Twenty Nineteen

Best wishes for the happiest of New Years. I'm late getting to the old blog this morning. I slept in very late. I'm not sure why, I had nary a drop of booze to mark the flipping of calendar pages. Not a beer, nothing, but I still slept like a hungover sailor on shore leave.

The wife and I went out for a steak then came home to watch a movie on Netflix. The wind howled around the eves and shook the siding. The rain had subsided. We switched over to network coverage and watched the ball drop in Times Square. I grabbed a willing kiss from my spouse and the old year was gone. Ho hum, another boring New Year celebration.

I'm glad to be healthy to start 2019. It was almost otherwise. Sunday I was putting boxes of outdoor decorations back into the attic. I have 10' ceilings in my garage. The stepladder is an eight-footer. I was on the next to top step of the ladder, shoving some boxes back to make room to climb into the opening. I must have twisted because I felt the ladder slip from beneath my feet as it fell sideways. I dropped through the hole like a cartoon character. Somehow I managed to reach out and catch myself on the attic entrance coping. I caught my full weight on my hands, hung for a second, slowing my fall, and dropped to the concrete floor. Like a cat, I managed to land on my feet.

My hand was scraped up. I managed to land square without twisting an ankle, but my right foot is very sore, bruised or sprained slightly.

I limped into the house and told the wife she was going to have to hold the ladder while I finished. Yes, shutting the proverbial barn door after the plow horse had absconded to eat oats and cozy up to the neighbor's in-heat mare. I told her what happened.

"Lucky you didn't tear up the drywall" was her comment.

"Lucky I didn't tear up me" was my my snarky reply.

She was irritated I snapped at her. I was irritated I did not get some sympathy.

So it goes.

Happy New Year.