National Blame Someone Else Day

I just heard on the radio that there is such a thing as National Blame Someone Else Day. Okay. So here I am, getting ready for a lovely day of book writing. You know, doing what one must do to pen a best seller, like my novels The Goodbye Lie and Amelia Island’s Velvet Undertow available at www.GraciousJaneMarie.com.

Now, admittedly, I scurry. Remember Edith in the old TV show, All in the Family? She scurried, too, as if she’s on a time clock or late to a movie. Scurrying is somewhere between a foot drag and a relay race, leaning a bit more toward the race thing.

So let me set the scene. I’m in the bedroom. We have a rod iron legged, wooden bench at the foot of the bed. I’m dressing for the day. The bench is located between the closet and the master bath. As I’m exiting the closet, scurrying toward the bath, my left foot catches the iron leg of the bench. I lose my balance and my face heads straight toward the pointed corner of our lovely antique marble washstand. Realizing in that instance that the impact will either split my skull or take an eye, I do a mid-air pirouette to the right, happily avoiding the deadly corner. But wait, there’s more. Still out of balance, and in close quarters, my left upper arm strikes the marble topped night stand and I fall to the hard tile floor, flat on my bottom, compressing my spine. After 10 minutes sitting there in shock and refusing to let my husband, Bruce, assist me, my back pain is so great, I manage to somehow stand somewhat upright as the purple bruise begins to rise on my left arm. I might add that 3 of the toes on my left foot are throbbing lavender, gold, and green.

The human body is a remarkable marvel and in six weeks, my back, which I thought was permanently broken, aching or otherwise screwed up, has healed.

What does this have to do with National Blame Someone Else Day? Let me explain. It was my ever-lovin' Bruce, who pulled out the bench by 2 inches to hang our heavy blanket neatly across the back so he could make the bed, Marine style. He makes the bed in this fashion every morning. Yes, I know. I am very lucky. However, with some luck, there may be an accompanying curse. In this case, the dirty dog forget to push the bench back those 2 inches, thereby causing me to trip and nearly cripple myself for life. If he just wasn’t such a neat freak, this might not have happened. It’s not my fault I scurry and often don’t turn on sufficient lighting in the bedroom to look where I’m going. No, it’s HIS fault. I rest my case.

Hugs,

Jane Marie