I often send cryptic reminders to myself when I think of a blog topic but don’t have time to write the whole post. Usually a few words are enough to jog my memory, but when I discovered this email on my laptop a few days ago, I was confounded:
“Ruminants. And ice cream. Welding feet.”
I do actually remember sending the email; but beyond that I don’t have a clue. It must have been something so weird that my brain discarded it in self-defence.
I guess I’ll never know, but at least “welding feet” still makes sense (to me, at least). ’Cause you never know how foolish you’re willing to look until you’ve shuffled around wearing welding gloves on your feet.
(Note: I’d like to emphasize that it wasn’t my fault – I didn’t know I was going to be welding.)
Hubby’s uncle Bert had offered to fabricate a trellis for us, so I drew up the plans and we went over to his workshop. I planned to hang over Bert’s shoulder and watch the master at work, so I had worn jeans and a denim jacket and brought a welding helmet and gloves. But when he offered the stinger to me, the learning opportunity was too good to pass up.
Everything was going fine… (that is to say, I sucked just as badly as when I first tried welding as a teenager) …until I felt a sizzle on my toes. And then another. And another, until I was doing a funky little soft-shoe shuffle in an attempt to avoid the pain.
Yep, I had worn nylon running shoes instead of my usual boots (see “not my fault” above) and specks of red-hot slag were burning through my shoes and socks and toasting my toes. But I wasn’t about to abandon my educational opportunity, so that’s how I ended up shambling around with welding gloves on my feet like some deranged leather-toed waterfowl.
My welding didn’t improve much, but at least the trellis is solid and I had fun revisiting another long-abandoned skill!
And best of all, there’s no photographic evidence of my latest goofball performance. Instead, here’s the almost-finished product:
Any oddball activities in your life this week?