'D' is for Dumbass

Those who know me know I am not the most graceful of people. I remember one particular incident close to 15 years ago. While Michelle was at my house I managed to get myself stuck between an old leather chair and my bed, face down, ass up (dat’s da way we like to, sorry, I don’t know why rap’s been in my hiz-ed. ****). Michelle laughed hysterically and, come to think of it, I don’t remember her helping me get out of that crevice. When I try to be sexy and seductive I am instead clumsy, usually knocking someone in the face or accidentally kneeing the groin area of my partner. Last week I burnt myself on the top of the hand making brownies (the scab’s peeling off now and it looks like I have ringworm or something).

Yesterday I fell off the bed. Again. You see we have this bed that’s built naturally really high up with a pillow top mattress and, of course, then we have all the stuff I keep by my side of the bed, my laptop stand, school books conveniently strewn over the floor, in what is no more than a 3 and ½ foot space by the way. For whatever reason, I always think I can reach down and pick up books, appears or remotes from the floor. I always fall and scrape myself up. Every time – never fails. I cut the top of my ankle against something and it still hurts even if you don’t touch it. I nearly knocked over my laptop as I went tumbling down, hitting my head on the wall. And yet for some reason, time and time again (I’ve done this no less than five times), I continue to think I can grab the shit on the floor. Every time I ask myself (and so does My Man when he hears the commotion) at what point will I realize my arms aren’t long enough even when I stretch and teeter my ass on the edge of the mattress. Ka-boom!

I thought I was going to have to take my car to the shop because the light behind the speedometer and odometer and gas tank panel thing were out. I was out driving one night and I had no idea how fast I was going or what station the radio was on – apparently it’s all connected. So I told My Man about it one morning as I was heading out to school. He came out to the car and asked if I had a dimmer switch for the lights. I do and once I turned the dimmer up the lights popped back on. Without him I would have taken my car to the shop. This though may not be fully my fault because: a) I have no idea how I managed to turn down the dial; b) Why the fuck is there a dial? Don’t people have to see how fast they are going when their headlights are on? More money for the man I tell you.

And finally, during the brownie flesh burning session of ’09, I found out that the little switch on the top of the stove controlled a light in the oven. I was sooo excited. My Man looked at me like I had lost it.