Wedding Comeuppance is Upon Me

You guys. I’m a little concerned. With my pending nuptials coming up faster than I can say September 16, I’m starting to realize that this is time for a little payback. From my friends and family.

14 things that people are going to do at my wedding

You see, it may surprise you, but I’m not always the most well-behaved wedding guest on the block. I’ve done my fair share of things that brides don’t just forget. And now I see that my comeuppance is surely upon me. Here are a few things that could happen that wouldn’t surprise me…but may irritate Brian to no end.

Someone or 30 someones aren’t going to RSVP. I’m going to have to hunt them down via text, email, or gasp an actual phone call. Bonus points if it’s a member of my bridal party.

Someone’s going to make hilarious commentary through the ceremony. I’m sorry it’s not in a church, MOM.

Chrissy and Three makin' jokes

Someone’s going to injure themselves. It just wouldn’t be right if someone doesn’t fall down, scrape their knee, ruin their tights, and possibly twist their ankle. Bonus points if it’s me.

Someone is going to bring their own booze. I mean, we’re having bombass open bar, AND allowing people to bring drinks to the ceremony, but you never know who’s going to decide they need a magnum size bottle of white zin by their side…bonus points if it’s a member of the bridal party…

Bottles of wine

Honestly, guys, learn from my mistakes. Bring a twist off bottle.

Someone’s going to bring an embarrassing date. Who complains about the bar and says something on the wedding video like, “I’m  sorry.” when asked to give a message to the bride and groom.

Someone’s going to convince my dad to buy him or her a bottle of wine. Bonus points if it’s a member of the bridal party.

Quirky Chrissy's dad

It’s really hard for this guy to say no to a pretty face.

Someone’s going to eat all the passed hors d’oeuvres. But if they know what’s good for them, they’ll save me a bacon wrapped date.

Someone’s going to get stupid drunk. Okay…probably a lot of someones. Bonus points if it’s before dinner.

Someone’s going to talk loudly through the speeches. A word to the wise, my matron of honor doesn’t fuck around, and her speech will probably be brilliant. And she might hit you over the head with a Corona bottle if you talk when she’s talking.

Someone’s going to stack a bunch of glassware on their table as a point of pride. I’m actually looking forward to the leaning tower of glassware part deux, you guys.

Someone’s going to steal glassware. Or centerpieces. Or the wine key from the bartender. I can’t be the only one who went through a klepto phase…

Someone’s going to spill wine on me. Or ice cream. Or a plate full of food. Bonus points if it’s one of the servers.

Someone’s going to take their bra off. In the reception room. In front of Brian’s dad. Bonus points if it’s a member of the bridal party.

Someone’s going to be a bouquetzilla. I mean, someone needs to take my place. I’m leaving an empty hole in the universe, here.

catching the bouquet

Yes. That’s me.

Triple secret bonus points if one person manages to accomplish all or most of these things for this one wedding. Pookie, I’m looking at you.

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!

Martini Glasses Are Fucking Useless

Martini Glasses

I have a martini glass collection. It started as a joke in my early twenties, after I broke every single martini glass at the bar my family owned. I had an affinity for cosmopolitans (thanks in part to my Sex and the City addiction), and my body had an affinity for falling down and breaking shit. It was a match made in broken glass heaven.

After I broke all three martini glasses at our shot and a beer joint, I was no longer allowed to possess a martini glass in my hand at the bar. (Of course they replaced the ones I broke). At the time, my little brother was the bar manager. Every time he trained a new bartender, I’d sit on the patron side and test their mad skill. I’d teach them how to make a cosmopolitan. And then I’d giggle profusely, making them question my educational abilities. I’d grin at my brother, lift my glass and clink his imaginary glass in celebration. And then I’d take a big swig of that delicious vodka delight. And giggle some more.

He’d run over and tell the nervous bartender that I could drink cosmos all I want, but they weren’t allowed in martini glasses if they were being handed to me. I was banished from those ridiculous and easily breakable glasses.

So of course, my best friend Mark thought it would be funny to buy me a pair of martini glasses for Christmas.

They lived in my car for a few weeks before I finally, not-so-ironically broke one and took the other inside into my house. It sat on a lonely shelf in my bedroom for a few months. For
my birthday that year, I received one of those fancy pants Lolita martini glasses. I thought it was the greatest fucking thing ever. I was an idiot.

I decided that I would start a martini glass collection, and made it my business to find Lolita glasses on clearance to cheaply add to my collection.

Almost a decade later, I’m now the proud owner of a shelvy thingy full of useless. Fucking. Martini glasses.martini glass collection

You may remember we recently bought a house. I have a place to store and display those fancy fucking martini glasses. Except for the one I broke while I was unpacking them.

What you may not know is that I volunteered to host Christmas for 30-40 people this year. And that I’ve already hosted a couple of large gatherings. And you know what? No one drinks fucking martinis at house parties. They drink beer. And wine. And other shit.

Last week, after Thanksgiving with Brian’s family, I realized that if I’m hosting Christmas, I’m going to need cordial glasses for Bailey’s. And rocks glasses for Manhattans. And snifters for brandy or something.

So I called my mom, who was sleeping. Dad answered, so I asked him, “How many cordial glasses do you have?”

“Four?”

Oh God.

Okay.

When I cleared out the bar after we went out of business, I never thought to grab ALL the glassware. I took shot glasses and stupid shit…like a CASE of fucking martini glasses.  A case. A whole fucking case.

And now I’m a grown up who has to buy cordial glasses and rocks glasses, but has a fucking armory of martini and shot glasses.

So me and martini glasses? Not friends. Even though I have a collection of them hanging out in our dining room.

Do you have an unplanned collection of anything? What do you collect? Have you ever broken a martini glass? Do you think martini glasses are stupid & useless, too?

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!

If We’re Going to Die, I Want to be Covered in Cheese.

Driving along the coast, just north or south of San Francisco is terrifying and breathtaking in the same moment. The varying drops off the side of the mountainous roads are steep. And I have a thing with vertigo and windy (as in wind a clock, not wind and sea; although I suppose that fits, as well) roads. But it’s also beautiful. The fog rolling in creates this amazing visual that is hard to describe and even harder to capture.

image

On our way up the California coast from San Francisco to Sonoma Valley, we took a long and curvy road up into the mountains (well, they looked like mountains to this Great Plains girl), & I was more than a little terrified. Brian was driving through the curves as if he had been doing it all his life (I suppose that’s the Irish coming out), when he told me that in Ireland, the hill roads were the same…ONLY NARROWER.

Um. I’m never going to Ireland. (I’m lying.)

We stopped when we discovered a space to pull off the road and snap a few pics for you. It was harder to do than I thought. The fog isn’t very accommodating in the world of photography. But I tried. For you.

image
Brian LOVES the mountains and the fog and the cool weather. (There’s that Irish thing again.)

image
I wasn’t terrified at this stop. It was quite neat, actually.

On our way down to San Jose, on the other hand…I freaked out a little when we stopped. And wouldn’t get out of the car.

So driving out of Sonoma, we took a seriously scenic route. We rolled down through San Francisco, and further into the woods. We thought we’d check out a state park south of San Jose. In that time, we ALMOST ran out of gas, drove in a giant circle, and couldn’t find any flipping redwoods. It was like a horror flick waiting to happen. We had to pull up to some random worker dudes on the road and ask for the nearest gas station. With a rental car on E.

The gas station was a little dive in the middle of the forest and I feared for things like kidnapping and murder (I saw The Vanishing one too many times as a kid). After we filled up, we passed the same workers…coming from the same direction we had before. 40 minutes later. (See. Giant circle.)

And the we started climbing up the hills again. Beautiful and scary. Epic.
image

At one point, I was trying to take pictures out the window, and Brian offered to stop to get better images. I was all about it. Until we stopped and I was about to get out of the car. I was a bit nervous, and Brian cracked a joke about not falling…and then he volunteered to go take pictures for me. I let him. I looked out from the safety of the parked car while fearing that my boyfriend would fall down with the keys in his pocket and I would be stranded and panicking about Brian. I have a bad habit of imagining the worst case scenario for every situation.

California View

One of Brian’s snaps. Is that not absolutely stunning?

 

We had picked up snacks and sandwiches for a little picnic lunch in the forest, and it was getting late for me. The hangry was creeping up on me quite rapidly, so I pulled out the Tostitos Mild Salsa Con Queso and tortilla chips. Brian warned me to not spill the cheese (like I would EVER consciously waste cheese like that.) I told him that the only way this cheese was going to spill was “if we were to fly off one of these cliffs. And quite frankly, if we’re going to die, I’d want to be covered in cheese.”

He realized I made a fair point and promised not to drive off any cliffs.

We finally arrived at the entrance of the state park, enjoyed lunch and were on our way. By then, we were both too exhausted to hike through the forest, and I had a party to get to a few hours later. So we rolled out. Even still, the drive continued in a frightening pattern. Instead of just curvy roads, we were now encountering those one-car-width roads PLUS curves PLUS steep inclines and declines.

Oh! And CHRISTMAS TREES!

Christmas is coming...

Christmas is coming…

Have you been to northern California? Or just driven through scary hilly roads? What’s the scariest road trip you’ve taken? Do you imagine worst case scenarios?

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!

In Which Uncle Murphy Paid a Visit to the Girl Who Won’t Stop Bragging About Vacation…Which Starts Tomorrow.

And by Uncle Murphy, I mean the writer of Murphy’s Law. The bastard.

So yesterday, I started the morning with my usual dash to the train and had a few missteps. And once I passed those missteps, thought I was home free. So I Facebooked that shit. Because. You know…that’s what I do.

Crazy Commuter Morning


Note to self: Don’t post this shit on Facebook until the next day.

So I made it to the train; piece of cake. Stuff in tow. I sometimes get on the train on the back car and walk all the way to the front car. I like to be one of the first people off the train to avoid the Union Station cattle call. It’s a good thing. Usually.

As I made my way toward the front of the train, I started to unwrap the layers of warmth surrounding my body that were causing me to sweat. The train gets toasty when it’s full of people.

I sat down in the little vestibule like usual (So I don’t have to sit next to loud, annoying smelly people) and typed up my ordeal. As I started to re-layer up, I realized that my sweet Bears hat was missing. Somewhere between Car 137(this is a made up number FYI) and Car 1, I had dropped my warm and cozy hat. With a one-mile walk and a -20 degree windchill to look forward to. Awesome.

It’s okay, Christine (I call myself this, when I’m angry at self.) You’ve got the scarf and the face mask and the hood. It’s all going to be okay.

Winter 1: Chrissy 0

So I went on with my morning routine. Buttoned my coat, snapped my face mask, wrapped up my  sweet 12-foot scarf, slipped my glasses into my pocket and was on my way.

Doctor Who Scarf

Twelve glorious feet of scarf. More on that next week.

As I crossed the street just outside of Union Station, I slipped on a patch of ice. LUCKILY, I am a master of correcting myself so as not to fall. I know. I know. You’ve seen how many sweet spills I’ve taken. From spraining my ankle on a mountain to tripping over invisible wires to walking into No Parking signs…You can’t exactly call me Grace.

So I didn’t fall. Which is good, because if I had, I would have either A. face-planted into Adams street or B. gone backwards into the metal bridge dealie. But I screamed the obnoxious scream that usually scares the crap out of Brian.

Good work, Christine. You really sealed it with that one. It’s okay though. Let’s go find some breakfast.

I walked the cold walk to Pret, where I picked up a tasty little breakfast thingy with bacon (because all that matters is the bacon. Obvi.)

After Pret, it was only 3 blocks to the office, so I was almost there. I checked the time; things looked good.

We’re ready for the day. It won’t be that bad. You’ve got bacon. You can get a hat on your lunch break. Work’s going to fly by. And vacation is in 2 days. You can do it.

I stepped into my office building and started deconstructing my walk-wear. Because I was pretty blind when I walked (the face mask fogs up my glasses), one of the first things I did was pull out my glasses from my sweatpants pocket.

Well.

Part of my glasses anyways.

As I reached in to grab my specks, the motherfuckers cracked. Something about them being frozen and crackable made that the perfect moment to die.

“MOTHERFUCK!”

I’d like to tell you that I just thought that in my head. I really would.

But no. It came out in all it’s obnoxious glory. And the lovely security lady came to check on me, because I was visibly on the verge of a breakdown. She wanted to help. But she couldn’t. There was nothing anyone could do.

Glasses broke in half because of cold

FML. That’s about the end of that.

So I thanked her. And probably apologized, because I do that when I’m upset. And got into the elevator. Alone.

And then…I cried the ugly cry.

It started with a few Claire Danes sniffles and snorts, but then it went full-out bawling. I could NOT win this morning if I tried.

I crawled into my office, trying to hide my eyes, hoping that they were masked by the cold look everyone seemed to be wearing. I found the only secluded place I knew of in the open office and I just let it all out.

Eventually, I had one of my co-workers come rescue me and she even brought my SWEET work slippers. There’s something about sequined camo that makes the world seem just a little bit brighter.

Sequin Camo Slippers

I’m Polish, OK. So stop judging my holiday Minnie Mouse socks and camo slippers.

I was blind for the first half of my day, but picked up a set of contacts (after getting an unnecessary eye exam in order to get the free trial) and ordered some adorably sassy new specks. And then I remembered that vacation was only HOURS away now.

So here we are. 27 hours away from my flight outta this Frozen Tundra and after a week of vacation joy, I’m coming home to a new pair of specks, the Superbowl (Go Peyton! My LOVE!), the Olympics, house-hunting and so much more joy.

See, things can turn around for the better!

Have you ever had one of those days? Where you just can’t seem to catch a break? Tell me about it. No seriously, tell me about it.

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!

Going to the Gym is Like an Atheist Stepping into Church

And guys…I didn’t spontaneously combust. We went to the gym last night. After paying for a membership for several months and going less than once a month. We went back.

And I took a chance on zumba.

And despite the fact that I am in TERRIBLE shape.

Despite the fact that I have 2 bad ankles, 2 bad knees and 2 bad hip flexors.

Despite the fact that I was the chubbiest girl in the room.

Despite the fact that I could BARELY keep up with the skinny bitches.

I lasted the entire 60 minute class. And lived to consider going back.

Once I stopped staring at my stomach in the mirror and watching myself bounce around like a bowl of jello going on a joyride…I kind of caught on. And caught myself…Smiling. Exhausted. But smiling. It felt good!

(BTW, I hate it when I use my best line in the title. But I’m too lazy to change it and put something else up there. I feel like I let you guys down. Wait. I can make it up to you. Keep reading).

I did all of this crazy zumba-ing while injured! So on Wednesday when we were getting off the train, I slipped on the metal stair. The doors were still closed, the train was still moving, and if I hadn’t been holding on to the pole/railing/bar thingy for dear life, I would have fallen into the door, which would have opened, and I would have fallen out of a moving train to my klutzy death. But I WAS holding on, so none of that nonsense happened. Except that in holding on, I pulled every muscle from my wrist to my neck trying to rescue myself from a very embarrassing death.

Brian’s reaction?

Or should I call it, Brian’s lack of reaction?

“Did you hurt your ankle?”

“No”

“OK, good.”

He’s immune to my klutzy. I suppose that’s only natural when the word “ow!” comes out of my mouth more than any other single word.

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!

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!

Accident Prone

As I sit here with a cut on my right hand from God only knows what this afternoon, a gash on my left ring finger from this morning (when I was putting my shampoo back into the shower caddy and my razor jumped up and bit me), and a visible scar on my left thumb from cleaning the bathroom several weeks ago (and slicing my thumb open on a screw at the base of the toilet), I can’t help but back-track to all of the other ridiculous cuts/gashes/bruises that I’ve incurred over the course of my lifetime…

This is just a glimpse of a few of my idiot injuries.

Cooking a bagel–finger burn
Toasting an English muffin-hand burn
Cooking a frozen pizza–wrist burn
Opening a cereal box–paper cut
Walking down stairs–more injuries than I can count
 
The time when I was doing my civic duty, throwing away my trash after a movie. I tossed the drink cup into the garbage attached to the wall, and something bit me. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but something cut deep under my nail bed. So bad that it swelled up, bruised up, and I had to go to the doctor for antibiotics thanks to a raging infection. SUPER FUN.

One of my favorite “cutter” stories is from the start of junior year at Bradley. I had just officially moved into my college apartment, and I was waiting for my future boyfriend to arrive in town. I was having one of those really great days; you know the ones where you’re dancing around your apartment and doing all sorts of random cleaning/organizing because you’re actually motivated to do them?

So I was about ready to make some lunch, and I decided that I would have a turkey ham sandwich with cheese. I grabbed a steak knife to open the plastic packaging, and was having trouble when WHAM! I sliced into half of my finger. Luckily, Katie’s then boyfriend, Jim was arriving at the apartment, as I was panicking. He barely looked at it, but went off to CVS to pick up some medical supplies in order to handle my little situation.

Cletus showed up while Jim was at the pharmacy, learning everything he could from the pharmacist to ensure that I kept my entire finger in tact. When Cletus saw the blood soaking through all ten paper towels I had wrapped around my hand, he panicked. He told me that I should probably go to the hospital and get that shit handled. I had plans that night and I was NOT going to mess around with doctors and hospitals.

Jim returned with supplies and helpful tips from the local pharmacist, and he helped bandage me up. Welcome Week certainly started with a bang that year.

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