I often write about my clumsy mishaps because I just can't believe that one human being has accidentally re-created so many scenes from slap stick comedy movies. I'm an observant, attention to detail person that has major issues with household appliances, performing daily tasks such as showering and walking and wardrobe malfunctions. My last post on this right here explains some of my finer moments in life...oh but wait, there's more.
All of my misfortunes are unexpected of course, but I've now started to brace myself as soon as my feet hit the tile of the kitchen floor. The kitchen loves to attack me even though we've become fairly good friends within the past couple of years.
Andy, who will eat anything that has fallen on the floor, including the chicken bones left on the curb by bums that I routinely have to pry out of his mouth, ran from his lounging spot on the couch to inspect and immediately began to nom nom nom on the rigatoni carnage. I just stood there staring for a good minute trying to decide if I should laugh, cry, get pissed etc, before I finally checked my hair for any stragglers and went to grab the broom.
Apparently I was in a good mood that day. Not even one cuss word escaped my mouth...until of course a few hours later, I went to the same cabinet, opened it and a box of raisins kamikazed itself out of nowhere and pinged off my forehead. "WHAT. THE. FUCK!" I yelled, picking the box that had apparently come to life off the stove and tossing it back in the cabinet. Then I wondered, 'why the hell do we have raisins? Gross.'
Then a particular memory of an attack by an inanimate object in the kitchen came flooding back. Junior year in college, long before I knew how to cook anything besides Ramen and Easy Mac, I opened a cabinet at eye level and was immediately assaulted by a flying, 400 pound plate that hit me right in the mouth. I distinctly remember my roommate coming to see what the commotion was about and exclaiming, "Did you break my Crate and Barrel plate?!" "No," I said, my voice coming out muffled because my hands were covering my mouth, nursing my fat, bloody lip, "My face broke it's fall." When people asked what happened to my lip, I just said I got in a fight. I left out that I was actually punched in the mouth by a goddamn plate.
I really must start wearing stilts in the kitchen...or just not going in there at all.