Whiskey Goes Down. Again.

Brought to you by Bhutro’s Butt Balm, “You smack it, we soothe it.”

Dig if you will a picture: Ben Harper playing in the background, girls still snoozing the sleep of the dead teen, Whiskey in her PJs and socks, Paco the Bird flying around the room. Yes, my daughter’s parakeet is named Paco, and she wouldn’t go in her cage last night, so she’s out and about.

I was sitting here writing a love note, humming along with Ben, and thinking I should really get up and get moving soon. The dog was asleep on the floor behind me, and I heard him snort. An odd sort of snort, actually.

So I turned my computer chair around (one my favorite pastimes) and saw the Uberdog pawing his nose and snorting.

A little blue feather flew out of his nose.

Now, the Uberdog and the Pacobeast have a special relationship. They actually get along pretty well, getting nose to beak pretty often with no trouble. But I’ve seen Paco hop around on the floor when the boy is sleeping, and often worried that if she woke him that his killer canine instincts would kick in and he’d eat her in one gulp.

I figured that had finally happened this morning. I figured the Uberdog was lying there with a mouthful of Paco.

In my head I jumped up and made some sort of flying effortless ninja gazelle leap out of the chair, over the loveseat and across the room to the dog, rescuing the bird in a feat of grace and skill the likes of which have never been seen. In my head there was Chariots of Fire.

In real life, I got tangled in my lap quilt, caught my foot on the arm of the chair, hit my midsection on the back of the loveseat in an ungainly attempt at getting over it, heaved my leg over the loveseat only to fall back onto the floor behind it. Extracted my foot from the chair, grabbed the desk to pull myself up, and pulled an entire stack of papers down onto my lap. My coffee cup teetered on the edge, but miraculously stayed up. (Wonders never cease.)

I must have shouted when I jumped up from behind the loveseat, because I scared the Uberdog and he took off down the hallway. I yelled SITSTAY and he didn’t. He ran into my youngest’s room.

It will help you to know that my youngest is the “dark one” of my two girls. She wears black, she has a dark room, she has blackout curtains.  Her room is like a black hole, no light can penetrate its depths.

The dog went in, and I lost him to the inky dark. (Too much there? I thought so. It was the “inky dark” that went overboard, wasn’t it?)

Anyhow, I think there must be a chance to save my bird; I brave the inner teen sanctum and venture in.

And step on a fucking tack. I wish I were kidding. It’s as if my daughter (or, could it be possible, the Uberdog?) left a booby trap. A tack buried itself in the ball of my foot.

Of course I screamed and went down. And when I say “went down”, well, I don’t mean I  sat down like a normal, graceful person might. I mean I lifted my punctured foot straight up and threw my body straight back and went down head first.

Lucky for me the bedside table broke my fall. And my head. I saw stars.  My daughter slept through it. I turned on her little lamp, picked it up to point it at my foot so I could remove the little skewer of death, and managed to knock a glass of water over into my lap.

You think I’m making this up, don’t you? I’m not. This is my life.  This was my morning. This is why I drink.

So there is this little gold flathead thumbtack buried in the ball of my foot. It must have hit gristle or bone or something, because the only way I could finally get the little fucker out was to pull off my sock. There was much pain involved- I’ll leave it at that.

And the teen beastie slept on.

I pointed her lamp around the room, looking for the dog, who had no doubt finished his birdy breakfast by now. I saw his nose sticking out from the other side of the bed. I put down the lamp and crawled towards him.

And heard Paco chirp.

From the other room.

She lives! She wasn’t in his mouth! Happy day!

I turned off the  lamp, hobbled out  in my soggy PJs and traumatized foot, and came back for my coffee. Managed to knock it right onto the pile of papers on the floor. I keep a lid on my coffee cup, because- well DUH.  But I’ve learned that when a plastic travel cup full of coffee meets the floor, there’s no stopping the inevitable. The lid pops off and the coffee finds the most important items to stain.

In this case, it landed on my business tax stuff.

Of course it did.

And for kicks, while I stood there trying to decide if I should fix another cuppa or just go straight for the hard stuff, Paco landed on my shoulder. And nipped my ear. And drew blood.

It’s 8:00a.m. as I type this. I have a long day ahead of me, just rife with possibilites. Yippee.

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