According to expert bloggers, you're supposed to review your page traffic to get clues on what readers want to see.
Two of my posts that garnered the most interest were the one about Buff Jesus and the one where I almost killed myself on the murder deck. Taken together, I can't help but think that readers want to see me meet Jesus face to face sooner rather than later. I can't decide whether that's supportive or creepy...
The murder deck incident garnered a lot of support from those nearest and dearest. My husband, upon reading it, called into the kitchen, "Oh! I love this story about you falling off the deck." He doesn't usually show that much enthusiasm for blog posts. My sister wanted to know, "Why haven't I heard this story before?" As if I was holding back some bit of vital information to her happiness.
Only my new Internet best friend, Jess from No Pithy Phrase, commented on the post without making mention of my almost demise. Since Jess is in the minority on this one, I thought I'd make my husband and sister happy by sharing another story that involves bodily injury and almost-paralysis.
This is the story about the time I fought the wall:
We live in an A-frame house, and low, slanted walls are ripe with the possibility for injuries. There's a permanent soft spot on my head from slamming into sheet rock, but those are minor collisions compared to the end-table-paint-brush debacle.
I was painting Tucker's room last summer while he was visiting relatives in Louisiana and Chris was at work. Two of the walls in the room are angled, which made the job more difficult. Standing on a bar stool, I was too high up to be efficient. I found a sturdy old end table in the closet that was a perfect height, poured a bit of paint in a plastic container, and went to work on edging.
The end table provided the perfect solution as long as I stood in the exact center. After half an hour, and numerous trips up and down to fill up my paint container, I made the near-fatal mistake. I stepped back slightly to reach an odd angle.
My entire world became the violent sound of wood ripping. The slow tumble of "I'm a complete idiot and am about to die" began. As I fell backwards, I watched a perfect arc of paint hover in the air above me. The end table tipped, and I came crashing down right on top. I imagine it looked like one of those action movies where Dwayne Johnson throws his enemy down across a beam or a fence or a rock in the desert. Except with more leg flailing and wild hair and flashing (because my shirt rode up a tremendous amount during the debacle).
I hit the end table, bent backward, then rolled onto the carpeted floor. After the cracking of what I
hoped was wood and not bone, the room was silent. I struggled for breath and began to sob, certain I was horribly injured and thinking I might die in the room with paint all over the carpet and my chest hanging out. And you guys, Chris would be so pissed about the carpet, right?
My phone was across the room. Still sobbing, I drug myself across the room with my elbows. The room was littered with furniture in all the wrong places, and I felt like I was a crippled snake in a maze. Before I reached the phone, I felt something wet on my leg. I thought, "Thank God, I can feel my legs! Not paralyzed!" Then I thought, "Oh my God, I'm bleeding." And finally, "Blood is not cold...agh. I'm dragging paint all over the carpet!"
After about twenty minutes of laying, and sobbing, and slithering, I pushed myself up to inspect my injuries. My left thigh was already completely covered in blue. Three angry red marks lined my left side and back. I could only turn in one direction without cringing, but I was still whole and I felt like I was more "terribly, permanently bruised" rather than "suffering broken ribs and a punctured lung."
I turned to the carpet. You guys, do you know how much paint you can fit in a very small plastic dish? I thought maybe a cup, but apparently the correct answer is "infinity." At this point, I was still a bit dazed, so I did what anyone would do to remove wet paint from carpet: I made it wetter.
I filled up a pitcher of water and slowly poured it over the paint. Perhaps I thought I could dilute the paint so it wouldn't be noticeable? It turns out, however, this is a genius way to deal with the problem. Because wet paint sort of floats. For the next hour, I poured a little water on each area, sponged up the floating paint, poured more water, and repeated the process. By the time I was done, half the floor was sopping wet, but the paint was gone. Or possibly, diluted so as to be unnoticeable.
Then I did what anyone else would do. I tried to blow dry the carpet. This took way too long, and the hair dryer got dangerously hot, and I figured burning the house down was not the right way to hide the fact that I'd made a terrible mess. I opted for air drying.
I threw the murderous end table out the front door, got my trusty bar stool, and finished the paint job. Because at that point, I talked myself into the fact that end tables and horses had one thing in common: You get back up.
By the time Chris got home, the room looked great and I could barely get off the sofa. The bruise on my back lasted for three months.
I fought the wall, and the wall won that battle. But since the room is painted, there are no paint stains on the carpet, and I'm not paralyzed, I think we can conclude that I won the war.