Ow!

It’s really no big secret that I injure myself…A lot. Like that time I walked head first into a pole…or tripped over an invisible wire…or sprained my knee while skiing, walking, getting ice…And many other heartwarming tales of pain and unintentional self-abuse.

Accident prone and injuries - yelling ow!

What “Ow!” sounds like to Brian, according to me:

Mostly, “Ow!” sounds a lot like a trivia game, with a series of questions and multiple choice answers and really, none of them are probably correct, because all of them are correct in a sort of, but not really way…and regardless, the “ow!” ends in pain for someone (usually me) which doesn’t really make anyone feel good about life…or the clumsy existence that belongs solely to me.

OW!

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled life programming because your girlfriend has injured herself again. Do you

  1. Ignore it?
  2. Wait for uncontrollable sobbing?
  3. Pause, and wait for a slew of “Shit, damn motherfucking, hate whatever just injured me this time” cursing
  4. Race immediately to the aid of your damsel in distress for the umpteenth time because she did one or all of the following in a matter of 12 hours?
    1. Burned her hand because she touched the hot crock pot
    2. Knocked her head while trying to store stuff under the stairs in the basement
    3. Dropped a santoku knife on her toe while cutting cheese
    4. Discovers yet another mystery bruise or cut or both

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming. Though someone may have lost a little blood. I recommend chocolate.

Obviously, Brian is a gentleman. And just like a parent can tell the difference between a baby’s cries, Brian can tell the difference between most of my shouts of terror and/or pain. Usually.

And yes, all of those little…accidents…happened between Friday night and Saturday afternoon. And yes, I did slice the ever living baby cheeses out of my toe with the brand new fancy pants Pampered Chef santoku knife. And yes, Brian did come bandage me up.

He also came running when I was trying to hide the 4 laundry baskets full of dirty laundry (we FINALLY have a washer and dryer, so laundry is now done) under the stairs so people couldn’t see them.

I’m not sure he knew I burned my hand on the crock pot, and quite frankly, that’s okay in my book. He already thinks I hurt myself too much and too often…

I also found a mystery bruise on my inner forearm – no IDEA how THAT happened. It was like a few weeks ago when I found a foot-long cut on my leg and couldn’t figure out for the life of me where it came from. And seriously. Who has a FOOT-LONG cut that they don’t remember getting? Me. That’s who. And actually, on Sunday, I also discovered a mystery slice on my thumb that may have also come from that very dangerous santoku knife.

Blog Friends, do you have a tendency to injure yourself on the regular? What’s the most recent random injury that you’ve encountered? Do you ever get mystery scars or bruises?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Hematoma, My Ass

I had intended to tell you about Second Thanksgiving, you know…on Thanksgiving…but then I got really mad at the stores that were opening up too flippin’ early, and I wrote about Black Thanksgiving instead, which turned out to be awesome, because then it made perfect sense when I ended up in the Chicago Tribune sounding all smart and boycott-y.

But Second Thanksgiving has a place near and dear to my heart, so I have to at least mention it. My college friends and I consider ourselves a family. We were mostly brothers in a fraternity (Alpha Phi Omega). Yes, I said brothers. Yes, I said fraternity. Co-ed service fraternity, in which we were do-gooders who became leaders and drank a lot together.

Second Thanksgiving

The first turkey I ever cooked. And for the record…I don’t even like turkey!

A year after we graduated from college, I decided (much like in college) that I was going to throw a party at Mark’s apartment. He had recently moved to my hometown and I lived with my parents. So I said that we were going to have “Second Thanksgiving” and history began that day.

My friend, Kevin told me, “We should do this every year. It’s better than real Thanksgiving. There’s no bitching families or whining or anything.”

I told him it was because we were the family that we chose…not the family we were born into. And it worked. 6 years later, we’re still going strong. Everyone brings a piece of the feast, so it’s a really fun tradition. (Although we’re sounding more like a real family now…Oh man HE’S here again? Uncle Albert always grabs my ass!etc etc…)

Two years ago, though, something happened at Second Thanksgiving. Something that I think you will find…amusing.

My physical therapist friend (who is now a physical therapist and not just a PT major), Barb, had just bought a house in the city, so we trekked in and had Second Thanksgiving there. It was a cute ranch house in one of those city neighborhoods with hardwood floors and a full basement. Perfect size for our Second Thanksgiving group.

Food was served upstairs, but the TV and football were downstairs. Obviously, you know where this is going…

So I had a full plate of food in one hand, a beer in the other, and socks on. If you didn’t know where this was going before, I’ll bet you do now…

I make it down the first step before my foot slips and bam! I’m on my ass covered in Thanksgiving dinner with a beer in my hand, crying.

A flurry of activity ensued.

“Are you okay?!”

“How’s your knee?”

“How’re your ankles?”

“Did you sprain something again?”

“Did you break something?”

“Of course, she spills food everywhere, but the beer is still in her hand…”

“It’s my ass!!!” Through painful sobs, I explained that I had landed on my right butt cheek and it hurt a whole lot. Like throbbing, burning, horrible pain. But the rest of me was fine.

Someone brought me a new plate of food. My beer was still in tact. And Barb brought me an ice pack and made me sit on it. It was fricking-freezing-Mr.-Bigglesworth cold. But I sat on it.

When I got home that night, I dropped trou and checked out my ass. Shades of purple, blue, green, yellow, grey, red, and pink painted my left cheek. The whole. Damn. Thing. I wish I had thought to take a picture of the art on my ass.

For weeks, this colorful array of sunshine on my behind graced me with pain whenever I sat down. Slowly, it faded. Slowly, the pale white Irish/Polish skin tone returned to my cheek. But for some reason the pain stayed. For a year. At the last Second Thanksgiving, my butt was still hurting. The hematoma was still there. I haven’t felt it in a while, so it has finally dissipated. But damn that shit hurt.

I really feel like the beer saved my ass. Literally. If I hadn’t been holding and protecting the beer, I may have fallen smack on my tailbone, instead of on my one cheek. The main area of pain was just centimeters away from my tailbone.

So thank you, Beer. Thank you kindly.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!