And Jill came tumbling after...

Only instead of Jill? I mean "Dani."

Hi, I'm Dani. I hurt myself.

A lot.

If I hadn't been injuring myself in one way or another for most of my life, I'd probably think I had a brain tumor. Sometimes, I'll just be standing there having a conversation and for no reason at all, I'll stumble. Like I'm suddenly and mysteriously drunk. Which I'm not. Usually.

I've fallen down at work and broken my foot.

I've fallen down crossing the street and split my pants.

I've fallen down stepping off of a curb and almost gotten run over by a car.

I've banged my head on any number of things and given myself a concussion.

I smacked my head on the refrigerator door and burst a blood vessel in my eye.

Once? I hit myself in the eye with the corner of a car door and *instant death from horror* sliced my eyeball open. (Only I actually WAS drunk that time, which may or may not be why I never remember to answer "yes" when my eye doctor asks, "Have you ever suffered an injury to this eye?" Me: "No." Then we all sit around and scratch our heads and wonder why I'm practically blind in one eye and have almost perfect vision in the other. Ponder, ponder.)

In other news, one day I dropped a frozen roast beef onto my foot and broke my fifth metatarsal. (That would be a toe and/or foot bone, I believe. But don't quote me on that. All I know is it hurt like a bitch and I couldn't walk for 2 weeks.)

Many years ago, I broke my middle finger whacking my son's dog off the kitchen table. (Oh yes, I did. Go ahead... report me to the ASPCA. That bitch was standing on my table barking her ass off at 2 o'clock in the morning. At nothing. Tell me you wouldn't have smacked her fanny to get her off the table. Only problem was? I missed the dog, connected with the table, and broke my finger. Karma? Hmmm.)

And we all know about the time I sat on a steak knife and stabbed myself in the ass. (And if you don't know about that, you can read about it here:

http://deathbycupcakes01.blogspot.com/2011/06/life-of-grace-and-dignity.html)

ANDDDDD the list goes on. And on. And on. I used to be embarrassed when I fell down or bumped my head or injured myself in some really ridiculous way... but now? Okay, yeah... I'm still embarrassed. But I'm way more used to it.

Which brings me to today.

I decided to multi-task (rarely a good idea, considering, but one I cling to anyway... if I have two hands I need to do three things. I just do) and combine walking the dogs with taking out the trash. I had Javi on one leash in one hand, Maisy on the other leash in the other hand, and was carrying the trash around my wrist by the tie thingy. Maisy was, as usual, being a very good girl. Javi, on the other hand, was being as unruly and out of control as a 4 lb dog can be. He gets really super excited every single time we go for a walk... which, fyi? Is several times every single day... But it's always new for Javi, apparently. So he was bursting ahead, becoming air-born at the end of the leash, then racing back as fast as he could to charge around my legs and zoom back again, essentially tying me in a knot and hobbling me as I was attempting to walk down the sidewalk.

I made it to the dumpster without incident and with one hand, lifted the dumpster lid with tossed in the trash while unwinding the damn dog with my other hand and BAM!

Smacked myself in the head with the dumpster lid.

If I wanted to do that again on purpose? I totally couldn't. I actually stood there and stared at the dumpster for a few minutes watching birds and stars circling my head and thinking, "WTF?" (Just like that. In those letters. I don't even think the words anymore, I just think "WTF?")

You could drop me from the sky and I wouldn't be able to smack my head like that again.

You could raise and lower the dumpster lid 100 times and stick my head under it, and I wouldn't be able to re-create this injury.

Seriously.

Naturally, this occurred while Trailer Trash Barbie was outside smoking her lips off on her patio and observing my awkward jaunt to the trash bin and consequent whack on the head.

Her: "Haaa... ha haaaa... haaaa! Heh... *cough* You okay?"

Me: *standing there stupidly, staring at the dumpster, while Javi pranced and danced and pee'd on every blade of grass, oblivious to the fact that he'd just indirectly caused a nearly fatal wound to his feeder*

Her: "Damn, that musta hurt!"

Stupid bitch.

I could have died, you know.

Dear Trailer Trash Barbie,

I hope you fall off your porch.

Love,

Dani

I think I need bigger feet, so I have better balance. And maybe a smaller head, so it's less of a target. Yes?

Because I'm pretty sure that becoming less clumsy at this late date is out of the question.

Sad but true.