Nog nog……..Who’s there?

My husband is calling it the egg nog incident of ’09. And surely the name will stick, as it was rather memorable.

But let me set the stage first, before we get to the actual incident.

By yesterday at 11 AM, I had all the Christmas shopping done, and various other errands finished. The rest of the day was spent baking, wrapping presents, playing with the baby, and generally organizing for the Christmas week ahead.

By late afternoon we had a wood fire burning in the living room and the Christmas tree ablaze, with gifts piling up around its base, one by one. It was all so Norman Rockwell, or Charlie Brown, or something.

It was, in fact, SO inspiring that we decided we could not be without some spiked egg nog, so we dashed out to purchase egg nog and spiced rum. We filled our glasses, topping them off with lots of fresh-ground nutmeg, and continued our halcyon day.

At about 7:30 PM, gifts wrapped, cookies baked, mint browines cooling, there was not much left to do but re-stash the stocking gifts so that my husband children cannot find them.

Space is at a premium at our house, so one of my only real options is to stash gifts at great heights in the master bedroom closet.

To reach the top few closet shelves requires that I carry in one of our bar stools from the kitchen, climb a top it, and reach way up high.


I’ve had a few close calls before, as the stool is not completely stable on the carpet, and lifting heavy items to that height sometimes requires the shifting of body weight. But I’ve always managed it just fine.

Last night, however, I had lifted the heavier of the two bags to safety, and was just placing the second bag on the top shelf, when I lost my balance, and fell to the left. And although I landed on my feet, I was not able to do so without catching my ass on the corner of the bar stool.

Yes, that corner, that unforgiving metal corner.

Let me tell you, it hurt, right away. It hurt so much that I knew I probably had a pretty good mark to prove my drunken uncoordination.

Well, people, let me tell you that not only was there a 6 inch thick scratch, but the bottom 3 inches of it, those closest to my tenders, was ripped open and bleeding. Not only that, the stool’s corner had ripped right through my black sweat pants to gouge me.

Let me assure you that I am not sitting pretty today, and that my husband is having a damn field day with this.

His last email read: “I wanted to assk you how you feel. Just ignore the pain ass best ass you can.”

Ha ha ha.
.
Ho ho ho.

I bet you all can come up with some good ones too.