Typing Lessons

I was going to blog this week about “Books I Hate,” but I got to thinking about how I type. Those of you on my Facebook page or who know me from elsewhere know why I’m thinking this.

I tend to be accident-prone. I may have realized this the day (at 16) I tripped down my front stairs carrying plants to repot. A trip to the ER that day garnered a wrapped ankle, a prescription for Percodan (who CARES if my ankle hurts! whoo hoo!), and crutches, which proved to be more menacing than helpful.

Lest we wax poetic on the extremely poor judgement of the ER doctor who prescribed me Percs, we’ll move on to High School Graduation. Hello, Class of 1981, do you remember that I tripped ON STAGE getting my empty diploma case? I blame the 4 inch platform spike heels that any person with a shred of sense should have known not to wear. It certainly wasn’t the liquid refreshments before hand. Nope, no way. No one else tripped.

Beauty School. Surprisingly, I was NOT the student who squirted nail glue into her eye. I was the one who burned my hair off due to over processing. I was also the one who every week could be heard uttering some form of expletive when the sissors nipped my hand. Those, by the way, are called kisses. Yeah. Of course they are. I became very good friends with NuSkin.

My soon to be Hubster should have seen all of this coming. On our first date to the Bronx Zoo, the very first thing we did upon entering is buy Italian Ices. REAL ones. My cherry one was immediately spilled down the front of my super sexy blue and white striped shirt and white jeans. A trend that continues to this day, should I have anything light on.

I think I did better in my 20’s-30’s where I only gave birth. (Although I did have one traumatic one, but now is not the time for Matt’s birth story) I did manage to total our Jetta, then take the rear view mirror off the passenger side of out 2 week old EuroVan driving across a very slim bridge that I drove over nearly every day for 5 years prior to owning the van. But *I* did not get hurt. (unless you count a few burns from ovens, hot pans and a random curling iron)

Moving into my forties must have triggered this latent Clumsy Gene. I know my parents did not exhibit it. Or maybe it was the onslaught of High Blood Pressure. Whatever the case may be, I have some doozies as I come closer to the close of this decade. I managed almost 44-ish years with no major trauma other than the occasional sprained ankle or burn. Or the time I got my hand caught in the kneading beaters making pizza dough.

Thanksgiving 2007 marks some sort of watershed moment in my life. It was my first Thanksgiving without my Mom. My good friend Nancy was scheduled to come over, and around 9AM, I was in the kitchen getting the turkey ready to put into the oven. The little guys were watching the Parade (yes, THE PARADE, there’s ONLY one) and Matt was chatting with me as I washed wine glasses.

The glass slipped from my hand, hit the sink and ricocheted back into my left wrist. The result was a 2 inch long gash that bled a lot. I called for the Hubster, and Matt picked up the phone (not bothering to try to catch me, since I git very lightheaded). Matt proceeded to scream at the 911 operator that I had just slit my wrist. Ummm….

Less than 4 minutes later–which was pretty good timing in the lake community we lived in–the ambulance, police and community security was at my door. I left the broken glass and blood in the sink *gag* so they knew I was not suicidal. (Silly Matt!) We called my friend to come earlier than planned, left the littles with Matt (a choice I still question) and drove off to the ER to get my first set of stitches. Five.

If you are friends with me on Facebook, look for the album titled “The Great Thanksgiving Stitch-Fest”

But yet, the saga continues! I managed to move across the country with nothing major happening. Occasional scrapes, bruises, and burns. Normal. Oh, and plenty of spillage on any light garment, especially while eating anything tomato based.

Until 2011.

This year I have:

~ dropped my iPhone and broken the glass on the back

~ spilled a full 8 oz of orange juice on my MacBook (thankfully, Q recovered well, and I am typing on him right now)

~ fallen down the laundry room steps, bruising up my thigh and elbow

~ cut my hand (left, again) open on a blender blade

Yes, that one deserves an explanation. I borrowed my neighbor’s blender, and naturally I was washing it before using it. I had the glass jar in the sink, and the blades in the base. I was going to wash the jar when Matt called. Matt seems to be involved at times like this. I started wiping down the base (forgetting it was plugged in, and no, I have NO IDEA why I plugged it in without the jar on top) and I hit the “Ice Crush” button. Dropped the phone, swore very loud and grabbed the paper towels. Five hours and 3 stitches later, I was home. (pictures of that are on my Facebook page, too…aren’t you glad?) Oh, and look, I blogged about it on my homeschooling blog.

Which all leads up to last night.

You’d think something as innocuous as washing a few dishes before dinner prep was simple. I have a set of 3 steak knives (shouldn’t that be 4? hmmm) that have heavy wooden handles, so they do not go into the dishwasher. All I know is one moment I was scrubbing off egg remnants from my bagel, egg and cheese, and the next it was stuck in my right index finger. To the bone. I’m lightheaded just reliving it to write. The Almost Teen said, “I knew the minute I heard the knife drop in the sink and you said ‘Danm!” that you cut yourself.”

Mom obviously has a pattern of behavior.


Almost three hours later, home with 3 more stitches and many MANY admonitions to stay away from sharp objects. Mostly from the ER staff, whose names are Mark (PA who stitched my finger) Amanda (who irrigated it) Dave (who wrapped it up like a mummy) and Caryl (who signed me in). It’s nice in a distressing sort of way to be on a first name basis with the hospital staff.

Pictures on Facebook.

Have a great (emergency free) weekend.

5 thoughts on “Typing Lessons

  1. I can only giggle. ya know, that is me. I can see you skimming that mirror off ~ c’mon Barb!! The stage tripping, I’ll not bother to comment ~ uhh, yea. You ARE my bud, aren’t you? ~snort~

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