A morning of danger

Life can be a dangerous business, but getting into my car Tuesday morning turned out to be an adventure fraught with peril. I’m just going to go on the record right now and say I blame it all on my husband Eric. And as he reads this (he always does, eventually) he’ll be saying, “What did I do now?”

Over the weekend, the icicles hanging from the roof turned to dripping water bombs, causing us to dart in and out of the back door in an effort to avoid getting splatted. On one occasion after the sun went down, the water on the concrete steps had gotten slick and I slipped, smacking my knee on the concrete. No big deal, I know. I’m just laying the ground work for my story.

Here’s the rest of the groundwork. Monday evening I was getting into Eric’s truck, which I have to do with a hop and jump, because it’s taller than I am. Mid-hop, I noticed Trigger was lying on the floor, perilously close to the door and in danger of falling out. Trigger is a rubber dinosaur that Eric got in a cocktail during a dinner date on our third anniversary. He (Trigger, not Eric) has ridden in a variety of pickups ever since (Oh, I guess Eric has, too). When I saw Trigger on the floor, I changed direction mid-hop in an effort to grab him, and ended up smacking my head on the doorway of the truck, which I was only getting in because Eric needed my help on a project of his.

So, this morning I headed out to the garage to get in my car, and parts of the driveway were slippery. Right in front of the little garage door, I skidded a bit, lost my balance and whacked my knee on the doorjamb. It was, of course, my knee that I had smacked on the concrete a few days earlier. In the same spot. Ouch.

Mumbling a few choice words, I walked into the garage and hit the opener for the big door. Just then, a little bird flew out right past my head from the back of the garage, which scared the bejeesus out of me. I spun around and ducked, probably because of my cat-like ninja skills, and ended up smacking my purse into Eric’s gas ice auger, which he keeps hanging from a hook on a post between our cars in the garage.

When I hit the auger with my purse, it swung around and the handle on the top smacked me on the head, right in the spot I banged on the doorway of the truck the night before, which hurt like the billy-o. When the handle bounced off my head, the auger part swung merrily around and bopped the back door of my car, leaving a nice little scuff and dent.

The scuff and dent in my car door and bonk on my head are in about the exact same spots as last time this kind of thing happened (there was no bird that time, I was coming home at 3:30 in the morning after a mind-boggling 48 hours in Washington D.C. with the Honor Flight veterans and just a little punchy when I batted the auger handle out of my way and it fought back). I’m thinking maybe he should listen this time and just not store his auger on that particular hook.

I didn’t tell him Tuesday what happened because I was afraid if I did, he would ask my opinion on where he should put the auger and I would share my immediate thoughts on the subject.

In all fairness, he had nothing to do with what happened to my knee either time, it just kind of went with the story, you know?