What I really did: put a load of laundry in the washer, walked with Maryann, answered a few e-mails, took the clean sheets out of the wet load and put them in the dryer, got the raspberries out of the fridge and washed them.
Then the phone rang. That's when things fell apart.
Jerry called to tell me a friend is in the hospital. I wanted to send her flowers so I called the hospital, got her room number and asked to be connected with their gift shop. I was put on hold and waited ten minutes. No one answered. I hung up and called again. The operator transferred my call a second time and this time while I waited, I attempted to clean about six inches of bathroom grout using an electric toothbrush and a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda. About twenty minutes later, I realized that this was a flat-out waste of time, just like holding for the gift shop was turning out to be. I hung up and called back again. I told the operator that I'd called twice before and spent a combined time of over thirty minutes waiting for someone to answer. She told me that was because the gift shop wasn't open. Hard to argue with that logic.
After I found a florist and placed my order, I was back on track and dipped the dry raspberries in dark chocolate. By the time I'd completed that messy but delicious chore, it was time to leave to go to lunch with my daughter.
Whenever I go out to lunch, it takes the whole afternoon. I never think it will but it always does. Today was no exception. We ate lunch, visited Starbucks, said our good-byes and I drove off in the direction of home. I had a handful of quick stops to make while I was out: the bank, the market and to buy a gallon of color-matched paint (which turned out not to be.) Then home.
As I arrived, I stopped at the top of the driveway to check for mail. Our postman always comes ridiculously late and there was no mail yet but as I was walking back to the car, I saw our neighbor Dave bringing his Corgis to play outside. I wondered why he wasn't working, so I walked over and asked. (The ominous background music you hear is not playing for Dave, but for me. With every step I take toward his house, I'm walking one step away from my to-do's.)
Dave and I got into an interesting discussion as he was answering e-mails (I'm not the only one in the neighborhood who multi-tasks.) It was a lovely day and we were sitting outside talking when who should drive up in his snazzy maroon Miata but our neighbor Denny (AKA Cappy from my post "Daring Rescue at Sea.") Now I've always wanted a ride in this little gem when its top was down so I seized the opportunity to ask him if he'd drive me home. Both men laughed because my driveway is mere seconds by foot from where we were now standing. Cappy cheerfully agreed to give me a lift though and, as a bonus, he even drove me the entire length of our street while I yelled, "YeeeeHaaaaa" with my arms over my head like I was on a roller coaster. Wild ride! (Well, the speed limit is 25, but I was still grateful to be wearing my seat belt.)
On our return trip, we saw our friend Joyce and stopped the car to talk. (People driving convertibles do that.) Then Denny parked in front of his house and I left for home, now farther away than I was when I'd asked for the ride.
Susan, Denny's next-door-neighbor, was outside and she recently got an adorable new haircut so I stopped for a while to discuss her cuteness. I am, as they say, easily distracted. Eventually back at my own driveway, I checked the mail once again (still nothing) and drove down the hill to the house. By the time I got inside, it was 4:45. That's how it always is when I go out to lunch. Leave at 11:30; return around 5:00. That's my normal.
Back on track: I checked on the laundry. The sheets were dry but the rest of the wet load, mainly dishrags, had soured. Into a bucket to soak they went. I folded the sheets and put them away then searched the abyss (our garage) for sandpaper, found it, sanded the rocker and threw the dishrags into the washer. I began hunting for the paintbrushes that we'd purchased last night. Three times I scoured the entire house, garage and car, looking. After an intense search, they turned up -- hidden in plain sight -- just as the washing machine buzzed. I put the laundry in the dryer and and as I picked up the paintbrush, the phone rang.
It was Jerry. He was two hours away. I thought that would give me enough time to coat the rocker and paint the kitchen walls. How foolishly optimistic of me.
My heart tells me that painting should be easy, fun and the results will be gratifying, but my mind tells me otherwise. It flashes memories of other botched paint jobs onto my internal movie screen and asks me what I'm going to do differently this time. I tell it forcefully that I am going to go slowly and stop often to check for drips. (I would like to underscore how much I dislike drips. They just make a paint job look so amateurish.) This particular rocking chair was rescued from a trip to the dump and this is not its first rodeo. It arrived here with paint drips painted on top of paint drips. I had sanded it well though and my heart secretly harbored high hopes. The paint is ultra-glossy and I have visions of seeing my reflection in it when I'm done.
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| I paint like a 5-year-old. |
List: 13
Finished: 5
That's almost half. Impressive. Well done, Chris.
1 comment:
LOL! You're just too cute. And I want some raspberries dipped in chocolate. As long as they're not also accidentally dipped in paint.
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