Death by Papasan OR How All Inanimate Objects in my House are Trying to Kill Me

Recently I complained about a bra.  The bra had a vendetta against me.  I swear.  It broke its little underwire in half and tried to use it as a shiv.  I nearly died.  Well, I didn't really nearly die.  I got pinched, but it was vicious and it hurt.  (Can I just say that no one makes men wear underwires under their...well, you know...)  (If they did, they would have been outlawed.  I'm pretty sure.)  (I could go on a whole diatribe about if men had periods then there would be a five day a month national vacation, but I won't.)

I found a segment on death by bra.  See here.  Underwire bra causes lightning to strike them.  (I told ya so.)

Anyway, death by bra.  It isn't pretty, plus somewhere, some poor woman, or some poor transvestite, has probably died in this very manner.  The coroner was probably too nice to write it on the death certificate, or there wasn't a spot for that manner of death on the certificate because whoever wrote the certificate didn't have an imagination.  I could write a death certificate.  People would be dying to get my death certificates.  (I couldn't help myself.  It just popped out.)

To get back to the point of the blog, which I actually have one this time, I was recently given a papasan chair as a birthday gift.  I will not point out that it was my own idea because that might make me look stupid.  Oh, hell, it was my idea.  After thirty years of birthdays, Christmas's, anniversaries, and other sundry gift giving holiday minutia, HIM has run out of ideas.  Several years ago I started sending him links to things I wanted.  Hey, it makes it easy on HIM and he'll know that the chances are very good that I'll like it.  Then HIM started sending me links to things he wants, but his links are things like specialized rocket building equipment and contains words I cannot even spell, much less pronounce.  (Mine are more exciting.)

This is a perfectly innocent
appearing chair, isn't it?
Haha.  It's not.

Last birthday... (we won't mention the age or I might start to cry) I got a papasan chair.  I liked it.  I put it in the corner of my bedroom where I can lounge and read whenever I actually get a free moment.  (Haha.  That happens so often I almost plotzed myself.)  For those of you out there who don't know what a papasan chair is, and who might have missed them at Pier I, and who might have not been alive during the 60s and 70s, see the picture above.  But here's what was really happening:

I will begin the story by saying there is no warning sticker on papasan chairs that says, "You should be careful when sitting on this.  You should not just sit down.  In fact, you might want to take it easy when sitting down."  (I have a vision in my head of backing up with the backup beeping going off while I'm manuevering.  Kind of like a big delivery truck, except fatter.)  I know this because after the fact, I went and looked.  (There was no stinking warning sticker anywhere.)

So completely unknowing and innocent (try not to laugh), one day after getting the papasan chair, I went to sit down in it.  I put my foot up to stick it under my body (which was likely a mistake) and plopped down.  The next thing I know I'm doing a somersault backwards.  The stand is flying in the air.  My feet are pointed toward the ceiling.  The floor lamp in the corner is screaming with agony because I landed on it..

I wish I could say my life flashed before my eyes, but really it was only my toes and the thought that I needed a pedicure.

So the moral of this story is that the saucer part of a papasan chair is NOT connected to the bottom part stand.  And the floor lamp had to be quietly buried in a closed casket ceremony.  It died in a freak trapeze accident while saving the President from Ninja Nazi Hell's Angels.