What All That Education Got Me
Okay, well. I feel compelled to write again (I know! So quick like!) because first of all, my spam? Really entertaining. Funny to me. I'm not even deleting it. Since when is "penis enlargement" coming up with witticisms? Why does "penis enlargement" kind of think nobody cares about me? O, penis enlargement, you're so clever, but why are you trying to make me feel bad about myself? You are penis enlargement! I, personally, am happy with the sizes of my body parts! Let's not project our little insecurities onto others. TSK TSK.
And, the second reason is a spoily one, because I finally read the Harry Potter book (I say "finally" as if this took, like, months and months, when in reality, it was, what...two days after it published? Hi. Dork) and then everyone had to Deal With Me, and now I feel compelled to talk about it. And I will feel compelled to talk about it, with anyone who listens, until approximately Saturday. Then I will cease to care.
I had a conversation with Ziz about the book last night, and it was pretty funny (well...funny to us) and involved many of our various theories, and so I thought I'd pass it along to y'all. BUT FIRST, I MUST WARN YOU, with ALL OF MY WARNY POWERS, that I am about to spoil the everloving HELL out of that book. Oh, yes. I will name names. So if you haven't read it? GO. GO AWAY. Read this entry ANOTHER DAY. I will even post something interesting for you to look at instead. Look at these! Aren't those freaky? Now scram. It is for your OWN GOOD, it hurts me more than it hurts you, etc.
Okay? Well, you have been warned. Because here we go.
Ziz: Hi! What's u-
Self: DID YOU READ IT YET?
Ziz: Read? WHAT? WHO?
Self: DID YOU READ HARRY POTTER BECAUSE NOBODY ELSE HAS FINISHED HARRY POTTER AND I WANT TO TALK ABOUT HARRY POTTER WITH SOMEBODY AND NOBODY WILL TALK TO ME ABOUT HARRY POTTER AND THEY KEEP SAYING SHH.
Ziz: Whoa. Uh, yeah. I finished it the first day. Are you just now done?
Self: Listen, I try to have a social life. Nerd.
Ziz: Uh, except, you are, apparently, ATTACKING people and trying to get them to discuss Harry Potter with you.
Self: Shut up, person-who-points-things-out-that-I-don't-want-pointed-out.
Ziz: That was...succinct. But yeah, I've read it. What do you want to discuss?
Self: Um. How...I don't know. Who do you think is cutest?
Ziz: THAT'S what you want to discuss?! Not, like, Dumbledore dying and Snape being bad -
Self: HE IS NOT BAD.
Ziz: Sigh. Yes, he is.
Self: NOOOOO. He's totally, like, doing what he has to do, and I think he killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's orders, just like how, you know, Harry would have killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's orders, when he forced him to drink the yucky stuff and didn't know what the yucky stuff was going to do to him? And it totally could have killed him, and MAYBE IT EVEN KIND OF DID and Snape was just putting him out of his misery? And there were bodies and a boat and everything?
Ziz: Okay, deeeeeep breaths...
Self: Because Dumbledore's like, "Harry, you do what I say!" and Harry's all, "Yes, sir! I'm your man!" And Dumbledore's like, "Even if I'm like, crying and shit and ask you to do horribleness!" And Harry's like, "Got it!" And then Harry makes him drink the stuff that makes him dying, because Dumbledore told him to, just like DUMBLEDORE TOLD SNAPE he had to kill him, and anyway Dumbledore KNEW he was going to die in this book, and that's why in the beginning Harry's all, "Do I need to put my invisible cloak thingy on?" and Dumbledore's all, "Oh HELL no, because you're with me," and then when Harry's all swimming with Dumbledore and he's like, "Hold on, Dumble! Don't fret!" and Dumbledore's like, "I'm not, because I'm with you?" See what they did there, with the passing of the torch and the coming full-circle and O THE HEAVY MEANING IN A CHILDREN'S BOOK?
Ziz: Weren't you once...smart? Like when you were an English literature major that time? And...and this is how you now analyze books?
Self: I fail to see your point.
Ziz: "Hold on, Dumble"? "Don't fret"?
Self: I may be...paraphrasing. Some.
Ziz: Sigh. Anyway, I think I follow you, but that does not mean that you are, in any way, correct.
Self: See, Snape and Harry have this big, like, PARALLEL thing going on.
Ziz: In which they are both played by hot actors?
Self: ...there is also that, yes.
Ziz: But Draco is way hotter.
Self: Know who I want to be? Draco's mom.
Ziz: Except for the evil bitch part?
Self: Or I want to be Fleur.
Ziz: Except for the whiny bitch part?
Self: Huh. Yeah, I guess the hot women aren't all that...nice.
Ziz: Oh, there's nothing wrong with a little bitchiness. I kind of want to be Tonks, though, for the hair thing.
Self: I keep forgetting who Tonks is. Who...oh, yeah.
Ziz: You forgot Tonks? Hi, major character. Do you want me to remind you of who Ron is?
Self: No, it's just that there are so many characters, and I keep forgetting who is who, and-
Ziz: I KNOW! I can't ever remember Mu...Mublummbins. Mulbinnins. Mungumbers.
Self: YES! Like him. Mundsomething! I can't ever remember him either. I need, like, a directory.
Ziz: That man does nothing for me. I'm sure he's horribly important and will end up being Dumbledore's long lost son.
Self: Or it will turn out that he is actually our own father.
Ziz: That is not...terribly likely.
Self: Oh, here we go again, with the not-confusing-fictional-characters-with-real-life business.
Ziz: Well, we have already had this discussion as it relates to the carrying around of a pressure cooker.
Ziz: And also as to how it relates to the cast of 24, and how Kiefer is not, in actuality, a big secret government agent.
Self: YOU DON'T KNOW THAT.
Ziz: Yes, I do. Kiefer Sutherland is not a secret agent.
Self: SHUT UP.
Ziz: Sorry. Anyway. Do you have any other...uh, "brilliant" Harry Potter theories?
Self: Not really.
Ziz: Well, me either.
Self: Then I guess we have nothing to talk about.
Ziz: Yes. It's like we're strangers now.
Self: Strangers who disagree on the evilness of Snape.
Ziz: And yet, not on his dark and moody hotness.
Self: Right. Thank God for common ground!
And so on. You know how we get. We may have also discussed, like, real people. Actual events. Shit like that.
BUT, because most of my friends have STILL not finished the damn book, I encourage all of you to enlighten me with your own Harry Potter theories and whatnot, because again: for the next three days, I will be completely interested in this subject, until approximately Saturday when I will stop caring with a searing vengeance.
Until then: what did y'all think of the book? Do you think Snape is evil? And, most importantly, who in the everloving FUCK is this Mundusnfmnglumb guy?
So, comment away! Unless you are penis enlargement. Penis enlargement, you can go suck on an egg.
This is what you get when THE INTERNET DIES.
Nothing. Nothing! That is what we all get when the internet dies, and I cannot figure out how to fix it. Because I am an idiot.
But anyway. Hi! So, I've been a little busy, and then the internet broke, and I am now at work, typing reallyreallyreally fast, because I do not update from work, OH NEVER, because I like my job and SO THERE, but on this one occasion I am making an exception just so y'all don't think I up and died. It's all for you! Look at the risky risks I do take.
So, the short story is that one of my parents' dogs? Maggie? A disc in her back slipped, and that made her paralyzed, necessitating several jillion dollars worth of surgery, and now she is STILL paralyzed, but now it is, supposedly, on a temporary basis, but mom and dad had to leave town, and someone had to watch her, and that someone = Me.
And let me JUST TELL YOU SOMETHING about watching a paralyzed dog. It is not...fun. She is kind of sad and pathetic. She can't actually pee on her own (I know!) and so I have to...uh, take her outside, and massage her bladder. This is something I had to learn. I had, previously, never massaged a bladder before. This is ALL NEW TERRITORY.
But, turns out, I am an AWESOME bladder massager, and I rock at massaging bladders, to the point that now I can just rub her stomach and she immediately lets fly with a cascade of hot pee so voluminous and cascade-y that I have to be, you know, KIND OF CAREFUL about rubbing her stomach, because y'all, I HAVE BEEN PEED ON EVERY DAY FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS.
(And, my google referral stats just exploded. Pop.)
(Dear Golden Shower fans: Sorry!)
(Dear Mom: No. I do not know what a "golden shower" is. Go ask your other daughter. I've never heard of it. Golden what?)
So, ANYWAY, I moved into my parents' house for the time being, to watch the paralyzed dog, plus the other dogs, plus deal with my hospitalized grandma, plus also I still have, you know, work, plus I STILL HAVEN'T BEEN TO IKEA, plus then Dukay got sick with some weird fever-thing and I had to make him chicken soup, and then my parents' internet conked out, and then I'M JUST KIND OF BUSY, with the bladder massaging, and all.
But I did want to pop in and say hi. Hi! Is everyone doing okay? Are we all happy? Have we avoided massaging bladders? Is it wrong that I am getting really used to talking about pee? Do you want to send me a rubber smock? Are you guys kind of hungry? Etc.
So, I'll write more later, VERY SOON, provided I can figure out how to fix the internet. And, to that end, I foresee a very long, tedious phone call in my near future. Y'all can come keep me company, if you want.
Just make sure you bring some chips. And rubber pants.
Well, Here's That Third Thing I Was TOTALLY EXPECTING.
Remember how, last week, after running my car into a pole and falling down the main staircase in my office, I predicted that a third, evil thing would befall me, because misfortune and tumbling has a tendency to come in threes?
Well, guess who was right. I WAS RIGHT! I WAS SO, SO RIGHT!
I wasn't injured. My car is fine. My pride, however, has suffered a mortal blow. It is dead. Also dead: dignity. Also also dead: ability to look neighbors in the eye, now that they have seen me BUCK NAKED. Yes.
Sometimes, I get emails from people who are all, "Oh, come on, nobody can fall down so much/have their clothes fall spontaneously off of their bodies/have boobs pop unexpectedly from sundresses with the frequency of which you write."
To those people, I say: YOU CLEARLY DO NOT KNOW ME IN PERSON! PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME? THEY KNOW TO EXPECT SUCH THINGS! EVERYONE HAS SEEN MY BOOBS!
And, you guys, I am seriously the biggest klutz I know. I cannot walk in a straight line, people, and I live in everloving fear of a sobriety checkpoint, because I could not walk in a straight line if I had just returned from six weeks in a convent, in a cave, UNDER A ROCK, without even the THOUGHT of alcohol within a seventy square-mile radius. It does not matter! I can't do it! I will fall down! And then I will go to jail!
So, it is not terribly surprising that I would, ultimately, end up naked in front of the neighbors. Holding a dog. No, that is not surprising at all. Except...well, maybe it was a little surprising to the neighbors.
So anyway. At the outset, let me just say that this story is actually a HAPPY one, because things could have been WAAAAAAY worse, and this could have had a very unhappy ending, and could have been very tragic, but instead it just ended up being really fucking embarrassing. And, you know...really fucking embarrassing, I can handle. In fact, I handle "really fucking embarrassing" on a pretty much daily basis. So, nothing new there.
What happened, was that I got home from work. And it's been raining here, like cats and dogs, thank-you-Dennis raining, EVERY DAY, so I figured that the guys who usually cut my grass hadn't come to cut said grass in the TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR that was the Atlanta sky this afternoon. But apparently? Wrong. I was wrong.
And so I went inside, not noticing my freshly shorn lawn, and let out the dogs. Only, because of the rain (see: Torrential! Down! Pour! above), they were like, "Uh, no."
Three of them were, at least. Bo, Tasha, and Puglsey all looked at me like, "Seriously? You want us to pee outside? In...that weather? Because, you know, we're not going. We'll just pee on something else, thanks. Something valuable. That is supposed to stay dry."
And off they went, to various places in the house, to find something expensive to relieve their brown selves on.
But not Gimmme. Oh, poor Gimmme. Who is totally blind, and generally confused, and who went outside, all, "YAY! OUTSIDE! Why am I wet? DIGGING! OUTSIDE! I'm really getting wet, you guys! You guys...? OH! DIGGING!"
So I left the door open, so Gimmme could eventually realize that, OH, RAIN, and come back in.
He's not...the brightest bulb, y'all. I love him immensely. But, bless his heart, he is dumb.
Anyway. So, I decided to go upstairs and take a shower while Gimmme dug to China out there in the yard, and I got to my bedroom, and I got undressed. And I was standing there, NAKED, when I heard this:
Huh, I thought. That dog sounds like Gimmme. But it can't be Gimmme, because Gimmme is in the back yard. And that bark came from...somewhere else.
And then I heard it again.
And this sort of fascinated me, because Gimmme's bark...kind of distinctive! It's a questioning sort of bark. It is less "bark!" and more, "bark?"
So, still naked, I looked out the window. And there, headed up the DRIVEWAY, TOWARD THE STREET, is Gimmme. Bark?
And I panicked. A blind dog + traffic = TRAGEDY. WITHOUT QUESTION. It also = NO TIME TO PUT ON CLOTHES.
So I grabbed a towel, the only thing nearby, and slid down the stairs and out the door, to catch Wayward Wandering Dog, who was HAPPILY heading for the street, barking (?) and wagging all the way.
I caught up with him just as he made it to the intersection, at exactly the same time that a car rounded the corner. And I was faced with a dilemma. Do I:
(1) Hold onto my towel, thereby risking that the very short Wayward Wandering Dog will be flattened by the approaching vehicle, OR DO I
(2) Ignore the fact that said towel is slipping from my grip, dive forward, and SAVE Wayward Wanderer?
Now. People. Do y'all even have to ask?
I left the towel, and MY DIGNITY, on my street, and dodged out in front of the car, grabbed my happy little traveler, turned, AND RAN LIKE MY ASS WAS ON FIRE.
Also, I grabbed my towel on the way back.
And, y'all, Gimmme was so proud of himself. He happily barked (?) all the way home. All, "Mom! I went to a place! That was not the yard! And I couldn't see it! Because I'm blind! But it smelled! Like not the yard!"
And I returned to the house, where I saw that the guys who cut my grass had left the gate open, thereby directly leading to ESCAPE: 2005. AND GOOD CHRIST, I HATE THEM ALL.
SO, basically...I have no idea of who saw me naked. I was running too fast. But it was definitely...Someone.
It could have been the little old man who lives across the street. It could have been someone coming home from work. It could have been a mom with a car full of pre-pubescent boys, who will have something to ponder for MANY A NIGHT, because I just exposed them, for the first time, to very-quickly-moving-nipple. Not ideal, but when you're twelve, IT WILL DO, and it is better than SQUIGGLE PORN. Someone will be changing the sheets tomorrow morning, is what I am saying.
As soon as I got back inside, I called my father (obviously) and related the whole story, detail for EXCRUCIATING DETAIL. And I was like, "What will the neighbors think?" And he pointed out that (1) Nude woman + (2) wayward dog + (3) Street = a PRETTY FUCKING OBVIOUS TABLEAU, Dear.
"They knew exactly what had happened," he told me. "It's like one of those paintings that tells a story. The sight of you naked...told, uh, a story."
Fine. Whatever. They got one story. The story it told to me was MAKE SURE THE FUCKING GATE IS CLOSED, YOU NUDE MORON. Lesson learned, God!
So, anyway. Now, apparently, I have to move. If any of y'all have any suggestions for where I can go, where a little...you know, nudity, won't terrify your neighbors, I'd love to hear about it. In the meantime, I'll be at home, wrapped in blankets, and swearing to NEVER BE NAKED AGAIN.
How Can A Four Day Week Be So Loooooooong?
Because I am kind and generous, I will let you off the hook and answer my own question: turns out, a four day week can be REALLY FUCKING LONG when you have to pack eleventeen days worth of work into 96 hours. THAT IS HOW.
It boggles the mind! It boggles physics! Physics is sufficiently boggled! And yet, somehow, it is being done, by Yours Truly, who would really like to just, you know, finish these briefs and SLEEP ALREADY.
But, still. I am nonetheless thankful for my Monday off, even if it meant that my work load quadrupled on the remaining days, because WHAT'S NOT TO LIKE about a 4th of July weekend that is defined by prolonged bouts of RAIN? WHO DOES NOT LOVE THAT? WE LOVE THAT!
SO, my big plans for getting all tan and golden and cute (which is so bad for me, I know, and I am sure previous attempts at this will ultimately lead to my nose falling directly off of my face) were cancelled, apparently by God, because it is evidently His wish that my skin remain the color of "Fish, Dead" for the duration.
Still, though, we managed to have fun, even if that meant that we played an excessive number of card games, and drank approximately seventy-four hundred bottles of wine, and looked out at the gloom, because we were ALL TOGETHER, AND THAT IS ALL THAT MATTERS!
(That, and not being at work on Monday. Yay!)
Oh, except, ACTUALLY, we were NOT all together, because Dukay, who apparently has "Wish, Death," decided to fly on one of those itty bitty made-of-almost-paper airplanes with his friend on Sunday, and they went to Charleston, leaving me DATELESS for the actual 4th. Dateless, but surrounded by other couples, including my parents, and all of them proceeded to be cute and cuddly and PEOPLE, HAVE YOU NO SHAME?
Not that I am...bitter.
Anyway. It was a fun weekend, though. In part because, on Saturday morning, Dukay and I got up and drove to Alabama, where we purchased about seven million dollars worth of fireworks. From people with a minimum of fingers on their hands.
Y'all, I am not kidding. Nothing inspires confidence like buying fireworks FROM A MAN WITH NO THUMBS.
"Think this is safe?" I asked him. "Sure it's safe!" he assured us.
OF COURSE IT IS, MAN WITH NO THUMBS! Honestly, Legislators, why are these things illegal in my home state? Please get on that immediately.
ANYWAY. We have...kind of a bad history with fireworks. The last time Dukay purchased them, he was struck by the brilliant idea to set the things off at, oh, I'd say, about ONE IN THE MORNING at my parents' lakehouse. This would have been fine, except for, well, THE NEIGHBORS, who had been sleeping, and who were NOT PLEASED, OH NO, NOT HAPPY, and who came out on their porches with actual shotguns and screamed at us to (and I quote) "KNOCK IT OFF GODDAMN IT RIGHT THIS SECOND YOU GODDAMN FUCKERS BEFORE I SHOOT YOU ALL."
When people start yelling, know what I do? I run.
And leave Dukay there to deal with things, while I sit inside the house with all the doors locked, acting all innocent, like I had absolutely no part in that madness, and NO IT WAS NOT ME who lit that last one. Nope. Your eyes are lying to you. Look at my thumbs! One, two. ALL PRESENT AND ACCOUNTED FOR.
So, learning from our mistakes, we decided to set off the fireworks at a much earlier hour on Saturday night. And my dad set off a bunch of them on our dock, and we all Oohed and Ahhed appropriately, but then it was time for...The Box. The Box is one tremendous firework that weighs about seventy pounds and which cost sixty-three dollars, FOR ONE FIREWORK, and which was named, very appropriately, the Pyro Extreme.
The Pyro Extreme is the most firework powder...stuff that is legal in this country. It consists of something like sixty-some odd "breaks," which is the technical term for "explody things," and basically, you light the fucker and then you RUN LIKE HELL and then you have a show that you hopefully watch with thumbs intact.
So we made Dukay light it. And it started going off, and HOO BOY was everyone impressed, and HOO BOY did everyone continue to be impressed as bits of firework debris began raining down upon us, apocalyptic-brimstone fashion, ultimately settling on the roof of the dock and CATCHING FIRE.
Fortunately, this led to neither major property damage nor loss of thumb, because the roof of the dock is metal.
BUT STILL. THE ROOF. THE ROOF. THE ROOF WAS ON FIRE. That can't be good, people.
The Pyro Extreme was actually very awesome, and we were all appropriately impressed (those of us who were not saying, "Y'ALL, THERE IS A FIRE ON THE ROOF, DOES NOBODY CARE?" were maybe not paying so much attention) and it lasted for a while, and the neighbors did not even shoot at us, and we retained all appendages, AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, I think that makes for a pretty successful Fourth of July. Yay, Independence! Yay, still-attached-limbs!
So, I hope everyone else enjoyed their 4th. And I hope the rest of y'all aren't as crazy busy as I. But most of all, I hope nobody is spending this Thursday night staring forlornly at the burnt-out husk of the Pyro Extreme, hopped up on painkillers, and mourning the loss of their thumbs.
...to all those readers in London. I hope everyone is okay.
Someone needs to come save me from myself, like, today
So, bet everyone's wondering what I bought at Ikea.
Are you? Are you wondering? Are you very sure that it is Swedish and made partly of particle board?
Well! HERE IS THE THING!
I haven't...gone yet! NO! AND LET ME TELL YOU WHY!
Actually, there are a number of reasons. The first reason is that the traffic, getting TO the Ikea, has scared me senseless. I keep on getting stuck in it on the way to and from work, and the idea of being trapped in an enclosed space with the very person who almost HIT ME, THANK YOU, is very scary to my mind. So, I've been kind of waiting for the hype to calm down, and for people to...you know, go back to their jobs and families, so that I may go shopping in peace.
And I kept thinking, well, I'll just go at an "off" time. But, people, there is no "off" time at Ikea! Ikea is always On! It is omniscient and omnipresent and there is always a line out the door. Will it always be this way? I am kind of freaked out.
But, another main reason I have not gone to Ikea, is that APPARENTLY, I will be spending quite a lot of money somewhere else very soon. And that "somewhere else" is the body shop, 'cause REMEMBER MY NEW CAR?
I ran it into a pole. Whack!
Sigh. You guys? Seriously? What is wrong with me? I drove the same car for thirteen years, and for the majority of that time, NOTHING HAPPENED. I did not run into things. Things did not run into me. We just went on, happy with the universe and the interstate highway system, and even though sometimes the car broke down or caught fire, AT LEAST it did not attack nearby objects. This new car? Not like that! It has anger issues! It hits!
And again, what it hit, was a motherfucking pole.
(Please let us note how I like to think I am not at all responsible for this. I blame the car. Possibly I should blame the POLE, which obviously jumped out in front of the car. EVERYONE is to blame, really. YOU ARE LOOKING GUILTY TO ME RIGHT NOW.)
Anyway, so what happened, was that I was leaving the office. And I hopped in my car, and there was another car behind me, kind of, and another one on the side, and so I had to eeeeeeeease out of my space in this horrible, awful parking garage where I park every day. And I was going very verrrrrrry slowly, because there are walls and poles, like, EVERYWHERE in this garage, and people are always banging into them, and my dad got so sick of having to repair his car from the many times he has sideswiped this one particular column that he finally decided that large scratch = FINE, and went on with his life.
So, I backed out, and I did not hit anything! Yay! And then I went forward, kind of proud of myself for my super sweet maneuvering abilities, and as I turned the corner, THAT IS WHEN I HEARD THIS:
At which point my heart? The one in my chest? It stopped. I slammed on the brakes, tumbled out of the car and ran around to the passenger side, AND THERE WAS THE SCRATCH. And of course it was huge, enormous, metallic and toothy and grinning and EVIL, and I had to bite my lip and remind myself that we do not CRY when we are wearing our Big Girl Suit. We do not cry! WE BLAME OTHERS.
So, I kicked the pole. This...did not help. And now I may need new shoes, and possibly I broke my toe, because it turns out that the poles are metal.
So. That should be, you know, cheap to fix. Only not. So I decided maybe I should just wait and see how much that's going to cost before I fall into Ikea and spend the dogs' inheritance.
But obviously, I still really wanted to go, so I was thinking maybe I would go today! It's been KIND OF A CRAPPY WEEK, with the pole attacking and the scratch and unforeseen money spending. I deserve a break today! I should go have some meatballs and purchase some housewares.
So, I decided I would leave work early. And so I was finishing things up (punctuated by the bi-hourly arrival of people in my office, all, "Did you hit a pole? I TOO HAVE HIT A POLE. I HATE THE PARKING GARAGE SO MUCH. THE PARKING GARAGE IS MY SWORN ENEMY").
And, I was getting ready, and getting things accomplished, and all was good in the world. And my plan was:
1. Finish brief
2. Go home and change from work clothing and shoes into Ikea Kloothink and comfortable shus.
3. Drive back to Ikea.
4. Experience shopping orgasm.
5. Eat meatball(s).
6. Learn what Lingdonberry is.
7. Despite explanation, continue disbelieving that Ligdonberry is actually real fruit.
8. Purchase housewares.
Good plan! Good thinking! Until sometime in between numbers 1 and 2, I FELL DRAMATICALLY DOWN THE OFFICE STAIRS, when the heel of my left shoe somehow entered the hem of my right pants leg.
And what happens, if you miraculously manage to impale the heel of your left shoe into the hem of your right pants leg, is that both legs become...confused. Disoriented. "Toppling" ensues. The "toppling" is head first.
Also: "Ripping." Of pants.
And, I would be so glad that at least nobody had seen me, IF INDEED NOBODY HAD SEEN ME. But unfortunately, that was NOT the case, and my personal downward spiral was witnessed by many, many people, including people whom I try to impress. Bet they're impressed now! All, WHOO, that Leigh! She is a force to be reckoned with! As she somersaults down the main staircase!
SO, that happened. And then I was just pissed off enough to not want to deal with driving all the way home, and changing into Ikea friendly jins and tee shuurt and shus, and driving all the way BACK, and I couldn't just go in what I was wearing, because...rip, and so I just came the hell home, and went to bed.
And, probably good thing that I did, because I just looked at the news. And apparently, the traffic to get back to where the Ikea is? Is going at one mile per hour.
Seeing as I don't have sixteen hours to waste, I am now sitting here, feeling sorry for myself, aware that shiny new Ikea closes in twelve minutes, and ONCE AGAIN I will not have availed myself of its Swedish ingenuity, and ONCE AGAIN I will fall asleep tonight feeling empty and beaten and hungry for Lingdonberries. And, also, bruised (see: "toppling," above).
And let us also note that this means that TWO bad things have happened in the last two days, and obviously that means that ONE MORE is coming, because these things travel in threes. This, alone, is enough to make me want to turn off all the lights and lock myself in a closet, because does a girl really need any more body shop bills? Or bruises? This particular girl DOES NOT.
But, really, I need to just suck it up and stop acting like a whiny little brat who falls down a lot, because Ziz and her boyfriend devin are coming into town tonight (yay!) and then Ziz and devin and Dukay and me and my parents and Lord only knows who else are all going up to the lake for the Fourth, and that is AWESOME, and I am EXCITED, and everyone is taking bets on exactly how long it takes before I fall IN, or possibly set the boat on fire, or run myself over. Somehow people have decided that all three will probably occur within the first twenty minutes. Good times!
So, that's the plan for the weekend. Next week, Ikea awaits! Let's all just pray that the parking garage doesn't have any damned poles.
Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Be safe!