I am my own slapstick

I have never injured myself doing anything remotely cool.  It’s always some kind of falling down, or tripping.  Hurt by walking around—that’s how I do it.

And yes, I’m hurt again.  And it’s just as stupid as any other time.

Let me begin by explaining that my cat plays with chenielle socks.  She loves them, steals them, prompting us to give her a pair of her own.  Why we own chenielle socks in the first place is beyond me.  I can only guess that they were a present to C and she kept them around for cold nights and only really cared about them when the cat stole a pair.

Anyway.  In our efforts to make the cat’s toys more entertaining, I shoved a small pill bottle in one of the socks.  There was exactly one tiny pill left inside the bottle and I thought the cat would like the rattling noise that the sock made.

Also, the cat’s toys are commonly strewn across the living room floor.

Can you see where this is going?  Bet you can.

I was running . . . wait.  I don’t know if you could call that running.  As Erika Lopez once said, I was running in my slow motion, D-cup kind of way from the kitchen into the living room.  There was the sock, which I stupidly paid no mind.  You can’t tell there is a bottle inside of it, you see.  My foot comes down hard on it, I start to do a comical little roll and tilt backwards.  My other foot comes down harder to right myself, but at a less than optimal angle.  I have a bruise on the arch of my right foot and kind of twisted the ankle of the other.

C, however, didn’t know all of this was happening.  She just saw me run (or kind of run) into the living, get wide-eyed, stomp twice, and scream OWWWW.

Why can’t I ever hurt myself doing cool things?  I’m halfway expecting to slip on a banana peel next week.

Maybe it’s the time of year

I just woke up from the weirdest dream about my old cat, Koda. And while the details of the dream are quickly fading, I am really sad because I miss my damn cat.

Granted, it’s been six years. But I still feel so guilty.

Koda was born 7-8-99 (an easy date to remember, right?) in my parents’ living room. I had taken in his mother, a stray, who we felt bad for because it looked like something horrible had happened to her tail. We didn’t know she was pregnant. She was very sweet.

Like a journalist/savior

I have a favorite journalist and his name is Chris Rose.  I had always read his column in the Times Picayune growing up and beyond.  He was funny and sarcastic and biting.  I looked forward to every Sunday, waiting to steal the paper from my mother so I could read what he had to say.

After Katrina, Chris Rose changed his style a bit.  He had to, because the city he was writing in and the climate he was writing from had changed.  He adapted and wrote with an honest gaze about what was happening.  He broke my heart time after time and that was okay.  His heart was breaking along with everyone else’s.  We were all suffering, sometimes we still are.  Chris Rose didn’t mind admitting that he cried at things like signs and empty lots and cryptic messages.  We all did, but we didn’t want to talk about it.

And so I’m posting a link to his blog. Because I read it obsessively and I’m damn glad he’s still around.  My mother calls me randomly to tell me about something he’s written and that makes me happy.  Because I’m still homesick for Louisiana and I’m glad we’ll be going back for a visit soon.  And even though I’m having a good time in my new city, yeah, I’m nowhere near calling it home yet.  I might never be.

Might as well keep going

Since I vowed to start keeping track of my word stuff, here’s one that I was just doing in my head.

“To pull them” turns into “Be dell fun”

The l stays, says I. And everything else is a CV cluster (consonant, vowel) and there is a bit of repetition here. Without mentioning long or short, the clusters are tu, pu, de.

From blasty-hoo to bushytail

For the first time ever, I am going to attempt to explain what the hell it is I do in my head. Let’s start at the beginning: I used to count letters in words. All the time. First I counted steps, and then when I got over that I counted letters in words and phrases. After I counted them, I would subdivide them (EVENLY! It only counts if it’s evenly!) into new syllables and then listen to the new syllables. This worked up into longer words and phrases and I’m just saying I probably walked around 2nd grade with a constipated look on my face as I tried to keep track of the letters.