A Year of Scratchy Glitter
…well, not exactly. The title was inspired by the fact that this will be my 365th post. But, due to my outstanding lack of self-discipline, I don’t post every day. But WHAT IF I DID? Advice to writers always says to “Just write something, even if it’s not any good.” (“But they don’t say, ‘And then publish it,'” they mutter nervously.) And self-help advice in general always says, “Making a public commitment will help you stick with your resolution.” THEREFORE:
I HEREBY ANNOUNCE TO MY FANBASE:
–That I intend to post every day for at least the following year. Stop squirming.
–I have given myself the unenviable task of going back through all the previous posts, starting with SG’s inauspicious start back in the mists of February 2013 (I think. Maybe it was 2012.). And each day, I will present an excerpt, or at least a synopsis, of the post for that day. Yes, it’s called cannibalizing my material, and no power on earth can stop me from it.
BUT NOW FOR ACTUAL CONTENT
On Sunday, I tripped and fell on the way home from church, scraping my hand and knee, and sustaining a sizable black bruise on my breast. Also quite a bit of upper-arm pain, since I landed on my elbows. So I have been using the handicapped bus and bathroom facilities (“As you should have been doing all along,” Nick says–see, Nick, I write your retorts for you–you’re welcome), and appreciating the room to maneuver and relative lack of clambering they offer. So before you glare at someone who doesn’t look handicapped….
BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE!
Last night I was home, after a busy day of fire dispatching dealing with a wind that was determined to kill us all. Since the rain had stopped, we opened windows on the non-wind side to take advantage of temporarily-mild temperatures. After Rom went to bed, it started to rain again, so I closed them. “Well, it isn’t raining against this side of the house,” I thought. “I wonder if it is on the other side? I think I hear it hitting the glass.” In the spirit of idle curiosity (since the window there hadn’t been opened), I went over to look. What I’d heard wasn’t water hitting the window, but the cheery crackle of the fire in the corner of the kitchen.
I did a mental double-take–“Oh, look, the kitchen’s on fire. THE KITCHEN’S ON FIRE!!!” Flames were–well, not shooting out of the back burner, exactly, but leaping enthusiastically.
I ran to wake Rom up, while wondering frantically what we had that we could throw on a grease fire. Rom ran in and half-smothered it with a potholder, half-blew it out. A great deal of smoke resulted, which kept Rom coughing for most of the night, and me wondering, Should we call an ambulance? COPD + smoke inhalation = not good, surely. But the situation was resolved eventually with a further opening of windows.
WHAT WE LEARN FROM THIS:
Your gas stove wants to kill you.