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.

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

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???

Anklegate, 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). Afterward 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 double-wide 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

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