Living With My Mouth Full

Last night the phone rang when I was on my seventh Cheeto. I know it was the seventh one because I always measure out portions on a plate, which in the case of Cheetos is thirteen.
You might think that there are thirteen pieces in a portion of Cheetos because that equals one ounce, but in fact, thirteen is the number of those salty chunks of delight that it takes to build a paste dam between your back molars and cheeks, effectively plugging up all production of the salivary glands. After thirteen Cheetos, it is necessary to scape the inside of the mouth. It is usually necessary to remove the initial blockage with the forefinger which is another reason that this is an inelegant snack that can only be enjoyed at home alone.
So last night when the phone rang I was about half way through a portion. At that stage, they still crunch into dust when you bite down, but are beginning to mix into a paste. Since the era of cell phones, we don't get many calls on the land line, so when it rings there is certainly a surprise on the other end of the line. I dashed across the room as the second ring ended, trying to swallow at the same time knowing that I could not succeed.
As the third ring began, I gave up and answered with a muffled 'hello.' It was a friend from a political club that I belong to, and he needed information. I tried to unglue my jaws enough to explain my mouth was full, which was an unnecessary explanation, so he tried to keep up the conversation on his own although I was the one who had the answers.
So now, no matter what, I will never again answer the phone while eating Cheetos, but why is it that the best snack food in the world would be just as useful to plaster the wall with? An orange wall, but that is a different subject.

Nancy Sherer