Navel musings

 

This is what the conversations in my home have deteriorated to:

 

"I almost opened my Chapstick with my bellybutton once."

 

"That’s because your bellybutton is like a bellycrater. Look how deep it is! That’s just weird. Mine’s all nice and flat."

 

"Ewwwwwww! Look at Jack’s bellybutton! It’s like a mouth! He can pull it out! It’s like the tie-off of a balloon! It’s like a mouth, whistling! It’s like a spigot! Or a canteen mouth!"

 

"Better than having a built-in area for dip while you’re eating potato chips, like that belly-hole of yours…"

 

And on it goes.

 

---

 

Life has been…interesting here, to say the least. Husband and I have been feuding, because I"m a spoiled princess who always wants her way. Sort of.

 

But instead of bitching about Husband, I have this story to tell. About me. Of course.

 

A few mornings ago, the TinyTown First Responders were called to an accident. The light snow we had gotten during the night (and which had completely melted away by 11 a.m.) had made the roads slick, and a true Minnesotan doesn’t utilize his winter-driving skills until mid-December, at the earliest. In this case, a semi had left the road and rolled over.

 

It was about 8:30 a.m., and Husband had already left for school, as had Head Cook. The start of school in September puts a serious dent in our ambulance staff’s daytime availability. I had a feeling I’d be the only one responding.

 

I pulled on my uniform, my tennies, my winter coat, and grabbed my gloves, because why? It had snowed, and it was cold. I was dressing appropriately for my mission.

 

But I was also all hopped up on adrenaline, as usual. I hadn’t bothered to tie my shoes or put on my gloves, because why? I was all hopped up on adrenaline.

 

As I pulled the front door closed behind me, I inadvertently shut the door on my shoelace, which was trailing behind me. It stopped me in my tracks — but just for a moment. The pause, coupled with my adrenaline-fueled haste, sent me reeling off-balance off my threshhold, down my front steps, and out into the yard.

 

I landed on my back. Sort of. I apparently first landed on my knees, then my hip, because they all throbbed like a mutha. In addition, I had now effectively rolled around in the snow withOUT my gloves on, and with my coat unbuttoned. I immediately said — out loud — "Jesus H. Jerusalem. I’m an idiot." Then I hauled myself to my feet, and staggered over to my van. My hands were bright red with cold, my coat was covered with snow and an assortment of dead leaves, for pity’s sake, and I was just flat-out mad.

 

I drove the three blocks to the ambulance shed, still shaking the leaves and snow off myself, and got the ambulance out. I was, as I suspected, the only one to respond.

 

The semi driver was out of the truck and walking around when I got there, and refused medical treatment. I still did the old "head-to-toe" once-over, just for practice.

 

"Boy, your hands are cold!" he said.

 

"I know," I told him. "I fell down in the snow on my way to pick up the ambulance. My story would have had a much cooler ending if I could have at least saved your life when I got here."

 

"Sorry," he said.

 

He was a nice man. And he’s fine.