A few weeks ago I sprained my ankle while dancing to Neil Diamond with a married woman and a gay man. There was bourbon involved, but the sprain would have happened with or without it because even when I'm sober I am as graceful as a hippo taking a shit.

Last week after the sprain seemed to be healing I was escaping Jon as he was trying to trip me up the stairs. Instead of kicking him in my defense I kicked a metal electrical box. I could barely walk the next day, and a bruise popped up indicating that my foot might possibly be fractured. No alcohol was involved in this incident, just my horrible aim.

Yesterday my foot seemed to be doing much better. The bruise had gone down and I was able to engage in my usual workout routine of running the stairs in the basement. In the afternoon while working on a project downstairs my neighbor called to tell me that the car parked across the street, Leta's babysitter's car, had its trunk open and could have possibly been broken into. In a mad dash to warn the babysitter I tripped over the dog, kneed him straight in the skull, and jammed my foot into a stroller being stored in the basement. I broke the third toe on my left foot. Turns out Leta had been playing with the babysitter's car keys and had activated the remote trunk opening device.

We're supposed to go snowboarding on Friday. But I get the feeling that someone is trying to send me a message. Maybe it's Neil Diamond. Maybe it's God. Maybe it's the very teeny-tiny part of my brain that has matured into adulthood screaming STOP BEING SUCH AN IDIOT, YOU KNOB.