Clackity clack, don't come back

I was waiting for my son to finish turning into a prune in the bath tonight, and I was bored enough to be picking at my feet, and I realized there was no longer a scar on my heel. Which made me remember why there WAS a scar on my heel, which made me giggle, and then I thought I should share it with you guys.

Because I'm generous that way.

When we were teenagers, Politika and I were really cool. So cool, that we would travel to other cities to see Broadway musicals. And then wear the t-shirts with pride, because we were the friggin' EPITOME of culture.

I know, I'm aware. Shut up.

Anyway, this particular time we were going to see Les Miserables in Winnipeg. We were going to stay with Politika's aunt (I think). She was an aunt of the actual cool variety, the single kind with a job in fashion or something*, a hoppin' social life, and a pet garter snake that she kept in an aquarium on her living room floor.

We drove up and got there around dinner time. Politika's cool aunt fed us and then, because she was probably totally unnerved by the presence and responsibility of two teenage girls**, fled the apartment to do something else. She gave us a key and pointed us in the general direction of a 7-11 but made it pretty clear we were just supposed to hang out until she got back.

So we kicked off our shoes and got comfortable, but we were bored. I started tormenting Politika with one of those clackers. Remember those? They were two pieces of plastic attached to a stick that served no purpose other than CLACKING.

It was annoying the shit out of Politika so she told me to stop. Naturally I refused, and clacked the clacker in her face. She stepped toward me menacingly (did I mention she has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do?), and I, laughing, stepped backwards.

Directly INTO the aquarium on the floor.

We stared at each other in horror as glass shattered and blood started to flow. Shrieking, I bolted for the kitchen where I hoisted myself up onto the counter and immediately began running cold water over my foot, trying to see the damage. There was blood everywhere - trailing into the kitchen, on the countertop, filling the wine glasses that were in the sink.

"I can't find the snake! COME AND HELP ME FIND THE SNAKE!" Politika yelled from the living room.

"I'M BLEEDING AS FAST AS I CAN!!" I bellowed back.

Then we burst into hysterical laughter.

Eventually I stopped bleeding, and after dragging a lamp around peering into dark corners, we retrieved the (probably terrified) snake. We put him in a bowl with a book on top of it.

Then, understandably, Politika needed a nicotine fix and I was pretty sure I deserved some chocolate. So we locked up and walked to the 7-11.

During which time, naturally, Politika's aunt returned to an empty apartment, filled with blazing lights, shattered glass, and blood.

Funny, we were never invited to stay with her again.

Oh, and I think Les Miz was okay. I got a t-shirt.

(Posted in participation with Jen's Spin Cycle. Okay, so technically it's not creative writing but I did take some creative license...)

*I may or may not have just made that up.
**I may or may not be projecting a teensy bit here.