Tuesday, October 21, 2014


1) While being laid up with a cold/flu bug, I realized that feeling like this…

puts a damper on writing romance.

The gorgeous doctor leaned in close, adjusting my pillow.

Our eyes met…and I sneezed in his face.

Being a sniffling, sneezing mess: decidedly unromantic.

2) After tripping over my dog and spraining my ankle last week, I started thinking about all the other unfortunate accidents I've had, and realized that I could be the klutzy character in a story.

This time, keeping the ankle iced and elevated took care of it, so I didn't need to go to the ER.

Last time, when I fell down the stairs and sprained that same ankle, I ended up in physical therapy for six weeks.

That's not even close to the first time I fell down the stairs.

Once was due to tripping over the cat.
I need to post this sign by the stairs
Lying in wait for klutzes like me

Then there was the time I was getting the hand mixer from the kitchen cabinet and the cord swung down and hit me in the mouth, leaving me with a busted lip--and having to tell everyone the story, worried they'd think I was being abused, but still worrying anyway because who gets a busted lip from a hand mixer?

Then the time I was at work years ago, flipping through a payroll report, and the edge of one of the pages hit me in the eye. Has anyone else ever gotten a paper cut on the eyeball?

Then the time I took my daughter to the playground, stepped over the chain separating one area from another, caught my foot on it and fell flat on my face. Of course it couldn't have been at a time when the park was deserted. Packed, giving me a large audience to witness (and laugh at) my klutziness.

Then the time I was out having dinner and moved to steady my glass when the server jostled it--only to knock it off the table and sent it shattering to the floor, splashing iced tea all over the server's pant legs. I left an extra-generous tip by way of apology, but I think he was still ticked off. (Not that I blame him. I've been a server, and I wouldn't have been too happy, either.)

Then the general fact that every time I cook anything, I end up burning, cutting or otherwise injuring myself.

I could list many (many) more examples, but the word count would become long enough for a novel of epic proportions. Potential titles?

Adventures in Klutzing
Lifestyles of the Clumsy and Not-At-All Famous
Why I'm Lucky to Still Be Alive

*Sigh* That last one rings all too true.

Until next time (assuming I make it back): Stay klutzy, my friends.

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