Victory Soap v. 2.0

So far this month I have helped two coworkers look up research material on the internet for reports their middle-school-age children had to do for school. This made me reflect on the fact that my parents' method of "helping" me do my homework was to tell me to turn off the tv and get started already. I am old enough to remember when the sort of help parents had to give their kids was of the "mom, I forgot -- I have to have a pirate costume for the play tomorrow!" variety, but when it came to intellectual tasks we were expected to do our own thinking and reading, and if our slacker ways meant we had to scramble to put together that book report or research paper, well too bad. (Addition: I made sure to tell both coworkers to avoid Wikipedia.)

Oh yeah... last night after work I decided to take the bus all the way to the mall, so I could go to the Albertson's next to the mall and get a few things. I caught the bus back (five minute ride! as opposed to the forty-minute ride it used to be) and started up the hill to my new apartment complex. (Yes, it's built on a lumpy piece of land, which to a South Floridian is like living in the mountains.) Anyway, to get to the official entrance of the place -- which has a wrought iron fence, but no gates -- I have to go some ways up the block, and then back down the driveway to my building. But if I could climb the fence (which is impossible -- it's one of those tall spiked things) I could cut off all that walking back. As I came near I saw people were indeed taking the short cut, but they weren't climbing the fence -- apparently some enterprising person had removed some of the rods from the fencing in the corner, so you could squeeze through. I was tired and had four grocery sacks, so I decided to take the short cut. Well, I paid for my crime -- as I was ducking through the fence I did what I always do, and misjudged the size of my huge head. WHANG. I banged the top of my head rather painfully on the top bar of the fence, which had a sharpish bit of metal where the rod used to be attached. I felt the sore spot and my finger came away red. Oh great! I'd cut my scalp. Chastened, I hurried up the stairs to my door, before the red gore could start running down my face. Fortunately this didn't happen, but I went right into the shower and applied anti-bacterial soap, and then shampoo. But that's a lesson to me -- no shortcuts.