TYPICAL . . .

My brother calls me while I'm engrossed in the movie, "Wit." Typical conversation ensues:

Bro: How're the parents?
Me: Good, good.
Bro: How's the grandma?
Me: Cool, cool.
Bro: Whatchyou doin'?
Me: Watching a movie.
Bro: Which one?
Me: It's called "Wit" and it's about an English professor who comes down with a very virulent form of cancer, and it's the story of her illness.
Bro: Oh, no. Is this one of your English countryside Jane Austen 16th-century handsome men on horses and ladies in hoop skirts movies?
Me: No. But the lead actress is British.
Bro: Jeez. Figures.

What?! What's the problem?!
Incidentally, I spent the last 45 minutes of "Wit" bawling, weeping, gasping for breath and weeping some more. I was almost more dramatic than the movie itself. Of course, my mom comes downstairs while the credits are rolling -- and I'm just staring at the screen, weeping -- sees me staring weepily at the screen, shakes her head, and walks back upstairs.
What? Is it me?!

...

TODAY'S INJURY . . .

If you go about your day having premonitions that bad things will happen to you, are you actually having accurate premonitions about bad things happening to you, or are bad things going to happen to you because you expect them to?

From the moment I woke up today, I have been expecting serious injury. So I drove ultra-cautiously to work, walked slowly around chambers so as not to bump into the objects I normally bump into, ordered a cold meal for lunch so as not to burn myself, did mostly computer research so as not to suffer paper cuts (or manila folder cuts, as the case often is), and drove ultra-cautiously back home. In preparation for tomorrow's bridal shower, I held all dishes with both hands, made sure not to hyper-extend my arms while vacuuming, implemented my knife skills slowly, and even held my breath while cleaning the bathrooms so as not to inhale toxic fumes.

But of course, the best laid plans always go awry. Which is why I sit here now, at almost midnight, typing with only nine usable fingers, the middle finger of my left hand having suffered grievously in a gruesome encounter with a door and its jamb at approximately 11:00 p.m.. One more hour and I would've been in bed and safe from harm. Damn. I bet there are still pieces of flesh imbedded in the wood, but looking at the door in question right now makes me weak in the knees. In fact, I think I hate that door from now on.

So after succumbing to the overwhelming urge to cry some more, I Neosporin-ed my fingertip like mad (Neosporin, of course, being the wonder drug to top all wonder drugs, aside from Nighttime Comtrex). Let it breathe for an hour. Brush my teeth, floss and wash my face with one hand -- what an experience. Neosporin-ed it again. Mommy (she becomes mommy when I am injured, okay?!) wrapped it in gauze and stuck it shut with tape to keep it safe and warm during the night. Clucked at me for slamming a door on myself. I know, I know . . .

I expect that by tomorrow, the torn skin will be ready to cut off, the swelling will have subsided, the tingling will have gone away, the pus will stop oozing, the blood will have clotted, and I will have yet another lovely battle scar to show off. If not, I might have to cry some more. I wonder if it's broken? Oh God, I can't deal with the prospect. I'm taking my aged and scarred self to bed now . . .