How not to work

First of all, I started out with the best intentions. The road to Hell, as you all know, is paved with these. I started work at 8 a.m. and at 10:30 I took a much needed break and took a long walk - it was a sunny, blustery day, the perfect walking day. So off I went - and I didn't get back until lunchtime. After lunch I got some e-mails asking me about a website and newsletter I'm helping with. So I started working on those - and websites are demanding critters. This one had me working all afternoon, but that was OK - I had to take my daughter to the dentist so my procrastinating time was limited.
Or so I thought.
On the way to the dentist office, I found a lost puppy in the middle of the road. The funny thing is - it is the second time I found this puppy - so I stopped and picked her up. But I had to go to the dentist before bringing her back to the vet (who would call her owner - her owner having an unlisted phone number). I would have taken the puppy to her home, but although I knew the person's name, I didn't know their number or address.
Anyhow. While at the dentist with my daughter I called the vet and told her I'd bring the dog right over.
And when I got back out to my car - the dog had eaten my stick shift.
(stop laughing. It's not funny yet.)
I drove to the vet's and she came and got the dog and said that the owner's insurance would pay for the stick shift, and that she would give the owner my telephone so she could call me and thank me.
All this was infringing on my writing time, you realize. My daughter and I get home, I make dinner, then decide to glue my stick shift back together somewhat so I can drive with it. So I get some superglue. (OK, now you can start laughing.) It was dark, the light in my car doesn't work, and I got superglue all over my fingers.
Now I have to unstick my fingers from the stick shift, find the top of the superglue (of course it's black) and make dinner.
And get the glue off my fingers.
It's still hard to type.
Anyhow. The dog's owner called me and thanks me - and talked to me for 45 minutes I am not kidding. I washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, redid my desk calendar for November, and redecorated the living room while this lady told me of her doggie woes. Seems this is not the second time the dog has run off. Seems dog runs off every day.
I somehow refrained from telling her the obvious, and listened for 45 minutes going 'hmmmm' and 'ohhhh?' when there was a pause. All this to be nice to make sure she gives me her phone number and agrees to pay for my stick shift. Patience paid off. I am invited for 'cocktails' with the runaway dog's owner - and I just have to bring the bill - I'll get a check. No need to do the insurance thing. Fine with me.
I somehow broke a nail in this whole story (not sure where - prying the dog off my stickshift maybe - or carrying the beast into the vet's office...) and 'whaaaa' it hurts *sniff* to type.
Well, I'm blogging so the pain is obviously bearable. But is it bearable enough for fiction? Will I be able to lose myself in the story and type type type without my heroine rubbing her hand or the hero blowing on his fingers all the time???
The Answer in the Next Blog Episode...