Originally written on April 7, 2011
Being an introvert and all, I don’t get bored often. Months can go by without me once feeling lonely or starved for attention. That’s what my fluff-ball dog Coqui is for. Last night was no exception. I had no need to call attention to myself.
Speaking of Coqui, she was involved the last time this happened. And the time before that. And the time before that.
American Idol was especially good last night. This season’s crop of young pop star hopefuls is a bushel full of talent. I was so engrossed, tapping my feet, bobbing my head and applauding each performance, I suddenly realized I had forgotten to take the Herbie Curbie to the street for this morning’s garbage collection.
There is nothing worse than a garbage can spilling over with two full weeks worth of tilapia trays and rotting nectarines that didn’t pass my discerning taste test on the first bite. At about 9 p.m. Coqui and I went out to the dumpster area and rolled it down the long incline that is our townhome complex driveway.
The stars were dazzling in the crisp evening air. There was no snow or rain, black ice, no wind. The only distraction besides the hoot owl’s plaintive call was the intoxicating aroma of night-blooming jasmine.
Half-way back up the slope of the driveway I felt the rubber toe cap of my left sneaker catch on the pebbly surface of the asphalt. Immediately the projector in my mind shifted to slow motion. My right foot never even got the message that it was needed – STAT! I felt my body glide through the progressive angles. 80 degrees. 50 degrees. 15 degrees.
In my young, athletic days I would have righted myself before touchdown. Failing that, I would have at least had the presence of mind to twist my body in order to land on the least vulnerable portion of my anatomy – my ass. That was then. This is now. My doctor explains it as part of the aging process. Nothing happens the way it used to happen.
I didn’t feel my right hip strike the pavement. I was too distracted by the sight of that hard surface speeding toward my face. My chin struck first, slamming my teeth into a clench. Next my upper and lower lips kissed the roughness with an explosion of sensation not too unlike that of my first kiss back in junior high. By this time I was skidding forward, scraping the skin off my right hand and lower abdomen. Oh yeah, and the right side of my face, the part of my cheekbone beside my eye and just above my eyebrow.
The crunching sound of my head kissing the asphalt was alarming. A loud oooomph pierced the silence of the night. The click click click of Coqui’s claws punctuated the ringing in my head as she did a “Bichon Buzz,” running in circles around my prone body, mistaking this calamity for play.
My mouth filling with blood, I rose to my knees to see if I was conscious. Someone or something was shoving a long-bladed dagger through my right hip, but I was able to get to my feet, spit out the blood that was now dribbling down the front of my sweater and stagger toward my front door.
Fearful of passing out from the concussion I was afraid I might have suffered, I called my neighbor.
“We’re going to the doctor -- now!” The look on her face caused me to peek into my hall mirror. Whoa!
Now it was time to go through my I’m-tough-I’m- embarrassed-I-don’t-need-no-steenkin’-doctor routine. Then I remembered that actress – Natasha Richardson? -- who died after hitting her head in a skiing accident, I believe it was.
When my loyal friend and I returned from the ER at 1 a.m., I had been given a CAT scan on my face and head and x-rays of my hip and hand. The hip pain was frightening. I could barely walk. But eventually I was released with instructions to rest (not a problem!) and take Tylenol with codeine tablets.
I got off easy this time. Sure, I have exfoliated the right side of my face without having to see an aesthetician, but at least this time no bones were broken. In the nine years I have owned Coqui, I have fractured my wrist, broken two ribs, fallen on my face twice and broken my foot. This time I’m hoping to avoid the black eye. People talk, you know?
Who knew talking out the garbage could be hazardous duty?
Speaking of Coqui, she was involved the last time this happened. And the time before that. And the time before that.
American Idol was especially good last night. This season’s crop of young pop star hopefuls is a bushel full of talent. I was so engrossed, tapping my feet, bobbing my head and applauding each performance, I suddenly realized I had forgotten to take the Herbie Curbie to the street for this morning’s garbage collection.
There is nothing worse than a garbage can spilling over with two full weeks worth of tilapia trays and rotting nectarines that didn’t pass my discerning taste test on the first bite. At about 9 p.m. Coqui and I went out to the dumpster area and rolled it down the long incline that is our townhome complex driveway.
The stars were dazzling in the crisp evening air. There was no snow or rain, black ice, no wind. The only distraction besides the hoot owl’s plaintive call was the intoxicating aroma of night-blooming jasmine.
Half-way back up the slope of the driveway I felt the rubber toe cap of my left sneaker catch on the pebbly surface of the asphalt. Immediately the projector in my mind shifted to slow motion. My right foot never even got the message that it was needed – STAT! I felt my body glide through the progressive angles. 80 degrees. 50 degrees. 15 degrees.
In my young, athletic days I would have righted myself before touchdown. Failing that, I would have at least had the presence of mind to twist my body in order to land on the least vulnerable portion of my anatomy – my ass. That was then. This is now. My doctor explains it as part of the aging process. Nothing happens the way it used to happen.
I didn’t feel my right hip strike the pavement. I was too distracted by the sight of that hard surface speeding toward my face. My chin struck first, slamming my teeth into a clench. Next my upper and lower lips kissed the roughness with an explosion of sensation not too unlike that of my first kiss back in junior high. By this time I was skidding forward, scraping the skin off my right hand and lower abdomen. Oh yeah, and the right side of my face, the part of my cheekbone beside my eye and just above my eyebrow.
The crunching sound of my head kissing the asphalt was alarming. A loud oooomph pierced the silence of the night. The click click click of Coqui’s claws punctuated the ringing in my head as she did a “Bichon Buzz,” running in circles around my prone body, mistaking this calamity for play.
My mouth filling with blood, I rose to my knees to see if I was conscious. Someone or something was shoving a long-bladed dagger through my right hip, but I was able to get to my feet, spit out the blood that was now dribbling down the front of my sweater and stagger toward my front door.
Fearful of passing out from the concussion I was afraid I might have suffered, I called my neighbor.
“We’re going to the doctor -- now!” The look on her face caused me to peek into my hall mirror. Whoa!
Now it was time to go through my I’m-tough-I’m- embarrassed-I-don’t-need-no-steenkin’-doctor routine. Then I remembered that actress – Natasha Richardson? -- who died after hitting her head in a skiing accident, I believe it was.
When my loyal friend and I returned from the ER at 1 a.m., I had been given a CAT scan on my face and head and x-rays of my hip and hand. The hip pain was frightening. I could barely walk. But eventually I was released with instructions to rest (not a problem!) and take Tylenol with codeine tablets.
I got off easy this time. Sure, I have exfoliated the right side of my face without having to see an aesthetician, but at least this time no bones were broken. In the nine years I have owned Coqui, I have fractured my wrist, broken two ribs, fallen on my face twice and broken my foot. This time I’m hoping to avoid the black eye. People talk, you know?
Who knew talking out the garbage could be hazardous duty?
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