Wiley E. Klutz

In a remarkable series of physical comedy moves, I have almost seriously hurt myself several times in the past few weeks. The latest finally left a mark.

First there was the spectacular slippage upon exiting Julie and Dennis’ jacuzzi. I took one step onto the slick walkway, my foot hydroplaned, and I flew into the air and landed spectacularly on my ass. Then the rest of me landed on my back. My head did not hit the ground, but it did absorb a lot of the shock, and it felt like the one time I went snowboarding and repeatedly fell exactly the same way, except that I was wearing lots of padding then.

Last week I was bending over looking for something in the refrigerator and for no reason at all I stood up without actually exiting the refrigerator. CRACK! My head connected with the freezer with a sickening sound not unlike the dropping of a watermelon onto the pavement from 5 stories up. They actually do that on Foley stages to create the sound of heads exploding in the movies. Later that day I sported a lump on my head that I know would look exactly like the ones Tom and Jerry get when they smash each other with hammers and such.

And now, drum roll please…

I am sporting a giant black and blue on my right leg, just above the knee. Do you have a small child, say, a toddler? One who must be barred from certain rooms by baby gates? Can you imagine that the height of our baby gate is oh, approximately just above the knee?

Stewart returned from his camping trip late Monday night while Kyle and I were sleeping. Attempting to slip into the house without waking anyone, he turned his key in the lock on the front door and – nothing. I had bolted the door from the inside. It’s one of those old-fashioned bolt lock thingies. So he had to call me to wake me up and let him in.

I had left my cell phone next to the bed in case he called me on his way home. But he called the house phone. So it was midnight, and the very loud house phone rang, and I was dead asleep. Jolted out of my dreams, I was confused, disoriented, and pretty much still asleep. I sprang out of bed and half-consciously sought the source of the loud, loud sound. My body was moving by instinct only, the instinct that said “stifle the noise or the kid will wake up and if that happens SOMEONE WILL PAY.”

I lurched through the house trying to get to the phone before the fourth ring (otherwise the retarded answering machine would pick up) and I followed the ringing into our office. In the dark I did not see, nor did I remember the presence of, the baby gate.

My leg connected with the baby gate, my body continued its forward motion, and I flipped into the room with a deafening crash, excruciating pain, and still the urgency to reach the phone.

I got the phone, exclaimed into it that I had JUST BROKEN MY LEG! F*CK! And Stewart calmly asked me to open the door for him.

The rest is pure comedy, as if that was not enough. Kyle woke up, wailing. I limped through the house to let Stewart in, and the dog practically knocked him AND me over in her excitement. We were up for another hour, calming the child, settling the dog down, and icing my leg. Nevertheless, I’m sporting a bruise the size and shape of Australia. If I wear shorts and anyone asks me about it, I’m telling them that it’s collateral damage of childcare.