Remember that time I ran upstairs in the dark, carrying the cat, stubbed my toe, and impaled my ribs with the vacuum?
That was good times.
And I was unceremoniously reminded of how much fun that had been early this morning.
I was in the closet, in my underwear, trying to find something to wear to work. Hubby had already left, so I was just watchin' the news and hangin' out with Tuxedo and Patches. And Scarlet. (Scarlet is my iPhone.)
And then I heard Hubby return. And when he called up "Hello?" I quickly stepped out of the closet to respond.
Or, rather, I tried to step out of the closet.
Before I knew what the fuck was going on, I caught my right foot somewhere between Patches' four feet and her fat droopy belly, stumbled, sidestepped, attempted some sort of martial-arts-double-flip-swivel-kick, and then landed sideways with my back smashing into the closet doorknob.
"FUCK. Fucking CHRIST mother effing ass shit fuckface FUCK!"
The dutiful Hubby that he is: "Are you ok?!"
But I was. I mean, I lost some lung air, I'm pretty sure there's a tender dent in my back flesh, and my bus ride to work was way too fucking JOLTY, but, yeah, generally I survived the incident.
And so did Patches, thank goodness. She sat on the floor looking up at us with shocked "innocent" eyes wondering what in the name of all that is holy fucking happened. And she may or may not be afraid to go in the closet from now on.
But we're both fine. Ice and advil fixes a lot of stuff.