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Sunday, February 24, 2013


You know, as far back as I can remember, every injury I've sustained has been because of my gracelessness (Yeah, not a real word, but when it's me and the keyboard, all bets are off)

There was the time I wanted to be first to the door after the telltale ring alerting us that the pizza guy was standing outside.  I raced and slipped on a baby blanket, smacking my face into the hard kitchen floor.  Rather than enjoying Hungry Howies with the rest of the family, I was holding ice on my nose and then carted to the ER to make sure it wasn't broken.  I believe this was the first time I saw stars and I was intrigued it could happen outside an animated world . Cool.

Then there was that time I was looking for something and decided it could be under my bed.  I dropped to the floor and apparently there was a stray Jolly Rancher hidden between my bed skirt and my view so....I ended up in the ER with an injured knee cap.  Injured by a piece of candy?  Seriously.

I had twisted ankles and a hand that got mauled by a new Momma cat and all sorts of other stupid injuries that had me getting x-rayed and tetanus shotted and it was never something cool, like blowing out a knee scoring a winning goal or falling out of a tree saving an endangered owl or some shit.  It was always just STUPID.

This affinity for side show violence to my person followed me into adulthood.

Like the time we were stuck in traffic and my baby was SCREAMING  bloody murder, and I needed to make formula, but hadn't brought the can opener.  I had nursed her before we left and there should have been no reason for her to eat before we arrived at my Mom's house, but gridlock on the interstate for a couple hours had a screaming baby and a Momma that would have done anything to ease her distress.  I had new scissors and I had water, and dammit, she was going to EAT. (We used concentrate, not powder)  I lifted the scissors up in the air and just as Jamie turned and screamed "BE CAREFUL!!!" the scissors missed the can and went into my thumb.  I had a gash in my thumb, on the interstate, in a huge traffic jam, with a screaming baby and now defiled scissors.  We eventually crawled off the interstate to buy a can opener and the baby was happy, but Jamie arrived with the children at my Mom's with no Melissa.  Once my mom heard that I was sitting in the ER, she came to join me.  I had to have stitches.  And if ever I wanted to lie about something, this was it.  Mumbling "I stabbed myself with scissors" doesn't sound heroic at all, even if you explain the circumstances and the screaming baby and the sheer panic knowing your child is hungry and you have nothing to feed her.  I'm just glad I wasn't put on suicide watch or something.

Three days before Eli was born I was nesting hard core and managed to get that stubborn blanket chest out of the small closet we had crammed it in, taking off my big toe nail in the process.  I was waddling into the ER and of course, they thought it was baby time, but no.  I just needed like 4 shots in my big toe and my nail removed.  I don't think his early arrival was a mystery.  That shiz hurt.

And while I was walking, WALKING, from one room to the other, touching for the briefest moment the door frame, a freaking splinter went into my thumbnail and holy hell, that hurt.  Thankfully, this injury didn't require an ER visit, but had I gone, this time....I would have totally lied.  I was prepared to explain that I had been building homes from recycled scrap lumber for the homeless or that I was tied to a rare species of tree that some evil contractor was trying to tear down to build another Wal-Mart.  I couldn't bear to say, I touched a door and it attacked me.  No.

I've fallen down stairs (again, after Jamie warned me to be careful because we had just steamed cleaned the carpet and I had walked across it before stepping on to our polyurethaned stairs...boom....boomboomboom.  The bruises were impressive!) and slipped while cleaning a laundry room (again brusies...Jamie threatened to lock me in a padded room at this point) I've spilled hot things on myself and I've never been able to cook bacon without it spitting grease at me violently.  I'm just accident prone and while it can be funny, it's kind of embarassing.

But beats all.  Today I am sitting here typing with a greenish, bluish right hand.  And there is no way I can explain this without sounding like a moron, and I'll just have to own it this time.  I was looking for the remote.  We have lost our TV remote and I can't figure out where it could be.  My living room is sparse and minimalist, so much so that besides the TV Worth Stealing, the Puritans would be totally impressed.  There is no where for it to be stuffed.  Except, in my mind, the couch.  Friday, I was determined I would fine that stinkin remote if it killed me.  I'm alive, but bruised.  I shoved my hand in the couch so deep that it seemed almost inappropriate.  I found some toenail clippers, a crochet hook, a barrette and a safety pin and DIRT.  Oh the dirt.  How disgusting!!  I had my son fetch the shop vac and I shoved the tube in, under the piece of wood and proceeded to suck out dirt.  I called for an attachment  'Nurse, hand me the slanted thingee with the tapered other one...." and I carefully reached my hand in the cracks of our leather sectionals, pushed the squishy portions out of the way and eased the hose under the wood block (that my hand kept hitting, thus the bruising) and sucked, sucked, sucked and as I was working my way around the couch, all I could think was "Oh my God, I'm giving my couch a colonoscopy...."  I found myself VERBALLY apologizing to MY COUCH.....ahhh..sorry...just a little more...almost got it.  And I knew had anyone  been witness to this event, my reputation as a sane member of society would be ruined.  But no one saw me, so I didn't have to explain and here I am confessing, in print (uh?) on my blog.  I assaulted my couch.  But it's now clean and free of dirt and I am tarnished forever knowing that even though my living room looks clean, there's probably a good 20 pounds of dirt in the couch cushions.

And no remote.  Dammit.

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