This week I found two tea bags in my cup after drinking my tea when I clearly remember putting in just one, chopped the tip of my thumb off with a cleaver while cutting frozen strawberries, and sat in the ER all day. They stabbed me with needles, then I went to the movies afterwards, planned to work out, never did, hung out with drew, met Bernard, pinched his zits, and when we got home Lars was chopping down the weeping baby redwood. I yelled at him, washed my dog, Melissa, in lavender-scented bubble bath, watched Nanna sift cake flower all over the kitchen floor and fell into bed at eight twice.
Next week I'll trim the hedges, plan a trip to the UK, make macaroni and cheese from scratch with swiss, mozzerella and extra sharp Vermont cheddar, and with any luck, get sprayed by a skunk in mid-July, and rinse, wash, and repeat in a tomato juice bath, preferably a claw-footed one placed precisely before a North-facing window in summer, the sill reaching the ground in a V-shaped attic roof with summer white light flooding in all over, and hopefully paint Elsie's room powder pink.
Today my finger is sore and now the tip is gone, but the bossy RN sewed it back on like a champ. Now it looks like the scar on Tim's Ninja bunny (baby Kat calls in frank'n sty bunny.) I can't play guitar but I can still jump into Newt Pond at night when no one's looking and make one-bowl brownies with nine fingers. I live a crazy life and cannot wait to find out what will happen next.
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