It had been nothing but a random provocation of muscle, an awkward-standing up that led to a consistent, throbbing ache in my right lat.

"Rub it?" I asked Jeff, hopefully. "Not like scritchies, but real massage work?"

Somewhere between poise and thud I had the time to wonder, "What the heck did I slip o-" thud.

After verifying that my unexpected Sunday morning skidoo had not managed to permanently realign any bones, I tried to figure out what in the world had caused me to slip on an otherwise fairly-trusty bathroom floor. It only took me four days to spot the mess.

We've gotta work on this truth-in-advertising thing. Sure, who hasn't heard that chocolate is bad for you? Rots your teeth, fattens your ass, puts the thunder in your thighs? Sure, we've got it. We ignore it every time we buy a candy bar.

However, in all those PSAs, parental lectures, and root canals, has anyone ever said to you "Stay away from that nasty chocolate or you'll get a one-inch gash on your left thumb?" Don't think so.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the only person I know who has shed blood over a Sunday morning chocolate craving.I have also, however, managed to prove yet again that the severity of my injuries can be determined by the amount and hue of my swearing just after the injury is sustained. Torrents of colorful and inventive invective can mean only one thing: paper cut.

For some reason, the breaking of bones or the flagrant spouting of blood makes me completely forget how to swear.

So where the heck am I? Off the computer. Not much choice, really; my left hand is preventing it. While my finger was swollen up, I couldn't move it, and therefore couldn't use it. Simple enough proposition there. Now that the swelling is going down, I'm regaining flexibility in the finger, but I'm quickly learning that just because I can use it doesn't mean that I should use it.

After more than a few minutes of typing, I can feel each keypress radiating down through the soft tissue of my finger. This is—in my world at least—a glaringly obvious sign that I should Do Something Besides Typing.

The list of What I've Done To Compensate includes…

Well, after a thoroughly harrowing and frustrating day, I believe I am now prepared to offer some silly and thoroughly obvious conclusions about my day:

1. My finger is not broken.
2. Kitties on tranquilizers are funny.
3. I still hate eye exams.
4. Bifocal lenses are spendy.

So, let's skip all the boring stuff and go right to what you want to hear about. You know it, baby—more about the "I got up to get some ice cream and all I got was this jammed finger" story.

You know what's really bizarre? My left middle finger has swollen up enough so that it's actually larger around than my thumb. It's fascinating, in a bizarrely morbid sort of way. It's bruising around the joint a bit, and I have about 25% of normal range-of-motion. But you know what the weirdest thing of all is?

(Of course you don't; that's why you read domesticat. That, and because reading my words makes you feel so utterly normal.)

'armed with will and determination / and grace too' - tragically hip

Every one of you who started laughing at the thorough inappropriateness of that comment may now, quite simply, hush, because Ms. Domesticat has a whole bowlful of smack-fu for you. Well, that is, as long as the bowlful of smack-fu is applied with my right hand…See, here's [one of] my problem[s] with the world. Everybody else gets the good injuries. You know, the war stories. Sean's got good, manly rollerblading stories of doom. Kat and Kara have the equivalent in soccer stories. Most of my friends are like that.

In comparison, it's hard to thrust your fingers in your belt loops and say nonchalantly, "Yeah, you know how I've broken bones? The first time I was flying a kite, and the second time I fell out of bed…oh, shut up already."

If you only knew how close I came to adding yet another stupid mishap to those two tonight…