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.

Susan was "amazingly beautiful strong" and positively glowing in this picture.

Sassy Cat, about an hour before discovering she was actually "empowing her vagina" due to two missing letters - a simple typo that gave us an entire evening of jokes.

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

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

I mean, normally that’s my job.

“Summer, remember how I told you about that musician I met at a bar a few months back? Well I guess his band is coming to concert. Will you go with me? Of course we don’t have to pay. I don’t know who the band is but he said they are playing up in the mountains? Deer…Deer Valley?”

Oh my darling Russian. How I love you.

Turns out the band was actually Michael Franti and Spearhead. 

She did have the venue correct though, Deer Valley.

Being personally invited by one of the band members (and by band member I mean stage crew) has huge perks.

Like trading in our adult juice boxes and lawn seats…

For seats on the side of the stage. 

And of course our new stage crew friends wouldn’t let us sit there looking all thirsty. Nope. Beer was promptly brought for our consumption.

One problem though. After downing beer number two, finding a bathroom became a major necessity.

Like, life or death severity here people.

So we wandered around to the back of the stage, doing our best to make our potty dance walk look like we are just really into the music. Only between the stage and the salvation of the restrooms lay an asshole security guard who probably has a small wiener. I mean, I obviously don’t really know the size of his wiener, but his respect-my-authority bully complex made it pretty clear that  he was overcompensating for something.

Not that I am bitter. Not at all.

So the asshole security guard told us we didn’t have the proper back stage credentials. Even though we clearly explained to him that we just came from the two chairs on the side of the stage, chairs that were purposely put there for our sitting pleasure, he would have none of it.

“I’ve asked you nicely several times. If you don’t leave now I am going to have to forcibly remove you.”

Seriously?

Do I look like someone who needs to be forcibly removed?

Since our stage crew contact was running around working, doing whatever stage crew guys do, we begrudgingly fell from our backstage VIP credential-less status, to the regular concert attendee status.

That is, of course, after we found the bathroom.

Stupid bladders.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

“You know Summer, you can’t do this forever. You need to deal with this, have a break down. It’s not healthy to do what you are doing.” Caring words I know to be true, spoken by a loved one.

“Maybe tomorrow,” is all I reply. 

Today is tomorrow.

You’d think with as many break-ups as I’ve been through I’d be a pro at going through them. Which, maybe I am. Only this time it’s so much harder because it wasn’t a two month let’s try this out sort of relationship. This was a you’re the one I am going to spend the rest of my life with kind of relationship.

Cue the water works.

Rather than publicly hash out the details of our break-up I wanted to write about all the ways I have NOT been dealing with it over the past week. You see, when you are in a relationship you get used to always checking in with your significant other. Not in a controlling way, more in a how was your day way. Now that I have no one to check in with, I thought I’d just check in with you, Internet.

ED and I broke up on a Monday night. It still seems so weird to say.

Tuesday I took a half day off work (which was a life saver because I couldn’t stop crying, nor could I concentrate to save my life) and went boating with my parents, Karina the Russian, and our Russian children.

Being at the lake was theraputic for me. I have gone boating every summer since I can remember. There is a bit of magic in the mountain water and for brief moments of time I was able to forget that my life had just been drastically altered. 

Wednesday I made it through an entire day of work, went to class, and went to the 311 concert with Karina the Russian and my sister Staci.

I drove seperately. I said it was because I had to work early the next day – which I did – but it was also because I knew I wouldn’t be able to fake happy all night long, especially since the last time I saw 311 in concert was with ED. 

I called up my friend Sarah on the drive home to talk me off of a ledge.

Thursday I went to dinner and then to the Twilight Concert (a free outdoor concert put on every Thursday during the summer) with some co-workers and Karina the Russian. It got done fairly early and despite my co-worker taunting me that I don’t know how to let go and just have fun, I decided to go home. Only I didn’t. The thought of going home to an empty house was too much so I deviated my course into the arms of my wonderful friend Susan who opened the door with a large glass of wine in hand for me. She let me cry until the wine dried up the tears.

Friday I went back up to the lake with my family for some more water therapy.

Friday night was my cousin’s birthday (Happy Birthday Emmie!). The day before she had text to invite ED and I to come out for her birthday. I had a minor break down at the realization of how many people have known us as a package deal and how many people I am going to have to tell that we broke up. But I digress.

I met Emmie, my sister Staci and a group of Emmie’s friends for a few drinks. Can I just say that I was soooo not ready to be at a popular bar downtown on a Friday night? Within the first ten minutes of arriving I saw three people who I had previously dated. Obviously Salt Lake City is too small of a town. Luckily I had my sister watching over me and survived without being auctioned off at the meat market. I spent that night curled up next to her in bed, again not wanting to be home alone.

Saturday I did laundry and looked for a new place to live (more on that later this week). Then I went to my parents house for a BBQ and to light fireworks. For those of you reading this who are not from Utah, the 24th of July is Pioneer Day. It’s celebrated like a second 4th of July only we are lighting fireworks to celebrate our state being settled by the Mormon pioneers instead of the nations independence.

Saturday night I went home alone, in bed by 10 and completely sober.

Sunday… my day to deal with things. I spent my morning cleaning, writing and reflecting then took a mid-day break for lunch and shopping with Sarah. My evening was spent with vodka and sappy movies.

What? We all cope differently.

From this post I am sure you can see that I have the worlds greatest friends and family. They have been in a constant rotation of checking on me to make sure I have enough alcohol and moral support. I feel so fortunate that they are in my life. I would be a wreck without them.

One week down, forever to go.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

I’m proud to say that as we are growing older together our ability to celebrate has not aged a day.

The first day of the festivities started out by crashing a rooftop BBQ.

The view from the top.

Waiting in line to give Karina her birthday spankings.

We took a lot of ridiculous pictures!

And in the end, Karina was a happy birthday girl.

For the second night of the celebration, Karina requested that we have another night of no plans where we just let the night lead us where it will.

We started on classy foot by going to a fancy-shmancy-food-to-die-for-tapas-bar called Martines.

Look how well behaved we look.

After tiring of using our indoor voices and polishing off an amazing bottle of wine, we headed to our next stop.

AHH SUSHI!

Saki bombs.

Sushi.

Sisterly fight.

And we were off to our next stop.

The Beerhive. Why we are drinking Dirty Martinis at a beer establishment, I am not entirely sure.

Next on the pathless pathway?

Murphy's!

Irish Car Bombs.

Killian’s Irish Red.

Underground (Locally made Jager like shot).

Meeting up with two more friends.

FOOD!

By this point in the night greasy, sobering food was in order. We found a place still open, ordered fried pickles, cheese fries, omelets, grits, the kitchen sink and extra large jars of water.

There really are no “good” pictures from breakfast.. there are however a lot of embarrassing ones (which I will spare my mother from rolling here eyes into the back of her head by not posting).

After gorging ourselves on food, Karina, Staci and I all headed over to ED’s house. Actually, ED was our amazing driver and proper credit is due for his amazing role in taking care of us the entire night AND letting us talk about sparkles… a lot.

When we got to ED’s house we decided we were not yet sleepy so we all put on a pair of his shoes and went for a walk.

Trekking through a field in the dark wearing pajamas and huge shoes = unexplained bruises the next morning.

Also, hysterical laughter which could warrant disturbing the peace.

Again, there are pictures.

Lots and lots of pictures which will never see the light of day.

(Ahem. Girls I am talking to you! If I see the Jane Fonda or M-M-MUR-RAY Go Murray! pictures show up, well, let’s just say I know where you live!)

The next morning three slightly dehydrated women confiscated ED’s bathroom and got showered, dressed and ready for the day in under an hour (I expect the world record book to be calling any minute now) and headed to our final stop, brunch in the mountains.

Karina’s birthday was a drunken whirlwind adventure to be sure and though I wasn’t in town to celebrate the following two nights (Karina’s birthday, on average, lasts five days long), it will go down on record as a another night not to tell the children about.

Happy Birthday Karina! Thank you for all that you do and all that you are. FREAKING LOVE YOU!

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – Karina decided that ED and I needed to kiss at every stop. If you are not a fan of sappiness, don’t scroll down.

Sushi and Saki kiss

Irish Kiss

Breakfast kiss

PPS – a few more pictures can be seen on my Flickr account HERE.

Why? Because it’s baseball.

When I took Karina the Russian to her first baseball game, “why” questions were in abundance. And by first baseball game, I mean, like EVER.

In our typical fashion, the adventure began with the journey. We decided to take the train, A.K.A. TRAX, to avoid having to deal with parking.

I guess we must not have been paying close enough attention to our stop because when we heard the robotic woman’s voice say “Ballpark,” we exited the train.

THREE MILES TOO EARLY!

But of course we didn’t think to wait and get on another train, no, we decide to walk in our heels the rest of the way.

Honestly, I have a new found respect for hookers.

When we finally showed up at the ballpark, sweaty and with bloody feet, we had no problem finding our way to my companies catered suite. After grabbing some much needed beverages we found our seats and settled in to watch the game.

“Why are there so many gray people out there and no white guys?”

“That’s because the gray team is playing defense. They white guys, our team, is up to bat.”

“Why are some of the guys so far out there? Do they not like them?”

“They play a position called outfield, if a ball gets hit far it’s their job to catch the ball.”

“Why isn’t that guy hitting the ball? SWING THE WOOD THING LAZY ASS!”

“You only swing on the good throws, the rest are called ‘balls’ and you don’t try to hit those.”

“Balls. Base-ball. Basket-ball. These men are all about their balls! And why is there a big 420 painted on the fence over there? Is this a stoner game?”

“No, that’s the length of the field. I guess every field is different or something.”

“Hmm… why is that guy dressed in black bent over like that? He looks like he needs to take a dump.”

“That’s an umpire, he helps judge the game.”

“How do you know so much about this confusing-ass game? You don’t even like sports! You are wearing heels for god’s sake!”

That one stumped me for a minute to be honest. I think baseball is forced on us from childhood. I remember in P.E. having to play baseball and being taught all the rules. I wasn’t any good and I didn’t particularly like it, but I developed a level of respect for it.  I remember my parents once taking me to a semi-professional game where I asked my dad a million of questions just like Karina asked me.

Well… maybe not just like she was asking me. I’m pretty sure I never asked my dad if baseball was a game for stoners.

After the game ended, we were able to sweet talk my co-workers brother to driving us to our cars. Thank goodness too, because by this point in the night it was all dark and not hitchhiker friendly, plus there was no way in hell either of us could have walked the come to find out, HALF block to the correct train stop.

Yes, baseball…

It can be so painful.

And confusing.

But only if you are Russian.

Or possibly a stoner.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – you would have died to see the priceless look on Karina’s face when we all stood up to sing “Take me out to the ballpark.”

We began the night by going out for Mexican food. Our appetizer? A round of tequila. The restaurant was very authentic. The food was amazing and they even had a mariachi band wandering the isles who serenaded us to “Bésame Mucho.” We felt like we had escaped Utah and entered Mexico if only for a brief time.

Our next stop was to a gay bar to watch what we thought was a drag queen competition. It may have been, I’m not really sure. We stayed long enough to play a couple rounds of pool, watch a few scantily clad performance acts (which were very entertaining), and marvel at how great the Carol Channing impersonator was. After that my feet had had enough and we decided to go someplace that allowed for sitting – preferably with shoes off.

We ended up at another friend of ours house where we chatted with him and his partner about our night out at the drag queen show. The company and the wine was wonderful!

The next morning ED and I met up early in order to find a place to sit along the parade route. What parade you might ask? The Gay Pride Parade, of course. I go to the Utah Pride festival every year to show my support to the gay community as well as my gay friends. This year, however, was the first year I have made it to the parade.

My favorite part of the parade was an equal rights group who held sign that said things like, “I’m straight, but I support equal rights” and “I’m Mormon, but I support equal rights,” followed by another proud group with signs that said, “I love my gay sister” and “I support my gay son.” To see such bold statements in my VERY conservative (and often times close minded) state, made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, or maybe that was just the DC Cowboys dancing their way through the parade.

After grabbing a bite to eat with ED, I dropped him off in exchange for my non-lesbian date, Sarah. We headed down to the Pride Festival to peruse the booths while sipping on cocktails, sweating to death and running into countless people we knew. After a few hours we decided we could take the heat no more and left.

When I got home and looked in the mirror I noticed that my gay weekend had changed me. My chest, arms and face are now flaming red. I forgot to put on sunscreen and have my first sunburn of the year.

Clothes hurt right now.

Oh well, I suppose it’s a small price to pay to have a gay ‘ol time.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Mostly I’m in it for the free booze. That, and it gives me something fun to do while activating my warm-fuzzy-feel-good sensors.

But sometimes,  on the rare occasion, I puts my sensors into major overload. Take the charity motorcycle ride I did for example.  We went to six different stops, at each stop the participants got amazing food and a poker card (except the last). At the final destination the winning  poker hand won $100. They also had a killer raffle drawing, live music and more amazing food.

Sounds super fun, right?

And it was…

Until I met the reason for the ride. Child cancer patient, Andrew. Then, Andrew’s mother hugged me.

It went from super fun to super real, really effing fast.

I suppose I should back up and say that I actually helped organize and promote the charity ride for my client. That would explain the mother hugging me and all.

Freaking heart breaking.

But you know what? We raised over $2,400 that day for the Hess Cancer foundation.

THAT is the true reason I get involved with charity events.  Seeing how one event can make such a huge difference in someone’s life.

It’s just awesome.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

It was ED’s best friends graduation party. I took the opportunity as an excuse to buy a cute little dress, matching cardigan, a spray tan and shiny blue heels.

I was dressed the role of the casual yet sophisticated guest and was doing a good job of acting the part too.

Then along came two glasses of wine… followed by a few too many margaritas… and shots of Pendalton for the graduate.

The new law school grad, John and ED

Me and Karina the Russian shortly after discovering Jose Cuervo's cousin

ED and I, you know I'm tipsy when I start tipping over in pictures.

Soon the rest of the party had dispersed except for a small group. The men of this group, graduate included, decided that it was now time to jump in the pool.

Of course us girls were too smart to join them...

that is, until we saw them in the steam room.

Seeing them all steamy and warm was just too much to bare.  So we found some towels, and some suits, and joined them.

Mysteriously the camera and the pictures stop there. At least I think so.

The rest of the night is a little bit…hazy.

I woke the next morning in a panic trying to remember everything. Did we get in the pool? Yes. Did we have suits on? Yeees? Where did I change? Was it in the basement? Was it in the parents room? Did I change back into my clothes before we left? Oh my god where are my underwear? Please, please, lord tell me I didn’t leave my underwear in their basement. Wait, what underwear was I even wearing? Please tell me they were somewhat decent. Knowing my luck they probably had holes in them!

I left the house early the next morning to go to a client’s event. It wasn’t until later that night that I finally met up with ED (his phone got water damage so we were communicating through email. Talk about frustrating!). I asked him, “do you think Jason’s parents hate me? Did I make an ass out of myself?”

Ed assured me that I am crazy and that they were just happy we all had a great time.

Whew!

My reputation remains untarnished and hopefully I will get an invite back again soon. I promise I’ll wear appropriate underwear next time.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

No, I did not see a hooker.

To tell the truth, I’ve never really been into astrology or tarot cards – that’s more my hippie sister’s thing. I’m the skeptical sister. I try to be open minded. Really I do! But mostly I roll my eyes at the thought of someone telling my future based off of what some crazy cards say. I mean how absurd is that notion to begin with?

I have been curious though, especially since I’ve never actually had a real reading done. So when Sarah asked me if I wanted to go with her to get cards read I didn’t hesitate.

When we entered Victoria’s mystic layer, filled with trinkets and fairies everywhere you looked, my hopes were not high. We told her our dates and times of birth, she told us our magic number and what they meant. We took turns shuffling cards while saying our names and thinking of a wish. I wished for lunch to be provided with the reading, but apparently that was not in my cards.

I made Sarah go first for our “long readings,” because 1. this whole thing was her idea and 2. I was a little chicken. Her future, according to the cards, involves money, pining over lost love, a move and travel. Not too shabby, but maybe not exactly what she was hoping for.

When it was my turn Victoria reprimanded me several times for crossing my arms. Something about it blocking my energy. But I guess my block wasn’t too strong because my cards were fairly good. Love, move, exciting changes, fighting with family, contention with lover, make up with lover and so on.

All true things, except, couldn’t all these things be the same for someone else? I mean, cards were flipped, Victoria would tell us their meaning and we would find a way to interpret them to mean something to us, to make them fit. Some things were shockingly accurate and the fit was not forced. Other things were like putting on a pair of shoes a size too small. You like the way they look, but it takes some determination to pull them off.

When we left, I think we both felt emotionally drained because the first thing out of both of our mouths was “I need a drink.”

Nothing like a tarot card reading to bring out the alcoholic in you.

I joke a lot about the reading, partially because I want to believe that my fate is not already determined, partially because some of the things she told me were super personal and actually made me cry, and partially because ED is like I need to know if you really believe in this stuff because if you are going to go all magic crystals checking your cards before leaving the house and giving up deodorant on me then we need to talk!

Mostly though, I joke because it took me two days of obsessing over every thing Victoria told me before I came to the conclusion that tarot card readings are fun but they are not magic and they still are not my thing.

Guess one hippie is enough for every family.

Blogfully yours,

Summer