Let’s Talk About Warning Labels

For pretty much my whole life, I’ve ignored warning labels. I’m completely accident prone and have been known to injure myself in the most bizarre of ways, so it makes perfect sense that I should live in such a beautiful lala land and ignore warnings.

If you have any aversion to discussion of cuts on skin, consider this your warning label. The rest of you may find some humor in it. I sure did.

image

A few nights ago, I was sitting on the couch in one of the few comfortable positions I have, when I reached back to scratch an itch. It was in this brief moment that I realized I had some grievous malady on my lower back that I didn’t recall before. I yelped in pain and when I pulled my hand back, I took a piece of skin with me.

At first, I thought it was just a weird scratch. Maybe I scratched a back zit or something.  And so I did what any normal person would do. I stood up and tried to take a picture of it so I could see what was going on.

I reached back, tenderly sliding my hand  along my lower back for fear that I would brush against the cut too hard. I quickly realized that this cut was not on my lower back, but instead on my upper left butt cheek.

How the fuck did I cut my butt?

So there I was with my pants around my knees and my underwear pulled down  under my ass, trying to take a picture of my butt cheek to see what was the matter, when Brian appeared at the top of the stairs. He had heard me yelp a few times and figured I was trying to do something I shouldn’t with my injured back.

Oh, perfect. I need your help.

After nearly five years together, he has long since stopped asking what weird thing I’m doing and instead asks what happened or how can he help.

I told him I was trying to take a picture, and as he came closer, he noted the red spot on my back…by touching it. The bloodcurdling scream might have been overkill, but holy crap was that painful as fuck.

He jumped back, unaware of what was going on. I handed him my phone and told him to take a picture.

It looks like nothing. Definitely not like something that would produce such a visceral reaction.

Well, it hurts like a motherfucker. I can’t believe you just touched it with your nail like that.

“That wasn’t my nail. It was just my finger.” He rebutted. And then added, “It looks like skin is peeled away–”

I know. I got a piece of skin when I scratched my ass.

Did you have a blister? Could it be all allergic reaction from your jeans?

I had already considered my metal allergy, and knew it wasn’t that, but a blister totally sounded right. I thought about what I had done in the last day or two that could create a blister. Had I pinched myself sitting in a chair? On the toilet? Did I walk into something and cut myself recently?  Probably. What was it?  I couldn’t think of anything else…

Until it hit me.

Brian, it’s a BURN!

How did you burn your butt–

Heating pad.

OH!

Remember what I said about warning labels?

Apparently,  the warning label on a heating pad ain’t lyin’. For decades, I never believed the protective cover on a heating pad was necessary. I also didn’t believe the part where it says you shouldn’t lay on the heating pad. Or the part where it says you shouldn’t leave it on for more than 30 minutes. And especially not the part where it says you shouldn’t fall asleep with the heating pad.

Besides, the warning label faded off the heating pad years ago.

So now, I have a burned ass and I can’t heat my lower back until it’s better. At least I can laugh about it, because how many people do you know that would burn their butts with a heating pad?

Have you ever burned yourself with a normal household item? Do you follow or ignore warning labels? 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

And This is How Many Times I Injured Myself This Weekend…

This is how many times I injured myself this weeknd

On Saturday morning, I attempted to finish clearing the dead crap from my heavily landscaped yard, a task I had begun upon arriving home the night before (while wearing a damn dress, no less). Dirt, mud and pollen threatened to swallow my hands whole. The purple paint on my freshly manicured, middle fingernail chipped. A light scratch here, a plant-burn there. Is plant burn a thing? Because it should be. Similar to rug burn, only from pulling dead grasses, plants and other things from your garden/lawn. I had zero desire to rip up the rest of my hands.

Illinois prairie grass is a bitch. And look how cute that shit starts out.

Illinois prairie grass is a bitch. And look how cute that shit starts out.

At the hardware store, after eating a bag of free popcorn and grabbing a pair of gloves to protect my accident-prone hands, I found a single package with three cutting tools nestled under a plastic cover, attached to a cardboard back with staples. What a convenient little set for cutting. I have plans to cut more things today. THIS. Is what I need.

I stood patiently, waiting for my turn at the register, and as I dug through my purse hunting for my debit card (yeah, I’m the annoying bitch with the purse full of receipts and other shit I don’t need, while my debit card lies somewhere near the bottom…), I remembered throwing that fucker in my shopping bag at the farmer’s market earlier that morning. Panic set in as the cashier began ringing my stuff up. Balls! I don’t have any money to pay for this shit.

Like an asshole, I mumbled apologies, asking the cashier to PLEASE hold my purchase for 20 minutes as I went home to find my card. I retraced my steps, and tried to remember what I had done with my card, and if it was, in fact, still in my grocery bag. Once inside my car, I realized that the card was actually in the pocket of my sweatshirt, and returned to the store less than a minute later, with red cheeks and a sheepish grin. I feared they thought I was lying.

When I left the store, my arms were full of items I needed and didn’t need all at the same time. I stacked them in the car, and continued on my original mission. I walked with purpose to the backyard of my parents’ house, where a pair of green Adirondacks and matching footstools awaited my rescue. They were battered from several cold winters and bright summers spent outdoors, and so I wiped them down before trying to maneuver them into my car.

After they were cleaned (and I use the term “cleaned” loosely as the abandoned spider egg sacs were removed and the thick coat of dirt and leaves became a thin layer of dusty grime that was going to take more than a quick wipe down to eradicate), I awkwardly carried the first chair to my car. The uneven weight distributed uncomfortably in my arms as I knocked into each bush and tree branch along the path.

My first attempt was to slide the chair into the backseat of my Yaris, but the width of the chair in any direction was too much for my tiny back door. After unsuccessfully trying to push the Adirondack into the trunk, I only had one other option. I opened the passenger door and began bargaining with the car and the chair, promising car washes and a new home respectively.

After a few minutes, I was able to ease the chair into the front, with the back of the seat leaning as far down as possible and the Adirondack appeared massive in my subcompact sedan. And then it was time to repeat the process. I pushed and tugged and arranged the two chairs so that I could just barely make my way home in the car. Each time I shifted gears, I had to lift the chairs to move the handle. I was forced to sit on the left side of my own seat with the chairs digging into my right arm, as I held the seatbelt across my body with my right hand. Thank God my parents only live a few minutes from my house. I prayed every second of those several minutes that a cop didn’t pull me over.

bushes in the front of our house

As I pulled into the driveway, I admired the blooming bushes and flowers that spotted our front yard and made me wish I had inherited my mother’s green thumb instead of a clumsy, fall-over-everything, try-desperately-to-keep-plants-alive disposition. I removed the chairs with little effort, carting them to the backyard, one at a time.

Don't they look adorable on our deck?

Don’t they look adorable on our deck? Even with the dusty grime…

I prepared to resume my original mission to clean up last season’s dried stems and grasses to make way for the budding greenery in our yard. As I pulled out the gloves, I noticed they were attached to their packaging with a staple. I tried, unsuccessfully to remove it with my thumbnail, puncturing a small corner of the once-perfectly polished digit.

In an effort to preserve the rest of my fingers, I looked around for something to remove the fucking staple. The package of clippers and sheers seemed the logical (and laziest) way to solve my problem. As I attempted to delicately – wait for it – pry the staples off the plastic and cardboard packaging, I felt the sharp sting of my finger receiving yet another gash from a single staple. That motherfucker bit me.

Fuck that shit. I ripped the packaging to shreds with Hulk force, feeling the quick whip of a rogue staple whiz past my left ear on its way to the other side of the garage. At that point, all I could think was Welp. That could have been worse.

Once unlocked from the 27 staples, the small clippers acted as a pair of pliers to remove the remaining fucking staples that were causing so much agony. Who the fuck thought it would be fun and/or intelligent to staple plastic gloves together?

Once the seemingly harmless task of unpackaging my new garden toys was finished, I made my way to the bathroom in search of Disney BandAids and Neosporin. I dressed my wound, and gloved my hand so I could finally work on the beautification of our yard.

Several hours after clipping and shearing and pulling and tugging, I was just about finished. I heard the rustle of someone behind me, and I knew that Brian was actually awake.

“I was going to help.”

“I know.”


 

I wish I could end there with a few finger scratches and chipped nails…

Later that night, I felt intense bolts of pain shooting from my wrist when I rotated or pressed on it in certain ways. The pulling and tugging and throwing of the fucking dead grasses and shit was apparently a little rough on my arthritic wrists (which have actually built up a lot of strength thanks to yoga – alas, I’m not invincible). So I couldn’t hold my phone to fuck around on Facebook during the hour drive home from the North Side.

So by Sunday, my fingers were cut up, my nails were broken, my wrist was strained or something…and I’m not done yet.

WARNING: PAINFUL IMAGE DEPICTED BELOW.

A friend stopped by to donate a futon to our guest bedroom, and I went outside to help carry the pieces in. As we walked, three of us carrying the large mattress not unlike my awkward carting of Adirondack chairs the day before…when I tripped over my own bare toe. Why I thought carrying shit barefoot was a good idea ever at all…I’ll never know. But the image of the dirt-covered, bleeding, very large gash of lifted skin from the top of my toe with a giant flap where my toenail met the toe was nothing compared to the searing pain I’ve been in since it happened. My nail is pretty much digging into the raw cut, and I’m terrified of going near it with clippers, as the entire fucking toe is throbbing with pain. I figure I’ll be walking with a limp until June. So much for that spring pedi I was planning on getting myself.

Toe jam

This is my Flinstoe. Wrapped up in a lot of gauze and tape.

 

Blog Friends, what gardening/landscaping woes have you encountered this spring? Any recent injuries or mishaps? Got any tips for me so I don’t kill everything in our yard before we’ve been in our house a year? Am I the only one who finds staples to be among the most dangerous of packing materials?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Ow!

It’s really no big secret that I injure myself…A lot. Like that time I walked head first into a pole…or tripped over an invisible wire…or sprained my knee while skiing, walking, getting ice…And many other heartwarming tales of pain and unintentional self-abuse.

Accident prone and injuries - yelling ow!

What “Ow!” sounds like to Brian, according to me:

Mostly, “Ow!” sounds a lot like a trivia game, with a series of questions and multiple choice answers and really, none of them are probably correct, because all of them are correct in a sort of, but not really way…and regardless, the “ow!” ends in pain for someone (usually me) which doesn’t really make anyone feel good about life…or the clumsy existence that belongs solely to me.

OW!

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled life programming because your girlfriend has injured herself again. Do you

  1. Ignore it?
  2. Wait for uncontrollable sobbing?
  3. Pause, and wait for a slew of “Shit, damn motherfucking, hate whatever just injured me this time” cursing
  4. Race immediately to the aid of your damsel in distress for the umpteenth time because she did one or all of the following in a matter of 12 hours?
    1. Burned her hand because she touched the hot crock pot
    2. Knocked her head while trying to store stuff under the stairs in the basement
    3. Dropped a santoku knife on her toe while cutting cheese
    4. Discovers yet another mystery bruise or cut or both

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming. Though someone may have lost a little blood. I recommend chocolate.

Obviously, Brian is a gentleman. And just like a parent can tell the difference between a baby’s cries, Brian can tell the difference between most of my shouts of terror and/or pain. Usually.

And yes, all of those little…accidents…happened between Friday night and Saturday afternoon. And yes, I did slice the ever living baby cheeses out of my toe with the brand new fancy pants Pampered Chef santoku knife. And yes, Brian did come bandage me up.

He also came running when I was trying to hide the 4 laundry baskets full of dirty laundry (we FINALLY have a washer and dryer, so laundry is now done) under the stairs so people couldn’t see them.

I’m not sure he knew I burned my hand on the crock pot, and quite frankly, that’s okay in my book. He already thinks I hurt myself too much and too often…

I also found a mystery bruise on my inner forearm – no IDEA how THAT happened. It was like a few weeks ago when I found a foot-long cut on my leg and couldn’t figure out for the life of me where it came from. And seriously. Who has a FOOT-LONG cut that they don’t remember getting? Me. That’s who. And actually, on Sunday, I also discovered a mystery slice on my thumb that may have also come from that very dangerous santoku knife.

Blog Friends, do you have a tendency to injure yourself on the regular? What’s the most recent random injury that you’ve encountered? Do you ever get mystery scars or bruises?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Dr. Travis Stork, Will You Marry Me? Errr… My Interview With The Doctor…

So…I wanted to make a video reenacting the interview with Dr. McDreamy, as performed by Brian…but he said no. Or I didn’t ask him and dreamed it all up in my head. One of those.

Instead, I’ll give you the highlights. And the interview. And pictures. Because that’s what I do.

Also, I suppose I should restart by telling you what the hell I’m talking about.

At BlogHer (oh yes. That again. You thought I was done…silly humans blog friends) I was offered the opportunity to interview delicious respectable celebrity doctor, Dr. Travis Stork of The Doctors. Some of you may know him from The Bachelor in Paris (I’m not going to lie, I don’t actually watch reality TV but I can see why they chose him as The Bachelor. He’s pretty. Smart.)

I began the day by sitting in on the first half of his panel about health and wellness, presented by Simply Saline (the very kind sponsors who offered me the opportunity to interview Dr. Stork). During this time, much like a high school student completing their homework for 6th hour in 1st hour, I wrote up my questions for the interview scheduled for that afternoon. The following is what resulted (None of these are direct quotes…there is some author interpretation/liberties).

I did tell him I was a humor blogger…and that things would be a little more..well me…hopefully he’s cool with my…memory.

Me: In your panel, which I only saw half of before I snuck out to explore the expo floor  you spoke about the importance of prevention. How can someone with a penchant for falling down, sprains, etc prevent injuries?

Dr. Stork: Footwear. What kind of shoes are you wearing?

Me: My shoes rock. They have arch support and everything!

Dr. Stork: Even those can catch and make you trip. You’ve got to watch where you’re walking. Railings are there for a reason.  They joke about people not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time? That’s almost true. You’ve got to focus.

Me: My mom says that to me all the time. She loves you by the way. She wanted me to marry you.

Dr. Stork: Ignoring the last comment Aw well, tell your mom I say hi. Also, clothing. If you wear loose clothing, you can get caught up in it and that can make you fall.

Me: So you’re saying I should wear tighter clothes?

Dr. Stork: laughs Yeah, I guess so.

Me:  When it comes to cuts, burns, and other kitchen injuries, what are some fast responses that can help minimize the injuries?

Dr. Stork: Cool water for both. It will soothe a burn and clean a cut. Most importantly, though, pay attention when you’re cooking.

Me: What are your thoughts on wheelie sneaks?

Dr. Stork: On what?

Me: Wheelie. Sneaks. You know? Sneakers with wheels on the bottom?

Dr. Stork: Oh like the kids shoes?

Me: And grown ups…

Dr. Stork: For you?!? Didn’t you just mention you fall down a lot?

Me: Maybe. giggle (This is where I casually touched his chest. Like it wasn’t planned or anything. Yes, that’s right. I touched his chest. Sorry Brian. )

Dr. Stork: Well I guess focusing is the biggest thing. And practice. And wearing a helmet.

Me: I practice at the grocery store, while holding onto the cart.

Dr. Stork: That doesn’t sound like the best idea for you…

Me: My mom says the same thing.

Dr. Stork: OK, I’ll make a deal with you. You can use the wheelie sneaks if you PROMISE to wear a helmet. You can tell your mom, when you fall down and hurt yourself, but don’t get a head injury, that I said it was okay and I’m the reason that you’re alive.

Me: Hmmm…

Dr. Stork: I’m serious. If I see you in the grocery store, you better be wearing a helmet.

Me: If you see me in the grocery store and say hi, I will ALWAYS wear a helmet.

Dr. Stork: Deal.

Me: Okay. SO I asked my readers for suggestions on what to ask you…and the questions they came up with were so inappropriate I couldn’t even say them out loud to you.

Dr. Stork: laughing I plead the fifth!

Me: Don’t worry, this is the only one I could share (THANKS A LOT YOU GUYS!) What pushed you into being a celebrity doctor?

Dr. Stork: I was at a bar after work, the network sat down with us, bought some drinks. A month later I was in Paris.

Me: Alrighty then.

The lady in charge: Time’s up.

Me: Two more questions!

The lady in charge: FAST.

Me: Trick question: Is there such a thing as too much cheese?

Dr. Stork: No?

Me: Good answer (You hear that?! A doctor said cheese is good for me!) Favorite unhealthy snack. Go.

Dr. Stork: Cheese. I mean brownies.

Then he hugged me.

Dr. Travis Stork Humor Interview

Aren’t we the cutest couple ever?

So there you have it kids. He told me to pay attention and focus…apparently that’s how it’s done.

How’d I do in my first serious journalist interview with someone moderately famous? At least this time I didn’t make a complete ass of myself (unlike that one time with Jenny Lawson). Right? Right.

I was not compensated to write this post. I was given a goodie bag of products and granted the time to interview Dr. Stork.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How I Almost Died During My Daily Commute. Or How I Was Attacked By Another Inanimate Object.

So yesterday, I was racing to the train (speed walking, not running, mind you) and as per my usual, I was preoccupied with something other than putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, I read (but I had just finished The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor), and sometimes, I check my e-mail, g-chat, Skype, Twitter, Facebook, etc etc. Yesterday was no different.

I checked my e-mail to discover that YES! I had gotten a reservation to tour the Vienna Beef Hot Dog Factory…in September…of 2016.

That’s right, kids. A THREE YEAR WAITING LIST.

I obviously had to Skype my co-workers to bask in the glory of this accomplishment. Because…I mean…right?

So, as we’re messaging about this joyful thing, and I’m telling them that I may do a giveaway in 3 years (long term planning, y’all!) for 1-2 of the available spots in my tour group, when out of absolutely NOWHERE, this gigantic pole jumps up and slams into me.

My glasses went flying. The fact that I was just attacked registers. And 3 of the 500 people walking past me ask if I’m okay.

My response?

“Yep. I was just WAITING for that to happen.”

I mean… WHO SAYS THAT?

Of course, I immediately thought back to my interview with Dr. Stork, in which he told me that most people really can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.

Touche, Doctor. Touche.

I made it to the train with 3 minutes to spare. The people in the seats next to us were eating Chinese food and it smelled SO. Bad. I was nauseated. And tired. And probably had a mild concussion.

Brian was really nice to me (not that he isn’t usually, but he was even NICER. I know this because he bought me a GIGANTIC pack of Disney Halloween stickers that are going to get put on all outbound communication until October 31. Who wants a Halloween card?! I’m sending them out to the first 10 people who request one. Ready. Set. Go.)

OK, so seriously, though…I think Brian was worried. Because I barely talked all night. And I didn’t eat dinner. Which is weird for me. And probably really unhealthy, considering the only thing I ate all day yesterday was a lot of taco dip, some cake and trail mix. But I’m feeling better. And the giant bump on my head? It’s gone down some over night.

I walked into a pole

Ow.

 

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Bought Cool Mickey Band Aids When We Went To Disney World…And Then I Used Them All…

Brian: I got you something.

Me: Oh yeah?

Brian: It’s smaller than a bread box.

(I look in the bag expecting Peeps or Cadbury Cream Eggs or Cadbury Mini Eggs or jellybeans.)

Me: *Squeal*

Mickey Mouse Band Aids

Me: I ran out of these when we were in Florida!

Brian: Wait, you had these?

Me: Duh. (I look at the side package.) No! OMG THESE ARE WAY BETTER.

Mickey Mouse Band Aids

Brian: WOAH. I have to take them back. There’s some serious Mickey abuse going on. I didn’t see that in the store.

Me: No! It’s just a love pat. Look! They’re kissing! And it’s pink!

Brian: Abuse. That’s horrible.

Me: LOVE. Tap. (I pet his cheek and shout “Smack!”) See. Love.

Brian: Now don’t go hurting yourself on purpose to wear these.

Me: *Silence*

Brian: If you want to wear one, you can just put it on. You don’t need any real injuries. OK?

Me: What should I chop for dinner?

Brian: I don’t know…HEY! WAIT A MINUTE!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Monday Memories: Because Polish Girls Have Some Crazy Arm Hair…

Today, thanks to Lily from It’s a Dome Life, our Monday Memory is all about Beauty Gone Painful. I’ve already told you about that one time I accidentally cut a giant bald spot in my hair (Seriously, go read that) And there was the time that I was visiting my aunt and we took some SERIOUS glamour shots…This one is all about unpleasant hair.

I’m Polish. (And Irish. And English. And German. And Jewish-ish. And probably a little bit Scottish.)

So regardless of the blond hair as a child, the brownish hair speckled with gray hiding under the red dye, I have some black as black can be arm hair. Or I would if I didn’t shave it all off weekly.

Yep. I shave my arm hair. But long before I thought to just…you know…shave it all off…my little sister and I invested in NADS Australian no-heat wax. With money from my grandfather.

We thought that it would be an excellent way to get rid of that pesky arm hair. And so we lathered ourselves up, and let that shit dry. The we let-er-rip. Holy fucking crap, did that shit hurt. It was like trying to get gum out of your hair and pulling your hair and stabbing your skin and burning your skin (no-heat wax or not) all at once. And it didn’t even do a good job. So what did we do? We tried our legs. And that didn’t work at all because apparently your hair has to be ridiculously long for it to work.

The lesson? Even if it leaves the occasional need for Mickey Mouse Band-Aids…Bust out the razor.

Band-Aids

Check out my Monday Memory partners in crime, as they tell you all about their beauty mishaps!

Monday Memories
Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Monday Memories: I Injure Myself More Than Anyone I Know

Obviously. If you’ve been here more than once, you’ve probably read one of my tales in which I’ve fallen down. Maybe it was that one time I went skiing, or the motherfucking strawberry, or the time I climbed a mountain, or when I wanted to be JUST. LIKE. Kerri Strug, or the hematoma death stairs, or how many times I hurt myself on vacation a few weeks ago, or even a collection of my favorite injury stories…you get the idea. I’m kind of a walking disaster.

That being said, today is the wonderful day in which we talk about memories! Monday Memories to Make You Laugh. I’ve teamed up with the ladies of It’s a Dome Life and First Time Mom and Dad to bring you some of our favorite memories. Today’s topic is INJURIES.

My First Big Injury AKA Why I’m Afraid of Monkey Bars

I was about 7 or 8 years old, and one of the biggest pains in the ass in the history of ever. One of mom’s friends was babysitting us, while she worked a relatively short shift at the bar (4 hours or so). We went to a park nearby, and 4 of us kids were having a great time. I was fearless. Crossing the monkey bars, like a boss.

Until I fell.

Like a boss.

APPARENTLY, even though those wood chip playgrounds LOOK safe enough, underneath a half inch of wood chips was fucking concrete. My arm went down rather unnaturally, and I screamed bloody murder. I could have sworn it was broken.

Of course, being 7 or 8, and having always wanted crutches or a cast (I know, the irony right?), I was hoping for a hot pink cast that all of my friends could sign. It would have been…cool. So we went back to the house and waited for mom. She picked my brother and I up, and we went straight to the doctor.

My pediatrician was seriously fucking old. She was old when she was MY MOM’S pediatrician…so those were some cold freakin’ hands. I thought she was lying when she said it wasn’t broken. I could feel the hot searing pain under those freezing hands. I knew what was going on.

Nope, just a sprain. We were told to get a sling, and I would have to wear that while my arm healed.

And Now the Part in Which I Was an Asshole

I know, I bragged last week about how my parents worked extra hard so that we weren’t little assholes. But hey, nobody’s perfect and that includes me. I had my moments. This was one of them.

After accepting the fact that I would not be sporting an awesome hot pink cast on my arm, I accepted (sort of) the fact that I would be wearing a sling. I envisioned a blue one, like everyone else who hurt their arms had. It wasn’t a cast, but it was the next best thing.

But Kmart only had GRAY slings. Ugly. Boring. Medical grade. GRAY. Being the fashion genius that I was, I refused to wear it.

90's fashion victim

Yep, stretch pants and my mom’s sweater. I was SO cool. NOT.

Mom used her mad artist skills to paint flowers on it, to make it pretty. And still, I wanted nothing to do with it. I was setting myself up for a world of disappointment when it came to injuries. While I would OFTEN find myself becoming a pro at crutches (remembering with disdain, the days we would play with the other kids crutches and wish for them ourselves), I never did get a sweet cast that my friends could sign. And I’m pretty sure that because I was a little asshole and didn’t rest my shit when it was hurt, I now have arthritis and carpal tunnel in my wrist.

injury prone

And BTW, this shit hurts like a bitch today.

Go visit my memory writing friends today!

Monday Memories

If you want to participate in Monday Memories to Make You Laugh, send an e-mail to QuirkyChrissy@gmail.com. Next week’s topic is going to be love.

Oh! And if you like me, you should click the fence to vote for me!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Get Drunk and Hug Inanimate Dolphins in Tuxedoes and Other Sordid Tales

The Dolphin

For some reason, there are random dolphin statues all over Marco Island. Last year, I got drunk on fruity cocktails, and hugged this guy:

Dolphin statues

Dolphin statues

Hugging dolphins

This year was no different.

dolphin love dolphin love dolphin love dolphin love

Of course, a lot more than drunken dolphin hugging happened…

I Hate TSA

If you remember from our trip to Disney World last September, with the drama of the skunk (actually, go read that. Right. Fucking. Now. Because it’s an awesome story. I’ll wait.) I have a packing problem. Not that I pack too much, but that it takes me a really fucking long time to pack things properly…And then TSA fucks it all up. So after I spent hours packing for Marco, I wrote TSA a little note.

A Letter to TSA

A Letter to TSA And you’ll never guess whose suitcase they checked this time…Brian’s! I think that they opened mine, and though Fuck That…we’ll open the other one. SUCCESS!

The Injuries

It wouldn’t be a Chrissy trip if injuries weren’t involved. Yes, I managed to carve several gashes into both of my feet, slit my wrist, slice up my hand, burn random designs into my body, and die of dysentery a la The Oregon Trail because I couldn’t carry the whole buffalo back to my covered wagon. OK, maybe not that last one. But I did tame a giant albino boa constrictor with my bare hands. (That one may be a bit of an exaggeration.)

OK, so the gashes (at least 5 in each foot) may or may not have come from the beachy shells stuck in my pink Walmart water shoes that have braved rivers, lakes, and oceans…Apparently when you let the ocean wash into your shoes, you shouldn’t walk like 5 miles in them. Just a word of advice…

 

Gashes on my feet

Ignore the Polish cankles and the Flintstoes (Flintstone toes) for just a minute to admire the colorful bandaids…More cuts ensued…It was not fun.

And the slicing up of my hand…Apparently you shouldn’t put your hand under water in the ocean feeling around for shells. One just might bite you.  Or three…

Stupid injuries

Slitting my wrist? I think that wine glass tried to kill me! I was drying the wine glasses when I must have been drying a little too hard. The next thing I know, I’ve got a stem in one hand and a foot in the other…and the wrist near the foot of the glass is gushing blood from the broken stem jabbing mighty hard into my wrist.

Cut wrist with a wine glass

I had a picture of the cut itself, which is ugly as fuck, but I decided not to do that to you guys. Do you like my Mickey band-aids?

This is how to properly burn one’s self in the most random designs imaginable. Let the water of the ocean rush all up in your leg business and forget to reapply the sunscreen.

Ridiculous sunburn Ridiculous sunburn

Braving the “Wild” Animals in the Everglades (ish)

I was bullied. Seriously bullied into a snake around my neck. And an alligator in my hands. You can see the fear in my eyes.

Wild animals at skunk ape research facility

He protects me from beasts.

Wild animals at skunk ape research facility

I was bullied into wearing this snake like a scarf. Brian kept saying they felt like good boots.

Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility Wild animals at skunk ape research facility

Wild animals at skunk ape research facility

He liked me…

In Which I Said “Hi” From the Beach During My Sand Dollar Hunt

I had been out since 7 AM (sunrise), but I took a break from sand dollar hunting to say hello to my blog friends! Also, I feel goofy on video.

In total, I found about 50 sand dollars that I brought home with me. Some cracked along the way, but holy crap. They call it sand dollar spit for a reason.

Sand dollar hunt Sand dollar hunt Sand dollar hunt

In Which I Promoted Quirky Chrissy

Quirky Chrissy at the beach

Want more Chrissy? I wrote a Top 10 List over on my side blog…The Top 10 Most Frustrating Book Characters.

I missed you, guys. Even though I was off social media for 6 days, I thought about you! What did you do while I was gone, blog friends?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Wordless Wednesday: Not That You’ll Be Surprised…

injury prone accident prone wrist accident prone wrist

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!