Monday, January 15, 2007

Clumsiness - inspired by Miss Doxie

Update (17/01/2007): Grammatical mistakes! Argh! All gone now! Also thought it would be funny to include MFC's response to me spilling hot fat on him.

Hi everyone! I'm as happy as a pig in pignuts*, swill, and mud.

Miss Doxie
, who is living my dream of cohabiting with a pack of sausage-bodied, short-legged, floppy-eared, cute-as-a-button hounds-from-hell, is currently very busy, and hasn't updated her blog for a few days.

Boohoo. I was suffering from withdrawal, and consoling myself with chocolate chip cookies, when I happened upon her old, old archives. Oh frabjous day!

This post, in particular, caught my eye.

I mean, the lady is beautiful, Southern, smart, and funny but still falls down stairs and accidentally flashes her boobs. I hear her pain and love her at the same time.

So here are my own small tales of clumsiness, inspired by Miss Doxie.

As a child visiting the department store with my mother, I was always made to wait outside the aisle that sold glassware or crockery, because Mum didn't want to fritter away the grocery money on breakages. Strangely enough, she had no problem with taking me with her into the cutlery aisle, which had knives and graters and other inviting items at child height.

Even now, when I have dinner at my parents' house, my mother will automatically lean over and push my plate a little closer to the centre of the table. Just because a few times in the past, I may have become too excited and gesticulated wildly with my hands while talking. In most people this is harmless, but with me it often results in my palm landing on the edge of my plate, and sending food all over myself, the table and the floor. So many innocent dinners have lost their lives this way. I salute you, my friends.

Childhood was a haze of grazed knees and walking into walls. Luckily, most collisions with said walls were usually stopped by my head.

At the age of 4, my sister was chasing me around my parents' bedroom when I tripped and my forehead hit a wooden corner of the bed. She got spanked, and I got five stitches. At the hospital, I remember my Dad kissing me on the head to make the pain stop (it didn't, and my childhood innocence was flushed down the toilet). I also remember the bright flash of the needle as it came down, looking like it was going to stab me in the eye but instead landing higher and burning me. Mum removed the stitches a week later while I slept.

At the age of 8, I dropped my glasses into the toilet at a restaurant, because I was leaning too far over the bowl to see where the toilet paper went. I fished them out and Dad had to pay $5 (an exorbitant amount in those days) for a glass of whisky to sterilise my hand and glasses. This was at the request of my mother, who thought I'd catch some horrible disease from toilet water. Who's the crazy now, eh?

In the first week of boarding school, I went to afternoon tea with the Headmaster's wife, a custom for new boarders. She set a lovely table with homemade biscuits and orange cordial and tea, served on white china. The table was covered with a lacy, fine linen tablecloth. Probably an heirloom tatted by her grandmother on her deathbed, and the only thing left to the family after the Second World War (I'm just guessing). Guess who reached for a biscuit and spilt orange cordial ALL OVER THE TABLECLOTH?

I don't think tablecloths like me. I think they keep trying to steal my glass, because they know I'm always thirsty, and in the resulting tug of war something gets spilled and they go, "Haha! Have at ye, trollop! Oh! I am wounded! But Angie is humiliated, so my sacrifice was totally worth it." As my evidence, I present to you numerous instances of spilling red creaming soda, red cordial, or red wine (according to appropriate age group) onto tablecloths at dinner parties, in restaurants, and onto cream wool carpets in people's rented houses. Red on white, such pretty colours.

At 18, I was running in the house with scissors, and I stumbled and stabbed myself in the thigh. Blood goes spurt! Big scar in thigh.

At 26, I was seized by a fit of hygiene awareness, and decided to clean around the kitchen stove and rangehood. With a damp sponge. While balancing on top of a rickety bar stool. The damp sponge touched some electrical component on top of the rangehood (which I, of course, had not turned off before cleaning), and sent a large shock through my arm. If I hadn't caught hold of a cupboard door, I would have fallen off the chair, hit my head on the cupboard, and probably been left paralysed on the kitchen floor. My parents were away for two weeks and I was alone in the house. If the worst had happened, I wondered if a) anyone would notice that I was missing, before I died of blood loss/starvation, and b) how long it would take our dachshund, to become hungry enough to start chowing down on me**.

Last year, I was walking to Harbourtown*** with a friend, and tripped and landed on my knee, ripping a hole in my jeans. After some ow-ing and ah-ing, I limped on to Harbourtown, thinking that everything was fine and the large brown stain on my jeans was just mud. We sat down in a cafe to wait for a friend, and I casually pulled up my jeans to look at my wound. The large brown stain was BLOOD, caused by the BLOOD spurting out of the gigantic HOLE in my knee. But I still went shopping, that's the kind of trooper I am. A month later, the hole had closed up and was healing nicely, with a little scar that I hoped would disappear with tender care. Then I walked down the street to lunch with some friends when I tripped AGAIN, ripping a hole in my other pair of jeans, and re-opening the scar. Sigh. Big puckery scar there now.

A few weeks ago, I made a roast chicken for dinner, and kept the fat and juices separate to make gravy. I heated up the juices in the microwave, and when I took out the bowl, I nearly dropped it because it was so hot. Ah. Phew. Didn't drop bowl of hot fat. Three seconds later, I touched it again, and it was still hot (duh) and I did a wild drama queen flailing of the hands which resulted in the bowl flying into the air, and spilling hot fat on my stomach, MFC's foot, and five kitchen surfaces (wall, wall, wall, ceiling, floor). Painful burn on Angie's stomach and a kitchen that still smelled of chicken fat after a week.

Surprisingly, MFC didn't go ballistic on me, apart from a loud "F***!" when his foot got burnt. He just gently took me by the shoulder, looked into my eyes, and whispered, softly and calmly, "Do you see what happens when you act like a drama queen?" Then he limped off to the bedroom while I cleaned up.

That's all I can squeeze out of my memory for now. Now I'm going to put on my padded fireproof suit and eat my dinner with a fork that has a cork on the end.

* No, not those kinds of pignuts (unless you have a great admiration for matadors and don't mind eating bull's testicles, in which case I guess you wouldn't mind digging into them). Just go here if you're confused.

** About 17 minutes, was my guess. But he might have turned up his nose at raw meat. He was kind of fussy like that.

*** Strangely enough, Harbourtown is nowhere near the harbour. It is however, very popular with people who talk like sailors.

2 comments:

Juliness said...

Oh my goodness! I am laughing, I mean REALLY laughing at all those stories.

Umm, it IS okay to laugh, right?

I'm going to have to introduce you to my sister sometime, you and she would totally hit it off. And probably damage something in the process!

Great post! Great stories! Great start to my day!

an9ie said...

juliness, not only is it WONDERFUL that you are laughing, but I'm practically prostrate with gratitude that you take the time to comment when you do! Thank you, my dear!

(For the last couple of days I've been staring at that 0 comments thing, thinking, "Hmm, did I write too much that time?", "Was I too ego-centric?", "Just not funny?", "Boohoohoo!") I am such a comments whore.

Are you sure you want me and your sister in the same room without upping your house insurance first? :)