When things don’t go according to plan

Yesterday was Wednesday.

Big things that have happened this week: the Oklahoma tragic tornado, the passing of a friend’s family members.

And yesterday was Wednesday…when I normally write about clothing.

I was going to be so productive.

I was going to accomplish things and write posts and go to the funeral parlor and clean the house and practice yoga and learn to speak Spanish and make food for a full party on Friday.

I went to work, got off and drove across town to the funeral parlor when I chatted and looked at pictures and learned about a woman’s packed-solid life experience.

I found out later that my blouse, which hooked in the back, had become unhooked. That explains my my blouse felt so low-cut, eh? Oh, gosh. Welcome to my state, out-of-town family members.

I also probably said the wrong things (“Thanks for coming,” my mom’s friend says. “No, thank you!” I say which is the kind of thing one says at a party…but not so much a funeral. Thanks for hosting a funeral? Geez, social graces. Where are you when I need you?).

Navy blouse. Green sweater. Green scarf, Plaid pants. No idea what the evening has in store.
Navy blouse. Green sweater. Green scarf, Plaid pants. No idea what the evening has in store.

When I left the parlor, it was overcast and drippy–perfect for photos I needed. I’m working on a project for a friend.

Wanna see some photos? 🙂

That Old Rugged Cross.
That Old Rugged Cross.

I just like the framing.
I just like the framing.

Pieta
Pieta

So then I come home and do my laundry.

Then I decide to clean Kiwi’s cage, so I scoop up her little butt and am about to take the wood chips out to the trash when the rain started pouring down.

No matter, right? It was a light storm, slated to end within minutes, so I set Kiwi under the couch (she likes to run under the couch) and began loading the semi-loaded dishwasher.

My mom comes in from an evening walk and I say, “Where’s the soap?”

She says, “There’s one left, under the sink.”

So I pick it up and go to shut the dishwasher door.

Now, unbeknownst to me, the rotating blade of a slicer thing has been left exposed.

I promptly slice my right-hand middle finger right on the knuckle.

Dang it.

So then I make my mom get the First Aid kit (“It’s on the piano bench!”) and she takes me to ER (Doctor: “If it was anywhere but the knuckle I wouldn’t stitch it”
Me: “If it was anywhere but the knuckle I wouldn’t ask”).
Two stitches and an hour later I walk out of the ER and remark, “I hope my guinea pig is OK.”

And she was. She was hanging out like a little goober in her favorite out-of-boundary location: under Josh’s bed, which is a hot spot of discarded, soft clothing.

Kiwi the pig.
Kiwi the pig.

What I’m saying is: I’m fine, my finger’s fine, the guinea pig is fine.

It just didn’t go according to plan.

Typing “i’s” with substitute fingers,
Nell

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