Did Anyone Get the License Plate Number of the Dog That Hit Me?

Yes…It is as bad as it sounds.

Sometimes I think if it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have much luck at all. No, really.

You know, I have gone YEARS without falling down. I mean, prior to the incident of two weeks ago, I hadn’t really taken a good tumble since 1989.

What the hell? Twice in just over two weeks?  I am just now over the situation with the banged up left knee, and here we go again!

Mine. All Mine!

They all have my name on them. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

I was leaving my friend’s house in Raleigh last night.  I was holding a box, had successfully navigated the stairs. In the dark, even, without so much as a falter.  And then it hit me.  Or rather, HE hit me.  George.  About a hundred lovable pounds of Labrador mix.  Pretty dog.  Really sweet.  Had been loving all over me and showing off and we were becoming really good friends.  Beth opened the front door, and boom!  Out he shot. She said he’d come right back.  He did.  But I was carrying a box, and I didn’t see him coming.  Didn’t even HEAR him coming.  The next thing I know, I’m falling. Again.  In slow motion. “Oh, shit, not again…My KNEE!” is what was going through my mind just before I came down with a crash on my RIGHT knee.  Knocked the damned wind out of myself, too.

Tricia, who was with me (and, consequently, didn’t have to kill that spider, because apparently I did the job right Friday morning), came to help me up.  Poor Beth. She felt terrible.  I asked if George had gone back into the house. Nope. He was still on the lam. I felt horrible, because I was worried that he thought I tried to hurt HIM. He came home before we left. I really didn’t feel like this incident was nearly as bad as the one in the parking lot a couple weeks ago.  (Bwahah…what do I know?)

I declined ice, just wanting to get in the car and head home, where I knew there would be wine waiting for me, so I drove us back down Six Forks toward the Belt Line, and at a red light I reached down to see if the mud on my leggings had dried enough to brush off, I felt it was still wet. Pulled my hand back up and it was RED.  Great. So now I’m bleeding, in a legging, and I am fairly sure it’s going to hurt when I get home and try to peel it off, so I gingerly lift the fabric off my knee every little bit on the way home.  We stopped in Wilson, so Tricia could pick her car up from where she’d left it at work, and when I got out of the car, things were fine.  It was getting back into the car that was a challenge.  Knee did not want to bend. WTH?

Sooo, I made it home, hobbled up the steps, and Johnny just grabs the ice pack, shakes his head and helps me get my knee cleaned up.

I was fairly tired by this point and figured bed would be the safest place for me.  There I went, thinking again.  I rolled over in the middle of the night, and then, *WHAM*!!!!!  Johnny’s apparently moved his knee, and it bangs MY knee, and I’m then peeling myself off the ceiling.  This was at about 3:00.  I haven’t really been back to sleep.

So I am kind of wondering if they don’t make stylish clothing out of bubble wrap.

Or maybe I should just wear my knee pads from when I used to do inline skating. They’re hard.

Or…*sigh* dammit.

Things That That Suck (In No Particular Order)

1.   Mondays.

2.  Mondays after a long holiday weekend.  (Even if I DID work the night job 3 out of 4 of those days, and took my first day off in two weeks on the fourth day of said weekend; the day job can still be something of a bear to come back to.)

3.  Mondays in November after long holiday weekends that seem as though I have given up sleep for lent, and have to go for medical tests, and have not had a thing to eat or drink since before midnight the night before.  (Sorry…run on from hell, again.) And what makes THAT even better is that when one arrives at their destination to have the blood drawn, and the lab personnel don’t know why one is there, because the doctor’s office seems to have forgotten to phone/fax in that order.  Ok, let’s give it up.  The “one” is me. It was MY doctor’s office that I had to come back to my office and call, after having avoided people carrying food and coffee in the halls of the hospital where I work.

HateMail --- You Suck by Carol Lee

This just sums it up beautifully for me today. Yes, another blatant Christmas hint. Go see Carol Lee's HateMail by clicking the pic.

Let’s get one thing perfectly clear. I am a bitch until I get that first cup or two of coffee into me. So it was hard enough getting up early, after only a couple of hours of sleep, NOT having my customary cup of “roll right out of bed” coffee, drive to work (at which point I was cussing the people in the drive through at Starbucks), fly down to admitting, get admitted, have test #1 done, go down to the lab for the blood work, only to be told they knew nothing of me.  Down to my office to play “figure out the press 1 for a real person, only to be thrown directly in a voicemail box” game with my doctor’s office.

Bear in mind, it is now almost 8:30 and I still have not had a cup of coffee.  After jumping through many hoops, I FINALLY got a real person on the phone, explained that I was just a HAIR cranky because I’d been fasting since before midnight, and had pretty much been up most of the night, ANYWAY…The first answer I needed was, “Was I fasting for test number one, for the blood work, or both?”  (You know, cuz if I’m not fasting for blood work, you can pretty much bank on it that I’m going to have to jump over the desk and GET coffee while waiting for lab orders to come through, or whatever.)  Turns out I fasted for both.  The real person asks me what the admitting fax number is, and I’m like, “Huh? Honey, I work in a different department here, altogether and doing well to remember my own fax number.” So I’m told that they will fax it to the lab. Great, fine, thank you.  So I truck back down to the lab, let them know what’s going on, and the darling girl at the lab gets my name and extension so she can call me when the paperwork comes through, so I can go back through admitting. I just wanted to hug her, because nobody else seemed to be working with me…  She calls back about ten minutes later and I run down there again, to get my paperwork, run back down to the other side of the building, get re-admitted (I love those ladies, too!), race back to the lab and turn in the paperwork, and wait.  And wait.  Then it turns out that our lab doesn’t do the test that required fasting…Do WHAT??????  So now, I am all to the point where it’s like, “just stick me and get all the blood you need so I can get some damned coffee already, because I’m ill and may turn on you at any second, even though you have been super sweet to me and mega-accommodating….”

4.  Crazy People.   By crazy, I don’t mean in the literal, clinical sense.  I mean in the out-in-left-field-passive-aggressive-boy-have-you-given-me-too-much-importance-in-your-life crazy.

C’mon…You know who I’m talking about.  We all have them.  Maybe they all go by different names or titles – “Frenemy,” “Single White Female,” (movie reference, right there), “Sis,” (NO, Twinnii, I’m not talking about you, hon…other people might have crazy sisters, but I sure don’t…in fact, YOU may be the one with the crazy sister…)These are the people that will ask you for a favor, and you (as nicely as possible, mind you) decline. You even use more than the word, “no,” even though we have all been taught that it IS a complete sentence. And then you get the free vacation – you know, the Guilt Trip?  Then, like an idiot, you reconsider, do the requested deed, it doesn’t end as Frenemy had hoped that it would, and then, boom, you find yourself being badmouthed because Frenemy has told everyone he/she knows that YOU screwed up.  Frenemy now has a battalion of friends that are more than willing to pat him/her on the hand, “there, there, you poor abused person, how could that nasty ol’ Type-A Workaholic do such a thing to you?  And you’re all like, “Wait…WHAT????”  No, this stuff REALLY happens; and not just to me!

5.  Empty Checking Accounts. This is self-explanatory.

6.  Teenagers with PMS.  Especially the ones that live in my house.  (Can I get an amen?)  I still love you, sweetheart, but cut your eyes at me again like that because you feel a little puffy?  You’ll get double chores, I promise. And then I’m telling your mom.

7.  Stubborn Men.

No, Wait…that should read:

7.  STUBBORN MEN!  Specifically my husband.  Oh, how I would LOVE to elaborate here, but I suspect that would just be the wrong thing to do.  Is anyone else’s husband reluctant to phone a doctor?

8.  Mid-Season Finales. What?  Mid-season finales?  We couldn’t just do a whole season at a time?  Now I have to wait until FEBRUARY to see a new episode of The Walking Dead?   *sigh*

Well, I imagine I’ve whined enough for one Monday.

P.S. I am enjoying a fresh pot of coffee this afternoon because I can, and that is simply lovely. J