When the whim to wash, wax, and detail my car struck this past weekend, I reached up to the top shelf of the closet to drag down the soap, towel, etc. Unbeknownst to me, the tire foam lay in wait, its bloodthirsty hunger dormant until I stirred it from its beastly slumber.
Ruthlessly, the tire foam decided the time to strike was NOW. It lunged from the shelf, swiveling like a hell cat so that the metal-rimmed bottom of the can whacked me precisely and bluntly on the forehead.
You’d be surprised by the damage that can be done by a malicious can of tire foam on a mission. Even though I applied ice (after I stopped swearing), I have a nice, round bump on my forehead and a small cut where the can split the skin.
The reactions of my loving, concerned family?
Wolverine: “Wow, you have a dent in your head!”
Dove (watching me dab at the blood on my forehead): “So…can you put my hair into piggy-tails now?”
Bear, for his part, deliberately tried to make me laugh because laughing (or any other facial expression or movement) made the wound hurt even more.
Gary fussed at me for not applying the ice pack soon enough. I got the fatherly “don’t come crying to me when you have a big goose egg on your head” speech for not listening to him in a timely fashion.
The only one without a witty comment or stern lecture was Sunflower, and she even helped me dry the car, chatting non-stop the entire time. Apart from rinsing parts of the car that had already been dried, she did a great job.
But now that the tire foam has tasted blood…can its insatiable appetite ever be satisfied?