Proceed with Caution

I’m a magnet to accidents.

I’ve caught my hand in an old fashioned steel blade automatic ice maker requiring physical extraction of my hand from the ice maker, an ED visit and subsequent surgeries.

I cut myself shaving my legs when I was 8, but my mom didn’t know. It bled for three days.

I accidentally set the bathroom garbage on fire when I was 10, but my mom didn’t know. I burned myself through the rivet holes of my converse tennis shoes.

My girlfriends and I got in trouble in 7th grade when we wrote on a brick wall “God Rides A Harley” and “For a good time call {insert our own phone numbers}”. Not clutzy, but 100% stupid. Along the lines of stupid, making out in a church confessional after blessing our blasphemous selves with holy water.

I’ve injured myself in the kitchen countless times – debuttering a pampered chef corn butterer, de-pitting an avocado – both requiring ED visits and sutures to stem the pulsating flow of blood that looked like it came out of a bad horror movie. The surgeon in the avocado case was absolutely stunningly adorable and dilaudid is my friend.

More stitches in my hand after I drove myself with a stick shift to the hospital after breaking the bathroom shower doors in a cleaning frenzy.

I’ve fallen out of a peach tree, sober, in high heels and a business suit.

I’ve tripped, both sober and drunk, The best story being New Orleans, jazz festival. Completely hammered.  Roger attempting to contain me walking back to the hotel (at least a mile hike) while I ping ponged off storefront windows in a valiant effort to walk a straight line. We get to our hotel, the Residence Inn, wayyyyy past midnight. It was one of those hotels that you have to enter through the lobby to gain access to the hotel grounds. For the time of the night (err, morning), the lobby is surprisingly busy. We reach the lobby front door and Roger turns me to him.

Rog: Jaye Lynn (he pulls me parallel to him with both hands on my shoulders) – Look at me. Listen to me. All you have to do is walk through that door. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t do anything crazy. Just walk through that door to the exit doors. Can you do that?

Me: Of course! (rolling my eyeballs and thinking to myself WHY DOES HE HAVE TO BE SO DRAMATIC?)

He opens the door for me. I walk what I believe to be a straight line. My shoulders are back. My head is high. I open the exit door and pass through. I turn around, give Roger an aerial fist pump and the two thumbs up sign, turn around to proceed to our hotel room and promptly trip over a tree stake that sends me sprawling, chest first, across the patio, for all to see.

Key West was another great trip. Similar story, but add in my first strip club, my first lap dance and the fact that all of the gay men were chasing after Roger (this was in 1995!).

I’ve rolled my ankle both sober and drunk.

I have fallen out of bad on several occasions in the middle of sex. The most recent in-coitus adventure I cracked my head open in our rented motor home (hence the reference in a previous blog of a fornication helmet). I blame John. He should have held on to me tighter. That’s what curves are for, damn it.

I have completed the swim from Alcatraz, but have almost drowned twice, both times in some form of an irrigation ditch with less than 4 feet of water.

I wrecked John’s car at the beginning of a golf tournament at the San Francisco Olympic Club facing at least 50 golf carts loaded with mostly men. His only response being “it’s only a car, how are you honey?”

I wrecked my car my first visit to the Bay Area before I moved here. The only reason I wasn’t arrested for a FTA (failure to appear for a suspended license) was because it was raining and the computers at police headquarters were down).

I wrecked my car in a snow storm, following Roger’s ambulance from Dodge Ridge after his skiing accident and couldn’t make a left hand turn all the way home.

I’ve exited the gas station with the hose still attached to my SUV.

I’ve passed out in the Safeway checkout line after giving blood, to be escorted back to my place of employment (San Leandro Hospital) via ambulance with my only thought being, “I’m going to be late picking up the kids.”

Amazing to think I am still walking this crazy earth and have raised three children without permanent damage and/or scars. Isn’t that right, boys?

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