Hillmomban Horror: The Buttering

I am such a butterfingered ninnymuggins!

Not butterfingered, like Edward Scissorhands was scissor-handed. How delicious THAT would be, if I had Butterfinger candy bars on my hands. Like, 10 of them! I could be called HM Butterfingers. I confess, I might eventually (in an hour or two) have a couple of stumpy digits, mere nubs.

All day Saturday, I was wreaking havoc like a bull in a china shop. Like Godzilla tromping through Tokyo.

I dropped two ice cubes while trying to fill my purple mini bubba cup for town.

I dropped the soap in the shower.

I got my foot down the wrong leg of my striped sweatpants.

I knocked plastic containers out of the cabinet as I put away a big cup Farmer H had used.

I knocked the cutting board askew while rolling my mini limes on it, almost toppling my magical elixir, which was inches away, lid off, after adding cherry limeade.

I carefully placed the lid on my 44 oz foam cup after adding the lime juice, and instantly bumped it, sloshing bright red cherry limeade all over the underside of the lid. Which makes it stick when I try to remove that lid to add ice later in the day and night.

I reached for the wrong end of my Pioneer Woman ceramic knife to slice my mini limes, and felt the blade slice through a couple epidermal layers. NO blood, though! Thanks, Even Steven.

I reached for my scratchers, which I'd carried down to the lair on my lunch tray, and tipped over a ramekin of salsa.

I sliced a pickle for my tuna salad supper, and of course some of the dicings fell off my Pioneer Woman knife onto the kitchen floor.

I picked up a mini sleeve of Ritz Crackers to open, back in my lair with supper, and dropped it on the edge of my desk. It didn't fall to the floor. I pinned it there with a wrist. They crumble, you know.

My fumble-fingered, dropsyness-filled day was like a horror story: The Buttering.