How many “Oopsies” Do We Get?

I received an email the other day informing me about a writer’s conference. A few minutes later, I got another message with the title “Oops.” The sender had forgotten to include the date of the meeting. A rather significant omission, right?

That got me to thinking. As the co-host of a Monday afternoon Writing Class, I often send emails to my list of attendees. I recall a number of them with the subject of “Oops” because of an error or an omission I'd made.

That brings about a few other revelations. Now, I’m trying to decide whether this spate of incomplete, inaccurate, or downright wrong information is a function of a scattered brain or age. My hope is for the former, of course. Perhaps…just perhaps…I can do something about that one. Age just scoots on down the proverbial road bringing inevitable consequences…until it doesn’t. My post of August 15 is a reminder of how abruptly that can run its course.

As an aside, the Writing Class held a moment of silence for Digby Henry, our missing member, and then fondly called up special remembrances of the delightful man. We read a touching poem he wrote entitled “evening earthturn” in his honor. He was extraordinary and will be missed by all.

With this train of thought rolling, let me recall a few of my more recent foibles, some of which have been shared on the blog or with the class or with family…or with no one.

Let’s see…

• There was the to-do about my new washing machine refusing to work the way I wanted it to. Turned out it was working the way I instructed it to. The damned thing should have known I wanted my clothes washed even if I did turn the indicator to Final Spin/Dry. The store’s repair shop is probably still laughing about that one.

• I told some of you about playing skip-the-rope with a gas hose. Instead of walking around the car, I tried to step over the hose. The hose won. That spill sent me back to physical therapy, and I'm still not walking quite as well as before.

• I usually back my auto into the parking space at the apartment complex because it is easier (and safer) to simply pull out whenever I leave. The other day, I pulled out and slammed on the brakes. I’d gone blind! I couldn’t see the road. Then I realized I’d forgotten to take the sun shield down from the windshield. Glad no one was around. My cheeks were rather rosy as I sat in the middle of the main drive to correct the situation. Then I sat there for another few minutes laughing my head off.

• I came home from the supermarket with an armful of groceries and stood in front of my door wondering why it wouldn’t open. Turned out I was pushing the unlock button on my Buick’s remote. This time, I had to drop the groceries and run for the bathroom. Uncontrolled mirth and a full bladder do not a good mix make.

• I don’t know how many times I’ve answered the TV remote or tried to dial a channel on my telephone. In this electronic world with a myriad of little black boxes sitting around, that might not be too unusual for many of us. But sitting for five minutes wondering why the damned thing doesn’t work probably is. My recovery time has slowed.

 

• I dog-sit a little black and white Papillion named Gizmo, and the other day he interrupted me at the computer to let me know he had an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Dogs are not supposed to have facial expressions, but his was clearly one of disgust when I led him to my bathroom. After I sheepishly took him outside, things came out all right. Gizz hasn’t messed in the apartment but once, and that was payback for my leaving him alone for an extended period of time. He tolerates my occasional absence, but that time, I clearly violated our set of unspoken rules. We kissed and made up, anyway.

• Can't forget falling off my shoes. Impossible you say? Only a klutz would do that? Thank you for making my point. I have a pair of moccasin-style black dress shoes with soles shorter and narrower than the shoe, itself. The other day I was walking down the sidewalk and turned my ankle. I'd have fallen off my shoes if there hadn't been a concrete wall there to catch my fall.

I’m sure I can come up with other “Oopsies” but this is embarrassment enough for one blog. If you wish to confess your own awkward moments, please do so, using the Post a Comment section. Everyone have a good week.

 

Next week: I have no idea.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Just when I think I’ve got it figured out…

As readers of this blog know, I lost my wife, Betty, a little over four years ago to pneumonia. Still miss her terribly, but by now I figured I had this bachelor life all figured out. Of course, it’s had its moments. I blogged about my tussle with folding fitted sheets. I’ve also gone anemic twice in those four years…I don’t cook, you know. Toppled over a few times…once ending up in the emergency room. That earned me back surgery. Also washed my clothes using fabric softener instead of laundry soap for a month, but that’s all just part of the learning process.

I figured the learning curve was pretty well behind me until the other day. Let me explain. My wife had a small dog-sitting business when she passed away, and I’ve continued to help out two of our owners. I’ve had opportunities to take additional four-legged members from other families, but I’ve declined, holding it to just the two. One, Gizmo (or Gizzie) is a Papillion who stays with me regularly. He’s a great guy. The other, Oslo is a little white, curly-haired mix with the sweetest nature you’ve ever seen. He comes to me only intermittently, when his mom and dad travel.

All of this is a long-winded way of saying we saved all of our plastic bags to hold the pups’ poop. Betty sewed a large “sleeve” she could hang in the hall closet for easy access. She did it with needle and thread because her sewing machine pre-deceased her by decades and she refused to get another. Nonetheless, she did quite a fancy job, sewing elastic in the open end at the bottom and puting a loop at the top to hang the thing up out of the way. We’d stuff empty bags up the sleeve as a convenient place to store them until needed. I’ve continued to use this contraption since her passing.

The other day, I noticed I was getting low on my supply of bags. That didn’t make a lot of sense, as I generally acquire more than I use, but I gave it no more thought. Then one day when the weather was colder than usual, I pulled out my heavy jacket. When I put it on, six months worth of poop bags came flying out the left sleeve.

Gee, if I’d only been thinking, I could have spared Betty the trouble...and she despised sewing.

 

Next week: Back to THE BISTI BUSINESS..

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.