Tag Archives: Accidents

My Morning So Far

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6:30 A.M.  While the pooches were still sleeping, I got up and went out to clear the night’s cache of blown leaves and petals from the pool, then did my hour of exercises.  8:00 A.M. I took this photo of my chimney stack reflected in the water on the top of my hot tub pool cover, then thankfully placed my camera/phone on a nearby chair before attempting to climb down into the hot tub.  Slipped on algae I had somehow missed cleaning from the pool stairs and fell, landing with my head in the hot tub, one leg in the pool, one on the bench in the hot tub, twisting and gashing and spraining my left ankle. Thank God I didn’t hit my head!  9:35, sitting at my desk with my leg up on a bench, icing down the ankle, whose swelling has gone down remarkably, milking the Internet for sympathy.  Perils of living alone. Glad it turned out as well as it did. Not broken. I can still walk on it. Just bruised and swollen and muscle-sore.

Delusions of Athleticism

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Delusions of Athleticism

Since I’m loyal by habit, it’s hard to explain
my quick burst of laughter in spite of the pain
you must have experienced in your hard fall
as you reached your foot out to kick back the ball
that had escaped the children at play,
rolling out of the street and into your way. 
but my dear, you aren’t known for athletic ability—
your speed or your aim or your grace or stability.
Yet again, please excuse my unrestrained snicker
making light of your dreams of being a kicker.

Word prompts today are again, excuse, laughter, loyal  and habit. Image by Afa Ah Loo on Unspash, used with permission.

Three Stories Miraculously Bonded into One

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Click on the first photo to enlarge all photos and read the captions.  You must do this first to reveal the mystery.  What do all of these things have in common? Can you guess before reading the complete story printed after the photos and captions? Do you even want to?

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A broken jar of fingernail polish
Air freshener and special cat odor cleanser and a bottle of nail polish. What can they possibly have in common?
A just cleaned kitty litter box,
more Brussels sprouts,
a pristine bathroom floor,
a “saved” new rug,

Annie just peed in my shower––I mean a man-sized stream that arced up from where she was standing on the floor in front of the shower, over the 6 inch ledge and into the shower, where  it ran from a couple of feet away right down the drain. I shouted, “No, no,” but she finished and ran away. Then I remembered that I’d cleaned out her box this morning in the location where it is located in the  guest room shower and had to empty all the sand and wash out the box and under it because there was pee all over the shower floor, probably because all the cats were in yesterday and had used it and it was not pleasant to enter, so she just peed in the shower, or they did.

Anyway, I had sprayed ammonia over all the floor and box, scrubbed them both and then sprayed again with an odor eradicator and stood the box on end to dry while the shower floor dried. Then I closed the door so she didn’t go in there while it was drying. Unfortunately, I then left to drive Yolanda home, do a bit of shopping and stop by the fraccionamiento office to see if I’d paid my special assessment. I then stopped by a couple of neighbor’s houses to apologize for Diego’s barking while I was gone–another story–forgetting that I hadn’t opened the door to her guest room bathroom and set up her litter box again, so she had nowhere to pee. She did it in the easiest place to clean. Good girl.
Phew. Telling about it took as much effort as doing the two cleanups, but now the plot thickens.

Yesterday I knocked a bottle of dark rose-colored nail polish off the counter of my master bedroom bathroom and it dropped and broke on the eggshell-colored ceramic tile of my bathroom, spraying across 8 feet of floor, over the new rug I had just bought in the states, and a bit up the wall. Rapidly drying pools of bright polish and splatters mixed in with shards of glass and tiny pieces of glass made passing through the bathroom to the tub nearly impossible! Damn! How to clean it up without walking through it and cutting my fingers to shreds? I ended up wadding Kleenex and toilet paper and picking up what shards were big enough to see, then used nail polish remover pads to tackle the polish, removing big gobs with Kleenex, then carefully scrubbing with the pads. When I ran out of pads, I put polish remover on wads of Kleenex, but it was a big job.

When I had cleared away most of the bigger puddles and largest shards and removed most of the polish off the wall and rug, I had just the decorative splashes left—about 3 feet of them—it occurred to me then that the first thing forgottenman would say when I told him the story was, “Did you take pictures?” No, I hadn’t. So, now that most of the mess was already cleaned up,  I did.  Secondly, it occurred to me that I should just pour the rest of the bottle of polish remover over the floor and use my foot in my Croc to rub Kleenex over them. I wouldn’t have to worry about glass and could apply more pressure. I finally got it all up and then put more remover down and rubbed over larger areas to remove the stain, as that porous area now sported an overall  pinkish glow.

Finally, coming up to the present and Annie’s peeing in the shower, when I was mopping up her urine with toilet paper so I could flush it, I found a pretty good sized clear shard of glass from the top part of the jar which had no polish on it to make it obvious, jagged end facing up, in the shower just where I would have stepped when I took my next shower. It had flown up and over the edge and into the shower when the nail polish bottle broke! Good Annie! Her foresight (or hindsight?) in peeing in my shower probably saved me a serious injury.

But! Did I really say finally? As I was writing this post, the plot thickened again. Just before I started writing this post and taking the photos to accompany it, I had put a small pan of Brussels sprouts on to steam. Since there were only seven largish sprouts, I used a steamer basket in a small covered saucepan with water up to the bottom of the steamer bottom.  I had cut the tops of each sprout almost through to the bottom in an X pattern, and as I sprinkled them with “No Salt,” pepper, garlic powder and a bit of balsamic vinegar, I was remembering the last Brussels sprouts I’d had when I first got to Sheridan two months ago.  They were served as an appetizer in a restaurant and since both my sister and Jim, her husband, hate them, it was up to my friend Patty, her boyfriend Duffy and me to polish off the whole batch.  That was no problem.  They were delicious—piquant and a bit charred with a wonderful smoky flavor.  I was wondering how I could duplicate that recipe.  Would I steam them first, then char them? What were the spices? For years I’d been using a friend’s recipe which I loved but I liked these even better.

At any rate, the present day Brussels sprouts went on the gas stovetop to steam and I went to the bathroom to survey the scene and to write this story, then to my desk in the bedroom to finish it.  One thing led to another and a half hour had passed before I finished typing the story.  When I came back to the living room to plug in my computer, edit photos and post, I heard a sizzling and rapid rocking sound and smelled a burning smell.  Damn! The Brussels sprouts!  I quickly turned off the gas under the completely waterless smoking saucepan, removed the sprouts with tongs and took the pan to the sink, running hot water over the charred black inside of the pan.  Yes. More hissing and steam, but then, mindlessly, I turned the pan over and ran cold water over the burning hot pan.  Instantly, an explosion of steam so intense that it removed the color from the outside of the enamel pan that was nearest to its bottom. 

Luckily, I had a huge box of baking soda and two partially full bottles of cider vinegar.  Into the pan they went with the expected chemical reaction: rapidly swelling foam and more hissing. I did a rigorous scrubbing with a scrubber sponge and Spongedaddy, using lots of muscle power as well as more soda and vinegar.  Scrub scrub scrub.  Although I got some of the char off the sides, I made little progress with the bottom of the inside of the pan. 

As I left the pan in the sink to soak, I spied the Brussels sprouts neglected on the counter.  I mixed up a bit of stevia in balsamic vinegar and sprinkled it over the sprouts. Swirled them a bit, then decided to taste. I think you’ve guessed the ending.  Yup.  They tasted exactly like the Brussels sprouts appetizer in the restaurant in Sheridan, Wyoming.  So, again, thanks Annie. I’ll think twice before scolding you for any future misdeeds.  But I’m going to have to buy a new pan.  xoxoxo

Driving Lesson

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Driving Lesson

Brace yourself for lamp posts. Do not vacillate changing lanes.
That panic you feel turning corners very quickly wanes.
For each 10 miles of your speed, stay a car length back
to make it much less likely a bumper you will crack
when the car in front of you makes a sudden stop.
Anticipate fast braking, and avoid the traffic cop!

These rules aren’t too difficult, in fact they’re common sense.
When you see your instructor growing rather tense,
decrease your speed and check that you are driving center lane.
Checking your makeup in the rear vision mirror is inane!
Indicate your turning and brake for traffic lights.
Minding all the rules just makes for fewer fights.

I’m sure that if you follow them you’ll soon be driving regally.
It’s so much easier to drive when you’re driving legally!

The word prompts today are brace, lamppost, vacillate and anticipate.  Here are the links:

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/10/04/rdp-thursday-brace/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/10/04/fowc-with-fandango-lamppost/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/10/04/vacillate/
https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/09/29/daily-addictions-2018-week-39/anticipate

First Offense

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OldPaintDuckieSoulRed

First Offense

He took a cursory look at the damage. Just a paint scratch, really—one that could probably be removed from his back bumper with a little turpentine. Taking a look at the vehicle that had rear-ended him at the street light, he doubted that it had insurance, so it was a good thing that he’d already decided that there was no need to file a claim or to persecute the offender. It would make a good yarn once he got to the office and a perfect excuse for his being late. 

“Better stay on the sidewalk after this,” he yelled at the back of the toddler pedaling his toy car quickly away from the scene of the crime, his little friend in the toy patrol car pedaling down the sidewalk after him in pursuit, red light blinking, siren wailing as they rounded the corner.

 

The prompts for today are yarn, being, cursory, and persecute.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/08/21/rdp-82-yarn/

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/08/21/fowc-with-fandango-being/

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/08/21/cursory/

https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/ persecute

Do it Yourself

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Do it Yourself

The ending was disastrous though it started out just fine.
I don’t have anyone to blame. The fault was purely mine.
I thought I knew the way to do it but was surely wrong.
I should have heeded the advice my friends gave all along.

But my father was a Dutchman. I inherited his genes.
To figure out most everything, I think I have the means.
I made and hung the kitchen shelf.
I installed my towel bars by myself.
I patched the wall
and then, y’all,
fast as a wink,
unplugged the sink.

As you can see, I’m competent. Sufficiently sufficient.
In household matters A to Z I’m startlingly efficient.
But—
I guess I should have asked for help with my last operation,
for now I have to stay at home and feign I’m on vacation
lest every friend who sees me delivers an oration
about how I should read instructions,
not depend on pure deductions,
ask for help, request advice.
I heeded not, now pay the price.

The instructions that I never heeded
were probably the ones I needed.
The hair dye warning I failed to see
is in fact what ruined me.
For though I am really fond
of hair a lovely hue of blonde,
I fear I’m unfit to be seen
now that my hair’s a vivid green!

So for a few months I’ll be heard
by Skype or telephone or word,
but no one will ever see me
until repeated shampoos free me.
You do not have to say a word.
I know my actions were absurd.
I might have had lovely blonde locks
if only I had read the box!!!

The prompt today was disastrous. Image from the internet. Thanks, “Psycho!”

Saved!

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The Prompt: Sink or Swim. Tell us about a time when you were left on your own, to fend for yourself in an overwhelming situation — on the job, at home, at school. What was the outcome? For once, I’m going to take the prompt literally.  I wrote about this in January, so I’m going to use a rewrite of the tale I told at that time.

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Saved!

Although I’ve never had a child of my own, I love children; and from a very early age, my eye in any social situation was always drawn to babies. When I was little and my mother would take me along to meetings of her Progressive Study Club, I would always stand in the bedroom to watch the babies spread out on the bed by their mothers, surrounded by their coats.  In a similar fashion, I notice babies in restaurants and on the street––  especially babies who are facing backwards over the shoulders of their parents.  I love seeing what they are looking at––who they are communicating with through their eyes and their smiles.  I love it that babies have a private life even in the company of their parents.

In this modern age of child abductions and pedophiles, parents might find this creepy, no matter how benign one’s motive is in watching their children; but in my case, if they have not forgotten, there are two sets of parents who should feel very grateful for my interest in their children; for although I have never birthed a child, I am responsible for the presence of two children, now grown to adults, who would not be here but for me. In both cases, I saved a baby from drowning.  Both times, although there were other people in the proximity, they were in social situations where no one noticed what was going on as the baby nearly came to harm.

One of the times was at a housewarming party given by my boyfriend’s son in California.  We’d all been given the tour, including the garden and hot tub, which was up on a raised patio out of view of the house.  As we stood in the living room talking and drinking before the meal was served,  I noticed that the toddler of one of the couples was not with his mother. Looking into the other room, I saw he wasn’t with his father, either, and I suddenly had a strong feeling that something was wrong.

I ran out of the house and into the garden just in time to see him at the top of the stairs leading to the hot tub.  He toddled over to the side, fell in and sank like a stone.  I ran up the stairs, jumped into the hot tub and fished him from the bottom before he ever bobbed to the surface.  I remember the entire thing in slow motion and have a very clear memory of the fact that it seemed as though his body had no tendency to float at all, but would have remained at the bottom of the deep hot tub.

The parents’ reaction was shock.  I can’t remember if they left the party or if they really realized how serious it was.  I know they didn’t thank me, which is of no importance other than a measure of either their inability to face the fact that their child had been within seconds of drowning or simply their shock and the fact they were thinking only of their child.

Strangely enough, this had happened before, at a stock pond just outside of the little South Dakota town where I grew up.  Everyone went swimming there, as there was no pool in town.  When I was still in junior high, I’d just arrived when I saw a very tiny girl—really just a baby—fall into the dam (what we called a pond) and sink straight down under the very heavy moss that grew on the top of the water.  Her mother had her back turned, talking to a friend, and no one else noticed.  I jumped in and fished her out, returning her to her mother, who quickly collected her other children and left.  Again, no word of thanks.  It is not that it was required, and I mention it here only because it happened twice and, having not thought about this for so many years, I am wondering if it wasn’t embarrassment and guilt on the part of the parents that made them both react so matter-of-factly.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/sink-or-swim/

DSC08004

 The Avid Student meets Murphy’s Law

Have you ever known someone who just could not get it right, no matter how they tried?  Here is a reprint of a poem I wrote a few years ago about a young lady who was the epitome of Murphy’s Law!

The Avid Student

Mrs. O’Leary, teach me how
please oh please, to milk a cow.
I won’t leave here till you do.
I’m bored today, and feeling blue.
Yesterday I baked a cake
with that new baker, name of Jake.
It didn’t rise.  It tasted awful.
Couldn’t eat but one small jaw full.
Day before I went to see
Joe the tailor.  Him and me
made a dress of chambray lace
but when I held it near my face
I found it itched me terrible.
To wear it was unbearable.
So I went on to see the preacher.
Wanted him to be my teacher.
But when it came the time to pray,
he found he hadn’t much to say.
I fear that I destroyed his faith.
I left him white as any wraith,
but found the cobbler in a pew
and asked him how to make a shoe.
He’d witnessed what the preacher did
and so he ran away and hid.
So Mrs. O’Leary, it’s up to you
to show me something I can do.
I know it’s dark, but I need right now
to know just how you milk your cow.
I brought a lantern.  I’ll hold it high.
It’s not real light, but we’ll get by.
I’ll just sit on this straw bale.
You fetch the cow and fetch the pail.
I love the way the hot milk steam
swirls around the rising cream.
I love the rhythm and the pomp
of my light squeeze and Bessie’s stomp
whenever I let loose her tit.
I cannot get enough of it!
But now we’re done and I can see
that bucket’s much too much for thee
to lift,  I’ll put the lantern down and
come with thee to give a hand.
I’ll come right back and close the barn.
Tomorrow, I’ll have quite a yarn
for everyone I want to tell
I finally did something well!!!!

For those of you unacquainted with Mrs. O’Leary, I include this description of The Great Chicago Fire of 1871:

“The summer of 1871 was very dry, leaving the ground parched and the wooden city vulnerable. On Sunday evening, October 8, 1871, just after nine o’clock, a fire broke out in the barn behind the home of Patrick and Catherine O’Leary at 13 DeKoven Street. How the fire started is still unknown today, but an O’Leary cow often gets the credit.

The firefighters, exhausted from fighting a large fire the day before, were first sent to the wrong neighborhood. When they finally arrived at the O’Leary’s, they found the fire raging out of control. The blaze quickly spread east and north. Wooden houses, commercial and industrial buildings, and private mansions were all consumed in the blaze.

After two days, rain began to fall. On the morning of October 10, 1871, the fire died out, leaving complete devastation in the heart of the city. At least 300 people were dead, 100,000 people were homeless, and $200 million worth of property was destroyed. The entire central business district of Chicago was leveled. The fire was one of the most spectacular events of the nineteenth century, and it is recognized as a major milestone in the city’s history.”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Comedy of Errors (and bonus assignment!).”Murphy’s Law says, “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.” Write about a time everything did — fiction encouraged here, too!

Diego and Morrie Clean Up (Zany Afternoon)

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                                                 Diego and Morrie Clean Up

A few weeks ago, I bought this wonderful large talavera cup. It tapers out from the bottom, holds about 2 cups of coffee or soup or cereal, has a handle and is beautiful to boot. I just love it. Whenever it isn’t in the dishwasher, I use it for every meal or every time I have coffee.
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This morning I came out to discover that I’d left the two liters of blueberries I bought yesterday in the disinfectant over night. Ten minutes is the prescribed amount of time necessary to kill amoebas and other nasty things that might lurk, but I forgot and left them in the water for at least 8 hours. Can’t quite remember when I put them in. At any rate, I drained them and decided to have oatmeal and fresh berries for breakfast. I added some lactose-free nonfat milk and stevia and–yum. I’ve only been eating one or two meals a day, so each meal is a big deal, and since this one was being served in my very favorite mug/bowl of all times, I was looking forward to it.

I’d just finished taking pictures of the dogs and when I got to my bedroom, oatmeal in hand, I noticed that the sd card was still sticking out of my laptop, so I put my oatmeal on the bedside table, ejected the card and reached over to get the camera from the surface of the table that forms the headboard of my bed. Somehow, the long cord I’d just attached to the camera, thinking it would be handy to have a neck strap for it, caught on something and as I reached to release it, either my hand or the strap caught on the handle of my oatmeal mug and over it went to smash on the floor, spilling shards, oatmeal, blueberries and a full can of Caffeine Free Diet Coke that I had opened but not drunk the night before onto my bedroom floor as well as on my own foot. Yes. A mess.

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I mourned the cup for thirty seconds or so, then mourned the time I was about to lose cleaning up this big mess. The oatmeal and milk and berries had scattered over quite a big area of the floor and it was a sticky, globby mess.

So what would you do? Yolanda was coming tomorrow but I never ever leave messes for her. I clean up puppy leavings, spills, kitchen messes. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and wash them, leaving the putting-away for her. She likes reorganizing my carefully thought out kitchen arrangements, putting the stuff I haven’t used in 14 years in front and my everyday necessities in the back. She even does this with my underwear, putting the prettiest (and too small) bras on top, perhaps thinking they will function like pheromones to draw romance.

At any rate, I carefully picked up each of the major shards of the clay cup and tossed them in the trashcan. Then I had a brilliant idea. With my bare fingers, I mushed through ever single lump of oatmeal. I drew my fingers across the floor checking for any little shards of clay. Then I opened the door and called in Diego. Morrie came trotting in the requisite few inches behind Diego.

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And Diego went to work. I was amazed that Morrie didn’t, but I took it that he’d learned his lesson the few times he’d tried to “share” in Diego and Frida’s food dishes. I’d heard the snaps and barks and growls and guessed what was going on. I’d noticed how he now stayed safely in the kitchen waiting for his meal while I fed Frida and Diego and Birdie the cat outside.

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Eventually, Morrie did locate a few blueberries that had rolled away as well as a flake or two of oatmeal at a safe distance from his boss. I  gleaned a few spoonfuls from Diego’s pile that he was making fast work of and fed them to Morrie. This seemed to embolden him, and he stuck his tongue out a couple of feet away from where Diego was operating like a mine sweeper.

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A long low growl from Diego brought a cessation of that action. Morrie was being better trained by his brother and sister dog than by me! I swiped him a few more spoonfuls, then went back to my blog. In a few minutes Diego had sauntered off to his sleeping cage and curled up and Morrie had followed. I used a wet towel to wipe up the tablespoon of residue. Job over!

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So, this is one mess entirely of my own making. And this time the dogs did the cleaning up! If you are curious about my favorite cup, I think it is not worth trying to salvage, especially because this is what I got from trying to fish the shards out of the garbage to wash and reassemble for a picture:

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How we suffer for art. Everyone is now sleeping but me, Morrie on the floor at my side, the two older dogs outside curled up on lawn chairs. I was talking on Skype to OKCForgottenman, but he actually retired for a nap, too. The palm trees jiggle in the stiff breeze, rocking me mentally to sleep as well, so I’m off to dream new schemes. Tomorrow I go to shop for a new mug. I know where I can get one just like it. I think I’ll get two or maybe four. They are a proven good thing and how often do you find a utilitarian object that you LOVE. Besides, it will keep me from feeling guilty for always saving the “good” cup for myself. Adios. Mas Tarde. Si?

I think this qualifies for the Zany Afternoon prompt I found HERE.on the prompt generator

The News is too Much with Us

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 The Prompt:  Ripped from the Headlines–Click over to whatever website you visit most frequently to get news. Find the third headline on the page. Make sure that headline is in your post.

The News is too Much with Us

After an hour and a half of perusing the news, I am both confused and depressed and have found absolutely nothing I want to write about. In her blog, my friend Martha looked at the news, found froth and looked for substance. I found depressing substance and went in search of froth, veering off from the German airbus crash to a survey of Mitzi Gaynor’s life. What is wrong with me that I can no longer stand to face the truth of the world even from a distance? I will soon be reduced to watching old romance movies, no doubt, but I can’t help but know from talking to friends and acquaintances that I’m not the only person seeking escape and perhaps nature is taking a hand as well. Perhaps there is a reason why Alzheimer’s has become an epidemic.

May I excuse myself for limiting my world view as much as possible to enable me to still have faith in this world? If I look out my window, I see beauty; and this afternoon, I’ll celebrate the marriage of a friend/employee by taking her family of 8 for dinner at our favorite Argentinian restaurant. Perhaps part of the world as we wish it to be can be preserved by the simple living out of our own lives. For me, this seems only possible if I cut myself off as much as possible from the larger world as they choose to present it in the media.

Yesterday, Mark Aldrich wrote about schadenfreude, that strange but I fear too true tendency of human nature to take pleasure from the pain of others. How else can we explain our fascination with every detail of a major disaster? On one hand, we need to be informed, but if we look realistically at our own responses to the gory details, we will admit there is a certain thrill of horror mixed with relief that this happened to someone else and not to us.

In pandering to that side of ourselves, we fall in line with the the role that slasher movies, competitive and vicious reality television and internet games play in bringing our violent sides out at an ever-increasing and alarming rate. We are desensitized to the point that the reality of rape, pillage, war, tsunami, airline crashes, murder and the victimization of entire societies becomes little more than another thrill. We are so accustomed to horror in our entertainment that real horror becomes a type of entertainment as well.

This is why I disconnected my TV dish years ago and why the daily news no longer serves as my home page. My home page (ironic that a typo caused this to read “hope page” until I caught it and changed it) is now my blog and my email—things that I can control to the point where the first thing that greets my eyes every morning is not the news. Am I an ostrich, burying my head in the sand, or simply someone taking control of her own life? In the long run, I guess it just boils down to semantics, but the nice thing about a life and a blog is that if we are lucky, we have control over it, and so long as both of these facts remain true, I’m going to exercise my right, leave the news trapped in a part of the World Wide Net where I have chosen to entwine it and get my news filtered down to what inevitably seeps through to the part of the net I frequent. Controlled. Put in perspective behind the details of my own life and the life of my friends—where it would naturally be without the glut of information devices that instead of informing us about the world seem to have become our world.

 https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/ripped-from-the-headlines-2/