Friday, February 24, 2012

KLUTZ: Fishducky Friday


    OK, so I’ve fallen.  Once.  Maybe twice.  Fine, so it’s closer to a gazillion times!  It’s not as if it was ever MY fault.  I didn’t expect the curb to move as I was stepping onto it.  So what if I broke my arm?  The paramedics were fast getting there--& they were really cute!  (Note: If the paramedics offer to take you to the hospital, go with them!  My husband was with me & told them he could drive me there—so he did--& we got a bill from the city for paramedic services.  We found out later that if they drive you, there’s no charge.)
    And I certainly never expected the folding stool I was climbing on to do just that—FOLD!  Not while I was on it, anyway.  I can’t remember what I sprained or broke then, but I’m sure it was something unimportant, like an ankle.  Or my neck.
    I was standing on a molded plastic kitchen chair to reach for something on a high shelf.  It broke & I fell—not off, but THROUGH it!  Nothing broken, but I did have some rather large holes in my leg from the sharp shards.
    The (first) time I broke a toe we were at Bud’s sister’s house on a Sunday evening.  I didn’t want to go & wait for hours at the ER or bother my doctor on a weekend, so I asked my brother-in-law, who was a veterinarian, to bandage it for me.  I went to see my doctor the next day & he said, “Who the hell bandaged your foot?  It looks like a hoof!”  I said, “Funny you should mention that.  My veterinarian did it.”
    Another toe tale: I had had arthroscopic surgery on my knee.  The next morning I was awakened by the doorbell.  Bud had gone to work & my son was asleep, so I grabbed my crutches (which I was NOT used to) & “ran” for the door.  I didn’t make it.  I fell in the hall.  While trying to protect my knee, I broke a toe.  It had been the UPS man at the door.  He had left me a package—a cane, beautifully hand decorated with lace, which a friend had sent me as a get well gift.  If she hadn’t have sent it, I probably wouldn’t have needed it!
    It’s apparently not just me.  I can be a threat to others, too.  My son, Blake, was about 8 years old.  The kids were in their pajamas at the kitchen table.  I had left my cigarettes & lighter on the table.  Blake started playing with my lighter, which both scared & annoyed me.  We started arguing & he stood there with his arms straight out, as if he were ready for crucifixion.  He was wearing an old terry cloth robe, with its strings hanging down.  I was making a point about the lighter being dangerous & was stupidly waving it (lit) under his arms.  I swear it was AT LEAST a foot away, when the threads hanging under his arms caught fire!  We were able to get the robe off & the fire put out with absolutely no harm to him or anyone else—but I guess I made my point!
    Blake brought most of his problems on himself.  (Note: HE IS NOW ABSOLUTELY PERFECT & JUST FIXED MY COMPUTER SO I AM ABLE TO WRITE THIS.  THANK YOU, BLAKE!!)  When he was about 2, the kids were having lunch & I was at the sink, with my back to them.  He knocked over his glass & spilled his milk.  I wiped it up & poured him some more.  He knocked over his glass again, & again I wiped it up & poured him more.  I warned him not to do it again or he would be sorry.  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he DELIBERATELY knocked it over one more time.  I picked up the gallon milk bottle (which had probably a quart or so left in it) & emptied it on his head!  Childish, I know, but it made a beautiful waterfall—or, I guess, a milkfall.  He didn’t even cry—he just sat there with his little mouth hanging open in amazement as the milk cascaded from his head.  As far as I know, none of our kids ever deliberately knocked over their milk again.  Not while I was in the room, anyway.

Moral: Beware of fishducky