The laundry room is downstairs, just off from the dining room, in the addition we created from a backyard deck a year or so ago. Currently, the dining room is serving as a seamstress’s haven, a place for Alyssa and Nikki to manufacture dresses for the upcoming production. You are coming to see it, yes?
Anyway, I’d done some laundry a day or two ago. Work clothes, mostly. As is my bad habit, I had pulled a couple of pairs of pants from the dryer, folded them as I would for a hanger, then placed them over the back of a chair. My thinking was, as it usually is, that I will get a hanger from upstairs when next I ascend, then bring it back downstairs to collect the pants. Simple, eh?
This morning, I needed pants. In fact, most mornings, I need pants. That aside, I remembered that there were two perfectly good pairs downstairs, still waiting to be hangered. So down I go, still a bit sleepy in spite of a cup of tea and a shower. Carefully, I go to lift the pants from the chair when …
I hadn’t realized it, but a box of straight pins had been placed in the seat of the chair. The box has a bit of a loose lid, I’m guessing, because before I knew it, the box had taken a dive, popped open on impact and sent its passengers all over the hardwood floor.
Actually, the fallout was mostly contained to right below the dining room table. And conveniently, enough sunlight was streaming through the windowed door to the backyard to hit just about every single pin. And so, with the help of a refrigerator magnet, I scooped up all of the sharp little bastards and dropped them back in the box. They’re out of order now, short ones with long ones and so on, but the important thing is that they are no longer where they can be found by curious cats.
The morning wasn’t over. Before I left the house, I managed to knock a stack of CDs off my desk. On the way to work, I passed a freshly thumped fawn, presumed deceased and on the side of the road. So far, I’ve managed to not spill hot coffee or delete any necessary files or break my chair, but the day is still young.
Though catastrophe was avoided with the falling pointy things, I’m taking all of these things seen as signs. Omens. Portents. It’s a Friday. The date is a 13. I’m not taking anymore chances.
If you need me, I’ll be here, eying you all with measured apprehension. To make up for my wariness, here’s an appropriate tune …
“Have A Lucky Day” — a tale about a blackjack table and a dealer named Mabel — is from Morphine’s 1992 album, Good.