A Cursed Series of Events
Friday was a cursed day. Of course, if we weren’t trying to do crazy, stupid things that adults should know better than, much of the bad wouldn’t happen. Like when I spilled my coffee all over the cabinet and floor and I kicked the grounds into a pile on the kitchen floor until I was doing floors again and it got damp somehow and turned into tar.
Like when we went to put the trapped fruit flies out the back window and had the light on and as many moths flew in as flies flew out and Jimmy couldn’t catch them, so we decided to turn on the flashlights near the glass, except the moths wouldn’t come out of the light shade, and he removed the finial and nearly dropped the shade on us <but we did not learn> and did drop everything else and the moths still wouldn’t be captured, and we gave up and tried to put the shade back on the ceiling light <no chair> by me holding Jimmy around the waist as he wobbled on his tiptoes and reached beyond his grasp to try to one handed hold up the glass and screw on the thing and instead it came crashing down <miraculously missing both our heads> and in a resounding explosion shattered tiny spires of glass into our mattress <did I mention it’s an air bed?> and somehow under both of my sock feet and all over the landscape of the wooden floor <which is old and filled with cracks now home to glass shards awaiting feet for burial> in forms from glass powder to nasty sharp chunks, white, yet somehow invisible to the eye.
We won’t even discuss the nightmare and still blue air resulting from the cursing over trying to get a ball back onto one of my piercings. Earrings and balls were dropped into every filthy corner and sink drain in three rooms of the house.
We went to town. Everywhere we went were people we know from the horrible place. Gah. At the gas station, my card wouldn’t read in the machine. I sit on it when it’s hot and it is all warped. The attendant didn’t believe me, came out to help me. He watched me run it through many times, then he ran it through. Finally he had to admit I was right. Then he “helped” me pump my gas by talking me through every step. Did I look simple? I had trouble with the machine, not the pump. Jeez, I know I look 16 sometimes, but I have pumped gas before. Although it did take me two tries to park close enough to the pump…
I had to renew my license. I went to the door everyone was using and it wouldn’t open. I checked the hours, checked the door. I went to the other door. It opened fine. Then others used the same door I couldn’t make work??
Inside, all of the women working there looked like they were clones–same hair, same glasses, same age and weight and clothes. Eee. I went to the desk and the lady asked if any of my stats had changed. My weight was listed as 160, but I said no. Then she said I don’t look 160. I said, well, actually I am 170. She said NO YOU ARE NOT. I said Yes, I am. She said there is NO WAY YOU ARE 170. I said unless my scale is broken, I definitely am. She left my license at 160, because she couldn’t make herself say 170 when I am too thin for it to be possible.
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