Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Life Lesson

I learned an important life lesson last night. 

I was sitting in the living room with Tuxedo on my lap when the phone rang.  My Mom's number popped up on the tv screen (yes, thanks to Rogers, I have that brilliant feature). 

But when I slowly got up with Tuxedo still in my arms, I realized that the kitchen phone was ringing from upstairs (yes, thanks to Hubby, I have that annoyance to contend with). 

So I started to climb the stairs, holding Tuxedo while he wriggled. 

When I got to the top, it was very dark, so started to carefully make my way into the office.  By this time, Mom was leaving a message. 

All of a sudden, before I knew what was even happening, I stubbed my foot on something big and hard (insert obvious joke here) and was, instantly, collapsed on floor. 

The effing VACUUM.

I stepped on the goddam thing, which promptly flung the beater pole (joke here) all loony-toons-style into my right rib cage...  which then fell into the giant pile of laundry and wrapping paper all life-size-dominoes-style...  which ultimately dropped me to my knees all unexpectedly-kicked-in-the-balls-style...  and made me throw Tuxedo across the room all fling-the-football-before-you-fumble-style

"OW!  F%*#!!  Owwwww.  Shit!  Ahhhhh.  Owww."

Thankfully, Hubby came running up the stairs from the bathroom to rescue me. 

"Are you ok?!  Where are you?"

Where was I?  Huddled on the floor, cradling my chest, gasping for air, and ugly crying, thinking to myself (as I always do when in pain) Why do I always burst into tears like a three year old who surprised herself by tripping on her own running shoes?  Hold it in, you baby.  You're fine.  You're not dead.  And you're not a toddler. 

No.  Wait.  Eff it.  It feels better when I cry.  Forget this.  I'm crying!  Sob, sob, sob!

Hubby picked me up off the floor and began to survey the damage (to me, but mostly to Tuxedo, who was traumatized and lurking around in fear of what crazy lady might do next).

And now I have a bruised, if not cracked, upper right rib and I seriously can't really move, or laugh, or cough, or yawn, or exhale, or lift anything. 

Are you really going to make me say it? 


Yes, I. am. awesome. 

And I had plenty of time to sit unmoving in my parka cape this afternoon to think about that fact. 

And to contemplate what I could possibly learn from this fluster-duck. 

And what did I come up with?

It seems that my mother was right all along.  "That's a tripping hazard" she used to say.  

So, what do I say?

Move your shit.  Move it out of the way.  Move it WAY out of the way.  Not just out of the hall, but AWAY.  Where it goes.  Not to the side of the room.  Not around the corner.  AWAY!  Right away.  Immediately.  All the time. 


Life lesson. 



  1. That's why I never vacuum! If I keep it firmly under lock-and-key in the cleaning closet, it can't jump out and attack me. But I hope you feel better soon - a broken rib sounds awful.

  2. Thanks! My rib is healing well, actually. It's my ego that's damaged.