Tag Archives: house

That Sinking Feeling

Despite what this post might suggest, I’m not high-maintenance. I just have severe OCD and like my routine, not to mention a house that functions as it should and remains rather clean.

With that said, any disruption to my basic necessities — water, food, Internet, baseball, power, mostly food again — are classified as mini-catastrophes in my world, a world where I’m not proficient in plumbing or electrical work where hummus flows freely like water.

hungry

So when I walked into the kitchen the other night and noticed my previously functional faucet releasing a small but steady stream of water, I started to lose my crap.

After taking a deep breath, I called an old handyman friend of my uncle that sometimes helps me with things and found out he could stop by the next day. I knew this was good, but I also knew this meant tons of more stress for my dysfunctional mind.

If I don’t have a sink, how can I make my tea? Use my steamer? Would he take so long that my normal dinner routine would be shattered? And what about my semi-clean floors? How am I supposed to survive?!?

Part of my frustration with these things comes from not being able to fix them myself, but 99.9 percent of my frustration comes from the series of events that follow after someone comes over to fix them.*

*Yes, I am most appreciative, but I am also OCD with no patience for putzing or lack of respect for the Lysol.

So without further putzing, let’s take a look at how this went (all times are approximate, as I’m still recovering from the trauma.)


9 pm—Enter kitchen and notice sink is running. Push on all the handles and scream at it to stop.

9:01—Express puzzlement over said dripping to inanimate objects within earshot and then try to will it to stop streaming down.

9:05—Call old handyman guy and learn a) he really wants to engage in a “to make a short story long” type of discussion and b) he can come by the next afternoon around 3.

9:25—Call mom and ask her to meet him at my house until I can get home from work.

9:26—Ignore problem for the rest of the night.

Next Day

5:30 am—Enter kitchen and notice sink is still running. Push on all the handles and scream at it to stop.

5:31—Express puzzlement over said dripping to inanimate objects within earshot and then try to will it to stop streaming down.

5:35—Leave for work and stress about sink.

4 pm—Arrive home, find mom in my garden and give her a 6-pack as a thank you.

4:05—Full of dread, enter the house and notice he didn’t heed the “Please take shoes off. Thanks!” post-it note I so carefully placed on the door. And that he moved the blanket I had down over the kitchen rug. And that he was using my favorite coffee cup and dish towel to catch the dripping water OH MY GOD!

4:05:10—Remind myself he’s helping me out. Deep breaths are taken and possibly exhaled as a loud sigh—this part is sketchy.

4:10—Make small talk and pretend to care what plumbing parts are called while discreetly moving the blanket over the rug and his tools onto paper towel.

4:15—Learn he’ll be done in about half an hour and decide I’m pretty much a revolutionary for my survival skills in times of such stress.

4:16 to 4:45—Distract myself in the form of preparing soon-to-be used cleaning products and plan how I can clean and get dinner ready on OCD time.

4:46—He’s still putzing. Start freaking out and immediately change my mind on revolutionary status.

4:55—While searching for Xanax salt lick, I’m informed it’s fixed. Pleasantries and payment are exchanged, as is the information that his wife read my first book after my uncle gave him a copy.

4:56—Feelings of annoyance wane as I gently lead him outside my house.

5:00—Begin manic Lysol/Swiffer sweeps of the counters and floors while prepping dinner at the same time, once again applauding my survival skills.

5:05—Enter bathroom. Notice the toilet seat is up, meaning his dirty shoes and everything attached to them paraded throughout my house and used my toilet.

5:06—Manic feelings return. Cleaning commences.

5:15—Smoke detector goes off, signaling that dinner is done.

5:20—Revolutionary status restored, but my sanity? Still MIA.

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The Anatomy of a Garage Sale

Since we’re officially into summer now, I figured it was a good time to revisit my thoughts on the garage sale. I don’t know how it is where you live, but it seems I can’t drive 100 feet without seeing a cardboard sign with an arrow pointing me towards the sale of the century each weekend.

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If you’ve never actually put on a garage sale yourself and tried to convince people they need to buy the crap you just don’t want, allow me to clue you in as to just how much fun they can be. I conducted a yard sale myself a couple years ago and feel I’ve recovered enough to talk about my experience.

The Night Before: You stay up late making tiny price tag stickers for all the junk you’re hoping people will buy. You’re naively psychotically optimistic, calculating the total value of your “inventory” at slightly over $5,000, give or take what you can get for those old curtains that came with the house you found stored in the attic.

6:30 a.m. The garage sale is scheduled to begin at 8 am, but a woman pounds on your door and tell you she “likes to get an early start.”  When you walk outside to let her “window shop,” you notice that there are five other cars in your driveway.

6:35 a.m. One of those cars is your crazy uncle—a black belt in flea markets, weekend auctions and roaming the beach with a metal detector—who is there to help manage the situation. He immediately lays claim to a yard tool he forgot he gave you last week.

9:30 a.m. You’ve sold a few things but are already annoyed with the fact that everything isn’t sold and you’re not counting your riches. A shopper offers you a dollar for your lawnmower that is brand new and not for sale.

You ask him to leave.

10 a.m. You look for your uncle and find him drinking Busch Light in a can and offering extras to shoppers for $1 a piece. He tells you he has sold three beers. At 10 a.m.

Noon: You leave the operation in the hands of your uncle/concession seller and go inside to get some lunch. A stranger knocks on your back door and asks to try on some T-shirts for sale, and another wants to know if you have “weenies to go with the beer.”

You ask them to leave.

12:30 p.m. When you return to the sale, you find your uncle slightly manic because he has sold a shovel, a set of garden tools and a hose for 50 cents each. You tell him that they weren’t for sale in the first place. He replies that he wondered why there were no price tags.

You ask him to leave. Of course, he won’t.

2 p.m. A group of college boys will stop by and start trying on some of your clothes in the driveway, conducting their own drag queen fashion show. Your mom will attempt to stuff dollar bills into their bejeweled belts (priced at 50 cents) and your uncle will offer them beer.

They are cute. You will not ask them to leave. In fact, you will give them the clothes, a few other items and several pathetic come-hither stares.

2:30 p.m. You decide things are taking entirely too long and start drastically slashing prices like an overzealous mattress salesman who does his own commercials. In fact, you just start giving stuff away and find that’s entirely more fun, especially because it pisses off your crazy neighbor lady who is trying to sell a holographic palm tree for $50.

4 p.m. You’re done. It’s hard to know what your take is for the day because at some point your uncle apparently sold the cash box. However, you find a dollar your mom dropped during the impromptu frat boy fashion show and seek out your uncle, who is digging through your “junk I’m throwing away” pile.

4:05 p.m. You buy a beer.

4:06 p.m. You vow never to do this again.

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Doorbell Death Roll

While on the phone with my mom the other day, I caught someone walking up my driveway out of the corner of my eye. Jumping into action, I bolted from the couch and took a covert peek through the mini-blinds. Seconds later I heard a knock on the door.

My natural (neurotic) instincts kicked in and I immediately dove behind the couch while telling my mom to be quiet, as apparently I assumed the knocker had supersonic hearing.

doorfront2

Seeing as she will rush to shut the drapes upon seeing a solicitor walk down the road a mile away, this statement did not surprise her at all.

“It looks like there’s a DHL van parked next door and I didn’t order anything,” I said, cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder while crawling on the floor to get a look through another window.

“Maybe there’s an emergency,” she suggested.

“And the DHL guy who is parked next door calmly walked over here because he thinks I’m best equipped to handle an emergency?” I asked. “What kind of emergency would that be? Did he get a craving for hummus?”

“Good point,” she conceded.

Another quick glance through the blinds revealed him walking down my driveway, walking back up and ringing the bell. At this point I thought it might be important, but again, in moments of possible social interaction my survival instincts kick in and I decide better safe and anti-social than sorry.

While I waited for his retreat, I examined my rug burn and the situation at hand.

The truth is that I might be a Publisher’s Clearing House million dollar winner if not for the fact that I perform a death roll behind the furniture the second I hear the doorbell.

Why?

Because I’m most likely not wearing any makeup and smell like garlic, which means even if the DHL employee is hot, it won’t do me any good. But also because in other instances there’s a chance someone is selling something — be it religion or a $14 roll of wrapping paper that covers one small shoebox — and I don’t have an interest in either.

Plus, if I’m not expecting someone and the person at the door is a semi-stranger, I’ll be forced to yell through the glass out of irrational fear they’re casing the joint — even if they are a pack of nuns with fundraising sheets in their hands.

Spoiler alert: Unless you want drawers of rubber bands and incense, you should probably loot down the street. You’ll be much more satisfied there.

So to avoid both an awkward social situation that may or may not involve me in a robe wafting garlic in my wake and the potential for junk drawer pillaging, I feel like sprinting across the living room and diving into the kitchen to hide is actually a quite reasonable response.

As I peeked back out the window a minute later, I was able to report that my arch enemy was retreating down the driveway.

“Arch enemy?” my mom said while heaving a sigh. “What are you, a superhero?”

No, not a superhero. That would most involve a spandex costume and I can’t even be troubled to wear a real bra. I’m just an ordinary woman who performs a death roll behind the couch upon hearing the doorbell, my friends.

Unless you’re holding a big check with my name on the front. In that case, by all means come in.

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A Motivational Speech for my Vacuum

Hey there bagless buddy!

There’s been a little bit of concern about your performance of late. Maybe it’s because you’re a bit confused as to what this job description entails, so let’s have a little refresher.

vacuum1.jpg

You suck.

No, don’t roll away! That’s not an attack on your character! I mean that your job is simply to suck.

The endless hair shed on the carpet? The bastard grains of rice I spilled on the floor? You get the honor of scratching my OCD itch and sucking that crap up! Oh yes. You, my friend, have that “thing” that can do it for me.

What is that “thing”? That “thing” is power!

Because in spite of what you’ve heard, power does matter, and the second that I plug you into the wall we’re plugging into performance! Together we can focus on results and achieve the breakthroughs that will launch us into the realm of clean carpets and dirt-free floors!

That’s a little dramatic, I admit, but my point is that you can be special.

You can suck better than any other vacuum in this house. Well, except for the new dustbuster a fraction your size that could suck up the couch if I tried.

But you know what that dustbuster doesn’t have? A light on the front in case we need to vacuum at night. Light the way! It’s time to show that dustbuster who’s boss, and who sucks the most in this house!

So rise up and grab that rogue string I’ve run over 235 times instead of bending over myself to pick up. Run with it!

Why?

Because that string wants to come off of the floor, but it needs you to help it because it’s a string and a string cannot move on its own.

So tighten that new belt I bought you, spin those shiny wheels and get back to doing what it is you do best—you suck.

Let’s try and keep it that way.

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Stars! They’re Just Like Us!

Anyone who has “accidentally” flipped through an US Weekly magazine (as I did while waiting to get my hair did the other day) knows there is more important information on the back of a shampoo bottle than there is in that publication.

One of the most ridiculous things is the “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” segment. For the uninitiated, this is where they feature photos of celebrities doing things like breathing, eating, drinking out of straws and carrying adopted children named after obscure fruits found in Ethiopian villages.

The captions of these paparazzi photos verify/explain the celebrity is breathing, eating, etc., since it would otherwise be unclear that this person is, in fact, a human doing shockingly mundane human things — just like us!

Lest you think I’m exaggerating, these are a few of the captions from that issue:

  • They Indulge in Fast Food!
  • They Strap on Shoes!
  • They Eat Off Others’ Plates!
  • They Use the ATM!
  • They Write Names in the Sand!
  • They Balance Cans!

I don’t know about you, but I would never have guessed that Jennifer Lawrence uses the ATM—just like me! Of course her balance is astronomically higher than mine, but still! She’s so normal!

To be fair, a lot of magazines make the assumption that we all live a charmed life. Food Network Magazine had a spotlight feature on a new cast member and her kitchen in the Hamptons.

She said, “People hear ‘the Hamptons’ and they think glitz and glamour, but it is really just farmland.” The article then goes on to suggest we pick up some of Katie’s finds for our own kitchen. Those include:

  • French Bistro stools $674
  • Rivera strop shade for a window $209
  • Natural-edged bowl hand-carved from a single log $564

I would, but I just won $2 on a scratch-off lottery ticket and am busy trying to decide if I want to take it in one lump sum or a dime for the next 20 years.

Anyway, I might actually take interest in these features if they included things I could relate to a little bit more.

Stars! They’re Just Like Us! They:

Light incense, forget they lit incense and then freak out when they smell smoke five minutes later!

Say, “There’s fungus among us!” while picking out mushrooms at the store!

Excel in “Procrastibaking”—baking instead of doing a bunch of more important things instead!

Get up 10 minutes early in the morning so they have that extra time to stare mindlessly at the wall as they shower!

Can go from “nothing sounds good” to “why isn’t there more of this to shove in my face?” in mere seconds!

Get terrified when putting back a shirt without folding it and then making eye contact with the store worker!

Beat the crap out of a black bean with their spatula when they thought it was a spider!

Spend more time picking out broccoli at the store than picking out the clothes that they wear!

Will practically break their arms before making two trips into the house with the groceries!

True, it might not be as glamorous as sharing that they “Pull Their Hair Back On the Go!” but you can’t tell me they’ve never stood up and had a chickpea fall out of their bra.

Now that’s a headline that I’d like to see.

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More Headlines From My House

It’s been a few months since I’ve shared some headlines from my house, so I figured it was time for an update.

More Headlines From My House

Nemo Found. Dory Lost. Owners Banned from Owning More Pets

Evidence Suggests Hardest Part of Exercising in Morning for Most People is Not Telling Everyone They Worked Out in the Morning

Twitter Greatly Overestimates Woman’s Desire to Find New Friends

Driver Beeps Horn .03 seconds After Light Turns Green; Woman Shuts Off Car, Lies on Hood and Feeds Birds for an Hour

Motion Made to Rename Naps ‘Horizontal Life Pauses’

Personal Ad: The last two things I’ve spooned were a pillow and a jar of sunflower seed butter

Dora the Explorer to Explain How She Gets Shirt Over Her Giant Freak Head

Etiquette Tip: Use Phrase ‘Gender Reveal Party’ and not ‘Baby Sex Party’

Study Finds Only Thing Women Like More Than Target is Talking About Going to Target

College Graduate Observed Washing Lawn Gnome in Bird Bath; Neighbors Cease Questioning as to Single Status

Cantaloupes Resent Being Called ‘Just Negative Antelopes;’ Sue for Slander

Of Available Techniques for Safely Drinking Hot Tea, Waiting for it to Actually Cool Down Least Used

Woman, 32, Emotionally Unprepared When Last Bit of Food Eaten Without Realizing It

Poll: Bigger scam: Non-stick pans or no-scrub bathroom cleaner?

New Reality Show Created About Bored People Scrolling Meaningless Crap on Internet at Work Called ‘Relatable’

After Third Time Tripping Over Cat in Single Trip Across House, Owner Refuses to Fake Concern For Cat’s Wellbeing

Banana Pulled Off Bunch Feels ‘Ripped Viciously From Family’

Confirmed: Internet Connection Goes Out More Than I Do

Woman Turns on Oven. Hears Fire Truck in Background. Turns off oven. Reverts to Plan B

Editor Disappointed to Discover ‘Plastic Martini Glasses’ Drying in Office Bathroom are Actually Part of a Breast Pump

Most Underreported Form of Cyber Bullying Found to be Invitations to Play FarmVille on Facebook

After Reviewing Bank Statement, Writer Diagnosed with Earning Disability

Confirmed: No Good Way to Hurry Around Old Lady in Motorized Cart Without Looking Like You’re Racing Her

Creator of Pants Without Pockets Fails Performance Review

Broccoli Floret Fell Out of Shirt at Gym. Thinking of Becoming Motivational Speaker

Psychologists Conclude Burritos are “Just Shy Tacos with a Soft Side”

After Vacuuming, Couch Free of Cat Hair For Record 19 Seconds

‘Sense of Community’ Formed When Line of Cars Joins Up to Prevent Jerk from Cutting In at Front

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Your turn. Give me a headline from your house.

Talking Dirty

If you’re new here, I should tell you that I love my garden and flowers.

The OCD in me takes immense pleasure in dead-heading petunias, picking green beans and pulling out weeds (in both my yard and any other surface that makes me feel twitchy—it’s actually really a curse.)

While Michigan weather is unpredictable, it’s usually a safe bet that you can start planting things any time after Memorial Day, which means we’re getting down and dirty around Chez Abby these days.

But a few trips to the greenhouse and Home Depot combined with my useless need to make puns have enlightened (questionable word choice) me to the fact that the simple act of gardening could also be a great bed to plant the seeds for a budding romance—or at least leaf a good first impression.

So if you’re someone like me whose relationship status is often: “Drunk on allergy medication and just cleaned out the cat’s crap box,” this guide might be just what you need to get down and dirty.

Get Down and Dirty

The most important thing to remember is that no trip to Home Depot (or similar home improvement store that will make you feel like you need all new handles for your cabinets) is official until you loudly proclaim either, “I just want a good stud finder!” or “Where my hose at?”

This establishes your mission—not to simply find tools or get kelp for your yard, but to find someone who will be mowtivated to maybe plant one on you (wink, wink.)

When approached by a possible suitor, be sure to lure them over to the gardening section, as making initial contact around the nails, caulk and nipples is a bit too forward these days—and the puns are entirely too obvious. You’re screwed.

See? Way too obvious.

Once you’ve secured your position in the Garden Center, casually mention that you’re an entre-manure who wants to create Miracle-Gro for small boobs. If they don’t get your humor, move on, as brilliance cannot be wasted on those who can’t till it like it is.

But what’s that, you say? They dug what you said?

Then with the fertile groundwork planted, continue to cultivate the conversation by sharing that although you’re “a bit rough around the hedges, you’re really a kick in the plants” or that you “just finished trimming your bush and are looking for veggies that will ex-seed all your expectations.”

They will probably counter with something that sounds like, “Umm…I’m rooting for you—ha, ha—but I thought you were looking for the aisle that contained cow shit for your garden.” That should be interpreted as, “I think that weed make a great pair.”

But if you’re forced to leave without your stud finder or hose, don’t feel too bad. Remember, it’s the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and at the end of the day, you’re still single and ready to shingle.

gnomes

And of course, there’s no place like gnome.

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Thanks again to everyone who has shared and will continue to share—hint, hint—the news about my new book. If you read it and don’t hate it, I would love for you to write an Amazon review. If you hated it, then you probably hate my blog. And raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but that’s okay. Some people are weird. Don’t feel bad.

Anyway, the winner of the Amazon gift card as chosen by random.org is Marie! I’ll send you an email today.

A Silver Lining

Do you have an extra hour?

If so, I invite you to watch me attempt to put a key on a keychain, an activity that can take a better part of my day, my fingers and my sanity.

I go into it with a positive attitude, convinced that this time I will be successful and adept at sliding the key smoothly into it’s new home. But alas, I end up vainly using random household objects—a butter knife, a pen cap, anything but my teeth (jewels, not tools, people)—to pry open the ring of death and successfully complete this seemingly simple task.

It’s exhausting, which is why I can never move from my house or buy another car, as adding this key on would be entirely more work than it’s worth.

However, every few months I am reminded that there is yet another task so similar in nature that I can’t help but feel they are somehow collaborating to highlight my domestic disabilities—changing the shower curtain liner.

This is a task that must be done on a regular basis, lest one plans on growing an assortment of invasive species in their shower. But like the keychain conundrum, it’s often complicated by a) the ridiculous metal rings that have to be opened and closed and b) the fact that I’m me.

showercurtain2

It starts with the purchase of the $5 vinyl liner from Target, simply because I’m fancy, and then the placement of the packaged liner on the counter for at least two weeks while I muster up the motivation to enter into this bathroom battle.

Once I feel sufficiently motivated and occasionally medicated, I pull out the scissors and cut down the old liner. This saves me the work of opening the ridiculously stubborn hooks for at least a few minutes more.

After the old liner is properly discarded though, the real work begins.

With an air of demented determination, I set out to pinch open the bastard hook things as fast as I can, trying to ward of the agonizingly painful feeling of having to hold up my arms for what feels like at least two or three hours.*

*about 10 minutes

Once the rings are all open and I regain the feeling in my separated shoulders and numb arms, I pat myself on the back—it’s good to recognize small victories—and begin hanging up the new liner.

This is a relatively easy part of the process, what with the rings already open, but it never fails that I step into the shower to hang the thing up and step in one random small droplet of water.

If there’s not a helpline for people who step in small droplets of water with clean socks on while changing the shower curtain liner, there needs to be.

Or I could just remember to take off my socks.

At any rate, once the new liner is hung and a second congratulatory break is taken, I set out to pinch shut the bastard hook things as fast as I can, trying to ward of the agonizingly painful feeling of having to hold up my arms for what feels like at least two or three hours.*

*about two or three minutes

When the last hook is snapped, I can exhale, change my socks and take comfort in the fact that I won’t have to do this again for at least a few months. Unless I did it wrong and missed a hook somewhere along the way, in which case I will cry and have an extra hook hanging around for a bit.

Then again, it’s one less hook left to close.

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The Negotiator

The other day I came home to a chipmunk domestic in my yard. It was like COPS: Small Woodland Creature edition, minus the mini wife beater tanks and camera crew.

vegucated

Considering there was plenty of food under the feeder for all to enjoy, it made me wonder what could tick off these little buggers so much that they would scream and chase each other around the yard. Does he always leaves the seat up? Does she only cook up corn? 

Yes, I spent a few moments pondering this.

Perhaps I’ve just been watching CSI: NY for too long. It’s pretty much the only “serious” show that I’ll watch on TV, due in part to the fact I feel a special connection with Gary Sinise after he and his Lt. Dan Band—yes, it’s a thing—were the entertainment at a Halloween party about five years ago.

But I do like the characters and the show, despite the fact each episode would only last about 20 minutes if you took away the music and shots of the medical examiner looking fascinated every time he picked up a scalpel (accompanied by aforementioned music.)

While I don’t live in New York and am fairly confident that I’m not part of an underground Mafia ring, I am a little hyperaware of certain things.

I think people sitting in their cars in empty parking lots look creepy—even if they’re just taking a lunch break, going into a bank makes me feel like I’m part of “Oceans 11” minus the hot guys and I assume anyone who pulls up behind me at an ATM is the Unibomber out for a jaunt.

But if (god forbid) something did every happen to me, I’m pretty sure I would be the world’s worst hostage.

The perps would most likely “remove me from the situation” quickly or surrender to authorities ASAP, preferring jail to my incessant requests to get home in time to watch the new “Chopped.”

Along with the wrath of me missing my TV show, they would have to contend with the fact I drink water all the time. Drinking water all the time combined with a bladder the size of a Cheerio means I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.

And hell hath no fury if this “situation” falls within any of the five windows during the day in which I engage in my feedings.

If for some reason things did get carried away and a ransom note was required, the criminal would have to let me put my artistic OCD skills to use in cutting out all the letters from magazines myself. In addition, I would need to edit and possibly revise said ransom note before it could be sent out to authorities.

If it has my name on it, I want it to look good.

At any rate, the news description of what I was wearing when I went missing would probably cause my family to pretend they don’t know who I am. “Yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a streak of hummus in her hair? Nope, I don’t know her.”

That would be unfortunate, because I’m pretty sure the criminal would ante up funds simply to send me away if my above requirements weren’t met. After all, I have chipmunks to feed, and apparently you don’t want to piss those guys off.

You never know what they can do.

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Door of Doom

What do you see when you look at this picture?

fridge2b

Most people would probably say they see an average refrigerator, maybe some cat treats on top or the Ove Glove lovingly hung on the side. But I am not most people, and when I look at this picture I see two things:

1) An arctic abode to house my beloved eats and drinks

2) An evil ninja-like appliance of pain that’s plotting against me 

Let me explain.

The other day I was preparing for some couchgating and enthusiastically threw open the door to the refrigerator to grab some hippie fare. However, in my enthusiasm, I neglected to realize I was enthusiastically throwing open the freezer door and slammed the damn thing into my head.

fridge1b

It was a direct hit.

A drive-by dooring, so to speak.

I was knocked to the floor—not because I lost consciousness as my head enthusiastically stopped the door’s momentum, but because I stumbled backward and tripped on the cat.

As I sat on the floor I noticed three things:

1) Several grains of uncooked rice remained under the cupboard ledge on the floor from when I spilled it—never sneeze while measuring it out–which leads me to believe I need to sit down with the dust buster and re-evaluate it’s job description.

2) The cat was not helpful in this situation a la Lassie in fetching me ice, but was instead alternating exasperated glances between the treat bags on top of the fridge and my stunned skinny ass on the floor.

Noted, my feline friend. Noted.

3) I suddenly saw two fridges in front of me, which initially excited me — two fridges full of goodies!— until I realized it was because of the pain.

I gingerly stood up, made my way to the mirror and found a dark bruise and two-inch lump on my forehead. If it had happened a week later right before Halloween, I would have been thrilled. Easy costume! But seeing as I still had a week to wait, I knew that I needed a story that wasn’t so lame.

I thought perhaps I could say I was saving a kitten stranded in a tree and bumped my head while bending over to perform CPR, but given my abusive relationship with gravity, I knew that nobody would buy it.

Considering everyone knows how the small woodland creatures in my yard show a blatant disrespect for my authority, I figured a wrestling match with a squirrel just might fly.

But I think I could take a squirrel, so I moved on to using a bear or a cougar. However, bears aren’t that common and I didn’t want people to think I meant “cougar” like a horny old woman, as that would completely change the context of this injury, among other things.

So I settled on a badger. If anyone asks, I was wresting a badger…to save a kitten from a horny old woman.

And when you think about it, my actions — or at least my delusions about my actions —were really quite heroic, no?

Anyway, once I settled on a story I decided I should put some ice on my throbbing head, only to realize the irony of the fact that the ice was in the freezer—the scene of the crime! But I thought of the kitten I could have saved and threw open the freezer door—slightly less enthusiastically this time—and numbed out the pain for a bit.

At least I think that’s what I did.

The details are fuzzy.

Damn badger.

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