roll." That is nowt a cin’mon rowl, that’s a stickay buyn," she drawled. Regardless, it was icing, not lotion, and I had to get up anyway, just to wash my hands.
