#FAIL (alternatively titled: I am a Doofus sometimes)

It came up on Twitter yesterday, thanks to my darling husband and dear friend, that I can sometimes be a teensy weensy bit foolish. A doofus. A total #fail whale. I promised I’d blog about it because, well, it’s funny, and if I can’t laugh at myself then what can I laugh at?

The Toe Incident

Let me preface this  story by saying that I have a horrible fear of all things creepy crawly. I can’t help it.  I jump, I scream, I freak. My husband believes he might die in a car crash with me one day if I see a spider in the car because I’ll jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic. Our headline will read “Two Killed in Tragic(ally Funny) Car Crash – Spider in Custody for Involuntary Manslaughter.”

Right.

I don’t remember what day it was, or even what year it was. Suffice to say it was at least 6-7 years ago. I believe I was still living at home. (My memory is terrible, in fact it really bothers me that I can’t remember squat, so the fact that I remember THIS much is a damn miracle) My family (mother, sister, brother) usually congregate in the kitchen; it was almost literally the center of our home growing up. It was a small eat-in kitchen but it had a table and enough chairs for all of us. We would sit, and sometimes we would talk and read magazines and gossip, my mother, my sister and I.  Those were some of my favorite times.

One such day, we sat ’round the table just as we normally do. My sister to my left, my mother to my right. The table was likely stacked with mail, magazines and discarded jackets and the like. We each probably had a Diet Coke to sip as we chatted. I sat on the chairs that my mother has recovered countless times (even adult children make big messes) with one foot crossed underneath me and one leg facing forward. I still sit this way often. My feet were bare – a trait inherited from my mother. We love bare feet in our family.

We sat and talked, and it may be that we discussed creepy crawly things and I was on edge. It may be that we were talking about recent TV episodes and I had no reason to be jumpy. However the conversation fell out, I was listening to the gossip when I spied something out of the corner of my left eye.

Me, in my head: OH SHIT. IT’S A BUG.
Me, out loud: [terrified screaming as I nearly leap out of my seat and bash my head on the ceiling cartoon-style]

My sister and my mother are also squeamish – my sister even moreso – and they asked with worried voices, panic creeping in at the edges: “What? What is it?”

Me:  Oh. It was just my toe.

At this point I realize that I should have just said it was a spider, because the guffaws, hoots and chuckles coming from either side of me were enough to make me realize I would never, ever live this down. I was almost right. I might have lived it down if it ended there.

Not even five minutes later, I see something out of the corner of my eye:

Me, in my head: OH SHIT. IT’S A BUG.
Me, out loud: [terrified screaming as I nearly leap out of my seat and bash my head on the ceiling cartoon-style]
Me: Oh. It was just my toe. Again.

I expect my urn to have some sort of witty verse – maybe a haiku? – about how I scared myself with my toe. Twice. My own damn toe. TWICE. In the span of five minutes. TWICE.

The Car Incident

Stop rubbing your hands in glee, I can see you. No, I did not crash the car as a result of a spider. This is something entirely different. And, no, this is not the story of the time that I hit a snowplow with my car hard enough to break the plow off of the truck. In May. In New England. (i.e. No Snow.)

A few weeks ago I realized I forgot something in the back of the car. We have a Mazda 5, which is like a Soccer Mom Minivan Lite or something.  It fits our family well. I loved this car until it attacked me completely unprovoked. Now, I have to say my feelings are mixed. If my little Mazda 5 could speak, she’d probably remind me that we hurt the ones we love. I’d probably tell her she’s a bitch. But that’s neither here nor there.

To the point.

I went to the back of the car and opened up the hatch-back trunk. It’s a pretty tall hatch back and the way it’s designed it swings way out, but I’m a smart gal, so I know that I need to step back in order for it to keep from clipping me. I successfully sidestep the Indiana-Jones style obstacle and grab whatever I need out of the back. I step back, reach up, and pull down the trunk using the nifty little handle, but I make a critical mistake; in my rush to get back inside (it’s a bit rainy out) I pull it down too quickly and fail to evade the deadly downward path of the door.

Scrrrraaaape.

The door makes contact with the bridge of my nose, scrapes my glasses off my face and continues further down to the tip of my nose until I stumble back in a muddle of pain and hurt feelings. I thought you loved me! I hiss, and bend to pick up my glasses. They’ve landed lens-down on the pavement. They are badly scratched. You whore! I’m angry. My nose is throbbing. I wipe off my glasses but I am too distracted by the huge scratch right in front of my right eye to see clearly.

And that, my friends, is why I need new glasses.  As promised, Holly – a diagram, complete with stick figures:

As you see by the above picture, entered into Evidence on 10/19/2009, I was brutally attacked by my car. I’m pretty sure this means my insurance company needs to pay for my new glasses. And the eye exam. And maybe some contacts. And probably a pair of prescription sunglasses too. And emotional distress.

So. I dare you to beat that. That’s right bitches – gauntlet down.