Reader, you have now met an individual whose day-to-day life includes things that “just can’t happen.”
My teeth have gone missing. All of them.
The natural ones were extracted long ago and replaced with what was supposed to be look-alikes. They never did.
The house was filled with people and I always knew where my “cup” was. I dined on chicken and wrapped the bones in paper.
Did I accidentally throw them away?
I searched that night’s garbage and what was already out in the alley. The trash bags also were toothless.
I have searched the kitchen, bedroom and spots in between, murmuring, “This just can’t be happening.”
My customary “cup” is on the bathroom shelf, the cleaner tablets nearby, my sanity long gone. Some good people have helped me clean due to my inability to move without pain. They don’t appear to be denture deviants.
No one takes me seriously. I do.
Does anyone have a recipe for gruel?
This isn’t a rare event.
I have had cataracts removed and am still night blind. I have been smart here, though, I have eyewear for the dark and stormy night. Just not with me.
It didn’t prevent spilling boiling chili on my foot right before a fancy party. Don’t ask.
Sylvia may be an obscure foreign word for idiot.
Obscure. Foreign. Word.
A long-gone poet once mused, and I paraphrase, “ Oh, would The Lord the giftie gee us, to see ourselves as others see us.”
People will compliment others face to face, behind the back, not so much.
Asking everyone who was around to watch My Home Boy take another step toward the Super Bowl has resulted in their self-glorification of helping clean up.
I know I should be eternally grateful, but I enjoy fast food.
When I fell flat on my rear end, launching a healing process that is still painfully ongoing, I was bringing home some hamburgers. Tuesday two-fers.
I sprained my hand carrying in the fixings for an indoor picnic.
I broke my leg in three places after carrying out pizza boxes. My grandson now disposes of them.
Since he knocked over a tall vase at age 3, he reports after every loud crash, “but it didn’t break.”
The stately vase still has its place in the front room.
I have metal rods in my left leg.
The question is always, “Why did you do that?”
I refer the question to my sons’ invisible sister, “Ida know.”
Limping along after falling on my posterior, my 70-plus year-old mind laughs, “It didn’t break.” I would welcome my teeth, even if they did.