Miss Butterfingers

My longed for Venetian chandelier sits unassembled in a FedEx box in my bedroom. I dare not even open the lid. So far, Alfredo at Glass Dream has emailed a long series of sideways photos demonstrating how to put the delicate glass baubles together. I haven’t even printed those pix for someone more able than I to deal with. I haven’t even located someone more able to than I to do the deed.

I am scared, big time. You see, I am clumsy, to put it mildly. A klutz, a clod, an ungraceful bullerina in a Venetian glass shop. I should not be allowed to hold a sparkly thingamajig in my bumbling mitts for even a moment. The Lord & Master bought two little snow globes of Venice. Now, there is one. As I walked through the kitchen I managed to trip on nothing and sent one of them crashing to smithereens. I don’t have to the heart to tell him. Not because they’re valuable or he loves them so, just because it’s the latest in a long line of debacles involving me and breakables.

Once I was helpfully unloading floor lamps the L&M had just had repaired. Within moments, I had lowered the electric garage door, which moves as one unbending piece, onto the lamps and pulverized them into a crumpled heap. Simultaneously, I caused the door to jump off its track, requiring a visit from the electric garage door repairman, who kept scratching his head and grinning at what I had wrought. “Please don’t touch my things,” my husband wearily requested.

My slippery fingers have been wreaking havoc for decades. Little Miss Hot Pants had a vanity license plate for her kiddie bike, which I innocently picked up and promptly split in half. Like any quick thinking malfeasant, I hid the evidence in our mother’s hope chest in the hallway, figuring it’d be ages before anyone found it there. Ultimately it was unearthed and our mischievous younger brother the Little Stinker got a tongue lashing from Daddy while I shamefully kept mum. I did confess to my innocent brother years later, as in, we were both married and had kids of our own by then. Oh, the shame.

So, my healthy fear of, and for, the chandelier. I am not going to touch a single shining shard of that masterpiece. Fate, send me an electrician with hands blessed by the gods and let him – or her – get the whole shebang up into the air, away from my shaky paws.

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