Years ago, in middle school (that’s junior high to those of you north of the Mason-Dixon line), I read an otherwise forgettable book. So forgettable that I don’t even remember the name. But the part that I do remember was this freaky chick who, after breaking a glass when she woke up one morning, decided that “this is going to be a day of shiny, sharp, sparkly things.”
I generally don’t think that way. If I get up and something goes wrong, my declaration for that particular day is more along the lines of “Great. Today is just going to suck.” (Maybe that’s why I write HERE and not THERE.)

So it comes as a bit of a surprise to me that today I can declare it to be a day of knots. Yeah, those kind. The ones you can’t seem to undo.

It started when Miss Priss offered to help me take down the Christmas tree. (Okay, you can stop it right there. I was raised by a European Catholic mother who insisted that the tree stay up until the Epiphany on January 6. So this didn’t come without a little guilt. But this damned tree has been up since the Friday after Thanksgiving, and it’s so dry that it’s going to catch fire the next time someone turns on a light switch. So don’t even go there. I got your guilt right here.)

Anyway, Miss Priss offered to help. Actually, she didn’t. She was lying on the sofa, under a down comforter, watching me take down the tree. And after a few minutes, I kindly suggested that she help me, given the fact that I had taken her to meet her friends at the movies when that was the last place in the world I felt like driving and I had taken her to Target to redeem a gift card when that was the last place in the world I felt like going to and I had taken her to Walmart on the stinkin’ 26th of December (!) when that was the last place in the world I wanted to be at and … phew. You get the picture. (If you don’t think I get my guilt-throwing ability honestly, please reread the paragraph about the Christmas tree.)

So my little princess helped. We boxed up ornaments, we put away the nativity, we stored the ribbons and bows and garland. And I told her, when it was time to take down the lights, to let me handle that part. I’m a pro at removing 1000 white lights from a towering Frasier fir, mainly because people tend to make themselves scarce around here when it comes to that task. But Miss Priss is deep in the throes of “you always treat me like a baby and think I can’t do anything”-itis. So off she went. And I heard her struggle a couple of times, asked her if she needed help, and retreated when I realized she was about to throw the whole ball o’ lights at me.

Suffice it to say that two hours and one tantrum later, she resumed her rightful position on the sofa, climbed back under that familiar comforter, and promptly fell asleep.

And I fought the world’s largest Christmas light knot. And when I say fought, I mean fought. And then I fought the urge to put a sign up with her picture on it and the caption “free to a good home — has had all her shots — makes good grades.”

That should have been enough. But, ahem. No. Because later, after I had opened the windows to let the nice breeze in (and let the funk OUT), the wind picked up and knotted up a glass windchime. Beyond belief. The last time it got this knotted up was when Hurricane Katrina hit, and it took hours to undo that damage. (If you are a Katrina survivor and are reading this right now, I apologize — I don’t think you give a rat’s you-know-what about the trouble I had with a goshdarn windchime, huh?)

So today was a knotted up day. The third knot is the one in my back. From standing on a ladder working on the windchime.

And from hanging up all those fliers with Miss Priss’s picture on them.

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