Last Friday, Dan and I were watching a movie after Little H went to bed when I started hearing noises upstairs.  I’m a little paranoid (just ask anyone who knew me the first three months after Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped—that’s another story for another day) so I was sure it was coming from H’s room.  So I sprinted-well, hurried fast as I could-up the stairs. 

It turns out the sound was coming from our bathroom.  Low and behold, the door had been left open, and our disgusting dog Casey was pulling everything out of the garbage and ripping it to shreds.  I tried to grab the box that he was chewing on from him, and that damn dog growled at me.  Still full of adrenaline, I tried to push him off, while holding the box down with my foot.  The swipe I made at him is best described as how someone would throw a bowling ball, underhanded with a lot of force.  Needless to say, my swing was cut short by the doorknob that caught me on the upper arm.  I then proceeded to use some very mean words to describe Casey and his mother while I curled up in the fetal position by the door.

                                                               

A minute later (or maybe an hour, I may have blacked out from the pain) I went down to explain the commotion to Dan.  He was as sympathetic as someone who had been waiting a long time to restart a movie he was really into could be so I licked my wounds and got over myself.

The next day it started to bruise, and by Monday it had gone through an array of colors, finally settling on a deep yellow purple.  It's in a really noticeable spot on my arm, and it looks like someone could have made the mark by grabbing me really hard.  I've rehearsed the story a few times, but no matter how I say it, I keep imagining the excuses that abused women use.  I don't think my excuse of hitting my arm on a doorknob sounds any better than I fell down the stairs, or I ran into a wall.  Anyway, to save myself the embarrassment and Dan the suspicious glares, I've tried to wear shirts that cover it up or fold my arms when I talk with others so it is out of sight. 

I'm not sure why I'm writing about this.  Maybe because I want to clear up the confusion in case someone accidentally saw the bruise and didn't say anything, but more likely, it's because it's been a slow news week.