The more you gripe, the worse it gets
. A simple lunch, right? A peanut butter and cucumber sandwich with a dill pickle. Except it was a new jar of pickles, and as I pulled the plastic strip—with pliers--to open the jar, I complained that it would be nice to fix something that wasn’t plasticized shut. Okay, the plastic is off, then I couldn’t open the lid, so I pounded on it with the handle of a knife, and the lid spun off and spilled pickled juice on the counter, so I had to wipe that up.
A simple daytime task but a profound lesson.
Did your mom make jelly and seal the glass jar with paraffin? Sometimes that got pushed down in the jelly, so I guess times aren’t that much different, except whose mom makes jelly? Not this mom; I thank my lucky stars I don t have to.
I spoke before that I was writing a memoir. I have to keep saying that so I get over being embarrassed to say I’m writing a memoir. Yes, a memoir, you know, those moments that take our breath away? Anyway, I wrote my goal of 50,000 words while racing the pink dogwood flowers, trying to meet the word count the writing gurus say is essential. I did it by cheating a little and using the tree in the backyard that I could see out my window and the one in the front yard that held tight to its flowers until I reached my goal. Now who says there aren’t miracles? Now I am facing all those words I thought essential to get onto a page. I wanted to see if I could do it, even if it stinks; I have the illustrious accomplishment of winning a race with a flower.
Except I know it threw the race.
How’s your day been?