My All Hallow's Day

I gave up this blog a few months ago because writing about injuries can suck. When one realizes they actually injure themselves everyday, it becomes more of a "what the hell happened to me" moment than fodder for a good post. But today, I remembered that daily injuries happen to others, in more horrific and public ways than just tripping on the sidewalk.

This afternoon, my friend called to tell me that one of their cats had passed away. Although that may not seem too horrendous (for example, I said "cats" not "cat," and it's not "me"). The cat that died was young and died suddenly. It was also the cuddliest, hungriest, friendliest cats on earth. That cat could be folded into a pillow... a fluffy, hungry, cat-filled pillow.

Anyway, it made me put in perspective all my recent injuries and setbacks: reorgs, rejections, repairs and revisions. This is the note I sent to my friend on behalf of Mr. Lemonywinks. Note: I've never performed a cat eulogy.

"Sadly, I'm sorry for what you're going through. Mr. Winks was such a good boy, and I know that he was probably in your "Top 5 Beings in the World." Meaning, losing him is probably very very painful. Micah and I are upset because Mr. Winks was a great cat, and we're also incredibly sad because you're devastated right now. Although, to be honest, Mr. Winks would just be gorging himself if you passed on. That's his thing... eating.

"Mr. Winks was your fluffy little kid. Except, he wasn't quite, because kids grow up and cats grow up fast. Although your time with him seems short for you, he did have a wonderful life and was very happy with all the love you showed him. You gave him so much, and I know he was very content with all the care, snuggles, food, and catnip you provided. In short, you're a good cat parent and wonderful provider to everyone in your family.

"Again, please let me know if there's anything we can do. If you want dinner, household help, or just to get some brunch over the weekend, please let us know. This has to be a horrific and painful experience, and Micah and I want to support you through it. Also, next time we're at Dearborn, we'll make a donation to a collaborative shelter in Mr. Lemonywinks' name. This is a very hard time, but it will get better, and you must remember that you did well by Mr. Winks, and you've given him (and the rest of us) the love, support and friendship we all really need. "

No Man's Land

I watched "The Warriors" at a friend's house. All was going well (i.e. no injuries) until I got home. Drunk and sleepy, I washed my face and shut off the faucet-- but the water didn't stop running. I trotted downstairs and realized there was no water running out of any faucet. At 1:15 AM, I realized there was water running under the house: the outside faucet had snapped off the house. I crawled, WW1 style, through a No Man's Land of crickets, gravel and CPVC piping to shut off the valve. My elbows and knees bruised up, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the bruise to the checkbook-- 340 dollars. Luckily, I did get to watch a 250-pound plumber squirm while a friend's beagle discovered his ass when they both crawled under the house.

Hanger Hair

I went to Loehmanns tonight searching for a dress. My friends are getting married in J-actionville, Florida, so I rationalized a shopping trip out of it. During the second trek to the dressing common-room, I got a hanger stuck in my hair and had to rip a few follicles to break free. After working my way through eight dresses, I found myself in a tunic that fit so poorly that I tried it on three ways, thinking each time I had stuck my head through an armhole. I looked at the tag for an illustration and conferred with another shopper to figure it out. Thirty minutes later, I left the store, empty-handed.

Ticking Time Bomb

When I first saw Boxey three years ago, she was huddled in a little crate outside the PetSmart on Ponce de Leon. I'd gone to buy light bulbs at Home Depot, but I left the stripmall parking lot with a dachshund accompanying my GE compact fluorescents. When we got home, she ran a victory lap around the house before settling on the couch, her paw poised on the armrest. Since then, she's been a tiny, ticking time bomb of scratching fury. Big moon eyes gaze from the floor, but once my hand stops scratching her chin, she unleashes her wrath through a furious frenzy of sharp, black claws. I managed to come clean tonight with only a three little marks on my right hand. Content with her post-pettin's handiwork, Boxey did another victory lap and went to have a lie-down in her basket.

Dreaming with Dogs

This morning, I dreamt that I was driving a beige Carmengia around Ireland at night, searching for the coast. I'd just reached the twilit sea when my bed-hog-of-a-dog, Dotty, donkey kicked me in the jugular. Stupid Dotty...

Near Miss

Went to Atlanta Roller Derby tonight at the Yaarab Shrine. After several beers in the Shriner's parking lot, we sat on the floor near Turn 4 before realizing were sitting in a line-of-fire. Despite wearing fishnets and miniskirts, roller girls skate really really fast and slingshot each other around the track. They also fall down, a lot; and, they also fall into the audience, a lot. We moved to the bleachers just in time to see Raging Cock shove Punkin π into the spot we'd been sitting. Robin and I picked our new roller derby names, Ph.Death and Princess Slaya, but after watching Reba Smackintyre elbow-check Anita Bopabitch, we decided to stick to tailgating.

DINK-Related Bruises

I got a scooter 4100 miles ago. It's a little red Honda that I drive daily from one trendy "transitional neighborhood" to the next on my commute to Emory. Tonight, some friends invited my husband and me to Oakhurst (nearest trendy "transitional neighborhood") for an outdoor Jazz concert. I grabbed the Barnes and Noble canvas bag, loaded it with white wine and brie, and headed for the festival. Since I ride the scooter daily, I piloted this 50 cc crotch rocket with my husband on back. This meant that I had to rub my knees and toes against the oversized retro hood so my husband's 34-inch legs would fit between construction pylons and herds of roving neighborhood children. When we arrived at the jazz fest (headlined by a bluegrass band), I saw a woman exit a smart car to greet one of five-hundred white people camped out on the Oakhurst's trendy transitional lawn. I looked amongst the beige to find our friends, then I unfolded my Crate and Barrel blanket and eased my bruised knees into Indian style.

Homeownership

My friend, Paul, said today, "I miss owning a house."

This statement seemed strange since Paul lives in a trendy loft apartment in a posh neighborhood near our workplace, Emory University. I was confused, until I remembered that long ago, a married Paul owned a married-people house where he played the married-man homeowner.

"I miss owning a house."
"uh huh." [thinking, "Oh, I need to get the dishwasher fixed."]
"there's just something..."
"uh huh." ["That dead tree is gonna fall on the neighbors' and we're going to get sued, I know it.]
"I just...liked it."
"uh huh." ["What exactly does extensive water damage look like anyway? Does it impact resale?"]

A few hours later, I watched my neurotic dachshund, Boxey, attempt to pee in the backyard. After noticing that she couldn't walk because the grass was six inches taller than she was, I decided to mow the lawn. I grabbed the lawnmower and scraped my ankle against the plastic hood. As I watched the blood trickle down my heel when I stepped through the foot-tall fescue, I compared Paul's homeownership to my own.

Paul: 3000 square-foot, new-construction home with garden tub and postage-stamp-size lawn where he planted heirloom tomatoes. Sarah: 1200 square-foot former crackhouse with a crawl space and a backyard formerly used to for dog fights and target practice where I dug up crack pipes and spark plugs.

After 90 minutes of lawn-mowing and weed-wacking, I had a scratch near my eye from a flying piece of pine mulch, a bruise on my shin from falling into a mole hole , a rash from something-or-other, and two smashed fingers from closing the shed door.

Paul's my friend and all, but I wish Paul owned a home.

Pants Pinch

I decided to pose as a hipster today-- ironic t-shirt, holey cardigan, cuffy bracelet-- but my Old Navy sweetheart jeans rejected my coolness and pinched me. This picture made me feel better and hipper. ESKIES!

Happy Scratches

After another day of dress-up and uncomfortable shoes, I decided to spend some quality time under the duvet. I grabbed my napping buddy, an overplumped weiner dog called Boxey, and rubbed her paunchy tummy. Thrilled with the affection, she rubbed my arm with her sharp dachshund talons, leaving three one-inch scratches on my shoulder. I tried to hide from her under the covers, but she nosed past the duvet, past the quilt, and located my nostrils like a snot-licking missile. Satisfied, she crawled to the head of the bed, farted, and dozed off.

Nacho Bite

Bit upper lip while overzealously eating nachos.

Pinky Toe Blisters

I had to dress up today for an interview, which meant breaking out the Target pleather mules. My feet must've changed shape during my recent Clogs-Are-Perfect-for-Any-Occasion phase because within two hours I noticed matching red blisters on my pinky toes. I took off my shoes at lunch and accidentally kicked one under the next table over. Then, I spent five minutes trying to retrieve it with my big toe while telling a story about a pet tortoise.

Waxing-Related Eyelash Injury

Tonight's Sarah's Eve '08, the evening before my 28th birthday. So, I decided to celebrate Sarah's Eve with a merciless eyebrow waxing. All was going well until a big amber glob dripped into my eyelashes. I spent the next 26 minutes using "Wax Bee-Gone" and my husband's nose-grooming comb to clean out the wax. Several eyelashes perished, but at least I don't need to use as much mascara tomorrow.