“My father-in-law and I have this friendly banter going,” my friend, Stacey, explained over dinner the other night. “We like to bust each other’s chops.”
“Wait ’til she tells you about the latest,” her wife, Lauren, added. “My dad decided he wanted a new shed, and being the way he is, he had to get all of the measurements–”
“Like, all of the measurements, including the weight, so he’d know the impact on the grass,” Stacey said. “The whole nine.”
“Technically you need a permit,” Lauren explained.
“Hang on,” I replied. “You need a PERMIT to get a SHED? Just a regular SHED?”
“Yeah,” Stacey nodded. “But no one does it. Including her dad.”
“Wait for it,” Lauren smirked, raising her eyebrows.
“So,” Stacey grinned. “He got his ‘illegal’ shed a couple of weeks ago. And I decided I’d prepare a little letter from the county zoning office. It took me four hours.”
I stared between Stacey, Lauren, and this magical document, mouth agape.
“No,” I finally managed.
They explained that they had waited until an evening when they knew both of Lauren’s parents would be home. Lauren’s mom was in on the whole thing. On the chosen night, Lauren’s mom got up from watching the evening news and surreptitiously rang the doorbell, pretending someone was there. She returned to the living room, holding the letter out to her unsuspecting husband.
Needless to say, it was a slam dunk.
None of us could have ever predicted that only moments later I would need to recruit Stacey’s letter writing abilities for myself…
In the midst of discussing the many merits of Lasik eye surgery with my friends at the other end of the table, I leaned forward a couple of inches to take a sip of my drink.
“I’d do it again every year if I had t–”
*BAM*
Everyone turned and looked to see where the alarming *THUD* had come from. My eyes welled with tears.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” our waitress exclaimed while I tried to gather my bearings.
What…Huh…?
I blinked.
It took me several seconds to realize our waitress had snuck up, ninja style, on my right, to clear a very, very pointy plate. Our fates collided the moment I decided I was parched, leaning forward a few millimeters…
*CLUNK*
The corner of my right eye nailed the corner of the plate she had just lifted.
No one knew what to do. I didn’t have enough wits about me to explain that this was the only manner in which I ever got injured. Randomly. Freakishly. Embarrassingly. (I think it runs in the family. …All of the family.)
- Age 7: Broken crotch: Balance beam or playground torture device? Jury’s still out
- Age 15: Left butt cheek scar: Courtesy of a jagged bathtub faucet when I bent to get the soap
- Age 19: Right eyebrow scar: Eyebrow ring + glitter eyeshadow. ‘Nuff said
- Age 30: Left wrist scar: Pushing a tray of cookies too far into the oven
- Age 34: Sprained sesamoid (“Turf toe”): Too-small high heels and an over-caffeinated stride
This time, though, there was clearly someone else at fault. (And yes, the above list is but a mere smattering. You’ll just have to wait for my memoirs.)
Stacey immediately began drafting a letter to the restaurant from my “attorney.” While we awaited her final touches, I answered a text from my new blogger–unicorn-vegan retreat friend:
~*~*~*~*~*~
Any other freaky accidents happening out there? No? Just me? …Who are you? Where am I?
~*~*~*~*~*~
Go Jules Go 