You should see the other guy

What's the first thing that pops into your mind when a minor catastrophe befalls you?  Is it "Well, there goes my plan for the morning?"

I woke up this morning a little before 7.  It was still dark outside.  I walked through the house, opening blinds, as I always do.  Our L-shaped living room/dining room combination has six windows; two windows on the short side of the L, and two sets of two each on the long side.  I always start on the short side and work my way around.   Our Christmas tree is in front of the piano, which sits between the two sets of windows, and there's not much clearance between the dining room table and the Christmas tree, which I squeeze between in order to open the last two sets of blinds and plug in the Christmas tree.

Inclined as I am to expect the worst-case scenario, I thought, as I do each morning, that I needed to be careful so that I wouldn't end up tangled in the cords, tripping and falling and taking the tree down with me.  That never happens, of course, and it didn't happen today, either.  What did happen is that I got tangled in another extension cord on the other side of the dining room table (where a computer, which my son is using for a stop-motion video project, was plugged in), and I tripped and fell down, hard, hitting my face on the slate tile in the foyer, just where it begins and the carpet ends.

I haven't fallen down hard in a very long time.  Maybe not since childhood.  I could feel my upper lip swelling and when I touched my face, I felt blood, so I panicked a little.  There was a moment or two when I just wasn't sure how much damage I had done.  It was still dark, and I didn't have glasses on or contact lenses in yet, and the whole thing was very disconcerting and disorienting.

When I sat up, I realized that the damage was relatively minor.  I had grabbed a chair on the way down, which probably saved me from making harder contact with the slate.  I scraped the skin off the bridge of my nose (that was the source of the blood) and slightly broke the skin on my upper lip, which is about twice its normal size now.  My teeth seem to be fine, but my cheek and forehead are bruised and a little scraped.  I have a few other bruises and sore spots, too, but nothing that won't heal in a day or so.

For a few moments after the initial shock, I was afraid that I might have a concussion. I recited the names of the Presidents in reverse order starting with Obama and ending with Roosevelt (TR), and then started on the Popes, beginning with Francis.  I could only remember as far back as Pius XI, but I'm not sure I'd have correctly remembered who preceded him with or without head trauma.  Meanwhile, my punctuation skills, as always, are excellent, and I can still type 90 WPM give or take.  My head still hurts a little, but I think that my brain is fine, or at least no more damaged than it normally is.

As for my initial reaction, I have still managed to complete most of the items on today's to-do list; if I can manage to avoid extension cords and other trip hazards for the next few days, then I should be back on track in no time.  If anyone tells me that I look like I was in a bar fight, I'll say "Maybe I was.  Maybe I was."

Come thou long-expected cookies

That's not blasphemous, is it?

Today is cookie-making day, and while the cookies are long-expected among a certain demographic in my household, the cookie-making is long-dreaded by the cookie baker.  I don't like to bake.  I don't mind cooking, but baking just fills me with despair.

OK, slight hyperbole.  Despair would be overstating the case.  Dismay is much better.  I plan for cookie-making day several weeks in advance, and when it finally dawns, I'm filled with dismay.  The despair comes when the cookies are baked and I'm left to consider the wreckage that was once my kitchen.  Flour sticks to black countertops like white on rice.  Or flour.  The countertops will be dusty until Valentine's Day, and I still haven't figured out how I'll dig the crusted cookie dough particles out of my keyboard.

The first batch is in the oven now, so I'm tempting fate.  I'm not sure that my multi-tasking skills are good enough that I can time cookies and blog at the same time, and the idea of having to throw away even one batch leaves me quaking with horror and dread.  So Merry Christmas.

Progress

21,000 words.  60,000 or so to go.