Call me Chip.

I woke up bleary and fuzzy one day last week, with a vague feeling of Oh No settling in my chest. Not for any reason in particular, mind you.  Just… oh no.  It’s a morning thing with me.

I stumbled out to the kitchen and made some decaf and took my stupid thyroid pill and then pivoted towards the hallway to make my grumpy way back to wake the kids. I mean, I say I pivoted, but it was more stumbling in a circle with one eye half shut, with one leg doing more of a shuffle. It wasn’t ballet for sure, but you know, decaf.  And morning.

As I started to head down the hallway, the dog decided that Right That Moment was time to dive in front of me as I bashed my way out of the kitchen, trying to find the rim of my mug by smell so I could keep only one half of an eye open against the cruel cold light of dawn, and I tripped over her quivering, smelly, doggy butt and lurched into the wall.  The shoulder-check to the hall wall forced my mug into my front tooth.  I was standing there, gingerly feeling around in my face with my tongue when I felt something wrong. I spit a sliver of tooth into my hand, and approached the mirror to squint at my face.  Luckily, it’s not that noticeable and no pain, but COME ON.

Meanwhile, the dog circled my legs and wagged so hard she fell down.


  1. No, Jenny! No!

    • Oh, Skye. At least it isn’t that noticeable. I like to think it gives me an edge. Literally, because now I can totally bite through an aluminum can with my razor sharp chipped chomper.