As I mentioned yesterday, my day started with a bit of a tumble. (Or, as I started referring to it today, "Cherish's Attempt to Determine Why Humans Themselves Cannot Fly Down Driveways.") I am not-so-pleased to say that I am officially feeling my flight attempt. I am also less-than-pleased to say that my flight attempt bears no cool images.
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| Yes, another terrible camera phone shot. You're welcome. |
THAT, dear readers, is yesterday's battle wound. That little patch of red on my leg. THAT IS IT. For something that feels like the result of a demented troll with a hot iron launching a holy war against my leg every single time it touches something (re:
all the time), this little 3 inch by 3 inch wound is a pathetic attempt at a battle scar. It almost makes me ashamed to admit how bad it hurts.
...almost...
But on the advice of my sister (...also, if you found my blog, M: HI SISSY!), I am recapping my adventure here in more detail.
...nope...we beat no dead horses in this blog... *shifty eyes*
Anyways, our landlord notified all of us tenants on Tuesday that he was having our building's driveway sealed during the day on Thursday. We tenants had to move all the cars to the street. Neither Hubster or I minded doing this, but it was a little complicated in our case. Y'see, my husband had a jeep he drove up until a few months ago, when it was given a nice little death sentence by the DMV in the form of failing inspection for a total of repairs worth more than it was. It's been sitting in our driveway ever since, staring longingly at the functional cars we have while we attempt to figure out its fate. We can't put it on the road, even to park overnight, without risk of ticket as it's unregistered and uninsured. Landlord told us to put it in the yard, so no sweat.
Yesterday morning, though, found me in a rush as I couldn't find my sunglasses. Readers, I have
(mostly latent) strabismus and drive East in the morning and West in the evening on my daily work commute. We call this, "Cherish cannot see the road well because her left eye doesn't get that turning away from the sun is
kind of important" in Cher-Land. My sunglasses are a requirement as far as I am concerned, and after three days of rain finally breaking, I
wanted to be able to see to drive. (Because, y'know, it's the important things.) Hubster confirmed my suspicions: I left them in his car after the weekend's adventures. He needed me to move Tony the Super Impala, though, so he could move the Jeep before he went to work. I did indeed move one Tony, then decided to just go get my sunglasses from his Focus while he was moving the Jeep. Cherish, being Cherish, decided running there was a good idea.
Never mind that I was wearing pretty wedge heels.
Never mind that our driveway is a bit uneven, with cracks here and there, and on a subtle downward slope.
Never mind that I have the grace of a drunken animal walking on a boat in the middle of an angry sea.
Nope, one Cherish decided she was running. Her right heeled shoe, however, had other ideas. Specifically, it wanted nothing to do with this endeavor and, instead, wanted to hang out on the asphalt. Alone. Cherish, as a result, was somehow catapulted through the air to skid to a not-so-pretty landing in the driveway. Hence the aforementioned pathetic scrape of evilness.
Angry that I biffed it, I stomped back for my shoe, put it firmly in its place, and stomped its sorry sole the entire way down the driveway and back, sunglasses in tow on the return trip. Hubster realized when I came back that "fell," this time, meant "Cherish decided to make an airborne attempt at spanning the driveway and, as a result, has permanently embedded some genetic material into the asphalt's surface." (Aside: you know you're an accident prone person when you have to stress to your husband that this was a
different kind of fall, as in it involved blood and pain and a blatant loss of even more dignity.) Realizing I was probably late to work, I just rinsed the scrape, determined to clean it out when I got to work with my first aid kit.
And now, the new part of the story. When I opened my first aid kit at work, I found a surprise:
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| Look--an even blurrier picture! |
Ladies and gentlemen, I lost my prescription of Patanol when I moved last November. Patanol, for those who don't know me in person, is a prescription eye-drop I use for exactly two months in the spring when my allergies raise a righteous fury upon my body: in layman's terms, it keeps me from clawing my eyes out. My insurance (which changed from the last time I filled it--YAY health insurance reform) absolutely refused to fill the prescription as they deemed it "not medically necessary" though my doctor had been ordering this exact same script for me for TEN SOLID YEARS and the insurance company knew me for, oh, 4 months. (Another aside: I am told my phone call with that particular company was especially epic as I went all debate champion all over them...I don't take being screwed over well).
That picture? The one
right up there? My lost prescription. Good until next year. And about three months too late to help me.
Apparently, I keep my medicine in a first aid kit now. >_<
So, yeah, yesterday can take a flying leap off a tall cliff for all I care. I'm kind of done with it.
...or, y'know a flying tumble down a driveway...I have it on good authority that those hurt
terribly when you're over the age of seven.
