How Do You Cure Clumsy?

Over the last two days, I’ve been fixated with looking in the mirror. Particularly with looking at my nose.

My little swollen nose.

My sore swollen nose.

Funny thing is, I don’t know why my nose is sore and why it’s swollen. The easiest conclusion would be that I bumped it. This in itself is a likely possibility because I’m clumsy.

I’m so clumsy that I’ve stopped trying to remember every collision involving my body.

The perpetual bruises on both outer thighs I’ve discovered is the exact height of the edge of my bed’s footboard. Apparently, after over a year with that bed, I’ve yet to adjust my cornering parabola.

The scar by my eye was created in my infancy. When I clawed the crap out of myself with baby-sharp fingernails. My parents have shared this story with me—obviously I wasn’t generating memories yet.

The scars on my knees and elbows, from that time when I was 18 and I flew over my own feet into the gritty ground of the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. I only remember that one since my big cousins laughed at me for years.

So the big ones have stories (or at least deducible outcomes). But this nose thing is really puzzling me.

How does one not remember smacking herself in the nose? I faintly recall something of the sort. Perhaps when I was in the kitchen on Friday? Was I trying to brush hair out of my eye? That sounds likely given my wonky hand-eye coordination (which usually results with a hand to my eye).

All I’m certain about is that the nose knows. And it isn’t telling.

History repeats itself. Especially when it comes to babies.

Everyone is all in a tizzy about these dancing babies on the Internet.

I pose two questions. One, can't we give these babies a better song than the single ladies song by Biance?

Two, haven't we seen dancing babies before?

All of these YouTube babies are copycats. There. Someone had to say it.

I don't like the term ex-boyfriend.

Addressing wedding stuff has got me thinking.

There are some ex-boyfriends on the guest list. It doesn't seem fair to call them exes, though. Especially MY exes. After all, I don't have them anymore. How can they be mine?

And I can't be the only ex of theirs, either. It just seems unfair to be the current ex of several people.

Plus, their status has changed to friend. I don't see why pointing out a past variation of our friendship is even necessary (especially since I'm engaged, right?).

And there's this negative connotation associated with the terms ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend. It implies anger and angst that might no longer exist. Sure, when the breakup is fresh and neither party has moved on, saying "my ex" seems appropriate. But once the wounds have healed or someone has dated a few people since the broken relationship, shouldn't the label of ex be removed?

"My ex-boyfriend from high school" just seems crazy. If you've been out of high school for over a decade, it should simply be "the guy I dated when we were kids" or something just as innocent.

Saying "two ex-boyfriends ago" sounds like you're a collector.

I'm going to drop "ex-boyfriend" from my vocabulary. I think the guys who I dated once upon a time deserve it--they've proven themselves to be noble friends (or not worthy of recognition at all).

The lugubrious Queen begrudgingly types out another insipid blog while …

If the Queen wrote like Dan brown, her blog would sound something like this:

“I should be making millions of dollars,” the Queen thinks to herself as she files down her ever-growing fingernails with a dull emery board as corpulent raindrops pelted the window pane. The sound brings her back to a time she’d rather forget. How could that day have happened!

In a state of resurfaced ancient angst, the Queen stands on her feet and deposits the emery board onto a nearby table—one purchased some time ago from a stylish yet conveniently inexpensive build-it-yourself surplus store.

And so on.

…

Dan Brown sucks and we all know it.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/booknews/6194031/The-Lost-Symbol-and-The-Da-Vinci-Code-author-Dan-Browns-20-worst-sentences.html

Admittedly, I am jealous. There’s no sense in hiding it. I could pen something like "the Da Vinci Code" in a day. If only I weren't so damn lazy.

Did you just do that?

About every thirty minutes, I hear someone shriek the words “swine flu.” Sometimes it’s in jest. Sometimes it’s paired with fear. And sometimes, the shrieker actually knows someone afflicted with the virus.

Coincidentally, the news is constantly telling people to wash their hands. Because hands spread germs. Especially sickness germs that leak from noses and eyes and mouths.

At the grocery store, there are posters reminding shoppers to keep their hands clean. Fancier stores even have shopping cart wipes.

At work, there are signs about removing germs effectively with soap and water. You’ll usually see these along with all of the HR materials.

Most people have a bottle of hand sanitizer prominently displayed on their desk. They go through the full amount every two weeks because everyone else clamors to use it hourly.

Yet these same people while engaged in conversation, these germaphobes with their hysterical natures, these holier-than-thou clean freaks will (in mid-syllable) put the underside of their middle finger up to the tip of their nose and move the hand upward, using the entire length of their hand to wipe their nose.

While talking. While looking you in the eye.

EWWW. They don’t even realize they’re doing it. They don’t realize they just used their HAND to spread SNOT up to their FOREHEAD.

I see this daily. DAILY. Usually right outside the perimeter of my personal space.

Don’t wipe your snot on your hand while you’re talking to me about your dinner from last night! Have some decency. Use a tissue! Or at least use the BACK of your hand.

Ugh, and some people … snort as they engage in this behavior. SNORT! These are classy white-collar people. People that wear designer clothes and have expensive haircuts.

People with degrees—BAs in sciences and business. People who count calories and do situps.

In other words, people who SHOULD know better. Right?

I guess it’s true—money can’t buy class. But it can sure buy some soap and water.

Hey there, September, slow down.

August slid a helmet atop his head and mounted his bike. With one quick downward motion, he made the engine roar into the warm night sky.

He gunned it.

Flying down the highway at a million miles an hour, August blew past the setting sun. Moments later, the moon rose. And it wasn’t long after that when the sun and moon swapped positions yet again.

As August flew through the days and the nights with legs wrapped tightly around a screaming engine, the weather grew uncomfortably hot. Then it cooled for a few seconds. Then the concrete nearly melted the rocketing tires.

In the distance, a green sign appeared.

“Welcome, September,” it said.

And as August slid past marker 31, he was September.

The orbs in the sky continued their cycles. The month continued its journey through 2009.

And now the rest of us are left on the side of the highway wondering where the time is going. And why is it going so quickly?