As I lay in bed last night listening to the terrifying storms that lingered for what seemed like forever over my neighborhood, my imagination went wild with thoughts of my house being torn apart by the fierce winds and high voltage. Every crash of thunder brought with it a different horrifying scenario; I braced myself for the tree that would inevitably puncture my roof and crush me and Manny as we huddled together in my bed.
Needless to say, I was a bit incredulous when I moved slowly through all the rooms in the house this morning and found no puddles, no tree branches; all the slats in the backyard fence -- except the ones still askew from the tree that fell on them during the last storm -- seemed to be in place. Just an average morning in paradise. Hmm.
I was almost relieved when I got to the garage and realized I could not open the door. Aha -- the disaster du jour! I tried every button. I even went to the basement and checked all the fuses, though it seemed unlikely that the one responsible for the garage door would be the only one to have flipped. Frustrated as I was, I felt comforted that the crisis of the day had revealed itself, and, in the grand scheme of things, it was pretty minor.
Fear not; nothing will ever keep me from my morning Starbucks. I pulled and I pushed and I stood precariously on a kitchen stool in a futile effort to get the door to go up and stay up. Desperate times call for desperate measures; I stood a rake up on a cooler and propped the door open just high enough for me to squeeze my car out. Almost as brilliant, I must say, as my successful deciphering of the three remotes in the family room the other day to finally get a picture on the T.V. Jill Ocean, mechanical genius, master improviser, Mrs. Fixit. I am going to be of great use to myself when I finally move into that double wide.
I'm still pretty sure my foot is broken, but in the triage of my daily life, that seems like something that can wait until tomorrow.
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