Two Inches That Mattered

Two inches. That's how far I moved the ottoman Friday night to get it closer to the couch so I could reach PhillyTwo's head. I was pulling hair through the tiny holes in the frosting cap she was wearing, and I needed to sit down for the bottom holes. 'Cause sometimes it's a bonus room, and sometimes it's a beauty parlor. (Right about now my sisters are thinking, Viola Casteel, but I digress.) Once the deed was accomplished, PhillyTwo planted herself on the other couch to return some phone calls, letting the goop atop her head work its magic, and after discarding the remains of the solution, I merely walked back over to sit down and watch t.v. Apparently, I assumed the ottoman had eased its way back into its usual position, because right about then, I rammed the little toe of my right foot into that sucker so hard that I nearly passed out. God it hurt! It was close to eleven o'clock by then, which actually was relevant because I knew my toe was going to swell and I knew that I had to play tennis on Saturday morning. It was definitely too late to call anybody to cancel. So at eight o'clock Saturday morning, I was giving my tennis shoes a try, but I could hear my toe yelling, "Haven't I been through enough, bitch?"
So I opted to wear these sandals
because I figured they were good for walking, so maybe they'd be okay for tennis, and I would rather look like an idiot than not show up. Actually they were fine. My toe wasn't at all squished and I never once fell and busted my ass. My toe continued to change colors throughout the morning until it was a lovely, deep shade of purple, but the ladies at tennis seemed more fascinated by the lime green polish on my toenails than the color of my swollen toe. And when I got home from tennis, I trimmed PhillyTwo's new blond locks...by about two inches.