On Love and Bruises, Cracks and Hard Drive Crashes

I want to start by saying there is seriously something wrong with me.  My basis for this statement is two-fold:
1) I tried to write “seriously” as a contraction.  And I diet succeeded.
2) I have fallen, thrice, this week.

We will gloss over the details of my swan dives to focus on what I can only describe as a glitch in the Mary-Matrix.  Let’s summarize in category form.  Starting first and foremost with electronics.

Tragic Technology

I have owned 5 cameras since my beloved Fuji Film died a regular and non-tragic death.  One was lost, and then later found in a piano.  The next went blind from a run-in with some sand.  The third was stolen, along with some butter when I was living Down Under.  The fourth went to take a rather tame picture of a cruise ship cabin and its lens fell off onto the ground.  And the fifth went missing somewhere in or around an IHOP in Southern Florida.  There are sitings of it going “weee weee weee” all the way home but I just think it’s a cruel joke.

We won’t go into my iPod track record or the looks the tech guys give me I tell them my MacBook crashed, except to say that my history with those electronic products has the same effed-stop qualities as my cameras.

Next, my life-long series of unfortunate events takes a turn towards the subject of retail.

Retain Ruin

If you recall 6-7 blogs ago, I had quite the incident trying to get my tires slash alignment diagnosed.  In addition to that atrocity, it took me 3 weeks and countless hours to buy a cell phone.  A basic cell phone.  With a stupid QUIR-TEE keyboard no one really even wants.  I also bawled in a Kroger because of an old man, broke three jars of Prego sauce at a Walgreens, lost my purse (and maybe myself) at an IKEA and had an allergic reaction to a wedding dress at a high-end store.  I think the explanation for my retail disasters is that I am really just not old enough yet to venture out into the real world without an adult.

In any case, I think we should move onto bodily harm.

Broken Bodies

I once broke and severed my toe with a conch shell the day before prom.  I don’t think I need to go much further after that little gem for you to get the point, but, I will.
A few years later, I was stripping wallpaper in my mother’s bathroom and I stabbed my left thumb with the scraper, fell off the toilet and wounded my shin.   (Note: When I fell from the porcelain throne I did not, unfortunately, invent the flux capacitor, but I did, fortunately, remember the irony of my fall and told the joke to everyone.)
Probably 1.5 years after the toilet massacre of ’06, I was in a not so surprising shopping cart accident during which I fractured the heel on my right foot.  My doctor gave me the eyebrow, a lecture and some pain pills, but they didn’t dull the shame or humiliation of my accident.  Nor did they lessen the victory.
During my last year with Barry White (a beautiful specimen of a station wagon) I accidentally closed my head in my car door because I was in a hurry.  I soon became ill and dizzy.  The medical team decided it was not a concussion but lead poisoning and could only assume I had received an injection of lead from my vehicle.
And that brings us to this past week.  I have fallen not once, but twice on the ice.  It might be reasonable had there been, say, a sudden sheet of sleet.  But no.  There was a quite obvious and obnoxious dumping of solid precipitation onto our dear state.  And all of the ice that I fell on was generally visible.  My third fall was on my stairs.  I would like to counter this fall by saying that this is the second time I have fallen on stairs and both incidents can be blamed entirely on socks.  And consequently, though not topically, I rest my case on the horridity of socks.

Now, before you start laughing and pointing at me in slow motion and the video gets all warped like in a bad 80’s movie, I want to say that I’m not a complete disaster.  For example, I generally know that my car keys are located somewhere on or near the floor, I only drop my cell phone once or twice a day, most of my cooking scars have faded except for two twinsies on my wrists, and I almost hardly never get lost when driving around my hometown.  I also know my left from my right 65.3% of the time.
And I have health insurance.
So although I do admit that there is something serious’ly wrong with me, I do not think, however, that I am a complete disaster.

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