If only I could hide
Each of us has a situation that stretches us. In my case, the concept of “pot luck supper” brings me to the edge of a culinary chasm. It can be made worse: have it in my home, with an expectation that I serve as host. Not good for what ails me.
I must have “missed the memo”, as they say, today. When the kitchen staff threw preparations into high gear, and car after car arrived in our lane, disgorging people and food containers, I realized that retreat wasn’t a possibility. I do live here. Trying to calm the “shaky leg” mutt was the least of my worries.
My approach was to get busy. Every time a dish emptied, I concentrated on washing, drying, whatever. Managed to miss the meal.
As well, this morning I received an unexpected phone call. A data set that had been forwarded for educational purposes came back to bite me. There’s an international convention, involving thousands of people interested in their own family tree… starting next weekend. The data set is crucial for one subgroup, and I now have to massage “it” into content for well-meaning researchers. I have two days, little interest and a moral responsibility. It should be fun.
Carry on, then. By next week, there’ll be something else. And if I get through, my spirit will be stronger. Folk wisdom, in a nutshell. By tomorrow, I’ll be back to regular meals, and the dog will have forgotten the trauma of so many strangers in his space. I hope. Can’t afford canine counselling. With that, good night from a singsong moment.
