Write Hand, Left

While rounding the stairwell, headed upstairs, I slammed my right hand on the sharp corner of the wooden stair rail two months ago. It rang through the house like Quasimodo's signal from the bell tower. Instantly, I hunkered in pain, yelled "I think I broke my hand," then sat on a step and giggled endlessly when my daughter ran up to my rescue.

It still hurts, hinders me. I have had to rework my fingering while playing piano. I drop things more frequently. It feels like a fifty pound weight prohibits any lifting and movement of my pinky finger. And I discovered this week I have no feeling atop that hand.

Given the circumstances, I consider it a blessing that I write with my left hand...

SAN to LAX

I could not figure out how I got caught in an isolated snow storm while sitting in the cabin of 747 at the San Diego Airport. After a brief moment of panic, I scoured the walls, the ceiling, well everything in view to find its source. I looked under my seat, out the window, and inside the magazine pocket. Nothing. As I hummed in confusion and positioned myself against the seat back to buckle up for take-off, it became apparent. The lady sitting ahead of me had her air vent on, and it was blowing HER flakes of dandruff around my face. Gag.

Moments later, the plane condensated cold-water drips onto my lap to complete the perfect storm.

#vomitbagstatus