Mishaps

My supper tonight consisted of a piece of bread smeared with peanut butter and topped with a dollop of honey. It was tasty but left an empty spot, so I went to the fridge and retrieved a bowl of leftovers: roasted carrots and onions. A couple of days ago, I had cut them into one inch pieces, coated them with olive oil, and roasted them in the oven. I had eaten half and stuck the remainder in the fridge. Now all I needed to do was heat them up in the microwave oven.

I heated the bowl and proceeded to the living room to settle into my chair at my computer table where I could peruse the web as I nibbled. But before I got there, there was a sudden, unexpected miscommunication between my brain and my hands. The bowl of warm, oily leftovers suddenly flew out of my hands. Instantly I stopped and my arms went up into a hands-up position as the bowl of leftovers arced away from me and slammed into the hardwood floor. Carrots and onions — drizzled in olive oil — went everywhere. Most landed in an expanse across the floor, but some landed in my living room chair while others made it to my computer table, landing adjacent to my keyboard.

I surveyed the floor and asked no one in particular, “How did that happen?” I didn’t curse. I didn’t get angry. I had no reaction at all. I am too accustomed to these home mini-calamities. Why get upset? The next item on my agenda suddenly became “clean it up.” So that’s what I did.

I picked up pieces of food and wiped the floor with paper towels. I deployed upholstery cleaner on the chair. When I finished, I poured a shot of vodka and sat down at my computer. Who needs food when alcohol is available? I was all set until the next mini-calamity. It might not occur for months, or it might occur before I went to bed. Mishaps at home seem to be the way of my people. One becomes accustomed to them. I’m all set until the next one strikes out of the blue. With a little luck, I won’t break any bones when it happens. And that’s all I ask.