Our Lady of Gravity and Perpetual Contusion

It'll be a new trend in women's businesswear! Flared trousers with salt and blood stains at the knee and down the calf, and suede knee-boots with matching salt residue trim just at the toe. Eye-makeup will coordinate with ice-scraper-shaped bruising and contusions at the temple.

I think, if I play it right, it will be all the rage for the 2011 winter fashion season.

The event that spawned such design brilliance, however, some might say lacks the glamor and grace of the collection's obvious runway possibilities.

Black ice and a top layer of rain on what I thought were well-salted concrete steps sent me-- in the high-heeled boots I'd considered particularly fetching only moments before-- bouncing and jouncing down each stair, individually, like a fleshy stone skipping off a particularly unyielding lake.

Bump! Clump! Flump! Glump! Pomp! Schlump!

The heels which I never wear much because I am under normal circumstances too tall to not look like some giantess barging in uninvited on the year's hottest dwarf cocktail party were handy in one respect. Because they go up to the knee, they protected nobly considering they were not chainmail... or made by the aforementioned dwarves.

Getting up, I Dorothy Hamilled myself over to the car, and realized I had not yet made the full fashion statement I really needed for Success. So I clocked myself in the face with my own ice scraper on a particularly defiant chunk of windshield ice.

The things we do for high fashion, right ladies?

Tomorrow, I believe I will try something new. Before I leave the house, I will ensconce myself entirely in bubble wrap.

True couture innovation never ends.

Duel Two: Trucker Granny's Revenge

The old lady crept along the analgesics aisle with her shopping cart like the lead villain in a mummy movie.

And not one of those sleek, hyper-drive new CGI mummies, either. Oh no, we're talking Old School, plodding, 2-miles-an-hour, long-deceased, vengeful yet been-around-the-block-enough-they're-waiting-for-you-to-fall-and-break-an-ankle, pharaoh-type mummies here.

The ones who'll off you when they're good and ready.

I thought nothing of it at the time.

I assumed her, quite wrongly, to be just your average elderly lady. The kind with bladder control concerns. And gout. And arthritis from knitting her cats legwarmers.

And then I made the mistake that would cost me.

I had five minutes before I needed to be back at work. And I ducked around her.

Well...

Have you ever seen Spielberg's Duel with Dennis Weaver?

Dennis Weaver is a businessman driving on a desolate Western road. He needs to get to a meeting quickly. So he passes this slow-moving, large, mud-spattered gasoline truck-- just one simple action, something that happens a million times on the roads every day.

Unfortunately, the driver is two gears short of a well-wired gearbox.

And because of this single pass... this simple gesture... this one moment in time he cannot take back... that unseen driver begins a relentless mission to eliminate Dennis Weaver from America's roadways and make him go "splat."

I'm telling you all this because I suspect Duel was actually based on a real-life story, and that this old lady was actually the driver of that truck.

I don't know whether it was the speed with which I went around her. Or a snotty clack of my plastic shopping basket. Or an impertinent squeak of my shoes on the grocery store floor.

But this old lady let me get ahead of her in the aisle just enough for a false sense of security. And that's when she changed-- shedding her Sweet, Grandmotherly, Octogenarian Disguise and transforming into Trucker Granny from Hell.

Yes, I had no sooner headed on my way, and began to think about things back at the office, when the old woman put on an astounding, rattling burst of speed, plowed the shopping cart forward and...

Rammed it hard into the back of me, catching the ol' Achilles heel and the less firm parts of my nether-regions.

The cart clanked and jarred. I tripped forward, catching myself. Fellow shoppers witnessed, wide-eyed.

And I have to tell you, it was at that moment, there was a part of me that was really impressed-- though not necessarily my ankle tendon which was throbbing a bossanova of pain.

I mean, not often do you underestimate someone so thoroughly as to have your impression proven completely and utterly wrong-- and with physical assault, no less.

And when I turned to look at her and said a pointed, "Hey!" (a brilliant comeback considering the surprise circumstances), Granny had transformed once more. Only now she had become also blind and deaf.

She could not hear my indignant, "Hey."

She could not see me before her. She just smiled smugly, steadfastly refusing to meet my gaze.

The turbo which she had relied on only moments before had burnt out, but she was storing up... for later I think.

Yes, Trucker Granny had earned a notch on her shopping cart handlebar.

She had made a glorious shining statement against the pushy, uppity young'ns of the world. She had taken a stand for batty, damn-well-gonna-do-what-I-please seniors everywhere.

I imagine I wasn't her first victim.

And I'm willing to bet, I was not the last.

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Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

Helpful, Colorful Lies for Why You're Injured

In college, I fractured my wrist in an unlucky Research Procurement Clash. (Okay, somebody accidentally hit me with a four-inch-thick, metal library door.)

And ever since then, things like girlie push-ups... synchonized sign-language competitions... Macerena marathons... or a good stiff breeze... can cause it to go completely out of whack.

It's free of the boundaries of Whack currently, in fact. Last I heard from it, the wrist is somewhere in Whack's outskirts, and the GPS is not working.

Thus, my stylish wrist brace.

But anyone who's ever had an injury knows, the moment folks see someone with a brace, bandage, bruise or cast, we all find that unfortunate soul's personal pain like a big ol' coffeetable book... Something obvious and clunky enough to leaf through and discuss.

So that's why I thought today we would come up with...


Helpful, Colorful, Alternate Reasons for Why You're Injured

Yes, adventurous tales you can use for your very own injuries that are so much more exciting than telling someone you'd tripped on your cat... Shooshed poorly on the slopes... Or liberated your thumb in a regrettable Ginsu Knife Logistics Error.

This post has been designed specifically to assist in your all-purpose injury story needs, such as:


Arm Injuries:

• While hiking, you saved a lost child of the fast food generation, poised to tumble from a cliff. But your arm dislocated-- given the child weighed more than a Minivan filled with Big Macs.

• You deny wearing wrist braces. You are simply prepared to deflect bullets. And just wait till everyone gets a load of your lassooo of Truth and Justice.
  

• You donate some of your spare time to the Boy Scouts, as they train in First-Aid. They get overzealous with the Modroc.
  

• You were fending off a crowd of autograph-seekers who saw your last blog post/Tweet/Facebook Wall entry/YouTube video, and things got a little out of hand.

Broken Legs:

• While exploring the Grand Canyon on vacation, you encountered a group of baddies hoarding a stash of stolen gold in a cave. You were ziplining away from said baddies across this scenic Natural Wonder, only to have the cable snap, tumbling you conveniently onto the ranger's station below.
  

• When not at your regular job, you are actually a professional wrestler, wrestling under the name of The Midnight Mangler. The injury came as a result of a mislaid pile-driver.
  

• You are the stunt double for Jackie Chan, now that he's getting on in years. You don't like to talk about it, out of respect to Mr. Chan and given his devoted fanbase.

Face Lifts

• You're bandaged as part of a social experiment to see if people would treat you differently if you weren't so mind-blowingly attractive.

• You have recently been reading up on the ancient Egyptians and have decided to embrace a few of their customs.

• You are trying out for the lead in Phantom of the Opera. Would anyone care to hear your rendition of "Music of the Night"?

• Competition in the town's underground Fight Club group was somewhat stiffer than you expected.
  

So, folks-- any other suggestions for heart-pounding reasons why we might be injured?

Let's bring dignity back to the disproportionately damaged!

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Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

Shelf-Awareness and Shelf-Shabotage

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Laugh at yourself because you discover you contain the brains of an academically-challenged fruit fly, and you have the makings of blog post.

Truly, it is only for We of the Grand Blogosphere that incidents of personal confusion, clumsiness, and monumental stupidity lead to-- not appropriate shame and self-loathing-- but the phrase, "Crikey-Moses, I must blog about about one!"

The setting? Saturday afternoon.

I am in my dining room, evaluating the placement of a four-foot wide, three-foot tall shelf, designed to sit on a mantle or sideboard.

It isn't heavy, as much as large and unwieldy. And having determined that it won't work properly on my fireplace mantle, I set my sights on the only other wide surface in the room.

On top of a six-foot-tall cabinet.

Note, I do not care for heights.

So I get a small ladder. (So far so good!)

Then I butt the steps right up to the cabinet. (Nice and close!)

I jiggle it a few times to ensure its grippy stairs are locked properly in place. (Safety first, donchaknow!)

Then I grab the giant shelf and begin my ascent.

Step... step... step... Almost there!

Only... erm.... not so much.

I am out of steps. I barely peer over the top of the cabinet. And as I try to lift this shelfish monstrosity up and onto its top, I realize I failed to take into account one more important thing.

Lifting requires bent arms to unbend themselves. The shelf is more than a foot wide.

I am about a foot from the cabinet. My arms are pinned.

Physics says 'no.'

I am, in fact, so close to this cabinet--- my nose taking in its lemony-fresh furniture polish scent-- that I am ever-so-slightly off-balance now. Meaning, I could try to take a step backward, off the stair I'm on, but I can't see where the step below it is, and the angle is off.

And I can't lift the shelf up because there's no room to unbend my arms, because I am physically in my own way with things like boobs and noses and chins, all of which I feel I'll need for later.

I stand there blinking, wondering exactly how I got into this position and whether I would, quite possibly, be spending the remainder of my life here.

I could get a different hand-hold on the shelf, but there's nowhere to rest it.

I try balancing it with one hand, but the shelf is too wide, and it keeps slipping.

I try jogging my hands into place, inch-by-inch, but it is wood and I am scraping off skin which-- like chins, noses and whatnot-- I think I'll need for later.

I decide, in my infinite brilliance, that I might be able to temporarily wedge the shelf between my stomach and the cabinet. In a rudimentary vise grip. You know: just so I can move my hands.

So here I am, hoping Mighty Iron Stomach (which is more like Mighty Jell-O Stomach), will support all the weight of a four-foot-by-three-foot shelf.

I apply stomach to shelf.

I let go with one hand.

The cabinet rattles and sways. I rattle and sway. The china inside the cabinet contemplates life as a mosaic.

In a moment, one side of the shelf slips. My stomach learns that splinters are like acupuncture but less therapeutic.

I catch the shelf and stop.

I stand holding the shelf for a long, long time, thinking about life and how it has come to this, me being trapped in mid-air in my dining room with only woodgrain for a view.

And that, my friends, is when I begin to scream for help.

"Heeeellp! Oh, heeeeeeelllp!"

My housemate soon heard my dire pleas for assistance and came rushing to my aid. It is not terribly easy to explain how I got into this predicament, I discover. But she's been my friend for years and recalls me hydroplaning without a car. And the time I Wile E. Coyoted off a stepladder while hanging curtains. Oh, and the time I crippled myself in Cape May.

She has seen the wonders of my overly-ambitious yet rubbish brain. Yet still hangs out with me.

That's friendship.

Only, folks, she's in the process of purchasing her own house. Meaning soon, yours truly will be left solely to her own devices with no one to call for aid.

So if there's a week I suddenly don't post? Do me a favor. Please have the cops stop by my house and check on me.

My hands may not be free to make the 911 call myself.

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Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

The Gal with One Black Shoe

"Oh my God- I am out in public wearing two entirely different shoes!"

This was my revelation yesterday in the middle of the K-Mart parking lot. And oh, there was no getting around it. One foot was definitely sporting a flip-flop. The other, a black ballerina flat.

What led to this obvious error, you might ask?

TOO MUCH WEEKEND.

No, no, it's not what you're thinking. My excess shoe variety wasn't a result of a wild, reckless Memorial Day bender where even the traditions of sensible footwear were sneered at with crazed abandon....

Remember, I'm too much of a big ol' goody-two shoes (ha! pun intended) to actually be that exciting.

No, the lack of shoe harmony was because during weekends and vacations, I make the mistake of taking on too much. And this results in things like gouged eyelids, and traction, and more bandages than a Boris Karloff Mummy Lookalike Party.

Why, twice on vacations, I have underestimated the distance on a map and determined that what would be really FUN and GOOD EXERCISE and a GREAT WAY to get SUPER photos would be to WALK the distance. The last time was when my friend Scoobie and I road-tripped to Cape May to go antiquing and to the beach.

Looking at the distance between the hotel and Sunset Beach, I thought we'd be there in a jiff. No problem! It's only, like, a quarter of a centimeter away!

An hour and a half later in blistering July, we made it down to the ocean-- Scoobie in her sensible tennis shoes and me in these cute pink flats-- and I realized that the reason the back of my heels had finally stopped throbbing was because they were covered in blood, and the blood was nicely reducing the friction on my heel.

This is the way I relax.

So the weekend was a bit like that, with me running errands while wearing cute new shoes-- (ah, the evil lure of cute shoes... Dante's tenth level of Hell involves attractive, impractical footwear, I'm sure of it)-- and coming back with one heel so raw, neighborhood butchers were cringing and vomiting at the sight of me.

Monday morning, this led to my wearing flip-flops and crop pants to work, since anything touching my heel like loafers... or the brush of a jeans leg... or, say, a good breeze... made me scream and pass out.

Only I can't DRIVE with flip-flops. So this quickly evolved into popping on one regular shoe to work the gas/brake pedal, and having to do a very Mr. Rogersy sort of shoe-transition when I got to work....

You know IF Mr. Rogers had spent the weekend walking around the neighborhood for ten hours in unbroken-in tennies until his feet were oozing stumps.

And see, this was my downfall. Because-- while a very good system in general-- it had not been PRACTICED and PERFECTED.

So thinking I would stop by K-Mart on the way home from work, I was focused on what I needed in Marthastewartland and not so much on how I planned to get inside it.

And so, my friends, I leave you today with this bit of wisdom:

When the shoe is on the other foot, and it drops, make sure it matches the first shoe before it falls, because you just can't understand a person until you walk a mile in another man's ballerina flats and by then, you're really, really, REALLY far away without Band-Aids.

Thank you.

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PS-Over at Humor-blogs, they're bound to stick their foot in it!

Shrub Wars, Ugly Betty and the Arch Nemesis

It seems when I'm out gardening, the number of people who want to talk to me is inversely proportional to how bad I look.

I swear, I could be out there in a ballgown and a tiara, sipping mint juleps and no one would say so much as a "good morning."

But if I'm in my yard for two seconds in my bag-lady mismatched clothes, my bangs in a barrette, glasses smeared with pollen, dirt on my elbows and my nose running, everyone in the neighborhood suddenly wants to stop by and discuss life, the universe and everything.

Thing is, when I get gardening and sporting the Ugly Betty look, I don't really WANT to talk to anyone. I get in the zone. And I need to be in the zone because my yard is fairly uneven and a missed step can mean rolling down the incline of the yard.

I imagine whole crowds would show up for a chat as that was happening.

I also tend to be unable to garden without injury. Why, one summer not so long ago, I set out to dig up and replace a couple of nuisance shrubs with something more ornamental, and I got so into working out the roots that I didn't notice the branch coming up and just missing my eye.

Can you imagine me driving myself to the hospital with no depth perception and explaining to the emergency room people the reason for my empty eyesocket was Puncture By Shrub?

"When Shrubs Attack--- Coming up next on The Discovery Channel!"

The irony being that "removing a shrub" is also one of the big keyphrases that seems to lead people to my home and garden blog.

The fact that people come there thinking they can learn shrub removal from a person who almost had to change her name to "Popeye," just goes to show that Search Engine Optimization isn't a perfect science.

And then, of course, there are the tasks that I try to take on myself that would be better left to the droves-- but the droves are strangely AWOL when they'd be truly helpful. Like the massive wrought-iron trellis I assembled last year.

It was in pieces to start with...

Lots of pieces...



And I spent the better part of an afternoon assembling all of the screws and nuts and putting Part A to Phlange B, etc.

All of this, I assembled flat out in my backyard with little problem, and I looked at my work with a smile of satisfaction...

Until I realized the arch needed to be standing upright.

The arch-- and I know this because the box said so-- weighed 150 pounds. It was also about seven foot tall.

The problem here is that your average five-foot eight female cannot LIFT an 150-pound, seven-foot-tall garden arch to a standing position. I mean, I know the ancient Egyptians built whole pyramids bringing giant blocks up slopes without a single piece of equipment made by John Deere....

And yes, the Celts dragged the stones of Stonehenge all the way from Wales in order to place them in the middle of a field in Salisbury because they hadn't invented the wristwatch yet.

But these ancient people were clearly a lot smarter than I am, and didn't get all cocky about Panel A and Phlange B.

Also, as my friend Greg pointed out, they had slave labor. Whereas I just had a few neighborhood squirrells laughing their fluffy tails off.

Well, a week later I was able to get a friend to help me right the darned garden arch. And let me tell you, TWO average females lifting that sucker was a huge improvement when it comes to Garden Arch Physics. What was my Arch Nemesis now is my Arc de Triumph.

So today, as I go out to garden, it will be interesting to see just what sort of injury awaits. Scratches or punctures, trapped under metal architectural structures... it's all up for grabs.

But if you were thinking of popping by, I'd recommend stopping to say "hello" at about 11am today. I should be rolling down the front hill about then. And don't worry, admission is free.


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Or you could also stop by and see my fellow bloggers at Humor-blogs. Unless, they're trapped under an 150-pound, seven-foot-tall garden arch, too.