Something or Other Comes Before a Fall

Remember these? I love my fabulous new rain boots. It's been relatively dry here in Northern California thus far this winter and I've had limited opportunities to wear them. Which is probably a good thing.

Back on a rainy day in December I was running for the bus home one night. As I crossed the street and tried to leap up onto the curb, I experienced a painful reminder that these boots are a little heavier than my usual ride, my trusty, comfortable, light and airy Crocs. My toe caught the high curb and I came down on both knees, bags flying. The good news is that the light pole broke the fall, otherwise I think I would have broken both kneecaps. I was really flying. The bruises on my knees lasted a couple of weeks. The one on my arm from the light pole, impressively big and purple, lasted for at least a month.

At 5:00 pm on a weekday in the Financial District there are a LOT of people on the streets. Seriously. A lot. Nothing like really public humiliation. Several of them stopped to ask if I was ok and they were all very kind. I slunk off to the bus stop, got myself home and nursed my bruises for those several weeks.

I healed. All was well.

Then came yesterday. It wasn't really raining before I left home, so I wore the Crocs and threw the boots in the van in case I needed them. Around noon, it was misty and the ground was wet as I headed for the van. The tile in the courtyard was damp and the bottoms of the Crocs are slippery when wet so I was walking Very Carefully. I was doing great till I got to a different patch of tile which was really, really smooth. One step onto those suckers and my feet went out from under me. I landed on my left knee. Mercifully, nothing broke, nobody saw me and the bruising was minimal. I limped home home, wondering why I couldn't ever seem to land on my ass, where there's plenty of padding.

So I get myself home and switch into my good old slippers. You know the kind - nice down uppers and a suede bottom. Warm, comfy, broken in. I was in the back room, doing a little yarn stash management (a certain husband has been a little bit unhappy about how it appears to be taking over our entire home), when Max the Cat started making "I'm-about-to-puke-my-guts-up" noises. You remember Max? The world's dumbest cat?


This isn't him, but the vacant stare gives you the general idea. (I think this cat is doing a stand-in gig for W - again, same vacant stare....)

Anyway, I recognize the sound and not wanting Max to puke all over the carpet (or the yarn) in the back room, I grab him and start sprinting for the front door. Just about the time I think maybe I'd be better off heading for the bathroom (it's closer), I realize Max has barfed on the carpet in front of me. Those nice suede soles hit the puke and I go sliding through the doorway, where I manage to stub my toe on the wall and land on my other (good) knee on the hardwood floor in the hallway.

I'm not really clear on where Max landed, but I can tell you that before I was able to get myself up he had managed to puke on the runner in the hallway.

Really, I thought he was done at that point but he then walked into the living room and threw up on the carpet in there too. I finally caught up with him and tossed him out the front door but to tell the truth, I think it was a totally wasted move on my part by that time.

I'm feeling remarkably ok today and the bruises are pretty small, especially compared to the ones from last December.

And I've come to an important conclusion. It's a lot easier - and a lot less painful - to just let the damn cat puke in a single place and clean it all up at once, after the fact. I'm pretty sure Max agrees.