Remember how last weekend I threw my back out again because I’m about as physically toned as a lump of overcooked squash? Well, that was mere child’s play in the wide range of incidents that can lead to back muscle failure and pain that can only be described as a “Viking War of Hurt,” or maybe “Sauron’s Evil Eye Burning into You.” Because last night I slipped on our icy front steps on my way to take the dog out to do her pre-bedtime business.
For one split second my entire body was parallel to the earth, my eyes cast towards the stars (“I’m flying! I’m flying, Jack!”). And then I crashed onto the front stairs on my back, emitting a hoarse bark upon impact that could only have been uttered by Phyllis Diller with a wad of phlegm stuck in her throat after accidentally surprising two burglars in her living room. My head bounced off one of the risers, my rear connected rudely with the wet sidewalk, and the edges of the stairs stamped a blazing ladder of pain across my back, focusing mostly on the low spot I nursed all last week in my poorly self-directed rehabilitation plan.
And then do you know what I did? That’s right. I did what any mature, well-adjusted woman who’d experienced an ambulatory mishap would do. I started crying like a two-year old. I sat on the front steps in my wet jeans and bawled while Daisy just turned around and cocked her head at me like, “Let’s get the show on the road, Blubberface!”
So I did. I gingerly stood, still crying, determined to coax a turd from my constipated dog’s butt. (She’s been soiling throw-rugs at night, and I was getting fed up.) Have you ever seen a grown woman limping around on the curb, begging her dog to “Make a poopie. Please make a poopie right there!” while crying? Trust me; it’s as pathetic as it sounds. Thank god it was dark out, and winter.
Then this morning I heard some scraping noises outside and looked out the window to see a 176 year-old woman successfully navigating our ice chunk-strewn sidewalk with use of a walker. Which did nothing for my self-esteem. (And also my sense of self as a responsible homeowner. I threw out armfuls of dog-friendly de-icing pellets seconds later.)
But Saturday night was certainly fun. We saw one of our favorite bands in Milwaukee: Trampled by Turtles. I’ve blogged about them before; they’re a punk, alt-country bluegrass band, and very good. This was the first time I’d ever seen a bluegrass band stir up a mosh pit, and it was a satisfying as it sounded. Many laughs were had at the expense of my Caucasian brethren as they attempted to transcend a Navin Johnson-like state of rhythmic ineptitude. (It might sound mean-spirited, but it wasn’t, because many of the “dancers” were so drunk they would raise their arms and seconds later, look in wonderment with half-mast eyes at their raised arms as if to think, ‘Hmmm. What’s my arm doing up in the air?’ And then they would break it down in a hideously off-beat manner.)
Anyway, I clung to the edge of the mosh pit, tapping my foot and showing the world my poorly developed sense of movement like it was nobody’s business. A good time was had by all. And despite the fact that I had drunk only 7-Up that tasted as if it was reincarnated diaper soakwater, I still woke up with a hangover from the second-hand smoke.
PS: I know I semi-promised pictures of Daisy leaping in glorious canine fury at the water heater, and I took some shots, but they didn’t really show the full range of her antagonistic relationship with the unit. And who wants to see anti-climactic, poor representations of an event after the fact? So I’ll post some other photos later this week. Of exciting things like the baby heliotrope and delphinium seedlings I have sprouting under lights upstairs. Aren’t you pumped just thinking about it?