Quasimodo Lives

Okay ya'll, here's how it all went down:

Yesterday morning, as I waddled around the kitchen attempting to simultaneously make coffee, fill the critters' water dish, feed the cat and put Yoda outside, somehow the glass coffee pot lept from my grasp, landing on the floor in a gajillion little pieces.

Right then, I should have turned around and went back to bed, but I didn't.

After cleaning up the glass, tending to all of the animals and assuring Ma that no, we were not being shot at, I'd just busted a pot, I remembered that I had a spare in the bedroom.

Don't look at me like that... I use it to add water to the aquarium.

Unfortunately, the spare wouldn't fit on the existing coffee maker, so there wasn't going to be any java love that morning.

I gave up and settled in on the couch. I decided that I could leave a few minutes early and run by the campground store on the way in, where I could score some coffee and a biscuit. I told myself it was all going to be okay and turned my attention to Craig Ferguson on the television. I thought he was looking kinda rough, 'til I realized I just needed to clean the t.v. screen.

I'm seriously slacking in my domestic goddess duties.

I started getting ready for work, allowing plenty of time to stop at the ATM because the campground store has a $5 minimum on debit cards. I grabbed my coat, thought I'd grabbed my keys (this is where it all gets a little confusing, I'm not 100% clear on what happened,) remembered to run in the kitchen for my morning drugs, then suddenly realized that I didn't have my keys any longer.

They weren't on the counter, on the table, in my coat pocket.

I ran around like a lunatic, breaking out in a fit of nervous perspiration, called the Amazon at work and asked her if she'd seen my keys (a totally desperate move, I couldn't remember for sure if I'd actually had them in my hand earlier or if I'd just imagined it.) She assured me she'd given them back to me the night before. I checked the kitchen again, finding a piece of glass with my bare foot, one I'd missed with the broom earlier. I was leaving little spots of blood all over the floor, on the verge of tears because I was going to have to admit that I was an idiot and call in to work with the lame excuse that I couldn't find my stinkin' keys.

I called Bossman who, sensing that I was bordering on a full fledged hissified fit, assured me that it was fine, he'd see me when I got here.

I calmed down a little after that, I was already late, no need to rush. I sat down on the couch and methodically removed everything from my pocketbook, finding my keys there in the bottom, feeling like a huge moe-ron.

In the midst of my mini-meltdown, Ma had come to help. She sat in the corner of the living room, interrogating me about my every move over the last 12 hours, thinking she was helping but actually pushing me further over the edge.

I finally made it out the door, hobbling on my now throbbing foot, making it all the way to the truck before I realized I'd left my cell phone. I hobbled back up the steps and inside, grabbed my phone, made it back to the truck, assuring myself that the drama was over and I'd get to work and everything would be honky dory.

I took a few deep breaths, calming myself on the way to the bank. I parked out front and went inside to the ATM. I got my ten bucks, my card and waited for my receipt. I don't HAVE to have one, but I always print one.. just in case. It hesitated, then produced the white paper.. slowly easing out of the slot. I reached for it.. but it didn't stop. It kept coming.

I stood there and stared at the ATM.

The paper kept rolling out.

I shook my head. This wasn't happening.

When it was done, I had about four feet of receipt tape, with the words "Date" and "Time" at the top. That was it.

I finally made it to the campground store without harming myself any further or breaking anything. I hate to admit that I enjoyed relaying the tale to Bossman, complete with the four foot long blank receipt for evidence. He laughed and told me to keep my distance, he didn't want my negative mojo rubbing off on him.

When the Amazon got off work at eleven, she made me a cup of coffee and walked from the other side of town and up the hill to deliver it.

That right there, that's love man.

When I waddle up that hill, I end up wheezing like an asthmatic hooker at a sales convention.

As for my foot, I don't know if there's glass in it or if it's just cut. It still hurts, but I'll live. If it starts to look like it's gonna rot off or anything I'll get it looked at. In the meantime I look like Quasimodo going up and down the hall.

At least it's Friday. The weekend is almost here.

Later Taters.