Once upon a time a former boss (and wonderful person) once told me that she was glad she always knew my hubby was out of town when I frequently had “accidents”. Otherwise she’d be convinced I was a battered wife. After all, who really does fall down stairs and hit a door nob with their face? Or walk into walls? Or telephone poles? Of course, it probably also helped that she watched me do that (walk into a pole) once.

What can I say? I’m a clutz and occasionally get distracted while walking. I should pay more attention to what I’m doing. One foot in front of the other.

Yesterday I fell down the stairs. *Whump bump* on my ass all the way down. I can’t blame the dogs for tripping me as they were all safely outside. I do blame the vacuum cleaner. I stepped over the cord. Well, on the cord. And boom! Down I went. Bouncing step to step on my ass until I was at the bottom of the stairs and unceremoniously dumped in the basement.

Today I landed on my face. I was making tea and turned to head to the bathroom. Next thing I know my shirt is covered in water from the dogs’ bowl and I’m sporting a giant goose egg on my forehead and a bruised cheek.

Just what I needed. More bruises to match the ones on my ass.

I’d like to take this time to note that the dogs didn’t seem to care that I’ve fallen down (twice). So much for being loving, caring, companions concerned with their owner’s well-being. As long as they get their dinner on time, they care not at all.

The clutz curse appears to be back with a vengeance. Here’s hoping it runs it’s couse sooner rather than later…

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