Where's The Duct Tape?
I start to do something then wind up doing something else.
Like this morning.
One of the posts on my white poster bed got wobbly and leaned.
It wouldn't stay upright. And I couldn't get it to screw back into the grooves.
So I decided to fix it somehow.
Guys use handyman tools, so I decided to do likewise. I went to the sunroom and found a small red screwdriver and some gray duct tape.
Guys use a lot of duct tape. I know my son-in-law does.
I've heard there are 1,001 uses for duct tape. Like emergency bandaids, or to remove lint from clothing, or patch ripped clothes, tape down cords or wires on the floor to keep from tripping over them. And to repair book bindings or to make wraps for shovel handles or bikes, and for emergency plumbing repairs and to tape broken windows.
I heard of one guy who used duct tape to keep his fly closed after the zipper broke at work. And you can buy the tape in several colors too.
Anyway, I decide that duct tape might come in handy to repair my poster bed.
I head back toward the bedroom, then realize I have a small load of clothes to wash. I'd just start that load now while I'm thinking of it.
I do, then remember there are a few clothes in the clothes dryer. I take them out of the dryer, fold them. Then I retrieve my screwdriver and duct tape, head for the bedroom again. I have to pass through the kitchen, so I stop to put the clean dishes away that are in the drying rack from the night before.
Going into the dining room, I see a get well card on the table. I really need to address it and send it on its way. So I stop, address and stamp the card, then take it to the mailbox for the postman to pick up on his rounds.
While outside on the porch I see that my geraniums need watering, so I get a jug of water and water the geraniums. Also my two lone tomato plants that, as yet, have no tomatoes.
There's a broom propped up on the porch. I use it to give my porch a lick and a promise, as mama used to say.
Then I pull a couple of weeds surrounding my hostas.
I barely step indoors when the doorbell rings.
It's Dot, my friend, who drops by now and then to chat for a few minutes.
She's too busy to sit down, so I stand with her, my repair tools in hand.
After she leaves, I notice there's dust on the end table. I hope she hadn't noticed. So I go back into the kitchen and get the Pledge and a cloth and dust the living room tables and put away a few magazines that are multiplying like rabbits. But not as fast as the junk mail that keeps urging me to renew or subscribe. They come daily, it seems. They are giving me a last chance.
I put the Pledge away, then hear the shutting of the mailbox door. The postman has arrived.
I go get the mail, then sit on the couch to see what news has arrived.
I get a wedding invitation from a nephew I haven't seen since he was a toddler.
And I get more requests for subscriptions to magazines and some credit card offers. The magazines have selected me to receive their best deal ever, because I'm a preferred customer
I file the wedding announcement and pitch the junk mail.
The phone rings. It's a long distance call from a friend in Blytheville. She wants to chat.
We chat; discuss the Casey Anthony murder trial we've been watching on live television.
We agree she's guilty, that she killed her daughter, Caylee.
After my friend hangs up, I check my computer for new emails.
I'm expecting an important one from my daughter.
As soon as I do that, I'll get back to the bedpost.
Now where's the duct tape and the screwdriver?
I had them just a minute ago.