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Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

07 June 2011

A life of grace and dignity....

Not so much.  


I've been tripping and crashing into things since I learned to walk.  My parents called me "Clumsy-puss" (which I think was meant to be endearing but in reality would send me into a rage of extreme proportion.  "I'm not clumsy!" I would shriek, from the floor, where I was sprawled after stepping on a speck of dust and landing on my ass).  


I prefer to think of myself more as "accident prone" than "clumsy."  Clumsy implies a certain lack of coordination, of which I have plenty.  (No, seriously... I do!  I DO, dammit!)  "Accident prone" on the other hand implies that I am surrounded by a karmic force field that is completely beyond my control and while I toodle along, minding my own business, that bitch Karma sneaks in from behind, holds out her foot, and trips me into next week.  


My most memorable accidents, I must admit, have been pretty spectacular.  I'm not talking just tripping and falling while walking on a football field during Jamboree Day at Humboldt State University.  I'm talking walking along the track, and suddenly, without warning, falling face-forward in front of a crowd of hundreds, including God and my ex-husband, dropping my diet soda, twisting my ankle, scattering the contents of my purse (which always seems to contain wayyyyy too many tampons) far and wide, wetting my pants a little, and shattering my kneecap while my husband, Captain Asshole, pointed and laughed until he eventually figured out I was, indeed, pretty painfully injured.  


Two events in my Incident File will always stand out (and, I pray to any Diety who chooses to take notes on this one) will hopefully never be topped.   (At least by me.)


My first Most Embarrasssing Moment EVER took place when I was a tender and young 15 year old.  I was on a church picnic with my boyfriend, Doug, his whole family, including all 900 of his relatives and his entire southern Baptist church.  I started out the day questionably when I wound up being the ONLY person there wearing a *gasp* bikini (which my mother had bought me specifically for this outing... oops).  (I heard his mother describe me as "that French hussy Dougie is dating.  She's a little too pretty, don't you think?"  So sorry for not being ugly as a mud fence so God would like me better.)  


Anyhoo, I didn't care much because I was 15 and let's face it, I looked pretty stinkin' cute in my bikini.


Towards the end of the day, Doug, his  youth counselor, and a few of his friends wanted to take me out in the boat and teach me to water ski.  


Yay!  I thought.  Out on the lake with the boys, away from his sour-faced mom and her Church Ladies... Let's do it!


We got to the middle of the lake, strapped the skis on to my feet, and as I slid off the side of the boat and into the water I heard a distinct, "RRRRRrrrrrrriiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!"  


Everything that happened after that was a blur.  One second I was gracefully lowering my bikini bod into the water, the next I was flat on my back with my ski clad feet floating at odd angles, not unlike the position one must be in for a complete gynecological exam, with my bikini bottoms in tatters around my waist.  


Some how I had managed to catch the leg opening at the back of my bathing suit on the ladder hooks and rip the suckers completely IN HALF.  


Picture it, just one last time, will you?  15 year old me, floating on my back, feet on top of the water encased in skis (which FLOAT, y'all), bathing suit in pieces around my waist, completely exposing my girl parts to the 5 fascinated and very Christian young men sitting in the boat.  


A good time was had by all.


I'm pretty sure that the Very Self-Righteous Church of the Central Valley is still clucking and praying about that one.




Incident number two happened many years later.  I was a single mom with three very energetic boys.  It had been raining for weeks, they had been trapped inside, and I was ready to lock myself in a closet just to have a moment of piece.


After a particularly long day, during which I actually caught Kacey WHITTLING A STICK WITH A STEAK KNIFE IN THE LIVINGROOM, I was thrilled beyond belief when one of the neighbors called and asked if all three of the boys could go over to her house and stay the night.


Oh HELLLLLLLLLL yes they can!!!


I packed them up, shipped them out, took a niiiiiice long bath, put on my jammies, grabbed a book and flung myself onto the couch in anticipation of finally catching up on some reading.


A blinding pain shot through my right butt cheek and seriously almost made me pass out.  


What the....


There was a steak knife literally buried hilt deep in my ass. 


Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me.


(There is some dispute in my family about how the knife got there.  I'm pretty sure that when I told Kacey to put the knife away and clean up his whittling mess, he conveniently stuck the knife between the sofa cushions.  Kacey blames ME and claims that *I* put the knife there for reasons known only to himself.)


I instinctively reached down and pulled it out and in doing so, almost bled to death.


I have limited recollection of what I did after calling my friend and having her drive me to the hospital, but I know that when I arrived at the ER I had an Overnight Kotex attached to my butt and was sitting on a beach towel.  


The hospital staff quickly shot into action, by calling the cops (yep... they called the cops) and a staff psychiatrist to make sure that A)  I hadn't been attacked by a knife wielding lunatic who psycho-stabbed me in the butt-cheek or B) I hadn't decided to leave this veil of tears by committing suicide by ass-stabbing.  


There I was, lying face down and naked from waist to toes, with two of Del Norte's finest asking me if I was very, very sure that no one had done this to me and also if I was very, very sure that it wasn't a botched suicide attempt.


Me, to them:  "Dude, trust me... even though I'm pretty sure I'm going to DIE in some horrible, embarrassing, butt-related accident, it isn't going to be at my own hand.  And if someone else had done this to me, I'd be pointing a finger at them pretty quick.  Seriously, what's less embarrassing?  Sitting on a steak knife or being stabbed in the ass by a stranger?"  


Eventually, as I was being stitched up, the doctors and nurses quit trying to hide their mirth and I could hear giggling and out-right gaffawing at my expense.


Two weeks later, when I went to my own personal doctor to have the stitches removed, he was suspiciously quiet while he was listening to my tale of woe.  Just as I was leaving, I saw his lips twitch and he finally burst into laughter, tears pouring down his cheeks, gasping for air...


I waited for him to finish.


Finally, he said, "God love you, Danielle, but you are one of my most interesting patients.  And just so you know, your butt WILL be at every party I attend for the rest of my life."


Of COURSE it will.