Reaping What You Sow
My mother has always been fond of the phrase, "you reap what you sow," which is, I guess, a Midwestern agricultural version of "what goes around comes around."
Suffice to say I'm feeling pretty bad right now about making fun of the old people in that medical alert commercial. You know--the ones who have fallen. And they can't get up.
Ranches are boring, I said. I want a house with character, I said. Character=stairs, I said.
Can you see where this is going yet?
Last night, I made the mistake of leaving my beloved nose spray on the kitchen table. I realized this when I woke up at 12:30 a.m. with nasal passages plugged up like Elvis' arteries. I waddled toward the stairs and took a step.
Which somehow, I missed, and went sliding down the remaining six steps to the main level on my ass. Well, not entirely on my ass--I went down at kind of an angle, so my low back didn't have to miss out on the fun. And the foot that misstepped? Got dragged down kind of behind and under the rest of me.
Ow. And I mean that in a most non-Bobby Brown sort of way.
I lay there in a crumpled heap for a few minutes, waiting for my husband to come rushing to my aid. Then I waited for at least a muffled "you okay?" Finally I gave up, said "screw it" and got myself upright. I limped into the kitchen, got my nose spray, unstopped my nose, hobbled back up the stairs and into the bathroom to turn on the light and inspect my throbbing foot.
And that's when I got the "you okay?"
Um...yeah. Just fell down the stairs. No biggie.
"That was you?"
Pause. Yes, that was me. Whoever did you think it might be?
"I thought it was the cats."
About this time I start thinking if I go into labor during the night, I should just drive myself to the hospital and call him only after I'm certain the alarm has gone off, because otherwise, the kid will be out and screaming by the time I get him fully awake.
I gingerly crawled back into bed, and over the course of the next several hours, I realized I was going to be one sore-assed woman by the time the sun rose. I was right. I got up and made the determination that broken toes were definitely involved, and I felt like I'd been hit by a speeding bus.
So I called my office, told the receptionist what stupid thing I'd done this time, and asked her to relay the information to Bosshole. Then I took Bob to school, came home, and went back to bed.
I felt better after a few hours' rest, so I got up to inspect myself. It seems I've only broken the smallest toe on my left foot--which is better than 2 or 3, as I'd initially thought, but still hurts like a bitch. The bruises on my butt and back are minor, but painful enough to make me squeal if I drive over a bump in the road.
And it's another 9 weeks before I'm able to see my feet when I'm descending the stairs.
God help me.
Suffice to say I'm feeling pretty bad right now about making fun of the old people in that medical alert commercial. You know--the ones who have fallen. And they can't get up.
Ranches are boring, I said. I want a house with character, I said. Character=stairs, I said.
Can you see where this is going yet?
Last night, I made the mistake of leaving my beloved nose spray on the kitchen table. I realized this when I woke up at 12:30 a.m. with nasal passages plugged up like Elvis' arteries. I waddled toward the stairs and took a step.
Which somehow, I missed, and went sliding down the remaining six steps to the main level on my ass. Well, not entirely on my ass--I went down at kind of an angle, so my low back didn't have to miss out on the fun. And the foot that misstepped? Got dragged down kind of behind and under the rest of me.
Ow. And I mean that in a most non-Bobby Brown sort of way.
I lay there in a crumpled heap for a few minutes, waiting for my husband to come rushing to my aid. Then I waited for at least a muffled "you okay?" Finally I gave up, said "screw it" and got myself upright. I limped into the kitchen, got my nose spray, unstopped my nose, hobbled back up the stairs and into the bathroom to turn on the light and inspect my throbbing foot.
And that's when I got the "you okay?"
Um...yeah. Just fell down the stairs. No biggie.
"That was you?"
Pause. Yes, that was me. Whoever did you think it might be?
"I thought it was the cats."
About this time I start thinking if I go into labor during the night, I should just drive myself to the hospital and call him only after I'm certain the alarm has gone off, because otherwise, the kid will be out and screaming by the time I get him fully awake.
I gingerly crawled back into bed, and over the course of the next several hours, I realized I was going to be one sore-assed woman by the time the sun rose. I was right. I got up and made the determination that broken toes were definitely involved, and I felt like I'd been hit by a speeding bus.
So I called my office, told the receptionist what stupid thing I'd done this time, and asked her to relay the information to Bosshole. Then I took Bob to school, came home, and went back to bed.
I felt better after a few hours' rest, so I got up to inspect myself. It seems I've only broken the smallest toe on my left foot--which is better than 2 or 3, as I'd initially thought, but still hurts like a bitch. The bruises on my butt and back are minor, but painful enough to make me squeal if I drive over a bump in the road.
And it's another 9 weeks before I'm able to see my feet when I'm descending the stairs.
God help me.
posted by Mitzi Green at 5:05 PM
1 Comments:
actually, marcia, at 20 pounds each, they DO make a lot of noise. when they get frisky and start running through the house, it sounds like the cavalry is coming...
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