Although I am almost at the halfway point in my daily eighteen-hour cycle of conscious participation, it has already been proven to me beyond argument that this is NOT my day. Today, I have a newfound respect for Murphy and his vile law.
However, I still don't care much for his attitude.
I could list my litany of failings within those easy modules of routine; the ones that are supposed to remain just that, but I am afraid.
It is as though The Gods of Tough Luck are lining the walls of my room stifling giggles and just waiting for another weak, unguarded moment before they pounce again and further derail my fragile grasp on confidence.
They have already participated in the breaking of several dishes but not before they allowed the heavy cabinet door which housed them to come off of its hinges in my arms sending my box of Special K, my cereal bowl and all of it's soggy, milk saturated contents flying across the kitchen practically at the speed of light.
While I am sure it was not what the commercial had intended, it did put a lively twist on the meaning of the "Special K challenge."
And this came well after the four a.m. wake-up call from my seasoned Chihuahua, Juan, who began both of our days by eliminating the contents of his last meal about two and a half inches from my pillowed head. (Note to self: Gummy Bears are not a suitable snack for a pint-sized, aging canine no matter how small the pieces.)
At six a.m. my daughter texted me from her apartment in Arizona complaining that she was also sick and had been eliminating the contents of her last meal in the same manner as Juan for the previous two hours.
It is possible she consumed Gummy Bears last evening while attending her grandfather's 80th birthday celebration, and if they were the root cause of her suffering, someone should alert the Department of Health or the Smurfs or the Sugarplum Fairies in the Magic Kingdom before it becomes a Gummy pandemic.
For my part I rest on the very small consolation that, at least in the instance of my daughter, I was not at fault; and Juan needs me too much to hold a grudge. If he cops an attitude, he knows I have the power to withhold his little sweaters in winter and actually force him to confront the snow no matter how many feet over his undersized body it gets.
I did have plans to meet a friend for lunch today, but that was cancelled due to an unavoidable early-afternoon meeting at work for my friend and the fact that it is presently 102 degrees outside with a heat index of over 120 and humidity so dense you could easily drown just standing on the sidewalk.
Our aim was to try these famous fried mushrooms my friend raves about, but with the temperatures being what they are this afternoon, we figured we might just be saving the fry cook's life by opting to sample them on a cooler day.
Of course, with my ill fortune being what it has been thus far, the option of not leaving the house may be lifesaving for me as well. I should count my blessings.
I should also try not to redesign anything more on my blogspot site. They have changed the design protocols since last I created it, and I am not doing well in understanding their new options or in how to navigate them. I tried to insert a new photograph of myself into the header since the other was verging on two years old, and while the new replacement was successfully installed, it is also ten times larger!
When you open the page now, it is not unlike the impression you get at a drive-in movie the way the screen dramatically dwarfs the surrounding cars and trees giving you the alarming sensation you'll be swallowed whole at the next cinematic close-up.
I opened my newly-designed page and for the first time in my life, I became afraid of myself!
I am going to have to come up with a less-risky way to employ my time indoors. I don't want to frighten unsuspecting visitors to my blog in cyberspace. The Gods of Tough Luck are cagey and highly creative. They might further my doom by crashing my computer.
This morning, before I realized my lunch plans were red-lighted, I decided that since I seldom leave the house and my studio here, I would put in some extra effort enhancing my appearance just to make sure it was not so obvious to outsiders that driving three miles from my house is a hugely exciting deal. I figured if I blended in with a certain level of sophistication, I would appear normal.
And so I thoroughly scrubbed my hands removing all remnants of ink and paint from my nail beds, put on clean, normal summer clothing (as opposed to the paint-splattered overalls or jeans and T-shirts I ordinarily don) and even decided to take a curling iron to the ends of my long, greying blonde locks.
Why I thought that handling a device only slightly cooler than a branding iron would be a reasonable move based on the declivitous trend of my morning thus far just further illustrates the lengths I am willing to travel down the path of denial in order to make sense of my life. No sooner had the tool reached maximum heat when I fumbled it; burning both of my hand and the middle portion of my left cheek.
It is a good thing I will not be seen in public today.
However, we are supposed to be heading to a local bar later this evening to hear a Grateful Dead cover band perform a tribute to the late Jerry Garcia.
After days like today, I fully understand why the dead are so grateful.
I know that the band came into prominence in the Summer of Love and that their music is all about peace with some sex, intrigue and references to drug busts thrown in for good measure. But I wonder if anyone will notice or care if I come dressed in battle fatigues and camouflage paint? I'd like to be prepared in case The Gods of Tough Luck are not yet done with me.
Somehow, I don't think this day will end anymore lightly than it began.
And if I'm going to go down, at least I'd like to go down fighting.
Keep on truckin'. Or something like that.
