As soon as "The Hills" is over, I'll swing from the ceiling. Promise

My mother just left. She offered to watch today Junior so:

1. I can rest my sprained ankle

2. Chuck can spend the day job-hunting

3. Chuck and I can hang out

WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK.

(Her winks, not mine. How can I possibly “hang out” with my husband wearing an air-cast? I guess if I hang from the ceiling with my good leg and swing to the side and Chuck stands on a chair and faces northbound with his left arm at a 30-degree angle and…oh, forget it.)

Because I am such a devoted mother, I hopped out to my mother’s car to say good-bye to my darling son. I admit it, I was bummed that I have a whole day off from work and that I can’t spend it with Junior. Yesterday, he actually kissed my boo boo. He only stepped on my gimpy foot on purpose four times before having to go into time-out. And oh, how I will miss him grabbing my crutches and yelling, “Can I try? Can I TRY? Please can I TRYYYYYYYY?” and then the ensuing meltdown.

Heart flutter.

Yes, parting ways was going to be heart-wrenching.

My mother strapped Junior into the car seat and I leaned in.

“I love you, I love you, I love you!” I cooed. I kissed his tender little cheek and caressed his soft, silken waves. “I’ll miss you! You’re my love bug! I’ll see you tonight, Sweetie. I love you, I love you, I love you. I love—”

“Close the door, Mommy?”

“What, honey?”

“Close the door? I’m going bye-bye.”

My mother snorted. And not a delicate, dainty snort, but one that probably hurt up to her sinuses.

“You can both bite me,” I said.

Parenting reality check #458,987,567,984: When given the option of being spoiled and pampered and indulged by Granny vs. watching Mommy hobble around the house and moan, "I can't stand this!" for the day, your toddler will choose Granny.

Duh.

Now if you'll excuse me, Bravo is calling. (Tom Colicchio, you are so snarky!)

Maimed by an evergreen. Healed by a thief and a swinger

I’ve never been the type who’s impervious to other people’s haste. I wish I could be, but I’m not. If someone in line behind me is in a hurry and visibly rushed, I get frazzled and hurried too. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t fall apart, I’m just acutely aware—and when faced with the option of expediting vs. lollygagging, I choose expediting.

Which is why I am now the proud owner of these.



And this.



Yes! First, I gave you The Smushed Finger. Then, The Smashed Toe. Now, I’d like to present The Sprained Ankle.



You see, there’s a stairwell at work that’s two platforms high and yesterday, I was walking down it when a co-worker came up behind me. Said co-worker is a towering tree of a woman, and she was in a hurry. Literally, she was on my heels. I could feel her breath on my neck. So I picked up the pace. My intent was to get to one of the platforms and move aside so the Redwood could pass. But just as I was about to step aside, my heel got caught in my pant leg. I landed the wrong way and went down. Against the rail.

Do you know that the bitch never even stopped? She kept going.

Guess who saw it all and came running? Orgy George. And Steve. In mere seconds there were by my side. For a minute it felt like the ending of Big Fish, when all the people with whom you’ve had complex and troublesome relationships come to your side one last time and you cry with joy.

Or immense pain.

George and Steve held my leg in the air (yah, that was awkward) while I sat on a step. I have never been so relieved to have freshly-shaven legs. They brought me icepacks and called 911. They found my missing heel (it had flown off and over the side of the stairwell at the moment of impact). They were great.

The good news is that it’s only a sprain and I get to catch up on shit TV while I heal. The bad news is that I won’t be able to pick up my son or navigate stairs unless I go down on my ass.

But you know what? I now know what it feels like to leave work strapped into a stretcher and to watch my office building grow smaller and smaller through an ambulance window. It’s not such a bad way to go. Sure, people will talk, but they won’t expect you to return their emails for awhile.

And for once I am in no hurry.

Redwood Bitch.