Monday, March 8, 2010

Because It's Better than a Picture of My Toes

While I have a story to tell about this morning, I also have to share that I’ve been sitting in this chair, at my desk, in my office, for the last few minutes simply collapsed in laughter. The kind of laughter where tears practically squirt out the sides of my squinched tightly closed eyes (a side affect of ROFLMAO no doubt).

And while I wasn’t actually on the floor, that’s only because I didn’t want the glee to end.

Duders (otherwise known as Briggsy) is stretched out on his back, laying along my legs. His rear end is at my belly, and his head is down on my calves (he’s rawther looong). And he is killing me! If you don’t have a cat you may not get this, but the little goober is laying there with all four legs splayed wide open like he’s getting ready to take the Nestea Plunge, so I just had to scratch the bottoms of his hind feet, along the long flat surface between his ankles and his pads.

He. Was. In. Heaven.

Curled up his spine and had his hind legs sticking straight up in the air. He looked like a big furry black elbow macaroni. But the part that made me laugh was when I stopped scratching his feet, and his head popped up with the funniest darn look on his face, like, “You can do that? How come no one ever told me?! Don’t stop!”

Then he lost all interest as the ribbon bookmark dangling from the book on the edge of the desk caught his attention. Well, he is a cat. And I haven’t been able to move since, because now he’s zonked out and my legs have fallen asleep.

Back to this morning, when I almost succeeded in cleaving my little toe from the rest of me via the doorjamb of the master bath. YOWCH!! It still hurts, more than 12 hours later. And yes, said almost self-mutilation came with full surround stereo, only that can’t be printed here … mostly because I can’t remember what was shrieked in the heat of the moment, but also because I am sure … quite positive … that if I could remember, it would be 93% bad language and 7% “I want my Mommy!”

Because at the ripe old age of nun-ya-bid-ness THAT’S HOW I ROLL, PEOPLE.

I am the single most clumsiest person when it comes to foot-eye coordination. I have broken the big and little toes of my left foot, and now have a bone spur from the little toe break; I’ve stubbed both big toes hard enough to lose the nails; and I am forever stubbing the little toes on both feet on the bed legs while making the bed; I once stubbed a big toe so hard while running up the stairs that I was stuck to the riser (eew! gross!). I have learned to wear shoes at almost all times.

Not because it helps with that Bastard RA (although it does), but because my tootsies can’t be trusted not to gravitate, at maximum thrust, toward the nearest inanimate object of more mass. Picture every piece of furniture in my vicinity as a black hole, and now pictures my foot as the spaceship hurtling out of control directly at it. It’s like that. Totally. The USS Broken Toe.

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