Wait ... What?

This weekend generated some double-takes and random observations. Which of course I must share with you.
One:  while cleaning my kitchen I found that I am the proud owner of ... a cleaver.

I don't know where the cleaver came from. It appears to have arrived as part of a set, with the rest of my knives, but to be completely honest I can't remember where THOSE came from. I suspect that they may have been a wedding present, but it would have to have been from someone who doesn't know me very well because seriously? A CLEAVER? I have no business holding, attempting to utilize, or in any way touching a crazy sharp cleaver.

Because it's all heavy and slice-y. And I'm all accident prone and cuttable.

Plus, having a cleaver in my kitchen seems like an invitation for something horror movie-ish to take place. Not that the house is big enough for me not to SEE the psycho in the kitchen with the cleaver -- it is -- but still.

The cleaver might have to go.

Two: I am also the proud owner of an electric heating pad.

So this is what happened: I am a klutz.

I was in my friend's car, driving back from a soccer game (more on that in a moment) and she was all "Let's stop and get a soda" and I was super thirsty so I was in agreement, but my purse was in the back seat so I twisted around and reached. And reaaaaached. Apparently, I like to ... "forget" ... that one of my shoulders is totally held together with duct tape and wishes. (Well, not true. It's held together with screws and prayers) and was like, no no, I'm really SUPER BENDY!

I am not super bendy.

I pulled every muscle between shoulder of doom and my left ear. I also may have conked SOD right out of commission.

Ooops.

And also?

OOOOWWWWWWCCCCCHHHHHHHHH.

The only way to apologize to the muscles for being all "Whee I'm Plastic Woman" was muscle relaxing drugs and heat. But I didn't have an electric heating pad, I only had one of the ones you microwave -- which is awesome, but not handy -- so I had to go buy one.

I felt like I was 100000 years old when I creaked my way into the Wallyworld and picked one up.

But laying on the toasty warm goodness later? PURE heaven.

Three: There's ticks in them there fields

As a person who got an extra sprinkling of obssessive compulsive dust, I have a laundry list of things that I really ... REALLY ... don't enjoy.

One of them is ticks. You might be thinking to yourself, okay, no one ENJOYS the ticks, so -- what's the big deal.

You would be missing the bigger freak out.

Here's what would happen if I found a tick on me: First, I would probably pass out. Because -- TICK. AERRRRRGGGHHHH TICK GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF hyperventilation would be occuring, and lack of oxygen has been known to result in unconsciousness.

Second, I would probably have to be tranq'd.

Third -- I suspect an emergency room would be next. Or a straightjacket. Or ... both. Both seems likely.

Because of the tick thing, I also don't do ... lawns/playingfields/ grass of any kind. I don't walk barefoot on it, I don't sit on it, I don't enjoy the grass.

But on Saturday -- I don't know what happened. I was at a soccer game, watching a bunch of 11 year old girls play soccer and all of a sudden I was SITTING ON THE GRASS. And kind of enjoying it. And not freaking out. (well, a little bit freaking out when I realized that a tick could potentially climb down my pants. But I somehow got over it)

I still don't know what to make of it.