Living is Hazardous To My Health

I am a serious threat to myself.  Thank goodness I only hurt me.

It’s amazing that I was able to carry three babies to term, care for them and raise them without maiming them.  Sure, I’ve smacked a few of them in the head with the Wii remote during a grueling tennis match (my backhand is really, really bad) but I’ve never dropped them, set them on fire or misplaced them.  I’ve even been heroic at times, putting the lives of my children above my own peril.  I was feeding Beena her bottle when she was a few weeks old and since I don’t know how to properly sit in a chair, I had my legs folded up under me.  When she was finished and sleeping soundly in my arms, I unfolded myself and stood up meaning to take her into her room for a nap.  Since I couldn’t feel my legs because they were also sound asleep, I couldn’t feel the floor under my feet and promptly started falling forward.  In a slow motion playback I still see to this day, I tossed the sleeping Beena into the lap of our friend Billy, who was over watching TV with the Ex-Asshole, and I continued falling, twisting my sleeping ankle and then crashing to the floor.

Baby Beena never woke up.  Billy stared at her wondering how she fell from the ceiling into his lap.  I writhed on the floor in pain.  Again.  Dad took me to the hospital.  Again.  I ended up with a sprained ankle and Beena slept through the night for the first time.

See?  I could have fallen ON the baby.  Nope- I don’t hurt others.  That’s not my M.O.  Only myself.

My latest injury doesn’t involve falling, although I’ve done that twice on the ice so far this winter.  I didn’t fall down stairs, or bump into walls.  Not yet, at least.  My latest injury happened Monday while I was eating lunch.

In all fairness, everyone has at one time or another burned the roof of their mouth on a hot piece of pizza.  And you know how hot that is because sometimes the skin peels away and your tongue can’t help rubbing across those little blisters.  You KNOW what I’m talking about.

I, however, managed to burn the OUTSIDE of my mouth with flaming hot pizza napalm.  I bit into my homemade pita pizza and the sauce oozed out and missed my mouth, dripping down my chin, searing my skin like acid.  I wiped at it with my hand, screaming as my flesh sizzled and then screaming some more because now my hand is sizzling too.  The dogs start barking and jumping around because I’m screaming and jumping around and they know that pizza is theirs if I drop it.  MR comes upstairs, finds me with an inch gash of melted flesh at the corner of my mouth and runs to break off a piece of aloe.


Couple this burn with the remnants of the teen-worthy zit on the other side of my mouth and I look like a demented vampire that didn’t have enough sense to wipe his face after he ate.

I seriously need to invest in a roll of bubble wrap.

Is Klutziness a Disability? If So, I Should Totally Get to Ride For Free.

I’m either the clumsiest person in the world, or the MTA is out to kill me.

And have I mentioned recently that I hate the N6 bus? No? Let me reiterate.  I hate the N6 bus.

I left work yesterday evening a little later than usual since MR and Zombiegirl weren’t going to be home (she was trying out for the Red Bulls elite training academy. Go Red Bulls!) and I wasn’t in any rush to spend time with the dogs. It seemed that the rest of Manhattan had the same idea and all wanted to go to Hempstead with me. The F train was a sardine can- I stood up until 169th street, which isn’t great since I get off at the next stop- 179th St.  At the bus stop in Jamaica, I let two packed buses go by hoping to get a seat (uh, right) on the next bus. After waiting for about 20 more minutes, I resigned myself to stand and got on the next (also crowded) bus.

It’s okay though! I have Enjoy Suduko to keep me happy and occupied while being stepped on and prodded in the ass by the backpack on the kid behind me. I start my travel home hanging on to the pole above swinging helplessly into the personal space of the stern lady sitting primly in front of me. She keeps giving me dirty looks.  No worries! I avoid her eyes and continue to play Suduko with one hand s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g my thumb into the upper left hand corner…

After a half hour of this hell, the bus driver decides to make it even worse by slamming on the brakes to avoid hitting the asshole that cut us off. Of course, I’m not paying attention (looking for that BUG- the only square with three numerals in it while all the others have two) and someone slams into me on the left, dislodging my non-Suduko hand from the pole. Somehow (and I swear this has happened before in the seconds before my hapless traumas) I make a complete turn and end up on the floor on my ass. I land on shopping bags and feet and I think another body, so I didn’t hurt my lower region. (I’m unusually padded down there anyways.) What seemed like a million hands helped me up, grabbing me under my arms and pulling at my hands and forearms until I’m back in an upright position and shaking like a leaf. Okay, so big deal, I fell over. I do that all the time so I’m not surprised. Shaken, but not surprised.

What I am surprised at is the amount of people asking me if I was alright and NOT GETTING THE HELL UP AND GIVING ME A SEAT. Here I am, a fallen woman (hah!) shaking and biting her lip not to cry and the fat pig I was standing next to had used my injury as a decoy to jump into the seat of the prissy, prim lady and she had the nerve to ask me if I’m okay? Bitch- get the hell up and let me sit for a few moments and collect myself! Really? At least three other people SITTING asked me if I was alright. I flew four feet down the aisle, pushing people out of the way and ending up on my ass and you can’t even get up and let me sit and cry a little in peace?

There is no hope for humanity.

I managed to keep my phone in my hand, and my pocketbook on my arm (I hope I slapped the fat pig in the head as I was going down…)  but I also managed to wrench my shoulder and sprain my thumb, probably from being so abruptly and forcibly detached from the pole I was holding.  My back and neck of course are now out of whack so a visit to Dr. Evelyn, my chiropractor, is urgent.  I finally get a seat, finish the Suduko game I’m working on (using the hints since I’m too upset to think) and stew the rest of the ride home.

Walking home from the bus stop I realize my nightmare is not over.

I… don’t have my house key. I’m locked out of the house.  MR and Z-girl are not due home for another hour and a half.

Of course.  This is the way my life runs.

Instead of hanging out in the dark on my stoop or in the dark in my backyard, I trekked it over to the library since the mosquitoes in the backyard were finding my thumbs especially delicious.  I found a few books on my Goodreads list and SURPRISE! I actually was carrying my library card.  I found a nice overstuffed chair and curled up and waited for MR, my knight in shining armor, to pick me up.

Today?  It hurts to type.  I’m stiff and sore.  And I came up with a great idea for a padded, bubble-wrap suit.  I can patent it and make millions and ride around in a limo.

And cut off all those damn N6 buses.

Update:  I just discovered a bruise on my thigh that looks remarkably like a shoeprint.  FML.


Do you believe in ghosts? Have any of your dead relatives ever contacted you? Have you ever seen one, or experienced something preternatural? It happened to me…

Right after my divorce, I was living in a garden apartment my high school friend Virginia had moved out of. I lived downstairs from a very Italian family and across the street from Spring Creek (otherwise known as landfill, or knowing that neighborhood, where they hide the “bodies”) where we saw pheasant, rabbits, cranes and other cool country wildlife.

The girls shared the only bedroom, and I slept on a pull out couch- more often than not throwing the mattress on the floor and sleeping on that. The floor in the bedroom was carpeted, but the flooring in the living/dining/kitchen area was a black linoleum. It was a really cute apartment, except for the nights that the landing pattern for JFK airport was right over the house. One time we counted 15 planes stretched out miles away waiting to come in to land. People in Howard Beach speak in five minute intervals due to the deafening roar of the planes.

One night a noise woke me up. It sounded as if something was being dragged across the kitchen floor. I got out of bed and turned on the light, but didn’t see anything on the floor except the green garbage bag by the table waiting to be thrown out. Tired, I shut out the light and got back into bed. A few minutes later, I heard the noise again. I jumped out of bed, threw on the light and…nothing but the green garbage bag by the front door waiting to be thrown out.

Wait a minute.

That bag had just moved three feet from the table to the front door. There was only garbage inside of it- garbage night was the next night. I dragged the garbage bag back to the corner where I usually keep it (we didn’t have a garbage bin- the ex got that.) and IT WAS THE SAME SOUND THAT WOKE ME UP IN THE FIRST PLACE!

(Insert spooky music here…)

So that time, my garbage was haunted. Either that or I had monster rats moving it across the floor. Not that I ever saw rat poop or anything.

The second time I saw something unexplainable was in our next apartment which was in my Nana Frances’ house. I was actually born in that apartment since my parents lived there when they were first married. It became available after my cousin moved out and since my Italian landlord’s bathroom caved in into my bathroom directly below and we had to pee holding an umbrella so their creepy teenage son didn’t peer down at us- it was perfect timing.

So again, the girls got the bedroom and I was still sleeping on the mattress in the living room. The layout of this apartment was different. You entered my Nana’s hallway, and opened the door to our apartment and immediately encountered the stairs. After a really tight turn in the stairs, you ended up in a little hallway with a bathroom on the left, bedroom in front and the entrance to the living room/dining room on the right. Kitchen was in the back, but this time doesn’t figure into my ghost story.

One night, I was in bed which was not REALLY bed. I could say I was in MATTRESS, but that doesn’t sound good at all. So I was in “bed” watching TV when I heard one of the girls stirring. I looked at the doorway to see if they were getting up and sure enough one of them, I thought it was Beena, passed the opening on the way to the bathroom. I turned my attention back to the TV because it wasn’t really a big deal- they got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night often. After a while, though, I got concerned because I didn’t hear a flush and I didn’t hear her go back past the living room to bed. I got up and went in to check on them. They were both sound asleep in their bunk bed, covers thrown off. While I was covering them back up, I noticed that they were wearing their feety pajamas. You know, the fuzzy one-piece pj’s with the rubber soles that made their feet STINK when they took them off. A chill ran up my spine and I got covered with goosebumps.

The girl that passed the doorway was wearing a LONG, WHITE NIGHTGOWN.

Maybe Beena changed into feety pajamas because she was cold? I don’t think so. She was sound asleep and didn’t even stir when I put the blankets back on. I just naturally thought it was Beena because of the long blond hair but when I thought about it, that other little girl’s hair was much longer than Beena’s. And later on when I thought about it, neither of the girls had a long white nightgown. All their nightgowns had characters- Barney, Baby Bop, Disney Princesses- on them.

I asked Nana the next day if she ever had a tenant with a little girl, but the only little girl that ever lived in that apartment was me.

(Insert more spooky music here…)

So why this post today? Well, I was walking to the train station this morning listening to “Sir Psycho Sexy” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers (what a dirty song! lol!) with my bag over my shoulder when I felt someone grab my bag. The motion pulled my shoulder back and made me take a step back. What the heck? I was ready to start swinging and looked around- no one was there. I got the chills and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. A block or so later, it happened again! It felt like someone grabbed my bag and pulled me to a stop. My immediate thought is “someone is trying to stop me (from going to work?) maybe it’s my mother, or brother reaching out from the grave.” I keep walking. My knees are watery. Nothing happens for a few blocks then BAM, it happens again. But this time when I turn around, my back comes with me and my pants pull tight. Seems my bag was catching on the button on the back pocket of my new jeans and my ass motion was pulling it back, yanking my whole body to a stop.

I can’t believe I just admitted that my ass was playing a trick on me.

And am I that desperate for my dead relatives to make contact with me that I imagine them sending me signals through my pocketbook?

I’m pathetic.

But at least I was able to explain this “phenomenon.” I have no explanation for the other two “supernatural” events. Hallucinations? Stress? Who knows. Not exactly fodder for a Stephen King book though.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Home From Hoboken…

My co-workers and I went out in Hoboken to celebrate Jackie’s straight A’s in college. After drinking margarita’s and Corona’s at East LA on Washington Street , I needed to get home at a decent hour- we had Soccer Awards in the morning.

George dropped me off at the ferry in Lincoln Harbor, and I had a nice evening boat ride back to Manhattan. I hopped on the ferry bus to take me to Penn Station. All was going fine, a really nice night out.

As we approached 6th Avenue and 34th St., I buzzed the buzzer to get off, gathered up my things and stood up to move toward the front of the bus. I was a few seats back from the front when the bus driver slammed on the brakes, going from a decent clip to absolutely stopped.

I wasn’t standing for long. As I went flying down the aisle, as I approached the front, I grabbed the pole in the front, and swung around headfirst down the bus steps! My head slams through the front doors, and I end up with my head and shoulders outside of the bus, reading the ad on the side, which by the way, was for “Don’t Mess With the Zohan”.

(Yes. I know you’re laughing. I think everyone in front of Macy’s on 34th St. was laughing. I’m laughing now too. You know you can’t make this stuff up…)

This very nice man comes up the aisle and tries to help me up, managing to get my head back in the bus. He’s trying to help me up, since I can’t contort myself in the narrow stairweel to turn around and get back on my feet. He’s pulling me up, but I’m not going anywhere. My hair is stuck in the door! I tell him this, and he yells at the bus driver to open the door so I can get up. The bus driver, by this way, is apologizing all over the place, but never got out of his seat. Now the door is open, and EVERYONE can see me upside down in the stairwell! Another very nice man outside now comes over, and between the two of them get me standing.

I’m trying very hard not to cry, and to try to focus on the two gentlemen helping me, but everything is blurry and messed up. They find my shoe, which I literally FLEW out of when the bus stopped. They find my bags- one that fell off the bus, the other still left in the aisle. They asked again if I was okay, and I assured them I was. I wanted to get out of there- I was so embarassed!

I get down to Penn Station, get on my train, call Husband and immediately burst into tears. As I’m sobbing out my story to him, I notice the blood dripping down my arm! A cute couple gets on the train, looks over at me, and turn around and head the other way. I don’t blame them! Another couple sit down near me, with their kitten, and ask if I’m okay. I smile at the kitty, and tell them I fell out of a bus. She gives me a napkin to wipe the blood off my arm. New York City- lots of strange people (a kitten?) but very nice…

Taking inventory, I have a bruised left shoulder, radiating pain down to my elbow, bruised tendons on my right arm, maybe from grabbing the pole, a 13″ bruise on my butt 2″ wide and straight across- right where I hit the step, a sore head and for some reason my knees hurt. God looks out for klutzes, He doesn’t let us seriously hurt ourselves.

Somebody Google “Lady falling out of bus at 34th st NYC”. Let me know if you find anything. This might be worth framing!