and they DO fall down. I can attest to that.


Also, see the sweet kitty. . . . not so much. I can attest to that as well.

Being one on a Spring cleaning frenzy AND being one independent cuss, I set about rearranging some furniture a couple of weeks ago. Only I ran into one tiny problem. When you combine a fifty year old crazy woman who thinks she can move furniture up stairs by herself and a crazy ass cat who is determined to KILL said fifty year old crazy woman, you end up with an old lady at the bottom of the stairs on her back with furniture crushing her hand and the wind knocked out of her and cat nowhere to be found.


It was ALMOST mission accomplished for evil kitty, as I weebled and wobbled and came crashing down backward toward the ground.

My very first thought as I hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs was “Ouch! THAT’S gonna leave a mark!” I also learned that I am very calm in the midst of a crisis. As I lay there, I thought (because the furniture I was carrying had two glass shelves), “Well, you’ve cut your fingers off. Now what are going to do?” Very calm-like. Then I looked over and saw that they were indeed still attached and felt a flood of relief. Because my phone was in the other room and I didn’t want to bleed all over my house.

I whimpered a bit about my hurt feelings, crushed fingers and jacked up back, then I got up, dusted myself off, threatened seven of the crazy cat’s lives, and proceeded to take the furniture on up the dang stairs. I’m a determined sort. Then I laid down. And moaned. Alot!

Well, that was over two weeks ago. The jacked up back got better. It was just rough getting in and out of my Jeep for awhile. Most of my fingers got better over time. But one just never seemed to heal. Typing for more than 30 seconds was excrutiating, the swelling never went away, and after two weeks of the constant pain, I couldn’t take it anymore. I broke down and went to the doctor. It’s now official. My middle finger is broken at the knuckle. Nice. My back is fine though, nothing out of whack. I feel good about that. I can take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. Not bad for an old broad.

When I got home, Chris was at the house and upon seeing the splint, he asked if it was really broken. Then he exclaimed, “Wow mom!! You’re badass! Walking around with a broken finger for two weeks!!” No, I’m not really badass. I’ve complained about it hurting the whole time. Now he will know though that when I say that something hurts, it dang well H.U.R.T.S..

Anyway, off to see hand specialist tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m learning how to type with a missing middle finger. It’s taking some getting used to.


And the cat has resumed her mission to kill me. But I’ve got her number now.