Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

furniture interrupted

I know I'm clumsy. It's nothing new. I've always been clumsy...for as far back as I can remember. But I'm beginning to think the universe has it out for me, because not only am I a first class klutz, but a magnet for disaster, too.

The elusive IDP (Imaginary Dead President, for those just joining the program) left me with a list of things to do today. Lucky for me, the list didn't include, "Climb into pig fortress carrying delicious treats and attempt to escape before being eaten." That was on the list last week. Today's list had two major items, the most important of which was, "Clean clear clutter from dining room table."

We rarely eat in our dining room, and I suspect, like many families, our dining room has become the catch all for old mail, magazines, and other assorted debris. The table is one of those old fashioned farm tables with the turned legs, surrounded by assorted Windsor-back chairs collected over the years. the chairs are old and creaky, and should probably be replaced, but since we rarely eat in there, it hasn't been an issue. 

Today, as I was wading through the old receipts, junk mail, and expired coupons, I found myself enjoying the idea of sitting at a clean table. I organized bills, tossed old magazines, filled a jar with assorted screws and nails from projects that stalled out in the vicinity of the dining room, and amassed a collection of lighters that had been missing for goodness knows how long. Once I'd finished with the piles of stuff, I scrubbed the dust from the surface and sat back to admire my handiwork. With a clean working surface, there was no reason not to drag my laptop to the table and work from there.

Well, maybe one reason.

The old rickety chair I'd been sitting on off and on while I cleaned gave out as I plopped down, breaking beneath me and sent me crashing backwards onto the floor. I couldn't see it, of course, but I imagine it was like a scene from a movie...a comedy. There I was, sprawled out on the floor, groaning as I attempted to suck oxygen into my lungs while my dog stared down at me with a puzzled expression.

My daughter came running to investigate but once she realized I would likely survive...perhaps, a little worse for the wear, but hardly damaged...she left, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. I couldn't hear everything she said, but I did hear something about, "...what you get for eating the last piece of peanut butter pie!" What was it Rodney Dangerfield used to say? Oh yeah..."No respect, I tell ya."

Until the next time...I'll be going on a diet!

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