This espisode of French Toast Friday brought to you by Friday the 13th.
I am not superstitious. It just happened to be Friday the 13th, and the toilet just happened to break down before I went out to the barn, giving me a lovely afternoon of shopping for toilet parts.
I exasperate Shaun with my lack of superstition, I can’t seem to get it in my head that saying, “Isn’t this nice…traffic is light today, we might make it in under an hour!” is a jinx. Now we’ll never make it on time.
This is the first Friday-the-thirteenth I’ve ever had a problem. I may be a convert to the world in which Jinxes exist.
After buying toilet parts, I go to the barn.
Exihibit A: my clean-it-every-time and keep-it-covered dressage saddle…
Okaaaay…and this is a problem why?
Because it’s an ID photo I sent to the saddle repair shop. Followed by more detailed photos of the damage. I’ll spare you all the pictures, and post the one that made my heart stop, after I’d flung the saddle up on Hudson, and went to attach the girth.
It had been 4 days since I’d used my saddle (doesn’t fit every horse I ride, naturally) That gray stuff isn’t mold, it’s chomp marks. The rat chewed through the one billet, and then went on to the other three as if they were ears of corn, going up one side and down the other. HOW? Where the saddle is stored, a rat would have had to stand on the western saddle below, on its tippy toes, and then, it would have to lean out and try to snag a (covered) billet without falling off the western saddle. Great. No one has ever had a problem there, including me, with rodent damage.
I am kissing the ground it did not touch any other part of the saddle. This is all repairable. As Lillie says, as problems go, this one is gold-plated.
I bring saddle home, photograph it, and make some calls before…the power goes out. Nice sunny day, no wind. Power comes back on. Computer doesn’t. Repeat the whole hyperventilating thing. Thankfully the backup surge protector did what it was supposed to do: it blew up instead of the computer. Have to go get a new one. Might as well stop and take the dog for a walk at that park over there.
Christmas wrenches the leash out of my hand. We’re currently on a sidewalk next to a very busy street. He’s chasing…a black cat. I helpfully hyperventilate again. TRAFFIC! Once Christmas is caught, thanks to two incredibly wonderful pre-teens who thought he was cute, I mentally duct tape the leash to my hand, and I keep a wary eye out for ladders and sidewalk cracks.
I text Daisy, thinking this will calm me down: haven’t talked to her all day. Wonder how she is. Barbie has a cold. We also have a mutual friend who is in critical care in the hospital.
Jane: How r U doing, how’s Bob? Barbie still have a runny nose?
15 minutes later…
Daisy: Just got out of surgery, at home, doing GREAT!!!
Jane: (in a complete panic) YOU WERE IN SURGERY???
No response. I call. How could she be in surgery and not tell me? Finally Daisy picks up.
“What happened??” I say, How could you be in surgery and not tell me!?! I should have been there, I should…oh”. I sigh. “It’s Bob, huh.”
Daisy says, confused, “You thought I was talking about me? Didn’t you ask just me about Bob?” Pause while she figures out how ridiculous this is. “Yeah…I got off work, had a little surgery, drove myself home, and now I’m doing great!” She’s laughing so hard I can barely understand her. I think she’s making up the kinds of surgeries you could have done in the hour between getting off the bus and having Jane call you in a panic.
I also think I just became a character in the novel she’s writing: “Moments of My Life That Have Been Wasted by Others That I Will Never Get Back Again.”
Groan. Can I have one firing brain cell? Please? I’m hoping she won’t remember the hospital incident.
It’s Friday the 13th. Of COURSE she remembers the hospital incident.
“Remember when you came to see me in the hospital and they wouldn’t let you in, because I was pre-op?” Daisy says.
“Yeah”, I complete the story, “…and I insisted you were my sister and I had to see you RIGHT NOW.” They’d delayed her surgery by 4 hours that she had to spend waiting as if she was going in sometime in the next 2 seconds, incredibly stressful, if understandable: they had emergencies, and thankfully, Daisy was not an emergency.
“And…” Daisy says.
“And”, I say, “They asked me WHICH Daisy I came to see, and even though I was your sister, I couldn’t remember our last name.”
“And…” Daisy says.
“And I made up this whole long story about having different last names as kids, us both being married, and you just got divorced and I wasn’t sure which name you were using but I’m so stressed I can’t remember either of them, until finally the nurse said: “You can’t remember your own last name? You must be a really good friend to want to see her THAT bad, go in.”
“We didn’t learn much from that, did we?” Daisy says, trying not to snort as she laughs.
“No. We didn’t” I quote myself: “She’s my sister! Her last name…her last name…uh I don’t remember her last name because…” we both burst out into hysterics.
“Feel better?” Daisy says.
I feel much better. Friday-Schmiday the thirteenth!
Wait. Did I just jinx myself? Ahhhhhh.