BY KRISTEN LAMB
Ever get kind of a cool injury, but the story is so lame you can barely stand it the first time, let alone the 20th? I’ve always had a thing with coffee tables. Several have tried to kill me. My theory?
There exists a dark underground network of low furniture, baby toys, and steps-of-odd-height seeking my destruction. Seriously. To this day I refuse to have a coffee table, namely for all the lame injuries I had to explain; the broken toes, sprained ankles and twisted knees.
Now, in my youth, let’s just say I burned the candle at both ends. Was there any lane OTHER than the FAST lane?
I was wild. I was known to go up “down”-escalators, tear tags OFF the mattress, and even only shampoo ONCE, people! Oh, I know danger. I’ve looked it in the eye. I have even…run with scissors, and do you think I EVER got injured doing ANYTHING remotely cool? Nope.
Fell over the coffee table.
Tripped over the cat.
Ran into the door.
Stumbled into a nest of Leggos.
Was ambushed by the garden hose.
What really stinks is when you get an injury that kind of cripples you, even a little—a bandaged ankle, a bandaged foot, a set of crutches—then you not only have to hobble around, but every person you meet wants to know. “What happened?” Because you didn’t feel like near big enough of a dumb@$$ when you went running for your cell phone, fell over the Tickle-Me-Elmo, then tumbled down the stairs and nearly strangled in your own shoelaces.
Uncool. Now my story.
So it was the weekend. When I awoke that morning, I felt an eerie sense that there might be trouble brewing, namely because Hubby was home. Being the AWESOME wife I am, I went to the store to pick up some treats for a lazy Saturday, namely Hubby’s favorite fancy vanilla soda made with cane sugar. On my way back, I selflessly fed some orphans and rescued a couple puppies and kittens, unaware of the dangers ahead.
I asked Hubby to put away the groceries while I tidied the kitchen. I’d been making from scratch homemade gluten-free pasta salad. Hubby “innocently” sits down in the living room and, I can only assume, waits for the scream. As I was putting away the pasta to cool, I opened the door. My hands were full and all I could do was watch the glass bottle spiral down in slow-motion and then BOOM!
…the bottle exploded and my foot was hit by Hank’s Gourmet Vanilla Soda shrapnel.
The super yummy weapon forged against me….
See my problem here?
NO WAY I TELL THIS STORY IS REMOTELY COOL!
We have blood spatter….
The bottle explodes and cuts my foot. I have to remove said vanilla gourmet soda shrapnel from my own flesh, wrap my foot in what I can find to stem the bleeding (a dried-out baby wipe), and start cleaning the floor like the good Scandinavian woman I am. I bled as I mopped just like my Viking foremothers….
I know, you’re like “How did she mop with THAT injury?”
ACTUAL CONVERSATION WITH HUBBY:
HUBBY: What is all this blood?
ME: I CUT myself on YOUR cream soda booby trap!
HUBBY: My what?
ME: If you are going to try and kill me, could you use the cheap soda, please?
HUBBY: I wasn’t trying to kill you and why are you mopping?
ME: Oh, so not KILL me just MAIM me. Did you have to break cream soda all over the clean floor? Why can’t you booby-trap the fridge before I mop?
HUBBY: I didn’t booby-trap the fridge and YOU ARE GETTING BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE.
ME: I have to get the floor clean!
HUBBY: No, you need to go bandage your foot.
ME: But you don’t mop the floor properly!
HUBBY: *stern face* Don’t make me burrito you.
Hubby knows the trigger word to pull me out of the crazy-spin. He first used this term “burrito you” when, after 93 hours of labor and no sleep for a week I came home with The Spawn and started cleaning house and doing laundry even though I was so tired I was hallucinating…
This is what Hubby means by the term “burrito you”…
ANYWAY, hobbling in my blood-soaked baby wipe, I CLEANED EVERY LAST BIT OF THAT FLOOR before tending to my own injury. Oma Johanna would be so proud.
Yeah, still sounds really lame which is why, now, when people ask about the 1/8″ scar I just KNOW I am going to get, THIS is the story I am going to tell…
On my way home from buying cream soda and helping orphans, NINJAS came out of nowhere, and I was in a high-speed chase across the Target parking lot and barely made it home. When I was unloading the car, I forgot that nitrate-free, no-preservative hot dogs, while good for your family and more nutritious, are the favorite food of the Chupacabra. And I know what you are thinking.
Aren’t Chupacabras nocturnal?
Yes, they are. Everyone knows that, but I can only assume the general nocturnal asshattery that goes with Friday nights must have kept the beast awake all night…making it especially hungry for nitrate-free hot dogs.
I don’t remember much. The foul creature must have gotten my foot before I pulled the recycling on top of it (because when I am not helping orphans I am saving the planet). Hubby followed the blood until he found me…
Crime Scene Photo of the Chupacabra Attack…..
Doesn’t this picture look WAY cooler in black and white?
ANYWAY, my cut wasn’t that big for all the blood. Sad Face 
. Hubby just told me I was being dramatic…and to buy him some more cream soda since I broke one.
Jerk. He’s getting the cheap stuff…IN A CAN 
.
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Kristen Lamb is the author of the #1 best-selling books We Are Not Alone—The Writer’s Guide to Social Media and Are You There, Blog? It’s Me, Writer. She’s just released her newest best-selling book . She’s the founder of the WANA Movement, CEO of WANA International and creator of WANATribe, the social network for creative professionals. Kristen is also a regular columnist for Author Magazine.
Follow Kristen on Twitter or on or on her author blog.
