She gets it from her Mama.

It's not really a secret. If you know me, you know that I am

Clumsy.

Not even in that "wow look, lauren totally tripped while trying to catch public transportation" type of way. I'm clumsy in that tragic "oh no, lauren totally broke her toe while getting into the shower and then fell down the steps and busted her face on a towel rack and hit her head on the toilet on the way down"  kind of way. 

When I was a child, my family quickly became accustomed to my lack of motor skills and ability to avoid flying objects (i.e. balls). The sound of falling down the carpeted steps or screaming bloody murder over a stubbed toe became white noise in our whirlwind of a household. 

One instance in particular that always strikes me as a great example of my clumsiness happened while I was in 9th grade. Being the complete spaz that I am, I was flying around the kitchen and talking non-stop at my mother who I'm sure was using all her will-power not to knock me out with a rolling pin.

"Get out of the kitchen now! You are driving me insane."

"Nope. Never! HAHA!" I said, doing a lap around the island, causing the steam coming out of her ears to become visible.

"Get out! Now! If you don't I'll make you clean up the entire kitchen."

Hearing this, I squealed, did a spin in the opposite direction, took two steps toward a sprint, felt the carpet slip out from under me, completely lost traction, hit my knee on the island, fell to the ground and hit my forehead on the barstool on the way down.


My mom sighed heavily. "Seriously, Lauren. I'm going to make you do the dishes."

My mother has no right to judge me.
Where do I get this monstrosity of a character trait?
I get it from my mom.

My dear mother is so accident prone that by the time she was 20 my entire extended family had already dubbed her "Calamity Jane." Interestingly enough, my friends call me "Hurricane Bill." I don't know why it's Bill. Please don't remind me that the nickname makes no sense. I'm sure it held some significance at some point. I'm sure.

When I was in second grade, I thought I would be a good idea to bring my mom in for show and tell. Bring in something you love? I love my mom! Awww! Great idea. Lauren is so darned sweet. Everyone else is going to bring in their ratty stuffed dogs and their drool-crusted blankets. I rock. You suck. Win.

The morning of my fantastic everyone-is-looking-forward-to-Lauren's-turn show and tell extraordinaire my mom went to the grocery store. Passing through the garden section, she stopped to smell a nice looking flowering plant. "Oh look," she must have thought, "a sweet flower for me to smell! It is so nice and harmless looking." That's when said plant unleashed its fury. 

After a trip to the ER, it was concluded that my mom had cut her cornea on the deadly spiteful grocery store plant. She was given some strong meds to deal with the pain and an eyepatch. That's right folks! A good old-fashioned strappy black eyepatch. 

Somehow, she still made it to my show and tell.


I think I still had the best show and tell that day. MY mom was the drugged up pirate.

UPDATE: Today I slipped crossing the road and a homeless guy laughed at me.