A pain in the ass. Literally.
Last Thursday night, I decided to go down to the basement to watch Iron Chef, much like I do every week. I like to do that because after my baby is asleep, I sneak away to smoke cigarettes and snort lines off of Rocky’s snout. Then Ryan and I call up some hookers, have a good time, and then – only then – can I go to sleep.
Iron Chef makes me think of my brother, who is currently working as a chef in California. After his car wreck/reality check he decided to get as far away from us as possible, you know, us as in the people who were there for him when we thought he was going to die. I’m saying that sarcastically, of course, because I fully support my brother getting out of town – Butler is a good place for people like Ryan and I, who have a family and also have our heads on straight and have a good thing going. It’s not, however, a good place for people who are younger and less mature with no responsibilities – like kids- and live with their mothers. Drugs, man, drugs. So he moved off to Humboldt County, California, a place where you can easily get a license to legally grow “medicinal” marijuana. You know, to use for stuff like... oh... say, period cramps or headaches or hippies that want a legal reason to get high so they get their doctors to tell them they have anxiety. Yeah. I wish I lived there so I could easily medicate my, ahem, anxiety. Dude.
Anyway, I watch Iron Chef on Thursday nights, right after I watch the Office while nursing Lyric to sleep. That’s right, Lyric is 15 months and still nursing. Talk about hippies. While I’d love to wean her, number one, I have no idea how to get her away from my boobs. She’s always been a boob junkie, and at this point now it’s more of a source of comfort for her, and I have to admit, for myself as well. When she wants the boob she goes for it, pulling up my shirt, which can be awkward around the public, as you can imagine. Number 2, I like my boobs the size they are. I bought new bras a month or so ago, and I enjoy being a large C cup. I don’t want to go back to B. B is for “before baby boobies.”
I’m making a short story long.
So, as always, I headed down the basement steps. I was in my pjs, socks on, of course, because the socks can’t come off until I’m snugly in bed, with warm feet. As soon as I slip those socks off my feet, I’m out. At the end of the week, I have to remove all the socks from the foot of my bed. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.
I hit the 3rd step down on the stairs when my socked foot slipped out from under me. I knew what was happening and my arms flew up, but my hands hit the handrails so hard that they bounced off, and my ass hit the edge of the stairs with such force that the wind was knocked out of me. My left elbow hit something on the way down as well. I was rapidly bounding down the rest of the hard wood stairs on my ass until I hit the concrete floor at the bottom. I’m fairly sure that the sound that came out of my mouth resembled something like what a female cat in heat sounds like.
As I writhed at the bottom of the stairs, half in pain, half laughing at what a stupid ass I am, Ryan appeared at the doorway at the top of the stairs in a panic, having heard the large thud that my ass made and my cat-like screech/grunt. It took me a few minutes to get up with his help, and he lovingly called me a retard and I sat down very gingerly in the recliner for a desperately needed fix of nicotine. After that fall, what I really needed was some medicinal marijuana. Stupid Pennsylvania needs to get with the times, man.
My butt and my elbow were throbbing, as were both of my hands that hit the railing. Sitting felt GREAT, but not nearly as good as trying to roll over on to my right side in bed. Friday I revealed what is probably my largest bruise ever on my right butt cheek. It’s probably 2 inches wide and 5 inches across. I showed my mom when I went to pick up Lyric and she made me show my dad. My dad probably hasn’t seen my ass since I was Lyric’s age.
That bruise is magnificent. Lesson learned: walk down the stairs with caution. The pain is still there. Good thing my pride had nothing to lose.
Iron Chef makes me think of my brother, who is currently working as a chef in California. After his car wreck/reality check he decided to get as far away from us as possible, you know, us as in the people who were there for him when we thought he was going to die. I’m saying that sarcastically, of course, because I fully support my brother getting out of town – Butler is a good place for people like Ryan and I, who have a family and also have our heads on straight and have a good thing going. It’s not, however, a good place for people who are younger and less mature with no responsibilities – like kids- and live with their mothers. Drugs, man, drugs. So he moved off to Humboldt County, California, a place where you can easily get a license to legally grow “medicinal” marijuana. You know, to use for stuff like... oh... say, period cramps or headaches or hippies that want a legal reason to get high so they get their doctors to tell them they have anxiety. Yeah. I wish I lived there so I could easily medicate my, ahem, anxiety. Dude.
Anyway, I watch Iron Chef on Thursday nights, right after I watch the Office while nursing Lyric to sleep. That’s right, Lyric is 15 months and still nursing. Talk about hippies. While I’d love to wean her, number one, I have no idea how to get her away from my boobs. She’s always been a boob junkie, and at this point now it’s more of a source of comfort for her, and I have to admit, for myself as well. When she wants the boob she goes for it, pulling up my shirt, which can be awkward around the public, as you can imagine. Number 2, I like my boobs the size they are. I bought new bras a month or so ago, and I enjoy being a large C cup. I don’t want to go back to B. B is for “before baby boobies.”
I’m making a short story long.
So, as always, I headed down the basement steps. I was in my pjs, socks on, of course, because the socks can’t come off until I’m snugly in bed, with warm feet. As soon as I slip those socks off my feet, I’m out. At the end of the week, I have to remove all the socks from the foot of my bed. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.
I hit the 3rd step down on the stairs when my socked foot slipped out from under me. I knew what was happening and my arms flew up, but my hands hit the handrails so hard that they bounced off, and my ass hit the edge of the stairs with such force that the wind was knocked out of me. My left elbow hit something on the way down as well. I was rapidly bounding down the rest of the hard wood stairs on my ass until I hit the concrete floor at the bottom. I’m fairly sure that the sound that came out of my mouth resembled something like what a female cat in heat sounds like.
As I writhed at the bottom of the stairs, half in pain, half laughing at what a stupid ass I am, Ryan appeared at the doorway at the top of the stairs in a panic, having heard the large thud that my ass made and my cat-like screech/grunt. It took me a few minutes to get up with his help, and he lovingly called me a retard and I sat down very gingerly in the recliner for a desperately needed fix of nicotine. After that fall, what I really needed was some medicinal marijuana. Stupid Pennsylvania needs to get with the times, man.
My butt and my elbow were throbbing, as were both of my hands that hit the railing. Sitting felt GREAT, but not nearly as good as trying to roll over on to my right side in bed. Friday I revealed what is probably my largest bruise ever on my right butt cheek. It’s probably 2 inches wide and 5 inches across. I showed my mom when I went to pick up Lyric and she made me show my dad. My dad probably hasn’t seen my ass since I was Lyric’s age.
That bruise is magnificent. Lesson learned: walk down the stairs with caution. The pain is still there. Good thing my pride had nothing to lose.
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