Step Right Up, Little Lady

There are a number of things that I’ve discovered I cannot do.

For instance, I cannot do percentages. Honestly, I think I was sick that day. If something is priced at 40% off retail, I am compelled to take 10% off the price four times. If it’s 45%, that’s four ten-percents and then half a ten percent…

This is the reason you often see me in stores sitting on the floor with my socks and shoes off:  I'm working out the end price of something.

Another thing I cannot do is listen to – or tell – the same story more than three times. I am terribly interested the first time, compassionate the second, polite the third, and looking for an exit on the fourth telling. This goes for Timmy Jr.’s first words, the time that guy followed you all the way to the parking lot, and that freaky dream from last week. I’ve only got so much time on the planet and then it’s The Great Hereafter – do we really have time for repetition?

And I cannot bake.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I can bake.

I just shouldn’t.

And when I say I shouldn’t, I’m not talking about what it does to my pants or the seam impressions it causes said pants to leave on my hips and thighs.

I’m talking about the burns. Because oven mitt or no oven mitt, I am going to burn some part of my hand (usually the left hand, on the top) at some point.

Each time, of course, I vow to be more careful; and each time, this careful-ness lasts the first ten minutes and then is relegated to the degree of attention I give the other things I have vowed to be more careful about, things like my savings account, getting birthday presents to people on time, staying on my side of the road whilst driving...

I am looking at my hands today, having made lasagna last night, and am contemplating what the carnie judging my age would tell me.

They look at your hands, you know, the carnies. The hands speak, as they say, giving away your age. And mine? Well, while my right hand remains a model of pink and slightly dimpled competence, my left hand speaks of the great pyramids, of the first domesticated dog.

I wasn't there for the building of the great pyramids, of course, but judging by my puckered yet blistered hand, I may have been invited to the grand opening.

I should totally go to the carnival today.

Alas, the carnies are all in Florida or some other southern state, plotting their penny-toss strategies and perfecting the casual leer.

And me? Oh, I’m sure I’ll have baked something again by the time the carnivals roll back into town.

And I’m gonna win me that giant stuffed poodle yet.