This is Something I’m Hoping Won’t Catch On

So last night as I was clearing my plate from my dinner, which we had enjoyed in front of the television in the living room, naturally, my wanna-be-Chris-Rock-boyfriend-for-life XFE threw out this casual comment: “Be careful not to soy sauce.”

This, gentle readers, is a reference to an earlier incident that I would very much like to put behind me.

An incident also involving dinner in front of the television. Only that time, it was delicious delivery sushi. As I was clearing the plates after a feast of crunchy scallop rolls and other assorted Japanese goodness, and heading towards the TWO measly stairs that separate the unused dining room from our living room, I soy sauced.

For some unknown reason, I tripped on the stairs. I was barefoot, so it’s not as if my shoe or flip flop caught on the edge of the stairs. I did not stub my toe. There were no random cat toys lying haphazardly upon the stairs. There were, in short, no obstacles. I merely….tripped. Which led to me sliding in slow motion on my stomach across the dining room. Which led to soy sauce flying out of their little ramekins and splattering all over at least three of the very pale yellow walls of our dining room. And the lovely gray and white dining room rug. And the wood floor, of course. The ringing clatter of ceramic dishes were the only sound that punctuated the scene.

Oh no! My soy sauce is flying through the air!"

The thing I remember most about this small incident, was looking over toward the kitchen and seeing XFE roll his eyes, and grab a towel, all without saying a word. As if, “of course my girlfriend is lying on her stomach amongst broken dishes and soy sauce. Time for me to clean up her mess.” Which he did.

And now, all of a sudden, months later, “soy saucing” has become a verb in our house, to basically mean, “to bite it.” I don’t even know how or why this has come up again.

I've fallen on my face and I'm too embarrassed to get up.

After that first casual comment as I was clearing dishes last night, XFE proceeded to use it intermittently throughout the night. “Petunia, be careful going down the stairs. You don’t want to soy sauce.” “Man, that kid on X Factor really soy sauced it.” “Somebody soy sauced the radio setting on the clock radio.”

You don’t think this is going to catch on, right? I mean, he’ll grow tired of it at some point, no? If I ignore it, do you think soy sauce as a descriptor will go away? How has this entered our relationship vocabulary?

This is just great. And now I’m craving sushi with a side of humiliation.

Soy Sauced! By a banana peel.

I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up

Balance. Equilibrium. Stability. Remaining perpendicular. These are never easy things to achieve. Just ask former first lady Nancy Reagan (or even skateboard enthusiast and “How to Stitch” crooner, Lil Wayne).

According to AP:

“Former first lady Nancy Reagan is said to be doing fine after stumbling as she was escorted into an event at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum in Simi Valley.

KNBC-TV video shows the 90-year-old Reagan walking into the room on the arm of Florida Senator Marco Rubio Tuesday night when she apparently lost her balance. The crowd can be heard gasping as Rubio catches her before she falls to the floor. Several people in the crowd then swarm her, and Rubio and the others help her get to her seat.

Rubio was invited by Reagan to speak at the library.

Library spokeswoman Melissa Giller told KNBC that the former first lady wasn’t hurt. Giller says Reagan apparently tripped on a post used for crowd control.”


Guuuuurrrl. I know how you feel.

Let me tell you about a clumsy little blogger who used to go by the nickname “Stumbelina.” I got that nickname from my dear friend Sonny when we were besties in Dallas back in the mid-to-late 90s. For a while, my dear friend even kept a running tab of stumbles – like, literally carried a piece of paper with little marks on it. That particularly fun-for-me project had to be abandoned when the sheer excessiveness of my affliction rendered the effort impossible.

I fall upstairs. I fall downstairs. I’ve fallen nowhere near stairs. I’ve fall in showers at nice hotels and required nine stitches. (That’s a true story. New Orleans, October 2010. My most epic spill to date.)

My favorite place to fall is, apparently, on metro escalators. One time I fell because my heel got caught in the hem of my pants and sent me tumbling (pretty sure I pulled my arm out of my socket trying to catch myself). Another time, I was on my way to meet someone for a run on the Mall and tangled my legs (no reason) and went bouncing down the escalator on my right hip. I had the gnarliest black, purple, green, yellow bruise for about three months.

About two months ago, I fell, in my own house, while carrying two empty plates and a couple of small ramekins containing soy sauce from the living room to the kitchen. Hindering my awesome and well-honed plate clearing skills? Two tiny stairs from our living room to the dining room. These are stairs I have successfully navigated probably hundreds of thousands of times. (Ok, a couple of other times not-so-successfully. I did fall down these same two stairs one time while carrying a scalding hot cup of tea, which I proceeded to slosh into my lap. Red thighs anyone?)  I still don’t know why my toe caught on the stair this particular time and sent me, and the soy sauce, flying, but fly we did. The pale yellow dining room walls sustained minor soy sauce-related damage from that particular event.

In fact, right around the same time that poor Mrs. Reagan was taking her spill in California on Tuesday, this girl right here (two thumbs pointing at myself) tripped and bit it on a very busy DC sidewalk. We’re talking total face plant. As in, cell phone clattering and skidding out of my flailing hand. As in, people stopping to help our poor heroine regain the upright position. As in, painfully limping the rest of the way to my destination, covered in embarrassment and shame.

Yeah. And that was AFTER I had swapped out my gorgeous 4-inch mustard colored stilettos for a pair of practical, if ugly flats, in full recognition that me and sidewalks do not get along. That’s right. I took PRECAUTIONS. And still I stubbed my flats-covered toe on a crack in the sidewalk and went stomach surfing in broad daylight in full view of the busy street, park and White House. I blamed aftershocks from the earthquake.

At least Mrs. Reagan is 90 years old. Lil Wayne had moving wheels under him. What’s my excuse?