The clumsiest fucking week of my life

This week was the clumsiest fucking week of my life. Let me break it down for you, bit by excruciating bit:

Great on your nails, not on your carpet.

Thursday: I'm lying on the couch, painting my nails the brightest fucking 80s blue you can possibly imagine. I get too comfortable, reach over to the coffee table to do a one-handed brush dip, when the bottle dives off of the table like Greg Louganis, flips three times and lands in two blue puddles on our beige carpet. I slow panic, quickly Google "How to get nail polish out of carpet", run for the ShamWows and Totally Awesome Carpet Cleaner. A quick prayer and lots of scrubbing later, I managed to get the carpet clean.

Friday: K comes home from work and we decide to have a few beers. I'm lying on the couch in the same place I was when I was painting my nails, we're watching a very intense end of Season 8 episode of X Files in which Scully is trying to save her alien baby from being abducted, I reach for my beer and it (naturally) leaps onto the carpet in the EXACT same spot that the nail polish was in. (It's like rain on your wedding day, yes?)

Miracle cleaner from Jesus.

Saturday: Driving down to my sister's engagement party, K and I stop at Subway for some noms after a long conversation during which we vow not to eat McDonalds and drink beer in the same day ever again. We get in the car and bring our pop with us, tucking it into the poorly designed cupholders of the 2000 Ford Focus. I go to hand the pop to K, he butterfingers it, and I drop the cup and its entire contents onto his white sweatshirt and jeans.

Truly, it's a wonder that I made it out alive.

Gift Bags and Werewolf Urine

Gwennie, in a less werewolf-like state.

Well kiddies, it has been a wonderful but chaotic week in the mitten state. We returned home yesterday, exhausted, mugged the kittehs and went to bed early after a brief rendezvous with Mulder and Scully (seriously, we're on season 7--are they EVER going to do it?)

I awoke around 1am to the sound of one of the cats rustling some paper, or a bag, or some other extremely loud shit. I reached over and pushed Gwennie off of the nightstand. Take your feline antics elsewhere, momma needs her beauty rest.

She jumped back up, and I pushed her off again. After a third noisy leap onto the nightstand and more annoying rustling, I reached over to punt her like Baxter.

I didn't have my glasses on, but I quickly realized she had gotten herself stuck in the handle of a paper gift bag and was trapped like a goose in a plastic pop holder.

I leaped out of bed, and tried to pull the bag over her head. No dice. She was WEDGED. I called for K to come assist me, grabbed some scissors and prepared to cut her free.

Now the thing about Gwennie is that she won't let you pick her up. Ever. She is a pirate with one eye (K rescued her from the shelter) and freaks the fuck out if you lift her off of the ground.

K picked her up like a dirty baby, I put my glasses on and grabbed the scissors. Suddenly, shit got very Twilight and Gwennie transformed into a werewolf. She started snarling, hissing, and BITING as K held her tightly. Tears poured down my face as I tried to secure the scissors under the bag handle.

A flurry of hissing, biting and crying ensued as tufts of fur flew all over the room. She also peed on the bed for good measure, JUST before I was able to cut her free. I stood shaking for a minute, then we both started laughing. We high fived at our awesome parenting and teamwork skills and thanked our lucky stars that this didn't happen while we were gone in the mitten state. Now excuse me while I go on a gift bag cutting rampage around the house and snip all the handles.

PS: She's totally fine this morning and urine free. I, however, am another story.

The sun doesn't set on bad ass

After the bridesmaid's dress fitting from hell, I ate hot pockets and cried myself to sleep for a week. Then I went back to the gym. I'm not going to give you a play-by-play of how awesome I am and how much weight I plan to lose, because that is just fucking annoying. But I will tell you how I made a giant ass of myself this morning.

I strolled into Planet Fitness like I was badass, hair in a ponytail, shiny new running shoes, smirking about my witty remarks to the guy at the desk about his crossword puzzle. I was feeling brave, so I ventured over to the "boy's side" to attempt some weight machines.

Nobody ever wants to look like they don't know what they're doing on those mo-fos. So you saunter over, take an unassuming glance at the diagram with the crash test dummy showing you how to work your deltoids or triceps or whatever else fucking muscles you have stashed under that 6-pack.

You deceptive mother fucker.

I sat down at the "lat pulldown machine," faced the machine in front of me and began to pump some iron. A few seconds later, a woman sat down at the identical machine in front of me, and sat reversed on it so she was facing me, about 10 feet away. She shot me a look of annoyance, and I cursed her silently before assessing the situation.

If the machines are all facing the same direction... whyyy are annoying lady and I facing each other?

Because I was using the machine backwards. I was facing OUT, when I should have been facing IN. Guess I didn't notice those round pads that are supposed to go UNDER your knees. Sweet.

It was too late to turn back; I couldn't turn around in the middle of my set and let her know that I had realized my mistake. So I carried on with my 2 remaining sets, staring her right in the eyeball the entire time, pretending like I totally meant to do it on purpose.

No wonder people hate the gym. That shit is more awkward than elevator silence.

Sucker for a sucker.

Go away, Cindy. I don't want
your delicious candy.

I'm a sucker. A huge fucking sucker. I heard a knock at the door yesterday, and opened it to a little girl with Cindy Lou Who eyelashes selling candy bars for $2 apiece.

There were several reasons for me NOT to buy candy from her. First of all, I'm on a diet. (They're these weird Swedish nutrition bars. They burn carbs. They just burn up all your carbs.) Second of all, I'm trying to save money.

So what did I do? Went and got a 5 spot out of my purse and brought it to the door. "Do you have change for a 5?" I asked. Of couuuurse she didn't. So instead of saying "you know, I'm all set, sweetie, thank you!" Which would have been absolutely acceptable, I said:

"Okay, I'll take 2 then. And you can just keep the change."

Sucker.

As I shut the door behind her, my eyes crazy with desire for the devil's chocolatey playthings in my warm little hands, I realized that I had forgotten to even ask what the donation was for.

Hopefully I didn't fund an underground cocaine ring for schoolchildren.

Rollin on dubs

I knew it was low when I pulled out of the garage. Probably a long-term consequence of my fucking tack debacle. By the time I got to the bank, I could hear the grinding as I drove on the rim.

Cringing, I thanked the man who got out of his vehicle in line behind me to notify me of my already embarrassing tire situation.

I crawled at a snail's pace to the Stewart's in town, which carries free air. Thank G, because I'm not paying for shit I can breathe in for free.

Sheepishly, I pulled into the parking lot in front of my neighbor (of course, small town living!) and three punk kids on bikes eyeing my disabled mobile. I was half a mile from the house, and my mind filled with visions of having to leave my car at Stewart's until K got home from work and walking home to the taunting of the Stars Hollow Bicycle Gang.

I prejudged. I totally did. But I shouldn't have, because one of the punk kids got off of his bike and helped me fill my tire.

I made it home in one piece, thanks to the kindness of my neighbors. And I learned once again that small town living can sure be a blessing. But if you like to live an incognito lifestyle, it's definitely not the place for you.

WHAT THE SHIT. No MORE OF THESE!

K and I no longer measure the length of time we've been together in years... we measure in Call of Duty releases. So far, we've survived Modern Warfare, World at War, Modern Warfare 2, Black Ops, several stupid map pack releases in between, and now MODERN WARFARE 3?

When I say survived, I mean HE survived. The wrath of me, when he stays up all night and comes to bed at 5am. 

K has strategically failed to mention the release of this new gem, probably with good reason. Have I mentioned I effing HATE call of duty? With the firey passion of a thousand burning suns.

I know there are plenty worse things he could be doing that I could be yelling about, but Call of Duty is a thorn in my SIDE. And I want to punch it in the face.

Maybe I'm really just mad at myself for joining K's dirty threesome, trying to learn how to play and subsequently being mocked by all of K's online gamer boyfriends.

It looks like it's going to be another stormy Call of Duty season. I'll batten down the hatches. And stock up on US Weeklys to keep myself entertained.

I am a HUGE asshole.

Okay, I am a HUGE asshole. I was at the airport (still am, as I type this), toting around a hugely overstuffed carryon since checking a bag for fucking $50 is out of the question, when I had to pee. I dragged my baggage into the ladies room, and it was empty.

Upon entering, I was faced with two choices. A choose your own adventure of the very best kind. Option A: drag my overpacked bag into a single stall and attempt to close the door on both of us. Option B: step into the luxury handicapped suite complete with double the square footage and a bonus handrail.

Naturally, I chose the latter.

I took my sweet time in there--it was quiet, free from the loud, anxiety-ridden chaos of the terminal. And since nobody else was in there, I thought I'd even pop out my cellular device and hop on the old facebook (so much for that hiatus, right?)

So I'm checking status updates, relaxing in my luxury suite when I hear somebody come into the bathroom, interrupting my peaceful zen.

"Would you like to leave the wheelchair out here, ma'am?"

Oh shit.

What are the fucking CHANCES that somebody who actually NEEDS the luxury suite comes into the bathroom while I'm in there??

I quickly shoved my phone into my bag, got myself together and sheepishly exited the suite, head hung in shame. The look the TSA agent assisting the handicapped woman gave me was nothing short of disapproving, I'm sure. I couldn't lift my head up to meet her eyes to confirm. I washed my hands, unflushed my cheeks and skedaddled the hell out of there to the sounds of a wheelchair banging against the sides of the stall.

Who wants a swirly?

I have a long and expensive history of giving my phones a bath at highly inconvenient times. This weekend was no exception.

Waiting for K to text me on his way home from work, I kept my phone close to my ass--tucked deep in the back pocket of my jeans. Two glasses of wine and some hilarious conversation with some awesome ladies later, and of course I forgot it was back there.

I went to go to the bathroom (this was pre-pee, I promise) and suddenly I heard a gentle PLOP and a splash.

I realized right away what I had done, but instead of turning around in a hurry (thanks, delicious wine, for slowing my reflexes) I said (out loud) "ohhh... NOOOO," and turned around in slow motion to survey the damage.

Luckily, my brother in law works for AT&T and was quick as lightning to open up the phone and do cellular CPR. He reported back that it didn't appear to have any damage, but if I should notice anything to give him a call.

This wasn't the first time I gave my phone a bath, and I'm sure it won't be the last. But I guess the only thing truly hurt that night was my pride.