So. I have a question, fellow Ally McBeal watchers. If no one but Harvey believed that he would truly fly, why then was the ambulance parked on the OTHER side of the river? Anyone? Bueller? And how come the EMTs only worked on him for 30 seconds before giving up? It’s not like that on ER.

Yeah, I know. It’s just a show.

Oh man, speaking of TV shows, I comPLETEly forgot to mention the fact that during Temptation Island last week, they felt it necessary to show a commercial for some medicine that treats genital warts. Damn, that cracked me up. Where was the commercial for condoms, you’ve gotta wonder.

Did you know that adding 4 or 5 drops of Visine to someone’s food will give them almost instant diarrhea? NO, I don’t know this from experience – I heard it on the radio when I was working out Saturday morning. Apparently it gives you sudden can’t-make-it-to-the-bathroom diarrhea – is this true? Can anyone out there confirm it for me? Inquiring minds, they want to know, y’know.

I’m a klutz. Have I ever mentioned this? A total, total klutz. In fact, when I was a child, my mother nicknamed me "Grace", and would call me by that name whenever I did something particularly klutzy.

As a result of lifelong klutziness, I’ve learned to be careful in potentially dangerous situations. For instance, any time I pick up a large knife to chop something in the kitchen, the thought Man, it would really suck to stab myself in the eye – along with a happy little visual of such a thing happening – flashes through my head, as a sort of reminder not to forget that I’m holding a knife. Don’t shake your head at me – I once accidentally stabbed myself in the eye with a toothpick. If an act of idiotic klutziness can be thought of, I’ve probably performed it.

When I’m at the top of our stairs, the thought MAN would it suck to fall down those stairs. I bet I’d break my neck goes through my mind – I have a history (if two incidences can be called a history, and I think it can) of falling down stairs, so that one is understandable.

When I have to use the hammer to hammer a nail into the wall, I think to myself Wouldn’t it suck if I was swinging the hammer and accidentally brained Miz Poo? Poor Miz Poo! That would really hurt her! Yes, you’ve guessed it – I once accidentally smacked my childhood dog Taffy with a hammer, though it was on her side, and not her head. Poor Taffy. Even thinking of the way she yelped makes me cringe to this day. She wasn’t seriously hurt though, thank god, but I don’t think she completely trusted me ever again.

As a result of all these little warning-type thoughts, I’m very careful when I have a big knife, go down the stairs, and hold a hammer. I’m also very careful to hold the jar of mayo with both hands, because if it hits the tiled floor, it’ll shatter, and I don’t relish the thought of stepping on one of the resultant shards of glass in three months. In fact, I’m pretty careful with most glass objects in the kitchen. I guess you could say that that little voice of warning in my head makes me more careful when I need to be, and is probably the main reason I’m still alive and kicking today.

The problem comes when I’m in a situation that the voice doesn’t recognize as being potentially dangerous. After going out to get the mail one day last week, I walked back inside the house and into the computer room, with the intent of walking across the room to my desk, whereupon I planned to sit down and check my email.

They pay Ah-nuld millions to perform death-defying feats like that, you know.

Two feet inside the room, all was well. I glanced through my stack of mail while I walked, confident that since I’d done this 24,067 times before, there’d be no problem this time around. I passed the edge of Fred’s desk, and lifted my right foot to step over the small space heater sitting and glowing evilly in the center of the floor:

"I waaaaant to huuuuurt youuuuuuu..."

I glanced down at a bill as I lifted my foot, and stepped over the heater, and my slipper caught on the edge of the heater, which was just enough to unbalance me. For the next fifteen minutes (or so it felt) I fell down, hitting my hip on Fred’s BIG FUCKING CHAIR and my shoulder on the corner of his desk. My head missed the corner of the file cabinet by mere inches, and I thus avoided being struck on the temple and dying immediately. (It would totally suck for the spud to come home from school one day and find me dead on the floor, don’t you think?)

Unlike people who fall on TV and in the movies, when I fall, I don’t scream on the way down – I’m completely silent, because everything seems to kick into a slow surreality, and the fall always lasts long enough for me to think I can’t believe I’m FUCKING FALLING DOWN.

When I was done falling, Miz Poo came chirruping from the other room to check me over, and I sat up, tearing the cover off of Oprah, and swearing a blue streak. I was pissed – pissed that I had fallen, pissed because I knew that Fred (after making sure I was okay) was going to laugh his ass off, and pissed that THAT FUCKING HEATER WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR.

So what if I was the one who left it there? That’s not the POINT.

I swore at the heater, and moved it from the middle of the floor to the side of the room, setting it down very roughly to teach it a lesson. Damn thing.

It took probably half an hour for me to become amused at how funny I must have looked – god knows I’m always the first one laughing at myself – and to call Fred and tell him about it.

Aside from a sore neck, I was fine the next day.

The guardian angel of klutzes must be watching over me.