Thursday, May 07, 2009

Born to Be Clumsy

This is a golden oldie post from the 2006 vault, and I've decided to run it again because the comments were hilarious. Believe it or not, Mr. Ripley, but my beloved is not the only clumsy oaf in the world.

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Martha is a tripper. She does not fall on her prat, dive on her face, nor spread on her eagle. Rather, if there is anything whatsoever to trip over, she will trip over it. Furthermore, if there is absolutely nothing to trip over, she will indeed trip over nothing as well.

But my dearest is not only a tripper. She is a toe stubber, an elbow whacker, a noggin knocker, and a fingernail breaker. Her knees are a mess, and her forehead is prone to raising eggs. Martha is not only a tripper and a stumbler, you see; she also walks into walls, doors, furniture, and parked cars.

My beloved, I am sorry to say, is a clumsy oaf.

She also has a potty mouth, spewing forth such invectives as “Shit, that hurt!” or “Really shit, that really hurt!” whenever she is clumsy.

My beloved is also a blaming oaf. Upon stumbling over nothing on the sidewalk, she screams at the non-offender, “THAT DEAD LEAF TRIPPED ME!” No amount of personal inattention is ever her fault.

Caring and compassionate husband that I am, I sympathize with her COD (Clumsy Oaf Disorder). If I have said it once, I have said it 463,728 times:

“What in the HELL is the matter with you? Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

Lest you think that I am picking on my precious Precious Moment, Martha’s entire family is COD (pronounced cod, like the piece). Her parents, her sisters and brother, even the offspring—every single one of them is chronically COD.

Here is a good example. Last summer, while sitting on the patio at my sister-in-law’s house, there was a garden hose lying between the patio table and the back door. During the course of the afternoon, Martha and her sister traveled between the patio and the door several dozen times—one for soda or tea, the other for the bathroom, and then vice versa. Here, for your convenience, is a partial transcript from the audiotape:

[My voice on the tape]
“Honey, don’t you think it would be easier to move the hose out of the path?”
[Her voice on the tape]
‘Why? It’s not in the way of anything.”

You know, I have been giving this whole COD thing a lot of thought. Since it appears to be multi-generational with no generation skipping and a 100% affliction rate, I am certain it is a genetic anomaly instead of a case of mass carelessness.

So Monday morning, bright and early, I will be submitting my paperwork to the National Institutes of Health for a grant of forty-eight billion dollars to study the matter. As soon as the check comes in, lettuce say on Thursday or Friday, I’ll let you know my findings. From our new island in the South Seas, that is, where my little island pineapple will be tripping happily and carefreely over seashells, banana fronds, and absolutely nothing at all.

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So, dear reader, have you ever been clumsy?


Meg said...

Maybe Martha and I are related somehow because I also have the COD gene. A million years ago, when I was single and worked at a library, cute guys used to come in and ask me where to find a certain book. I would lead them into the stacks to the exact location without even having to look it up in the computer. But, that bit of "coolness" didn't make up for the fact that each and every book case hopped out at me as I passed.

Charlie said...

Bastards! (The bookcases, not the cute guys, who are now hands-OFF to Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady.)

Kim Ayres said...

I don't suppose you can remember what my comments where when you ran it the first time can you? Way back in '06 my mind worked much faster.

So, do you take a piece of hose with you every time you go to visit the in-laws?

Barbara Bruederlin said...

I do love how Martha and her sister refused to be intimidated by their CODness. I have my moments of such, one of my more famous ones lately when I authoritatively closed the dishwasher door on my thumb, so that I had a bit of plastic embedded in the thumbnail for about three months afterward. It was epic.

Charlie said...

KIM: Comments from '06? I only remember one because it pissed me off so bad, but it wasn't one of yours.

Taking a hose to my in-law's would be like taking a bag of M&Ms to the M&M factory.

BARBARA: Martha and her sister are stoics: they learned to live with their disability and/or affliction early on in life, except for the profanity part. Sometimes they sound like two drunken sailors on shore leave in the South Seas (god, I love alliteration).

"Epic" COD--I like it. Sounds kinda Drama Queenish . . .

Attila The Mom said...

LOL First I thought you wrote, "Martha is a stripper."

Then I read, "She does not fall on her prat, dive on her face, nor spread on her eagle."

I was thinking, damn Charlie, you must have gone to a lot of tittie bars in your time if you know the names of all those 'moves'.

I need new glasses. ;-)

Charlie said...

MOM: Damn tootin' you need new glasses, preferably the coke-bottle size.

As for tittie (blush) bars, I only know what I've seen at Bada Bing on The Sopranos. You know, the girls with the rubber bosoms.

Tiffin said...

Oh this was rich, Charlie...yes, we CODs are a tribe all of our own. I think my favourite COD moment was when I pulled a weed out in the garden, staggered backwards, tripped on the stone edging, careened into my 6'3" son who just happened to be standing behind me, knocking him into the flower bed behind us and landed on top of him, both of us flat on our backs. Softest landing I ever had. The two of us lay there for about 2 minutes, helpless with laughter, unable to move.

Charlie said...

TIFFIN: Now that is genuine COD! Since you were Moe and your son was Larry, all you needed was Curly to complete the COD hat trick.

Tiffin said...

our dog is a standard poodle, which is about as Curly as you can get, so I think we've got it nailed.

laytonwoman3rd said...

My trouble is falling upstairs. Usually while carrying clean laundry or grocery bags. I blame it on my shoes. I also take turns much to quick and tight, so that I'm always banging into doorcasings, stair railings and furniture. I bruise in technicolor, too.