J-Dub and I are meeting some friends for supper and the baby Focker movie.
But first we must stop by the home improvement store and pick up some much needed supplies so we can get back to work on Our Place; the Little Trailer House on the Prairie that we recently purchased in a frenzy of bad judgment. You might say we’ve run into a bit of trouble more than once which has hindered our progress.
It should have dawned on me the place we bought was located on an ancient Indian burial ground the very first night I went out there to work.
I was so anxious to begin the work, happy visions danced around in my head. My little country home would be quaint. And comfy. And simple.
I have some pictures of my vision.
A picket fence and a few wildflowers.
A little garden in the mist.
Freshly washed clothes whipping in the breeze.
Rocking chairs, cats, and chickens scratching in the yard.
These pictures draw me in, invite me to joing in this simple, self-sufficient life.
This scene is appealing.
But instead, I have this one.
In a fit to get the dirty carpet out, I feverishly began ripping and pulling, only to slice my palm nearly in two on a tack strip.
I was bleeding like a stuck hog, sort of, and of course there was nothing in the house to use for first aid supplies.
My first instinct was toilet paper and we all know how toilet paper sticks to wounds and practically rips them open again when pulled off.
Then desperation sank in, and I did what any sensible, red-necked woman would do.
Grabbed a panty liner out my purse and wrapped it up with painter’s tape.
This new place is going to fit me like a glove.