Traveling always seems to upset my sense of balance. I feel like a snail toting all of my daily necessities on my back. And, although I always enjoy my time away, coming home sweet home and re-centering is a real treat; it makes me appreciate home and all its creature comforts all the more.
After a pleasant trip up north to visit Granny, Jilli, and company, I returned home to a garden full of weeds, grass six-inches tall and email/voicemail/snail-mail/junk-mail/interoffice mail all piled high, not to mention errands to be run and literally thousands of books to be sorted at the store. I got right to work.
Monday - I pulled creeping weeds and ailing old tomato plants before work. As I was walking from my yard to a neighbor's yard, I rammed the top of my big toe into a precariously misplaced pointy piece of driftwood. Ouch. Band-Aid #1.
Tuesday - While restocking a table at the store, a paperback decided to leave its impression on me by slicing a good-sized paper-cut between my thumb and index finger. Ouch. Band-Aid #2, only to be followed by Band-Aid #3 when yet another book sliced and probably redesigned my fingerprint on the opposite hand's middle finger.
Wednesday - I'll save the best for last. Read on.
Thursday - Accidental wounds are bad enough, but self-inflicted wounds really ire me. While opening my car door, the same car door I've opened for the past 10 years, I pinched the top of the finger with a paper-cut leaving a huge red welt the size of a bee-sting. Band-Aid #4 not necessary; I should just wear steel-plated gloves at this point (I wonder how that would work teaching sign language??). Thursday night, I burnt the roof of my mouth while eating dinner. Great, now I can't talk, sign or apply Band-Aid #5.
Friday - I need to start scratching things off of my errand list. After work I planned to go to the laundromat to use one of those quadruple loaders to clean a very pricey king-sized comforter that Felix used as a cat bed and Bebe used as soft place to throw up on. Jayne splurged on this comforter and ever since we've placed it on the bed, it's been a catch-all for all things pets can do to destroy something nice. Then, off to the pool supply store for a million different chemicals to balance the pool (where are my chemicals to balance me??), then to the health food store to restock for the week, and finally to the farmer's market and home. Things didn't quite happen in that order, and half of my errands never got done. I went to the pool place first. The charming multi-pierced teen who assisted me, insisted on carrying out the jugs of chlorine to my car, so I gave him the keys and told him to put them in the back seat on the floor. I left there and decided to hit up the farmer's market next, and while turning onto the farm's bumpy road, the chlorine bottles tipped. When I looked back to see the damage, there were no canisters in the backseat! He put them in the back with, oh my God, the comforter! I slammed on the breaks, popped the hatch and sure enough, chlorine was bubbling out of the container and all over the deep-blue, now white, comforter. I am in big trouble. Oh..did I mention I was driving Jayne's precious Envoy that looks as new as the day she bought it 4 years ago? There isn't a Band-Aid #6 big enough for this "ouch". Big trouble doesn't even cover it, and neither will the comforter ever cover the bed again.
I should have prefaced all this by explaining that this horrid string of self-inflicted wounds started in Michigan when, while trying to light the grill, I discovered the starter was broken. So, plan B dictates manually igniting it with a match, which I did. In so doing, I managed to manually ignite my entire right arm as well - singeing off every last little strand of hair from my wrist to the crook in my elbow. Think that was a signal of my week to come?
Back to Wednesday - The lawn service comes every-other-week. In between, I mow if needed. Well, it needed mowing. Our mower is fairly new and gets more use by a neighbor than by me. To his credit, he always refills the gas, oil and leaves its fire-engine red coat sparkling. I primed the mower, bent down to pull the cord and on the way up, it snapped out of my paper-cut fingers, half-pull, slapping the handle smartly on my left breast. If I were a man, I'd be bent over in pain grasping my cojones and gasping for air. I took a quick peek, saw a reddish welt rising like a second nipple, cursed and went on. Round two: re-prime, pull the cord gently and then let it rip. Again, the cord violently sprung from my fingers and again, slapped me right there on the same breast as it recoiled with a satisfied click to its position. My welt now had a partner and my now already throbbing breast was budding yet another. My pain was beyond words that even the most creative cursing couldn't quell. Third time's a charm, right? Indeed. I situated my body as far from the pull-cord as possible while still being able to get some leverage. I leaned in, pulled with all my might, and up it comes like it should, all the way to the top and then WHAM, it caught once again, only this time spun itself around the handle of the mower and slapped me silly one, two, three more times with the speed of light. I cannot write here the words that escaped my lips, nor can I possibly explain the searing pain my punching bag of breast felt. Totally inexplicable. I was defiled, defeated and deflated. I now have what looks like a purple/yellow/green/red tie-dye star burst splotch the size of a tennis ball tattooed on my left boob with a very clear indentation of the pull-cord's handle as its center. I swear if I look closely, I can almost make out the "TORO" outline.
If only there were video of this, I'd be $100, 000 richer today. I'd send it to America's Funniest Home Videos and call it "Titty-Titty Bang-Bang." (Leave it to Kim T, the queen of books and music, for her so very appropriate and creative title suggestion!)
