Two weeks ago I was babysitting for my upstairs neighbor when I gracefully tripped over a baby gate and crashed: face down, spread-eagle on the just-washed kitchen floor.
The four kids I was babysitting all ran into the kitchen to see me laying on the floor, groaning. One of them offered me a bandaid. Another offered to help me up. I thanked them but said I needed to wait for my knee to stop stinging and then I would stand up. I was fine, laying face down on the kitchen floor for now. Besides, I was busy editing all the words in my head that I wanted to yell. I didn't say anything because I could only think of @&^&$%#@ and I didn't think their mom wanted them to learn these fancy words until they're older.
Lying on the cold floor, I realize that I don't swear. Where are these words coming from?
Oh, and Rachel was downstairs in the next room. There are always rambunctious kid noises coming from upstairs - we let 'em. They're kids. And they don't complain about our barking dog, so we're even. She said she didn't know what the big noise was that night, but she heard footsteps into the kitchen, then ping - creak - rattle - ka BOOM! then four pairs or little feet running toward the kitchen.
Five minutes later Rachel and Frank stared as their mother and wife burst into the apartment with tears streaming down her face. She dropped her pants, examined her left knee, pulled up her pants, grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, muttered "@*&%" then hobbled out the door, slamming it behind her. Rachel's jaw drops as she realizes her mother just swore.
Turns out when my left toe caught the gate I crash landed on my still-bent left knee. Now I don't pretend to be a featherweight petite with hollow bones, so when my knee hit the floor, all ### pounds of me landed on that one knee.
It has been a little tender since.
After hobbling around as Igor or Quasimoto for a few days I've limbered up to where I sometimes forget that there just might be a swollen or slightly torn tendon or ligament deep inside. When that happens, I plop on the couch with my left leg curled up underneath me. I announce to anyone listening that the twisting action doesn't feel so good:
To keep Frank in the loop, I translate "#&#$(&*#" into sign language. He stares at me for a long time, then feels my forehead in case it's a little warm.
Last night I tried to shift my leg so I was still effectively "curled up" on the sofa. Finding a comfortable spot was @*#!&% impossible until my #&@#$"#&%#$ leg was stick straight and my foot was up on the *#!&% ottoman. I tried to #!&%@* relax but I couldn't without being #!@*&%"#!@*&% curled up on the #!&@*!%#!&@*!% couch.
@*#!&% it. I just #!&%@* gave up and #&#$ went to @*#!&% bed.
Be sure to check Pam's Inbox for today's giggle: