If I were to write about klutzes, there would be a lot to reflect upon with some of my friends. And with me.
I had an acquaintance who slipped on the sidewalk in front of an auto parts shop and banged up her face pretty good. It would have been sad were it not for the fact that she couldn’t stop laughing.
She also told everyone that her husband hit her. That’s not a joke with all the spousal abuse going on, but everybody who knew her husband knew it was a joke. Still, I’m surprised the police didn’t show up at their front door.
My next door neighbors bought a dog for each other for Christmas last year. A very, very big dog. Bo is only 9 months old and could very well be mistaken for a pony. Bo probably weighs as much as Christie does, so when she tries to walk him around the block, you can imagine who walks who. It’s hysterical to watch.
Now, let’s picture me as a klutz. Several weeks ago, I was having a dinner for family and friends and attempting to clear off some counter space. Arms full of stuff, I walked through the door leading to the computer room and knocked over a bottle of peach schnapps.
Do you know how sticky that stuff is? Can you imagine that sticky stuff with an entire glass bottle broken throughout the spill? I mopped and mopped. I cut my foot. I said some words that I would never say in public. Still, after three days, the sticky substance would not budge. I have this wonderful friend who cleans my house twice a month. She had to stay almost an hour longer the last time she was here to clean it up.
I bought some “magic powder” from a store once. You were supposed to be able to add it to liquid and the liquid would turn solid. Deciding it would be a good joke to play on my grandson, I poured a glass of ice water and added this “magic powder.” I walked in the den, pretended to stumble and poured the entire glass on him. Needless to say, it didn’t work. There was no solidity. There was only ice water. Funny? I didn’t think so, either.
Then there’s the fact that I’m probably the only person in the world who doesn’t know how to ride a bike. When Tommy was a teenager, he insisted on showing me how. I protested. He propped me up on his bike in our driveway and helped me to the street. It was OK as long as he was holding me up, but then he let go without telling me how to apply brakes. It cost a neighbor’s new mailbox, another neighbor’s rear fender and a lot of cuts a bruises on me.
At least a klutz can learn a lesson: I’m never going to try to ride a bike again.
(Pat Fickle is a Martinez resident.)