December 23, 2013
It is a musher’s secret kinda
night. That is the gel I have to put on my friend’s little dog’s paws before we
go out for a run-as-fast-as-you-can-until-you-poop walk. I shoosh along like a
little girl on double-blade skates, with the hopes that I don’t go down for a
tumble. A young man ran past me in skimpy pants, a long sleeved-tee and wool
hat. I stood for a long while, watching him confidently take-on the sidewalks
with envy-stimulating graceful strides.
The smoke detector screams each
time I turn on a burner, set up the toaster or light a match for a candle. The
darned thing is so sensitive and I frantically wave a dish towel in front of
it, switch-on the ceiling fan and wave the back door open and shut a dozen
times before the squalling halts. If I don’t hear footsteps tromping around
upstairs, I have to glance out the front window to peer out into the street to
see if the tenant is home. His hours are so erratic, I am afraid I am waking
him from a dead sleep with the smoke alarm. He must think I am a horrendous
cook, forever burning the chef’s special. Drat.
A bag is
deposited on my door mat with an envelope. Unfortunately, the first thoughts that
entered my mind is, “Great, I don’t have time to shop for something for this gifter.”
Silly me. I chuckled and opened the card. Sent a quick text to let him know it wasn’t
snatched and to thank him for his generosity, Merry, Merry and all that. I do not
have to reciprocate but I may do something for him in the future. He certainly wouldn’t
expect anything from my kitchen-nothing that wasn’t singed, scorched or black as
the night sky.
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