Torture

I hurt my ankle playing soccer yesterday and since I can't walk I'm in bed with a bag of frozen peas whilst the family is at church.  Just before leaving my sweet dotto accidentally spilled some of her precious perfume on my hands and pj's.  I'm dying!  The ankle just hurts, the perfume is slowly killing me. 

She got it from a neighbor's yard sale--three little bottles, 1 penny each.  At first I thought the neighbor was being nice to Clara by selling them to her at such an affordable price, but now I think she's a member of the mafia.  As Michael walked out the door he caught a whiff and instantly became sturn and whispered, "While we're gone you've GOT to get rid of those things!" 

This may be my last post.  If my husband comes home and finds me dead, you, Gentle Readers, will know what happened.  Don't bother with an autopsy, just dip my remains in paraffin and send them on to the Body Exhibit at the Luxor Casino, where they can show what a sprained left ankle looks like.  At my funeral I want my father to.................