Squeak’s Squeals

The kids and I were chasing each other around the first floor earlier this evening - running from one room to the next until someone wised up enough to go the opposite direction and cut the runner off as they lapped the area - when I was viciously attacked.

No, I was not attacked by my children, but by something much smaller and more sinister.

You see, it was my turn to be chased and as I ran through the entry, I felt the stabbing pain of pierced foot flesh beneath me.  I fell to the floor and turned my left foot toward me.  There it was… small, evil, vile, sinister…. it was a butterfly-shaped mood ring… firmly attached to whatever bodily tissues live in the soles of my feet.

The ring was shaped much like my crude little drawing to the right, with giant, pointy wings on top and small, pointy wings on the bottom.  I was lucky enough to land on the upper, giant wing which cut right through the flesh and slid roughly half an inch into the ball of my foot and embedded itself quite firmly.

After forcibly removing my temporary, new appendage, I left a lovely trail of blood across my tan rug and up the stairs where the wound was cleaned and bandaged.  The hole is about as big around as a pencil and hurts like mad.  I could probably use stiches, to be quite honest, but that’s a medical bill I really don’t need if I can avoid it.

And just in case you were wondering, the evil little beast was dark purple, as in “Very Happy”.  The little bitch.

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I was sitting on the front porch watching the munchkins make chalk drawings in the driveway. I was sipping my tea, smoking my cigarette and minding my own business.

Before I knew it, they had doodled themselves a sad-looking little hopscotch board and were scrambling to find two perfect little rocks to toss across the board. It was a picturesque moment. Really. It was.

Roo started doing her “Oh, crap, I’m gonna pee myself” dance and made a mad dash into the house.

Up to this point, I was purely an innocent bystander in the whole ordeal. My status was about to change.

I looked up from my glass and was met by two big, baby blue eyes framed by long, batting eyelashes. The eyes belonged to a blonde-mopped head. A little further down was a chubby, little, outstretched arm, followed by a hand, holding a smooth little stone. “Wanna play, Mommy?” asked my little JellyBean, as sweetly and innocently as she could muster. How could I refuse?

Had I only known the next thirty seconds would be the last moments of the evening walking in relative comfort, I may have thought twice before tossing the pebble, but alas, I did not. And I took my turn.

My little rock landed on three. I jumped on my right foot. One. Two. Four. Both feet. Right foot. Both feet. Right foot. I turned at the top and started working my way back… Nine-Eight. Seven. Six-Five. Four. And then it happened.

Apparently one aging ankle is not designed to hold the entire body mass of a grown, overweight woman. And it didn’t. It buckled. I screamed and have spend the remainder of my evening donning a lovely Ace bandage and a sassy little limp.

Leave it to me to ruin the innocence of hopscotch. Curse you, number three!

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