In my circle of family and friends, I am a well-known klutz. I spill things. I tear things. I drop things. I knock things over. I trip over things. I fall over things. I break things. After spending only one glorious week in the lovely beachfront condo, I managed a trifecta.

I tripped on a concrete block in a mall parking lot.

I fell over the concrete block in the mall parking lot.

I broke my left hip when I hit the pavement after tripping and falling over the concrete block in the mall parking lot–after which the entire Milky Way Galaxy appeared before my eyes.

Other galaxies joined the Milky Way when I was shoehorned into the front seat of my Baby Sister’s vehicle and again when I was extracted from said vehicle at the emergency medical center. My agony increased exponentially when I was informed of the break.

Two painful thoughts immediately sprang to mind: the surgery I would have to undergo to repair the hip, and all those stairs at the condo that I would not be able to climb without weeks of physical therapy.

There went all our winter vacation plans and our non-refundable, paid in advance rental fee for the condo. Bummer. We would have been better off had we remained in Michigan. I know for a fact that I would have.

The irony that surrounds this unfortunate incident? The concrete block that I tripped on and fell over in the mall parking lot, breaking my left hip, was located in a handicap parking space.

What are the odds?

I stand in the midst of it all and dang if I can remember where everything goes. Not at first anyway.

After two and a half months, I become so accustomed to the layout of the Florida rental cottage and where I keep everything down there that I have trouble remembering where I keep everything up here. For the first few days, home doesn’t seem like home. It’s more like a place I visited a while ago with which I am no longer familiar. It feels sort of weird having to learn my own house all over again.

Eventually, I sort everything out, finally remembering where they all go, and restore all items to their former locations. It usually doesn’t take more than a week, tops—but there are other readjustments I have to make.

Remembering where I am when I get out of bed in the middle of the night is one of them. It’s disorienting to tiptoe into a closet in the dark instead of the master bath, not to mention embarrassing.

There’s more. After two months of having to memorize and use the resort entry gate code and the cottage’s garage door code numbers, I drew a blank when I tried to remember our home’s numerical burglar alarm code. I found myself standing before the beeping alarm console in a cold sweat. The numbers I memorized—gate code, garage door code, alarm code, phone number, social security number, RWA^® membership number—all jumbled together in my brain. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to block out all but the alarm code, willing my memory to kick in and come up with the code before the siren began to wail and the Sheriff’s Deputy pulled into the driveway. The memory failed to kick in, so I went with my instincts instead and punched in a series of numbers that felt vaguely familiar. Miraculously, the beeping ceased. Be still my heart.

I faced a similar situation with our home safe. I needed to retrieve an item from the safe—my MMRWA Angel Award pin to wear to the March monthly meeting. I experienced another tabula rasa moment. What the heck is the freaking code?  I punched in variations on the numbers I was sure comprised the code. None worked. So not fair. I’m going to be late to the meeting. And it was about to go from bad to worse. If I wanted to wear my Angel pin to the meeting, and I did, I would have to grovel before Macho Guy and admit I couldn’t get into the safe. He pointed out the one little step I left out that was the code’s equivalent to Open Sesame. He muttered something about it being “time for the Home.” Dang that was humiliating.

As if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, my car turned on me. I got into the Ford Edge that I hadn’t driven in months and backed out of the garage. I reached up to close the garage door with the car’s built in remote. I pressed the button. The garage door didn’t budge. The sunroof did. It opened. Oops. Wrong button. I pressed the one next to it. The garage door remained open. The sunroof didn’t. It closed. Oops again. Where the devil is the remote? Think. Think! I kept remembering where the controls were located in the Traverse. Their location in the Edge escaped me but I wasn’t about to admit it to Macho Guy. One humiliation per day was enough, thank you ever so.

In frustration, I banged my head against the steering wheel in the hope of jostling the memory loose. I was just about to admit defeat and get out to close the garage door manually when the light bulb finally flashed on over my head. I pulled the sun visor down and there was the remote button on the other side of the visor. Halleluiah!

Banging my head against the steering wheel apparently worked wonders. I’ll have to keep that in mind the next time I have a memory hiccup. Fortunately, I arrived only five minutes late at the restaurant where our group’s luncheon meeting was taking place. The way my day was going, I’m surprised I remembered how to get there.

I absolutely adore my golden oak computer desk. It is the anchor corner of my writer’s cave. It has shelves for books, nooks for electronic devices and for a wheeled computer case, slots for music CDs [Mozart, especially, for when I’m plotting], slide out under-desktop shelves for an external keyboard and track pad, drawers for files and office supplies, and a large flat surface on which to set an external monitor and spread notes out—and make a ginormous mess, prominently featuring several tall untidy stacks of papers, each representing a different work in progress. Nirvana. Sheer nirvana.

The multi-function Officejet is also tough to get along without. Its substitute, a portable HP Deskjet 400, has a very small footprint and can fit easily into my wheeled computer case along with my MacBook Pro. It does color printing but not duplex printing; it prints on one side only. It can’t scan. It can’t copy. It can’t fax. A triple threat. On the other hand, I shouldn’t whine because it beats the alternative. A baby printer is better than no printer at all.

For the last three winters, Macho Guy did his valiant best to create a semblance of office space for me in the rentals we inhabited for the two months we spent in Florida. He set up a folding, height adjustable worktable as a makeshift desk in one corner of the living area. We arranged my MacBook Pro, Deskjet, electric pencil sharpener, notepads, office supplies, and my current book-book [thank you, Merline Lovelace] on the makeshift desk in the most efficient layout. At that point, I began missing my ergonomic computer chair, which I left behind in my office back home. Kitchen chairs just don’t cut it when you sit at a computer for several hours at a time. I felt the difference in the two Bs—my butt and my back. Drat. I’m whining again.

When we arrived at our rental cottage this January, a pleasant surprise awaited. The owners replaced some of the furniture in the living area and made one very valuable addition—a desk. It wasn’t large. It wasn’t golden oak. It wasn’t even a computer desk. But it was an actual desk with three drawers and a large enough working surface for me to set out my MacBook Pro and my little baby printer. No more folding, height adjustable worktables for me.

I still have to sit on a regular straight back chair though, but Macho Guy came to the rescue. He found a fabulous seat cushion for me at Brookstone. It has a little cut out in a very strategic spot that provides maximum comfort for one’s gluteus maximus. Trust me, that cushion makes a huge difference. It enables my hind end to handle a straight back chair for the next two months. I’m darn sure I’ll be sitting pretty from now on.