On Saturday I had a visit with a friend who told me about some rather dubious praise she received. The kind you'd rather not get. We laughed about it and it didn't cross my mind again until Sunday evening. At my in-laws house on Sunday, I was the winner of the I-wish-that-didn't-happen-but-everyone-thought-it-was-good-for-a-laugh award. Multiple times.
First off I knocked a wooden statue off its pedestal and sent it crashing to the floor. With my butt. The hand, walking stick, and part of the hat broke off. About two minutes later I knocked it again with my elbow, but caught it before it could tip over. Then I stepped away and gave the thing a wide berth.
After stepping to the other side of the room I stood and chatted with my in-laws while they (deservedly) admired the baby. As I lifted my right foot to walk to the table I was surprised that my sock was sticking to their hardwood floor. I lifted my foot and knew what it was, though I hoped someone had simply spilled root beer. I had stepped in a half-dried, undiscovered puddle of cat vomit. She's an old cat. You'd be surprised how well her vomit blends in with a wood floor.
I borrowed a pair of socks to wear for the remainder of the evening. As far as I remember I didn't do anything stupid other than drop little bits of food off my eating utensils. I usually don't eat like a three year old, really. When it was time to go home I lifted my foot to put my shoes back on and found that the pristine white sock I had borrowed now had a red stain on the bottom. I think it was the jello I dropped. At least it wasn't a new puddle of cat vomit.
I was the wiener for the day.