Batwoman

I was sweating bullets, over a client who wouldn't sign an extension on a large contract we've been working on for a year and a half. My food was hitting my stomach like lead pellets in a tin bucket. When life gets like that, I don't even realize what I'm doing to the others around me. It's sort-of like what an unripe persimmon does to you...it looks nice and plummy, soft and sweet, but then the memory of that first bite will stay with you for an hour or so, all puckered up and mealy. Other flavors and foods don't help. You've just got to roll with it until its over. Being an overly sensitive woman is both a gift and a curse, and probably mostly the latter, if you were to ask my dear husband. The roller coaster life that he has had to lead because he decided to put a ring on it all those decades ago has got to be wearing on him. I know he'd like to live a more lake-like existence, emotionally, that is. But then, what would he do for fun? 

I was working here (sweating said bullets) at my giant desk, in our gorgeous study, by my 120-year-old fireplace when it started raining to beat the band. The problems with the client had apparently been resolved when I received an email back from the buyer's agent, telling me that, after all that, I had signed my part of the document wrong. So me, the redneck realtor, had to put the whole mess through to everybody for re-signing. I admit it, I am blonde, a bit ditzy, and yes, a bit of a redneck, but the real problem was that I was so excited about everything working out that I just got in a hurry. In the midst of this, and the rain, I noticed the nice sound of drumming in the fireplace. It seemed louder than normal. Then there was a mild splat of something that hit my cheek. On closer examination, I saw puddles all around, water streaming along the wall, down the mirror and pooling on the beautiful mantle. After pulling down the massive picture from above, there was a big bow in the plaster that had gone undetected. Then there was wailing and gnashing of teeth as my husband and Viking son scaled the roof (fairly new, I might add) to check it, only to find failing flashing as the problem. Help is on the way.

But this is really the kicker: I keep my Precious right by that fireplace. My Precious is my Haynes Q2 straight-line B-foot solid silver flute, which cost me as much as a decent used car. I sold a nice house and took my entire commission, tithed, paid taxes, then bought that flute.  I haven't bought a new one in 31 years. I leave that flute out, in the open, on a flute stand, so that my lazy self won't forget to practice it. I pet it, clean it, wipe it down, practice it most days, then put it back on its stand. A few weeks or months back, I noticed that my music had gotten all crinkled up and that my flute had little sprinkles all over it. One of the keys even had a wonky way about it. I thought somebody in the house had had an accident with a Sprite can and didn't want to tell me about it. There have been several times I thought I was really having to spend a lot of time working it over with the cleaning cloth. Things are not always what they seem and there just might be bats in the belfry.