It was Miss Brown in the kitchen with the sunscreen

And then bratchild, aka Miss Brown for the purpose of this report and to protect the innocent, etc, tried to kill me. In the kitchen. With the sunscreen. As much as I love the game Clue, I fail to see how this scenario is not included in the game. It must be a gross oversight on their part.

It has often been remarked that I need a handler. Or a TV show. But never both at the same time because THAT would defeat the purpose. My sister and I LOVE “Gilmore Girls.” Along with “Buffy,” “Arrested Development,” “Veronica Mars” and lately, “GCB,” it is up there with one of my most missed shows. I’m sure you remember Suki but what you may NOT remember is that, particularly in the early seasons, people in the kitchen sort of did their best to make sure she wasn’t injured, didn’t set things on fire, get rendered unconscious with a pan, slip on a banana peel–you know, normal kitchen-y things.

Ever since setting our kitchen floor on fire WITH a Pop Tart when I was just a wee lass, and then as a teenager setting a fire in a home where I was babysitting because those high-maintenance children demanded popcorn popped on a stove with oil and not in a microwave as God intended, that since I lacked a handler–I would avoid the kitchen. Much like I fear shower curtains, because no good comes from them, I also have decided avoidance is the best policy when it comes to kitchens.

With J in Afghanistan, the bratchild, I mean Miss Brown, and I have a routine. We get up. She gets ready for swim practice and applies her own sunscreen. Can I just say praise the LORD and pass the waffles that she’s old enough to handle that on our own? Sunscreening children, though necessary, is awful. She has been applying her continuous spray sunscreen in our kitchen which didn’t give me any pause. See above: kitchen avoidance. The other day I innocently ventured in their to water my orchid while wearing my highest pair of wedges: The Lilly Pulitzer Picture Perfect Espadrille.  And they are: practically perfect in every way. Or they WERE, until the unfortunate attempt on my life and all that.

Miss Brown chose to bring about my demise a few weeks ago as I sauntered through our kitchen in my fabulous footwear toting my iPad and three ice cubes for my orchid when, unbeknownst, to me I hit a slick patch. I screamed, the iPad went straight up in the air, the ice cubes flew everywhere and I scrambled, after a brief airborne experience, to land exactly on my right kneecap, my hands and somehow my forehead. I remained in that position for some time because I was unable to move and was trying to figure out what had attacked me. While being so up close and personal with our hardwood floor, I glanced to my left ever so slightly to see a mysterious puddle/oil slick/foggy substance coating the area from which I had recently been launched. At this time, Miss Brown, felt it important to confess that yes, she had been applying sunscreen in the house and did I think it had something to do with my current predicament. Ummm…YES.

The thing is my knee still really hurts (two weeks later) and it feels itchy, numb and sore on the inside and all at the same time. I also think it has a lumpy spot making my knee look fat. When I attempt to scratch it (from the outside people, I am not cutting myself open) there’s a weird owwwowwwwOWIE feeling coupled with a why is that spot numb. Also? My right ankle is the one that is STILL injured/won’t move certain ways and clicks with certain motions from when that sidewalk in New York City reached out and grabbed ahold of me. Life lesson: while alcohol certainly has medicinal properties, it will not cure tiny shards of bone caused by the mean streets of NYC. Instead of guzzling wine, I should have explored medical care. A lesson only partially learned as this go-round, I didn’t guzzle wine BUT I also didn’t seek medical attention. So any doctors out there? How do I make my knee not itchy/owie/numb?

One day, I will live encased in bubble wrap while wearing a helmet as suggested by Boot Camp Joe.

Shoes may actually be the death of me.