Butter Fingers

We have very few drinking glasses around the house because I always accidentally break them.  We have an uneven number of bowls and plates because they slip from my fingers, as if my digits were made of melting butter. My husband calls me ‘goat‘…because I’m always ramming into doorways, and knocking things with my ‘hoofs’.


If I’m a pygmy goat then my husband is a bear.


In our small townhouse, he often crowds me. He’s well over a foot and a half taller than myself,and our kitchen is so small that when he makes his tea and toast in the morning, I can’t be in the same room.  This is frustrating and I occasionally retaliate, and ram him the way a goat would when cornered.  This is us, in happier times frolicking in a winter wonderland.  Ben’s getting a little silly with this tire, I really don’t know where that came from.         Goat-Bear2

Tonight, about to step out onto our outdoor enclosure, I reach the cord for the blinds.  It’s a plastic rod that requires delicate handling, but history proves that goats aren’t good at dexterity.  I’m yapping away, squawking about nothing in general, looking over my shoulder when I twist the plastic rod, which then rips from the hook.  In fact, not only did I rip it from the hook, I yanked the hook from the base, which then lunged into the open air vent, making this wonderful metallic rattling all the way down into a deep black hole.  Ben, the stoic bear, leapt to action, fetching the flashlight to explore the vent.

polar-bear-leapingI stood behind him, in my pastel pajama pants, wringing my hands apologetically.


The piece is gone, down the drain and heading somewhere towards Mexico by now.  Now we’ll have to open and close the blinds, Ben needs to reach up and pinch the remaining bit of broken plastic and drag it to and fro.  Personally, I think it adds something to the general ambiance of the room.

thanks for listeningImages Courtesy of Google

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