The real reason is that in the past month I have become something of a disaster-prone girl. It's very bizarre, and I have caused some pretty tragic and expensive destruction at my house lately. I really can't figure it out. When I was complaining about it over chicken tenderloin salad at Saladelia the other night, Heather said, "You're ovulating." Which had been true, but surely wasn't true this morning and on Friday night. There's this one episode of Felicity where Megan puts a clumsy spell on Felicity and I just watched it; maybe I've been vicariously cursed.
Story #1: Dishes broken or maimed
1. Big chip on the side 70s glass cake plate given to me by Steph, given to her by some cheapo at her wedding, as it still had a Kmart old school price tag on it in, back when the K was all slanty and big and back in the day when retailers weren't yet familiar with the bar code.
2. Fabulous square stoneware platter, large chip off side trying to shove it into the cupboard right into, it turned out, the lid to the cake plate. Chip glued on with super glue; looks very bad and is obviously poorly repaired.
3. One of set of 4 pasta bowls with gourds painted on them jumps out of my hand unloading the dishwasher onto the wood floor; shatters into a lot of pieces.
4. Ugly (but sweet) pottery mug given to me by Robbie for Christmas, full of pens, knocked off the counter to the floor while trying to turn up the stereo. Shatters, sends pens flying.
5. One of brand new antique set of 5 milk glass goblets falls out of the shopping bag onto the cement as I'm taking it out of the car; stem breaks off cleanly so I can glue it back together, but glass has a large rough chip which is unfixable.
Story #2: The 2 days of destruction
Sunday morning, 7:55 am, just out of the shower, putting on my robe, flush the toilet, feel my robe hit something on the counter on its way up the arm, wonder if I've maybe knocked something in but decide it's too preposterous. But then the toilet is acting strangely and I look all around the house, in vain, for the small squatty bottle of Sea Spray for the hair. It has been flushed. So I avoid the toilet and vow to call Chris Vickers, the plumber, and negotiate in my head how much I'm willing to pay for him to come and remove the bottle from the curvy part of the porcelain. I decide it's worth $200 at the most so I don't have to tell Murch. I am 20 minutes late for church because I get the bright idea that plunging like mad will make the thing pop out. No luck. Murch comes up later, sticks his hand up the toilet's hole for 5 minutes, and removes the bottle. I'm pretty sure I don't want it, but he doesn't throw it away, so instead it sits on the sink, and Monday morning I decide that since there is no apparent poo residue, it maybe could be used after a good sterilization. It is, after all, a brand new bottle, and it's been discontinued. So I soak it in a sink of blazing hot water and go to get dressed.
Monday, 9:15 am, look at horrible chipping toenails and dash in the bathroom for a quick coat of Vino. It's in the medicine cabinet, a brand new bottle, purchased only weeks ago to replace the one that shattered on the tile floor and dyed the grout around the toilet pink. It was $13. It's my favorite color. Open the medicine cabinet, take out the bottle, watch it jump from my hand, hit the faucet, top breaks off, bottle pours on the white counter, brush does a spinning leap and splatter paints the purple wall, my $9 Wal-Mart jeans, the white bathmat, the tile, and lands choking out 2 more splatters for the brazilian cherry. In my haste to get out the remover, the bottle dumps into the sink, filled with scalding water for the Sea Spray, and dumps in a strange and surreal pattern, like blood. Cleanup is successful on counter and sink, but not on the wall, the rug, or the jeans.
Shall I go to bed and never get out again? This place needs protecting.
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