I think I'm going to start wearing a sign: "Yes, I hurt my toes, and no, I don't want to talk about it!" All day long I've had to repeat the story:

"Oh, what happened to you?"
"I broke some toes."
"On the ice?"
"No, on the bed. I stubbed them."
"Ohhhhh, you poooooooor thiiiiing. I remember when I..."

And the conversation degenerates into a story of some calamity with which their own foot has met. No less that three of my coworkers have lost a toenail, and at least five have broken their small toes. They regale me with these stories with such gory relish ("...and I couldn't walk right for three months...) that it's painfully obvious that they're looking for sympathy for their own misery. Well, guess what? I'm not in the mood to dole out sympathy; I'm not even in the mood to receive much of it. I just want to get to work as well as I possibly can, and I want to try to stop thinking about the fact that my toes are still throbbing. it's not easy when everybody keeps reminding me, and every time I turn a corner there's another person waiting to hear the story. Maybe I should put up a note on the bulletin board or send an inter-library email: "I've broken my toes! Ha, ha! What a clutz I am! Please send all your own toe trouble tales directly to my inbox."

This morning I had a daycare storytime, and all the little boys gathered around my foot to gaze in wonder. To a three-year-old, injuries rank almost as high as dinosaurs on the level of coolness. They all wanted to know whether I had cried, whether I fell down, whether they bled. As soon as they had finally settled down to listen to the story, the teacher noticed my foot and insisted that I repeat to the class what had happened. I then became the topic of a lesson:

"Now, boys and girls, you should always remember to walk slowly and look where you're going, or you could hurt yourself like Mrs. Richmond. Can you remember that? Say it with me: waaaaaalk slooooooowly..."

I sat there, grinning brightly, but inwardly seething. The lesson was for the kids, but it felt directed at me. Yes, I should walk more slowly. I'll remember next time, lady.

It's not just my food that has me angered. Eric's car is still on the fritz, and we just learned this weekend that there is apparently a recall out for cars like his! Yes, Eric's car is prone to leaky fuel injectors (one of which we have been trying to track down since Christmas) that can catch fire! Whee! So he's having it towed to the dealer today.

He's driving my car. This means he has to drop me off at the library at 7 AM in order to make it to his work on time. The library doesn't open until nine. I do have a key, so it's not terrible, except for Mondays, such as today, when I don't work until noon. So I sat here and did email, caught up on some journals...and still had a few hours to go. Nuts. So I grabbed a book and seated myself on the lounge sofa to read, and that's when all my coworkers began to parade through: "Oh, what happened to you????"

Eric's car will be out of commission for at least a week, I'd guess; I have no real knowledge of the inner workings of cars, nor how long they take to repair, but that would be just the sufficient amount of time to really test my patience, and that seems to be the way things work around here these days. Naturally, the in-laws are calling frequently, taking hazards as to what they think the problem is. It's only a matter of time before the inevitable question arises: "Why don't ya'll let us help pay for the car?" Because we're independent adults? That's rarely a good enough reason for them; Eric is the baby, and therefore it's their God-given responsibility to help out whenever he'll let them.

That sound you hear? That's my teeth grinding away. At this rate, I'll need a set of crowns before the year is out.

Oh, and I have to work with Weird Boy again tonight. He's already come over three times to tell me about his ingrown toenail surgery last year. It's going to be a long, long night.

Thankfully, I have another storytime tonight, without the benefit of patronizing teachers. We're reading "Noisy Nora" and "Time for Bed," and we won't be doing any dances that can't be hobbled. It will be paradise for half an hour, and I will probably cry when it's over.

Oh, no. Here comes Weird Boy again... God, give me strength...