2008: The Year of Walking Dangerously

2007 was barely a warmed over memory when I came to the realization that 2008 was going to be a painful year, on and not just any year, no, it’s a leap year and a nine year to boot. My last nine year was 1999 and I taunted fate by flying on a nine day in a nine month. I was ever so bold. But nine karma is coming back to haunt me

My colourful Romanesque nose is still tender if touched just right. The mauves have paled into nonexistence, but the greens and yellows still persist. But why wait until the damage is healed is what I say. Why put off tempting disaster, strike while the iron is hot. And I didn’t even have to think about it. I know better than walking on my beautiful wood floor with my shoes on, but it had been a while since I’d fallen to the floor writhing in pain, because I’m challenged by walking flat-footed.

Friday night I arrived home to a cold house, 56 degrees indoors does not a cozy evening make. Ducky was in a hot shower basking in the glory of scalding water when I came home. I placed our highly expensive halibut fish n’ chips on the counter and set about to build a fire in the woodstove. Arlo was jumping all over me for attention, two inches off my heels as I chopped and gathered up my kindling, his ever present bulk being pushed out of the way so I could cut the wood, lay the fire, start the fire, “Sheesh Arlo, back off.”

I soon had flickering flames leaping up from around the kindling; the fire grew in the woodstove. Ducky had just walked into the living room as I walked from the new room. I have no idea what I was talking about, probably the greetings of the evening between us, chatter about Halibut fish n’ chips that cost an arm and a leg and your first born child, all I know is I never made my destination. Suddenly my foot slid out from underneath me and I landed, close to face down, with my left fist wrapped around the fire starter shoving my underwire as far into my ribs as humanly possible without bringing around death. Mammograms do not cause this much pain or discolourment.

Arlo was upon me in a flash licking my face; Ducky was once again berating me for wearing “those damn boots.” I laid in pain barely breathing. Gathering my courage I forced myself to roll over, checked my nose, and shoved the dog OUT OF MY FACE saying, “It wasn’t my shoes, there is water on the floor.”

When you come home from work, and your dog is all happy to see you, stop and give your loving dog a pet, a hug, and a good doggy treat. If you don’t your retaliatory pisser will jump up and pee on your futon, which will run on to the floor and you will slide your banana boat size boot through it and land on the floor writhing in pain.

My nose is just about free of colour. Only a slight bump remains on top of the ridge where I am doing my darnedest to grow a Cher inspired nose. But my boob, oy, my left boob has pain that will not be denied. A mottled purplish bruise has sprung up like X marking the spot, and Ducky is swearing I am days away from that walker, but now a seat with safety belt is being threatened along with the training wheels.

Anyone want a retaliatory pisser?

Painfully,
Cele