I needed a place to hang this gown. Circa 1993. The last time this lace saw me.... Puccini and Debussy were involved. She was musty and wrinkled with no one to hear her trills. I had to do something.
It was round two of the infamous Bloggingham renovation. More attic time. More up and down the scary stairs. I moved boxes and threw out 10 more bags of junk.
All I needed was a nail and a hammer.
And being the royal priss that I am, I reached into my pink toolkit (yes, I really have a pink toolkit) and found my pink hammer which matched my handy dandy pink working gloves.
Until I nailed my glove to the rafter.
There I was. Stuck to the attic.
Earlier in the day I'd told my friend, Starr, to send handsome firemen with a hose and ladder if she didn't hear from me in 3 hours.
I yelled for her. She did not come.
Some friend she is.
Do you know how hard it is to teach yourself to use the other end of a prissy tool with manicured french tips while you're balancing on 2x4 joists, foam insulation, and a Monopoly Game with a missing thimble? I always wanted to be the thimble.
It picked a helluva day to go missing.
My cellphone was in my pocket. Could I reach it? No. Could I dial my friend who lives 3,000 miles away for help? No.
Could I call for Ferd or Princess Gail who might have interrupted their crazy BBQ frolicking long enough to rescue me? No.
Could I bat my Scarlett lashes at the firemen with ladders and hardhats and muscles who would come to my high and mighty rescue while I wailed through the dormers in a squeaky bella voice?
Because I was nailed to the rafter.
It never happens like this in the Builder Bob books I read to Baby Boy.
The such is the important part.
Don't miss it.