Life surely rushed at me yesterday. Thursday, after some steroids, my hip felt so much better that I thought I was Wonder Woman. Walking the aisles of the grocery stores disabused me of that idea, and I came home with a sore hip and a discouraged soul. Yesterday a good friend (she calls me her Fort Worth mom because her mom is in Canada) took my list and did my Central Market shopping for me. I was grateful for the chance to stay off my feet pretty much.
But early that morning, Lewis Bundock, one of the two brothers doing my remodeling, stuck his head in my office door to say the kitchen counter would go in next Wednesday. My understanding was they wouldn’t even think about the kitchen until the bathroom was complete, but I don’t guess the tile man got that message. I blanched at the idea of having to clean off the counter, but Lewis pointed out I had Monday and Tuesday. Then in a bit he stuck his head in to say change in plans: the counter would go in Monday morning.
I have a longstanding date to cook dinner for friends who will only be in town this weekend. We’ll have supper Sunday night on the deck, since this house is a dirty, dusty mess, and the Bundocks tell me not to think about cleaning it until they’re out of here. It’s so bad I think even the dog is dusty, though neighbor Jay says she’s just graying more. Between the hip and the kitchen counter, Sunday’s dinner looms large—though we do what we have to do and somehow it all gets done.
Then a doctor’s office called to tell me I will have an MRI next Friday. And an agent wrote to decline reading my entire Chicago historical manuscript because she didn’t find the characters came off the page in the sample (a problem to think about much later). My email went crazy. I had planned to write a thousand words that morning—between all that was going on and the never-ending email, I wrote maybe five sentences.
Around 5:30, looking forward to dinner with a friend, I began to worry about why she was so late—perhaps she meant me to meet her instead of picking me up. Turns out someone had pulled out in front of her so sharply that she hit him, had to chase him down though when she got him to stop he was apologetic and said it was all his fault. Let’s hope he sticks to that story with his insurance people. Meantime, she arrived at my house shaken and frustrated and angry at the rigmarole she would now face. We were so late getting to the restaurant that the owner called to make sure I was all right.
Good things about the day: I had a delightful lunch with Melinda at our favorite small Italian place where we always take small bottles of wine—she orders chicken piccata and I always have bresaola served with grana, greens, and a lemony vinaigrette. So good. After I told Melinda all my troubles, they didn’t seem so bad—that’s what friends are for.
Kathie and I had a good dinner and a good visit in spite of her accident. We agreed it was a bad day for both of us—she had other things going on in addition to the accident. She was worried about a museum presentation she’ll give Monday and was worrying ahead to next weekend when she’ll have her son’s family and will, for the first time, babysit a six-year-old girl and three-year-old boy by herself. I told her she’d be fine.
And last night? I wrote a thousand words.
All my troubles shall pass. I know that. Guess I’m just whining.