Nightmare on Foxcroft

It’s Friday the 13^th, so I’m trying not to let that scare me too much, even though I’m so easy to scare it’s almost funny. You should see me, slumped behind my computer, hands held in front of my face to ward off the evil spirits, waiting for the band to play, goo goo g'joob, as I wait for the mason and his sidekicks to arrive to repair my leaking chimney. I’ve moved the car into the street, cancelled my swim date, and am sticking around, just in case they mess up and need my help, should anything, God forbid, go wrong.

My husband thinks I’m nuts for staying home, because he’s a glass-is-half-full kind of guy who doesn’t believe, like I do, that everything can go wrong, no matter how vigilant you try to be. I am incapable of hiding this negative thinking (and its antecedent, my pretend invisible safety net) from him, because there’s always something there to remind me.

Oh, goody, the first bad news of the day just rolled in: our dinner out has to be cancelled, due to some excuses which I couldn’t really hear, because they were told to me in what came across to my deaf ears as a whisper. I didn’t want to shriek, “Speak up, I can’t hear you!” like I did the other day to a caller I thought was my husband, but turned out to be the mason, because I heard enough to get the picture.

Darn. Now I’ll have to forage for vittles later on today and cook my own dinner. There’s no rest for the weary. No time off for good behavior. No end in sight. No pain, no gain. No sleep, no dreams. No time like the present. And no offense taken when none [was] meant. I’m an idiom machine this morning, oh yes indeedy do I am.

They just arrived - I’ll keep you posted.