The Hilarious, the Crappy, and the Awesome

Hilarious (to me, at least) excerpt from a text exchange between The Boy and me:

Me: We play the vikings on oct 13--favre has to come here!
The Boy: Right after they play the scary ravens.
Me: Maybe playing us and the scary ravens will make him retire for good.
TB: Or it will kill him . . .
Me: We have to admit he's pretty brave.
TB: No, he's pretty bavre.

Get it? Favre = bavre? Maybe you had to be there.

Crappy accidents after work yesterday:

That's not my car. I took this pic this morning, and my car was parked in that spot yesterday.

I have worked in the same building for seven years, exiting through the same door nearly every day. Yesterday, I walked straight into this fire escape and bashed my head. Hard. Hard enough to make one of those unintelligible grunting noises people make when they're hurt and surprised. My first thought (being a hypochondriac and all) was of Natasha Richardson. Of course.

Once I settled in the car and concluded that I wasn't seeing stars, bleeding, or bursting into tears, I headed to the library to pick up the Charlaine Harris book that was waiting there for me (the third book in the Lily Bard series). The Boy wasn't going to be home for dinner, so I decided to splurge on a sub from the sandwich shop across the street from the library. Thoughts of eating delicious take-out on the couch, reading my book, in my nicely air-conditioned house went a long way toward making me feel less pitiful for having bashed my head.

I ordered my sandwich and sat and the counter with my book while I waited for it. Then I left the shop with my sandwich, books, bag, drink, and keys in my hands . . . and tripped over something (my feet? my shoes? the doorstep?) and was only prevented from falling into the sidewalk by flinging my bent arm (remember, I was loaded down with stuff) into the corner of the doorjamb. I didn't fall, and I didn't even drop anything, but OH how my forearm aches.

I'm very hopeful that I've reached the end of my yearly injury quotient. And I won't go into detail about how I left a message on my friend P's answering machine, telling her I'd hit my head. I asked her to call me when she got the message, and told her that if I didn't answer, I was probably dead. I did this, because I AM A PARANOID HYPOCHONDRIAC, and so is she. She called, was relieved to find I wasn't dead, and totally felt my pain. She even called again, a few hours later, and was able to talk me down from my Natasha Richardson fears, thus allowing me to take a chance on going to sleep. (I had planned on staying awake all night, to assure that I wouldn't die in my sleep, thus depriving my son of his mother. Because, as I mentioned, I am a paranoid hypochondriac. With anxiety issues. Thank GOD for P.)

And now, have a look at my awesome knitting:

Cables! This is going to turn into a hot water bottle cover for my sister. It'll look like a very small turtleneck sweater--only without arms--and I'm really pleased with the progress. I got the yarn from a sale bin, and I couldn't be happier with its texture, color, and the way it knits up.

So, there. I started with a joke and ended with something pretty. So even though I am revealing what a clumsy, paranoid freak I am . . . maybe you won't be too afraid of me.