Friday. Bzzzzz! the apartment intercom screamed, announcing to all the arrival of dinner. Piping hot pizza was soon to be had. Sam sat indifferent on the kitty condo scratching post, long used to such noises. Abby, thanks to past trauma, sped off to hide in the bedroom. Megan and Finnegan scurried to the door to greet the delivery person; a chance perhaps to escape into the hall and race up and down the stairs of the building. I grabbed the cash from atop the entertainment centre and went to the door to both accept the food and to play goalie, preventing the cats from scoring their goal of 'freedom' in the hallway.
Our apartment door has been renovated twice over the past year. The first was to upgrade it to fire code specifications. This involved adding an auto-shut feature and a layer of fire resistant material to the inside face. The second was more asthetic, as part of the building upgrades. This involved changing the locks and switching the door knobs with handles.
I performed quite the balancing act; simultaneously fending off felines, keeping the door open, paying for and taking hold of the very hot pizza and trying desparately not to fall over. At one point I had to use my behind to bump the door open wider, providing enough room to bring the pie through without tipping it sideways. Megan sensed an opportunity and made a break for it. Seeing this attempt, I got my leg in her way and shooed her back in, forgetting entirely about the heavy apartment door with the very pointed handle butt closing rapidly behind me until...
the door handle slammed point first into my right buttock with the full weight of the door behind it. Cats scattered; the delivery man shrank away from the door blanch-faced at the stream of obscenities coming from me; Lisa, ever concerned, said "What's with all the swearing?"
"Fuck. Ow. Fuck. Door handle. Shit. My ass. Ow. Fuckity fuck." was the extent of my reply as I gingerly sat in my chair.
"Oh." (Such concern for my well-being.)
Over the course of the weekend, a lovely bruise formed on my right cheek, the size of a mandarin orange. I frequently lay on my stomach.
Yesterday at work, I'm feeling better. So much in fact that I've forgotten about my sore backside as I'm moving computers to and fro within the school. Pulling a cart, heavily laden down with a gaggle of old 386s destined for Cuban schools, I reach a hall door. The push bar is waist high, but my hands are full with the cart. Not a problem, I'll just swing around and put my ass into it, as I've done numerous times in the past.
Thud.
"Fuck. Ow. Fuck. I forgot. Shit. My ass. Ow. Fuckity fuck."
The bruise is now the size of a lemon, and is deep. It is exceedingly uncomfortable to sit today. I'm pondering a> numerous aspirin and b> one of those rubber butt rings that old people use.
I sure hope there aren't any
nude beaches or pools in St. Kitts when we fly down next week. This puppy would
scare anyone off.