It’s just so stupid

14 09 2009

Last night I’m playing with my cat and her new favorite string.  Suddenly, and I don’t think this is my fault, she runs over my foot.  This results in long gashes going across the tops of four toes.  This quite naturally hurts, so I start screaming and carrying on like a giant girl.

C, hearing the commotion, saunters on over.  I pick up my foot and wave it at her.  She says, “Oh, geez, she just scratched you.”

Of course, that’s when blood starts gooshing out of my foot. Hahaha, that’s what happens when you make light of my injuries!  She sprints to the bathroom and returns with a considerable wad of toilet paper which she then strategically smooshes around on my foot.  Thusly staunched (sort of), I announce that I’m going upstairs to stick my foot in the tub, pour some peroxide on my foot, and clean the cuts out.  She tells me that she has just finished putting Drano in the tub, but I can certainly hop up on the teeny wittle counter in the downstairs bathroom and put my foot in the sink.  For those of you without a visual, the counter pretty much is the sink, so what she’s actually suggesting is that I either: 1) do a weird combination ballet move/flamingo stance and clean my foot or 2) somehow stick my foot into the sink that my ass would be sitting in.  Neither of these options is sounding really attractive, and the blood that had been held at bay by a wad of Angel Soft is now threatening to end up on the carpet.  So I demand that she go into the kitchen and fetch the big pot.  Which, of course, turns into “What pot?” “The BIG pot!”  “The one you make pasta in?” “No, the OTHER big pot!”  “The new one?”  “NO, the one that would fit a foot!!”

Correct pot having been located, she fills it with water and somehow hits my foot because while I’m expecting her to, you know, put it on the floor, she’s holding it mid-air and raising it to meet my foot.  I swear, she defies all logic in my world.  The cool water feels lovely, and it’s really neat how little pink bubbles seem to be coming out of my toes.

She goes upstairs for supplies and comes back with the following: a roll of gauze, some Neosporin, handsoap, a giant pack of bandaids, and an Ace bandage. For real.  She’s nothing if not prepared.  She then attempts to wash my foot which means she’s attempting to not only touch my foot but she’s about to touch the things that hurt and that is not allowed.  Ask my mother how many times I locked myself in the bathroom with an injury as a child.  No one touches my scrapes, my splinters, and certainly not the bloody cuts that hurt.  So I snatch my foot away and, okay, yes, splash her in the face a little.  It isn’t on purpose so I don’t see why she gets all huffy.

Once I feel sufficiently de-germed, she pats me dry with a towel (after I object, of course, to the first towel because I claim it’s too “linty”).  And then I am gracious enough to let her put bandaids all over my foot.  I decline the gauze, tape, and Ace bandage, though it’s a sweet gesture.

And then, for the rest of the evening the cat stays near me and even sleeps next to my foot on the ottoman.  It’s a weird sort of protectiveness, even though she’s the one that did it.  C claims that the cat feels bad, but I know better.  I caught her sniffing the bandaids and trying to claw the back of my foot when she thought I wasn’t looking and I’m keeping an eye on her.

Advertisements




Fireworks

4 07 2008

Since it is now the 4th of July, I’m going to explain my irrational fear of fireworks.

Okay, maybe not so irrational but whatever.   Here goes.

When I was 8, my family went to the house of another family for 4th of July festivities.  Fun was had by all.  Until a bottle-rocket was placed into a hole in the ground instead of, you know, a bottle, and it took off in a wonky direction.  The target?  My right shoulder.

Christ, that hurt.  Have you ever been shot in the shoulder with a bottle rocket?  I’m guessing not.  The pain was unbelievable.  So obviously I’m screeching and screaming and making all kinds of ouchy noises.  Stupid Jeremy Hayes thought I was on fire and promptly hosed me down.  So there I am, in pain, and soaking wet.  In front of tons of people.  Have I mentioned I was an extraordinarily shy child?  And THEN, because I don’t have extra clothes with me, I’m stripped down and wrapped in a towel.  But I was cared for by a very sweet lady there who was a nurse and given a popsicle.

The bruise that stayed on my shoulder for over a week was amazing.  And when I went to ballet class the next day with my leotard strap cutting into the giant black/blue/yellow splotch that I swear extended beyond my body I thought: Fireworks are the most horrible thing on God’s green earth.

For years after that, whenever fireworks were being set off in the driveway or street, I watched them from inside.  I’m here to tell you that watching fireworks from a front living room window is really difficult, no matter how you press against the glass and roll your eyes to the heavens.  It wasn’t until a few years ago that I was willing to venture outside to see them.  And even then I stayed close to the house in a stance that kept me prepared for maximum evasion tactics should so much as a sparkler seem to come my way.  A couple years after that, I managed to hold a Roman Candle in my hand as it shot multicolored sparks out of the end.  That is progress.  But I still never light the fireworks, God no.

This is pretty sad considering how much I love watching fireworks.  I stare up at the sky like a little kid, completely fascinated and enthralled.  Especially when it’s a big show and I know they’re all being lit far, far away from me.  That’s the best kind.