It’s a well-known fact that I am not, nor have I ever been, the sharpest knife in the drawer, nor the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree nor the quickest cart in the Home Depot Parking Lot Shopping Cart Derby. And et cetera. Indeed, I am so many sandwiches short of a picnic, you may as well call me a snack.
Case in point:
This morning, after a hot, unsettled night, it was cool, fresh and lovely. But the third floor of my house is still ragingly hot, so I, being a Dedicated Housewife, planning ahead for my Day of Cleaning, thought it would be a Good Idea to open all the windows upstairs (which had been closed during the night because of the rain) so as to cool the area down to make cleaning it feel less like the imposed punishment/drudgery of some circle of hell, and more like a musical sequence from a 1950’s domestic comedy. Like Donna Reed, for example. Or Father Knows Best.
The trouble is, our two northern-facing windows – and the most important for catching a cross-breeze and cooling the room – were locked, and they’re positioned above the stairs, and they have locks that are easily accessible by my ludicrously tall husband (who was sleeping soundly) and not accessible by me. The lady with the cleaning products. And the frilly apron and the house dress and the pink polkadotted cleaning gloves.
(That last sentence may be a lie.)
In any case, I, being an industrious lady, being a liberated woman, being a woman of strength and cunning who does not need – nay, who does not want – to wake up her husband simply to use him for his impressive height, and who can open that window all by her own damn self got a chair. And positioned it on the triangular landing. And stepped right up.
Did you notice the phrase triangular landing? Hmm. That’s funny. Neither did I.
No, avalanched. I avalanched down the stairs.
My stairway wall now has a hole in it. I managed to hit the corner of the chair and the post and the railing on the way down. And now I have a colossal bruise on my bum.
“Wow,” my darling husband said as he examined my injury. “It’s exactly in the shape of Winston Churchill.”
“It is?” I asked, straining my neck to get a better look at my injured arse. I couldn’t see it.
“Almost exactly,” he said, and showed me the picture he snapped with his cellphone. And you know what? It really did look like Winston Churchill.
I asked him to erase the bum photograph.
He said he’d think about it.
(I may have made up that part too.)