Part of my thrilling weekend excitement consisted of putting down new shelf liner in the dank nether regions of the cabinet under our sink. Our last garbage disposal died because a leak in the pipes shorted it out. The nice plumber replaced it and the pipes and I replaced the nasty liner. Remind me again, why did I want to own a house? Naturally, I smacked my head on the cabinet door frame and busted my scalp open. I showed R Man, because that’s what a boyfriend is for. He was sympathetic, which was nice and all I really looked for. I’m an old hand at contusions and know from long experience that scalp wounds bleed worse and look more serious than they feel. When I was growing up, my brothers and I were always winding up bloodied from some klutziness or the other, clumsiness seems to run in our family. We literally knew one of the emergency room nurses by name. My sainted mother was so inured to it all by the time I came along, her first reaction was to immediately yell at whoever had wandered into the house from the latest disaster “Don’t bleed on the carpet!” Once we were quarantined in the kitchen (or if it was really bad, the garage) she would sort of triage to see if she could handle it or if it was time for another trip down to see Pauline at the Emergency Room.