Author, Author!
Please stand to applause. Who, me? Well, in a sense. A really dotty sense. In that I'm the author of my own misfortunes. Misfortunes in a very small sense. Anyone who doesn't know me might assume I'm in an unfortunate relationship. A battered woman. A victim of spousal abuse. It can be embarrassing. In the summer, seldom winter.
On the other hand, sometimes even in winter. It wasn't all that long ago that, through sheer carelessness (what else?) I closed the car door impulsively, far too soon. In fact even before I was prepared to get my head out of the way. Result? One banged-up eye. Just above the eye.
You bet it hurt, and continued to, for a while. I did not, in fact, get a total black eye out of the incident. But enough of a bruise around the eye area to encourage people of a suspicious mind to look askance when they saw me, although no one ever approached to commiserate and point me to the nearest shelter for battered women.
My body is an ongoing battle zone, with bruises appearing regularly here and there. Every time my husband views another bruise, he's full of admiration for the colour scheme. It's the artist in him. Purples, noxious yellows, shades of grey with a little bit of dark red thrown in for extra appeal.
Invariably, although he should know better, he asked how I've acquired the latest. And for the most part I simply cannot recall. I'm so accustomed to bumping into things that I just shrug off the events and view the damage a day or so later. Just amazing. Our granddaughter recommends that her grandfather smother me in pillows.
I'd bounce about from protrusion to protrusion without harming myself, and look so utterly appealing to young children who love to burst out laughing at the merest comedic provocation. The very thought of it brings peals of laughter from her. Me too, actually.
She hasn't seen the latest damage, though I mentioned it to her, in passing. Two days ago, in a rush to finish feeding the dogs, brush their haircoats, set the table and get our own dinner finished, I bent down unheedingly to pick their little porcelain salad bowls off the floor and hit my right temple directly on a corner of the kitchen bookshelf.
Which wouldn't be all that bad, if I hadn't stooped in such haste, if the top of the bookshelf hadn't been covered in porcelain tiles, and if the corner weren't so square. The pain was instant, and I was really put out of a commission for a whole five minutes.
My husband sprang into action, ran cold water over a washcloth, wrapped it around a small freezer bag and slapped it onto my forehead. Slapped, no gently placed it there. I was I who slapped my forehead, in frustration over my debilitating haste. I'm a multi-tasker, always have been, and that's accomplished speedily.
Some people will go to any lengths for attention. Good thing he loves me anyway.
On the other hand, sometimes even in winter. It wasn't all that long ago that, through sheer carelessness (what else?) I closed the car door impulsively, far too soon. In fact even before I was prepared to get my head out of the way. Result? One banged-up eye. Just above the eye.
You bet it hurt, and continued to, for a while. I did not, in fact, get a total black eye out of the incident. But enough of a bruise around the eye area to encourage people of a suspicious mind to look askance when they saw me, although no one ever approached to commiserate and point me to the nearest shelter for battered women.
My body is an ongoing battle zone, with bruises appearing regularly here and there. Every time my husband views another bruise, he's full of admiration for the colour scheme. It's the artist in him. Purples, noxious yellows, shades of grey with a little bit of dark red thrown in for extra appeal.
Invariably, although he should know better, he asked how I've acquired the latest. And for the most part I simply cannot recall. I'm so accustomed to bumping into things that I just shrug off the events and view the damage a day or so later. Just amazing. Our granddaughter recommends that her grandfather smother me in pillows.
I'd bounce about from protrusion to protrusion without harming myself, and look so utterly appealing to young children who love to burst out laughing at the merest comedic provocation. The very thought of it brings peals of laughter from her. Me too, actually.
She hasn't seen the latest damage, though I mentioned it to her, in passing. Two days ago, in a rush to finish feeding the dogs, brush their haircoats, set the table and get our own dinner finished, I bent down unheedingly to pick their little porcelain salad bowls off the floor and hit my right temple directly on a corner of the kitchen bookshelf.
Which wouldn't be all that bad, if I hadn't stooped in such haste, if the top of the bookshelf hadn't been covered in porcelain tiles, and if the corner weren't so square. The pain was instant, and I was really put out of a commission for a whole five minutes.
My husband sprang into action, ran cold water over a washcloth, wrapped it around a small freezer bag and slapped it onto my forehead. Slapped, no gently placed it there. I was I who slapped my forehead, in frustration over my debilitating haste. I'm a multi-tasker, always have been, and that's accomplished speedily.
Some people will go to any lengths for attention. Good thing he loves me anyway.
Labels: Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 6:19 PM
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