So I got a new ride.

Wanna see it?

I started back to work this week and to be honest, crutches are exhausting. So I found a harmless old man who rented me his knee scooter.

I don’t have a picture of me on it yet, but this is pretty much what I look like… only without the beard.

I figure now that I’m a little more mobile, that means I can do just about anything, right?

I’m sure you can feel the direction this is headed already.

I decided to go to the grocery store to pick up a few items. On my own. Because I can totally handle shit all by myself.

MAKE WAY! Independent bitch coming through.

I pull up to the grocery store, parked in a handicap parking stall (because I totally scored a temporary handicap parking pass!), and decided crutching my way in to the store would be easier than using the knee scooter – that way I could use the motorized shopping cart.

Did I mention I am totally doing this at the busiest time of day too?

I’ve found the trick to using a motorized shopping cart is to act like you don’t feel like a complete asshole and are not embarrassed what-so-ever. I may have been kicked out of high school drama club, but this is one role I was totally born to play.

Yep. I got my milk, q-tips, three gallon jug of water, and rotisserie chicken with my head held high! And I only ran into two other shopping carts and one small child. Which? Totally not my fault! They don’t exactly make those carts to stop on a dime, you know? Brat should have watched where I was going.

So I managed to successfully get four bags of groceries and a three gallon jug of water into my car, return the motorized cart, grab my crutches and hobble my ass back to the car. I’m a little sweaty, but overall feeling good about this little shopping accomplishment. Until it dawns on me, I have no way to get the groceries from the car into my house.

So I cried. Then I cussed. Then I cussed while crying. Then I called Karina the Russian and my sister Staci to see if either of them were available, which of course they weren’t. Something about having lives and children to take care of.

I decided I needed to make a decision. I could either continue to call everyone in my phone book for help, or I could grow a pair and figure out how to take care of it on my own.

Guess which one I chose.

I got home and through a combination of one legged wheeling and carrying grocery bags with my pinkie fingers so the others fingers could grasp the crutches, I was able to get them all inside.

Even though it took forever and I dropped things, I felt a little victorious. That is, until it dawned on me that I still needed to take the garbage cans to the curb.

By the time I got all of the food put away, cans to the curb, and made myself dinner, I was spent. Finished. Stick a fork in me cause I was done.

Looking back I’m not sure if I consider the whole experience a victory or not. Sure, I proved to myself that I am still an independent person and even though it’s harder and takes forever and my foot was totally throbbing by the time I finished, I was still able to take care of myself.

But at what cost? I didn’t have to have get groceries right then. I could have waited until a day when someone was available to help. I could have saved myself a whole lot of headache, frustration and bruised bananas if I wasn’t so damn stubborn.

Independence.

Is it totally overrated?

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Summer Anklegate, Story Time

One of my favorite nights in New York was surprisingly enough NOT the night I broke my foot.

It was the night before.

There was an art expo of sorts at one of the BlogHer parties where a woman was painting words on people at the party. I recognized the inspiration behind the writing instantly as the Everyone is Beautiful project that my blogging hero, Jenny the Bloggess, participated in. I also recognized that I had to be painted.

After waiting in a short line, the woman doing the painting asked me what I would like to have written on me. I wasn’t sure so she asked me to tell her a little bit about me.

“Well, I recently went through a really rough break-up, but, you know, I’m staying strong and…”

“That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“‘Staying strong.’ You just said it brilliantly. Where would you like it?”

“On my thigh.”

“You got it, sugar. I think that is perfect.”

I posed for several pictures taken with my camera, friends cameras and the BlogHer photographer’s camera.

Honestly, it was the perfect choice. I felt sexy. I felt strong. And the best part was, when I finally put down my skirt and stopped posing for pictures, I felt as though I had a powerful secret with me for the rest of the night.

My friends, on the other hand, being the extroverts that they are, chose to wear their writings in more of an in your face way.

I don’t talk about this often, in fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever addressed this directly on my blog, but I have anxiety attacks. Not in the debilitating day to day sort of way, more in the put me in a large group of strangers – especially men – and I will feel like I am going to have a heart attack sort of way.  Which is why I love these two bitches even more.

Their writing helped detract attention away from me.

Did I still have an anxiety attacks? Several. Was I medicated? You bet your ass I was. Did I strike up any conversations with actual New Yorkers? Not one.

But what is really importantly to note here is not that I have anxiety, but that I still had one of the funnest nights ever in spite of it. In fact, the next morning, as the three of sat for breakfast lunch – completely hung over and still with writing on various parts of our bodies – we looked around the room and agreed that no one else at the conference could possibly be having as much fun as we were.

How’s that for staying strong?

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Summer BlogHer10, Out and About, Vacations

Picture this for me if you will, I hobble into the main entrance of the downtown two story evil empire known as Walmart, late on a Monday night. Of course it is crowded even though it is well after 10:00pm. Following close behind me is Karina the Russian and her two overly tired children. All of the motorized shopping carts are currently being used  by other invalids or teens looking for a cheap thrill, so our only option is to use a creaky wheelchair. We hide my crutches behind the glowing Coca-Cola machine and set out for a shopping adventure.

The youngest Russian child, Pasha, is looking overwhelmed so I tell her to come sit on my lap. Her disheveled hair is giving my disheveled hair a run for it’s money. We are both in pajamas and look like the princess-zombies of the apocalypse. Since we need someone to push our blue craptastic chariot – that someone being Karina – that leaves the older Russian child, Dimitri,who is a mere six years old, left to push the shopping cart.

This shopping outing was to buy enough groceries to fill my new house, which until this point consisted of martini olives in the fridge, so you can imagine, we had a long way to go. As our zombie-princess-wheelchair-voluptuous Russian-child-labor entourage weaved up and down each isle collecting the essentials of bread, frozen skillets, frozen pizzas, frozen waffles, bananas, coffee and ant killer the cart became heavier and heavier.

Poor Dimitri, who can’t even see over the top of the cart, had to put all of his weight into each turn and kept running into the back of Karina with the cart. I’m sure it had to have hurt like hell, but Karina stayed surprisingly calm, even after the fourth time of having her ankles rammed.

An hour later, our train made it’s way to the longest checkout line in history. Pasha kept climbing on and off of her princess perch. Dimitri kept bringing candy and toys from the check out isles that he “really needed” over to us. Karina and I couldn’t be bothered by his need to have M&M’s and new ear phones because we were too busy looking through an entire issue of Vogue magazine – the line was that long.

I paint this picture for you for two reasons. The first so that you can see how the mighty have fallen. From fancy cocktail parties and free concerts to being wheeled through a Walmart where a man in a stained wifebeater, dirty cut off shorts and a trucker hat was actually judging me. The second being that if you happen to come across my picture on The People of Walmart website, will you please let me know?

That’s one claim to fame I do not want to miss.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Summer Anklegate, K to the R stories

I’ve asked my parents the same questions at least four times now. They’ve explained to me that it’s a side effect from coming off of anesthesia – at least four times now. Somtimes I remember that I’ve asked the question before, I just can’t remember what the answers was so I ask it again. So, for the sake of my parents sanity, an update for my readers, and for me to look back on the next time I forget, here are the details from my surgery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had surgery to fix a ruptured ligament on my ankle, the ankle that I also broke and sprained on my 30th birthday in New York. The doctor has told me that the MRI pictures painted a pretty serious picture but that he was confidant they would be able to rebuild me so I agreed to become a bionic-Summer.

The surgery, which was supposed to take 45 minutes to one hour, ended up taking two.

Apparently when they got in there, the damage was even worse than they originally anticipated. The ligament the MRI had shown was completely snapped and detached from the bone. There was also a small fragment from my ankle bone that was broken off along with additional ligament damage.

When I woke up in the recovery room I instantly started crying. The pain was UNBELIEVABLE! I’m talking frowny-face 10 on the pain chart unbelievable.   

The anesthesiologist (who was amazing by the way) put in a regional block  behind my knee right before the surgery, but for some reason it did not work like it was supposed to. To get my pain to a tolerable level the doctor had to give me morphine, then more morphine, then two lortabs, then a shot of Demerol in my ass.

That last one shut me up.

When I got home I immediately passed out for three hours. No surprise there. When I woke, my stupid foot was numb. The block finally kicked in. Which is pretty damn cool because I now feel next to nothing - except for loopy.

The block will last anywhere from 8-24 hours, meaning I will likely be playing the pain vs. narcotics game by the time you read this post.  

Here’s hoping the narcotics win!

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Oh wait! My recovery plan… glad you asked.

For the next two days I am to remain vertical as much as possible with my foot iced and elevated. The doc is telling me to plan on two weeks off work.

Psh. Like that will happen.

I do however plan on working from home as much as possible.

I’ll be on crutches for the next four weeks and in a boot for two more following that. In there somewhere physical therapy will come along. 

Right now I am still staying with my parents, sharing a bed with my sister Staci. They have been amazing to me and make sure I don’t fall backwards down the front porch stairs or overdose on pain pills. Next week I am moving into my place. Karina the Russian is going to move in with me to be my nurse. Truthfully I’d stay at my parents a little longer (they have a fully stocked fridge) but I miss my kitty and she can’t come stay here with me. Nothing quite as healing as a kitty curled up on your lap, even if that kitty is a bitch.

Summer Anklegate, Under the influence

I have this really great story to tell about getting the inside of my thigh painted in New York, only my brat kid-sister, whose bed I am sharing, won’t stop bugging me. Seriously it’s like we are kids again. I can’t get a thing done because she is so A.D.D and it is rubbing off on me and to be honest, I think I have enough A.D.D without her rubbed on share.

“Summer, how do I make Twitter work?”

“Summer, what profile picture should I choose?”

“The weather right now is 82 degrees.”

“I found another picture. Just look at this one, I promise it’s the last one.”

“I can’t believe you post pictures of my daughter on the Internet but don’t send them to me.”

“Look at my belly, I am so bloated.”

“Did you just call my phone dumb? Not all phones can be labeled ‘smart phones’, Summer.”

“Check out this boy on Facebook. Yeah, his posts about vaginas and honey are so funny.”

“What do I write for my Twitter bio? La de da de, we likesta party? Men suck vaginas rule? Looking for a sugar daddy?”

AHHHHHHHHH!

This one time, when I was about 10 years old, my sister wouldn’t leave me alone so I jumped on my bike and took off at full speed down the hill we lived on. At the bottom of the hill was a sharp turn. I hit gravel, slid, crashed, and skinned up my knee and busted my bike. A neighbor took me home in the back of her truck. When I got home and walked through the door, knee all bloody, my sister ran upstairs and got me a handful of band aides.

After that I quit running away from her.

Sometimes it’s just nice to live in the moment and laugh out loud with your sister. I think it’s therapeutic. And honestly, it really doesn’t matter if you are 10, 30, or 130. Laughter is good for the soul.

Guess the story of the wetness between my thighs can wait another day.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Summer Loved One(s), Random

Broken foot.

Check!

Sprained ankle.

Check!

Ruptured ligament that needs to be surgically repaired.

Double check!

What can I say? When I decide to injure myself, I don’t half-ass it.

But for me, being injured is not enough. Oh, no, no, no. Not only can I not put any weight on my left leg and therefore need crutches to stand… I decided to go ahead and move too.

This means I cannot pack myself.

Which means my family and friends have to pack and move everything for me.

EASIEST MOVE EVER!

Actually I totally wish I felt that way. Instead I feel like a total schmuck sitting on the bed with my leg elevated, directing people where to pack my underwear and toaster oven.

That’s a lie too. I don’t own a toaster oven.

My cat, on the other hand, has no problem relaxing while everyone else packs.

You can’t tell from this picture, but she is totally freaking out. She doesn’t like people in her house and she doesn’t like the fact that my foot is broken. Every time I sit down she lays on my lap in a protective manner and hisses at anyone who comes close.

She is super adorable like that.

That’s how I spent my weekend, watching other people pack my stuff. I must say, I chose the right people for the job too. They got all my shit – and I have more than any one woman should possess - boxed up in a day and a half.

I’m starting to think breaking a bone before I move might not be such a bad ideal…

My surgery is scheduled for Thursday this week. Since my current place is completely boxed up and I can’t officially move into my new place until next weekend, I’ve decided to crash at my parents for the week. Which is great because I really do need help to do most things outside of wiping my own ass – I’ve got that covered – but bad because even a piece of wheat toast comes slathered with half a cup of butter. I can actually feel my ass getting larger at every meal.

The doctor told me to plan on taking TWO WEEKS off from work. Under any other circumstances two weeks off would be great. Spending the majority of my PTO to stay home watching daytime TV and recover is not my idea of a good time. 

I have three days this week to get all my ducks in a row before I go under the knife.

Piece of cake. I’ll just tell all of my clients that their needs have to take some time off too.

To sum up, skinny jeans are the devil. If you wear them, you will likely be injured, become emotionally unstable, living with your parents (again) and well on your way to being checked into an institution where you can “get some rest.”

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – my sister Staci proof read this post and said it might be to my advantage to mention I am on pain pills.

Summer Bag full of complaints, Bitch kitty, Finding Home, Moving Blows

At what point after a break-up do you remove all evidence that the other person existed? I don’t suppose there is a hard and fast rule. I’m sure every case is different.

For me it started on day four when I removed his picture from my office. It was a candid Polaroid from our friends going away party.

On day thirteen I removed his picture from my family room – a cheesy photo of he and I on my 29th birthday. We looked so tan and happy sitting there in my designer frame on the mantle.

On day seventeen I removed the hand drawn picture a young relative of his had sketched of us over Thanksgiving.  Our huge round heads were staring at each other while hearts circled the air. I remember she choose us as her subject because we had fallen asleep on the couch together and we looked “so in love.”

That was probably the hardest one to take down.

Most of the time I am doing alright though.

Most of the time.

He told me early on that we should stay friends. At first I said okay thinking it would be a good idea. Then I saw him. He told me he had bought me a birthday present and he hugged me. Twice. The second hug lasted approximately 3.7 seconds longer than I could handle and I became an utter mess for the next three days.

I’ve avoided seeing him since.

When I got back from New York, in a Lortab induced state, I told him I couldn’t be his friend, that it was just too hard and that I cried at midnight when I turned thirty and hadn’t heard from him. He wanted to rehash our final days. I told him what’s the point. Then he offered to come take care of me and my broken foot. I said no, woke up at 3:30 a.m. in excruciating pain and almost reconsidered my answer.

Break-ups are hard.

Let’s face it, they just plain suck.

I’m nowhere near the rock I’d like to be or even the one that I pretend to be. I have my moments where I don’t miss him at all followed by moments where I miss him so much it hurts.

Part of me has moved on.

Part of me wonders if he has gotten rid of all evidence of me. How long did he wait to take down my pictures? Are they still up?

Honestly, I don’t know that it would mean anything either way.

But it doesn’t stop me from wondering.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Summer ED is not Emotionally Disturbed, TMI Friday

I write about a lot of funstuff. Crazy drinking stories, wild concerts, vacations, embarrassing stories, you know, fun stuff.

I am sure to some I might seem rather carefree, or possibly like an alcoholic. 

The truth is, lately, underneath it all, I’ve been a bit of a wreck. The only thing that has kept me sane is my support system. The strongest of which is Karina the Russian.

When I made the decision to publicly change my Facebook status to “Single” after my recent break up, I imidately got flooded with the obligatory ”I’m sorry” and “What happened???” remarks. I don’t doubt that those comments were well intentioned, but they were also overwhelming. As soon as Karina saw the direction the comments were headed she immediately changed her status and mine to say that we are “Married”. She then wrote on my wall saying, “We are facebook married!!!! Deal with it!”

Instantly the mood went from pitty to laughter.

When I decided to throw myself a birthday party the same weekend I had a five page essay and finals to prepare for, Karina showed up at my door the morning of and helped me whip my disaster of a place into backyard BBQ party central.

(Pictures are HERE)

When I had school and work both consuming all of my free time and hadn’t packed a single item for my trip to New York, who showed up the night of to make sure I packed enough shoes, an extra pair of pajamas (Cat you can thank her later for that one!) and drive my ass to the airport? Karina, of course.*

When I got back from New York, all busted up and barely able to hobble my sorry ass to the restroom, Karina was there. She came over, helped me unpack all of my luggage*, washed three loads of laundry and spent the night. In the morning she made me breakfast, helped me get in and out of the bathtub without injuring myself, put my laundry away and cleaned my kitchen.

People pay for this shit and I get it for free!

Well, sometimes she does make me spoon her… and I do have to love her Russian children like they are my own… and sometimes she beats me, but only when I deserve it…

Seriously people, I feel super-duper lucky.  

I mean, sure I have a broken foot and the doctors are telling me I will be on crutches for the next six weeks, and, yes, I am planning on moving in two weeks and don’t have a thing packed…

But I’m not stressed (I totally am), because besides my amazing family and friends, I have a Russian wife with an amazingly strong back who are all here to help (hint, hint).

Blogfully yours,

Summer

*I would be a total bitch if I didn’t make mention of a few more people who totally have gone above and beyond to help me, although they did not Facebook marry me so honestly, they may not deserve to be mentioned after all.

- Staci, thank you for helping pack/unpack/take me to the hospital/love me like a sister.

- Susan & Cat, thank you for taking care of me while I was in New York. What the eff would I have done without you guys???

Summer BlogHer10, K to the R stories, Loved One(s)

As many of you know, I spent my 30^th birthday in New York City. In theory it was the absolutely most perfectest place to spend a milestone birthday.

That theory was bullshit.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE New York and for the most part I had fantastic time. It’s just that I don’t get along with birthdays all that great to begin with.

My actual birthday was spent moving in slow motion due to pre-birthday celebrations. And I mean SLOW MOTION.

I don’t think we left the hotel once that day.

It took a great deal of effort, but we did make it to two of the three conference sessions (no one can say we didn’t make it to any of the actual conferences). Afterwards we got dolled up for dinner and a night on the town to celebrate my “real” birthday.

Cat, Susan and I went to a fancy-schmancy New York style dinner, then back  to the hotel for the estrogen filled party known as Sparklecorn 2010.

Since it was my birthday, and the birthday girl gets to call all the shots, I decided that I wanted to change from my short, sassy, pink dress into jeans and a black top that always makes me feel like a million bucks.

Now, here comes the embarrassing part.

I’m not even going to pretend like alcohol was not involved…

We headed up to the room where I asked my birthday bitches, Susan and Cat, which panties I should wear… don’t ask me why. I ended up deciding to try on both pairs so they could appropriately asses the extent of panty lines that may or may not be showing through my super tight pants.

So I jumped, and I shimmied, into the worlds most non-stretchy jeans.

Then, as I was pulling out the last acrobatic movement to slipping them over my ass, there was an earth-shatteringly loud POP. And then I dropped to the floor. And then I died.

When the girls finally got me to stop screaming, they lifted me onto the bed to examine the source of the pop, the source being my ankle, which now  looked like there was a baseball attached to it.

I fucking kid you not.

 

From this pint on our plans were drastically changed. No more hitting the town, going form bar to bar. Instead Susan and Cat ran to the local convenience store to get bandages and ice while I laid in the hotel room drinking like the lush-birthday-princess-gimp I was.

,

After wrapping up my ankle, they located a doublewide wheelchair from the hotel lobby and wheeled me downstairs to the hotel bar.

No sense in letting the birthday celebrations end because of a possible broken bone, right?

After a sleepless night the adventure of getting me from the hotel, to the airport and through airport security began. Again, no easy feat and quite possibly the most humbling, humiliating experience I have ever had to go through.

I waited until I got home to go to the doctor. Guess what? My drunken skinny jeans adventure has landed me with a broken 5th meditarcel. I don’t know what that means, but I find out tomorrow if I need to have surgery.

Yay?

I guess now that I’m thirty I need to start wearing “mom jeans” and taking calcium pills.

Seriously, what’s next? Memory loss? Hot flashes? Depends? Reading glasses? Dentures?

Hell, I may as well take up mall-walking now… that is, of course, after my foot is healed.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – More pictures can be seen HERE

Summer Bag full of complaints, BlogHer10, Out and About, Vacations, blogging

I’m going to New York.

Wait, let me try that again.

I am going to New York City for my very first time ever. And? I will be celebrating my 30th birthday there. Which means I will also be celebrating the final days of my 20′s,  in New York City.

I have no idea what to pack. I think I’ll just pack one of everything I own. Better to be over prepared, right?

Did I mention I’m going to NEW YORK FREAKING CITY?

Sorry, I keep thinking if I say it enough times it will actually sink in that I really am going, to New York City, for the first time EVER.  

I’m pretty sure this city is going to eat me alive and spit out my remains. Of course I get off on that kind of abuse so I will likely fall in love with the city and pine to move there and live a pennyless existence in a 400 sq foot apartment.

Doesn’t it just sounds so romantic?

New York City…

I guess I should make mention that the real reason I am going is for a blogging convention called BlogHer (see those adds on the side of my blog? Yeah, that’s who puts on the convention).

This will be my second year attending. In fact, you can read all about my Chicago BlogHer adventure HERE.

Chicago was awesome, but I have a feeling it won’t hold a candle to New York.

So, when do I leave?

Taking the red eye out tonight.

So, am I packed?

Haven’t packed a thing.

Who am I traveling with?

My amazing friend Susan!

What do I plan to do while I am there?

Outside of drinking? I’m not really sure. Maybe take a double decker tour bus to see the city, go to Central Park, try not to get mugged, scream, “up yours buddy!” to somebody on the street while giving them the bird.

You know, the normal things.

NEW YORK CITY BABY!

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Summer BlogHer10, Vacations, blogging