If ever there was such a walking disaster, always as close to tears as smiles, teetering along on her tiny shoes with her too-heavy handbag and threatening-to-smudge mascara, hair coming unpinned as it sees fit to escape, not paying attention while claiming to have everything covered, organized but unsure, it might be me.
I have a burn from touching the vent pipe on the stove while the oven hummed along at 700 degrees, cleaning itself. I have a blood blister on the other hand from forgetting to move my fingers when I fastened a latch yesterday afternoon and I'm surprised I still have any eyebrows after tonight's fiasco, which included opening the valve on the barbecue, turning on the burners, closing the lid and walking away only to take three steps and remember, so back I went, flipped open the lid and hit the ON button.
Oh, dear. With a whoosh of a fireball I had my comeuppance in flames.
Even more surprising?
That I'm not DEAD because I'm currently covered with paint thinner residue, from an earlier experiment today involving oil-based wood stain and a decided lack of a plan to clean up afterward, until I was up to my elbows in brown paint, forced to make an emergency trip to the hardware store, cash in hand, hands in gloves.
Because no one was home, and because clearly when left unsupervised I get into trouble.
On the other hand, dinner is delicious and the verandah is done. Both amazing. The boys were equally horrified and impressed. I am nothing if not completely remarkable.
And happy to be alive, in my normal shade of palest alabaster, and just barely singed and so very glad Monday is just about over.
