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?).
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? 🙂
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.
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.
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,