I Was an Accident Victim!
“WHAT?!” cries Nick, leaping up, and then sinking down moaning because of his wounded knee. Yes, and I was also a victim of a cat attack, but let’s take it in chronological order.
I was crouching on the floor at Walgreen’s–why? To sniff some candles on a shelf near the floor. I decided I would eventually buy all 6 scents when they went on sale. (These are the ones labeled “essential oil blends,” available at both Walgreen’s and CVS. They smell great–not like cheap drugstore candles, which is more than I can say for the other ones available at these venues.) Anyway, having thus informed myself, I looked up to see that an employee had come around the corner with a cart stacked taller than her own height–and therefore her own eyes–with boxes of merchandise. I imagine those of you who’ve been in a car crash (I have not) know the feeling–when you realize “it’s-actually-going-to-hit-me-and-there’s-no-time-to-do-anything-about-it.” So this cart knocked me over, and knocked my 32 ounces of Coke from McDonald’s over also. Luckily it splashed on the floor and not on me. Ironically, I had knocked it over myself earlier at the restaurant, but since I didn’t hit it with the force of a cartful of unknown (but apparently heavy) items, the lid stayed on and disaster was averted.
The employee was effusively apologetic–wouldn’t it be nice if you could trust they were sincere, and not just afraid of lawsuits? I assured her I was fine. (Actually, I sustained a bruise on my inner thigh because the corner of my handbasket–probably the kind you go to Hell with, as Rom pointed out–was jammed into it, but that’s hardly lawsuit material.) (Unless you’re a lawyer, I suppose.) She cleaned up the mess, and made sure I received 2 free Cokes from their cooler, which, since they totaled 40 ounces, left me 8 ounces ahead of the deal for my pain and suffering.
Shortly after I got home, my service cat Esmerelda paraded about before me, screaming to be played with. Since I was listening to music (early Rolling Stones anthology), I didn’t want to get off the couch and get a toy. (“She was always bored with a thousand toys, and still she cried all night,” to quote the Stones.) (Let’s not even get started on my listening-to-music practices, for they are arcane and embarrassingly eccentric. OK, mildly pathological.) So I wiggled a pen around the legs of the coffee table for her. This was mildly interesting, but no more than mildly, because she is intelligent enough to know it’s really me doing it. So, to aid her suspension of disbelief, I wiggled the pen underneath her wool tartan throw. (Well, we didn’t get it for Ez–it predates her appearance–but she’s the one who sleeps on it.) This suspended her disbelief a bit too well, since she lunged under it blindly and snagged my finger, and I jerked back with her claw still in me, and you can guess how well that worked out. I was going to finish out the song–“Heart of Stone,” a personal favorite ever since I used to listen to it in high school and imagine myself a femme fatale (as you might imagine, I was actually the opposite of that)–but, you know, blood, etc. Ez realized I didn’t want to play anymore and left to look out the window. Once I’d applied pressure (knowledge gleaned from listening in on ambulance calls!) and applied a band-aid, she came back and yelled at me to pet her. So I did, a lengthy and perverted procedure which includes letting her nurse on my hand. The hand without the band-aid, luckily.
And you thought I didn’t lead an exciting life.