I’ve been a little silent since my announcement of the Easter bonnet competition last week, not because I’ve been gloating, (I have) but because last week was more than busy. My husband, Brantley, went to Memphis to work for a couple of days. The plan was that he would return home for three days, and then go back to Memphis for two more. However, his car broke down while he was there and the mechanic had to order parts to fix it. Instead of being gone for two days, he was gone for seven. This placed a major kink in my week.
As previously mentioned, Emma Nathews of Emily Dean Photography was coming into town to shoot more Awkward Smoking Pictures. (Be patient. You’ll see them soon.) Since Brantley wasn’t here to watch the offspring, I had to ship him to the grandparents mid-week. Maybe all kids are this way, but my son requires a pretty strict routine in order to maintain his, and my sanity. However, routine was nowhere to be found last week. Much like the shingles on my roof.
A storm from the week before had blown away large sections of shingles. After calling our homeowners insurance company, they put us in touch with a roofer. I called Brantley in Memphis, “I need you to talk to the roofers. I’m not going to know what they’re talking about.” He interrupted, “Lori, I can’t do that. I’m busy. You can handle this. I know you can.”
What was I thinking? Of course I could handle that. I’m Lori Wescott for crying out loud.
Imagine my surprise when the insurance adjuster told me that I had to use the specific roofing company that came out to do the estimate. “But, why?” I asked. “The roofer said five times that what he wanted me to sign WASN’T a contract.” Guess what? It was a contract. I’ll let you fill in the blanks on what happened next because it involves a lot of bad words.
After a lengthy, ugly cry I picked myself up and shook it off. There was no time for crying. I had to prepare the house for company. About thirty minutes prior to Emma’s arrival, I realized that I had forgotten to put fresh-cut flowers in the guest room. Our guest room is drab and a little cramped, so I always do my best to punch it up with some fresh cut flowers, a new issue of Us Weekly or People, and some candy. I had done none of this.
I called my next-door neighbor, the flower whisperer, and asked if I could cut some flowers from her yard. She told me that she really didn’t have anything vase-worthy at the time, so I decided to use what I had in my own yard- one sad little patch of Johnny Jump-Ups with one inch stems. They would have to do.
About an hour later I got a text from the flower whisperer saying she had left a spring bud vase on my porch that I could sneak up to the guest room. She must have had a gut feeling that my version wouldn’t be up to par.
Bet you’ll never guess which vase was created by me.
|The phrase, “Nailed it,” comes to mind.|