So I was accident prone before I got pregnant. Now my clumsiness has catapulted to OUT OF CONTROL. That "pregnancy brain" thing that people talk about: it's not a myth. (I thought it was a myth.) No, your brain doesn't actually change, but surging hormone levels cause strange things to happen.
Forgetting things (like how to spell, or send an email), spilling things, tripping over things, dropping things. Just to name a few.
The other day I spilled three drinks. In one day. Each one full to the rim. Normally my drink spilling is limited to once a week, so yeah, I can definitely tell something's up.
And it's a good thing I have these giant boobs to act as a net while eating. I can't count the number of new stains that have popped up on my wardrobe. Soon, though, I'm betting the belly will stick out far enough to be the new food-catcher.
So, internet, I just hopped on my old mishaps blog to say watch out. Unless you want your toes stepped on or something spilled on your crotch, then it may be best to limit your interaction with me to online-only.
I'm almost five months pregnant, and not showing too much yet, so you can expect me to become more dangerous as the center of gravity continues to shift.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Monday, January 16, 2012
New hair, same old me.
Hello friends. I'm back with a good one to tell. Albeit short and anticlimactic, but worth telling in my opinion.
Over the weekend I went to the hairdresser and she made some pretty drastic changes to my 'do. I've been rather blonde (dirty blondeish/light brown?) for a long time and I wanted to go very dark. It's close to black with some light brown melts toward the ends. A very subtle highlight. She also cut some inches, added some layers and freshened up the yuckies on the ends. Stunning. She did a fabulous job. I was feeling pretty fancy about myself after Collette told me what a great skin tone I had for pulling off this dark hair.
"I was skeptical about how dark you wanted to go, but now that it's done, I see that you have the type of skin and eyebrows that can pull probably any color off."
My hair was shiny, the day was sunny, I had a date night planned and I was feeling confident about things in general. I contemplated the night's outfit and shoes as I jogged the stairs of Collette's basement salon.
Right as I arrived at the top step, the dreaded tip-of-the-shoe scuff happened. Just before the long trip from my feet to my face, a gorgeous couple pulled up in a nice car RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. For some reason, her eyes are what I chose to zero-in on as I collapsed to my dignity's demise. My book flew to the left, my keys flew to the right and my water bottle went straight ahead, rolling right underneath gorgeous couple's stopped tire.
My hands stung from catching my body's weight on the cold winter pavement, but my face burned more from the sheer embarrassment of the fall. I'm used to falling or making a fool of myself, but this was different. I was feeling so fantastically good-looking with my new hair and then the universe sensed that vanity and knocked me on my ass. That's what I get, I guess. (This reminds me of a separate story, similarly played out, of when I had some sassy new stilettos on. I wore them cautiously all day, wondering if they were too high for me to master. The second I felt that I could walk boldly and balanced, I tripped.)
The gal in the passenger side of the car opened the door and asked if I was alright. She collected my water bottle from beneath her Benz tire and handed it to me with a look of sweet pity in her eyes.
It seems stairs are a particular struggle for me. Remember these other accidents?
Over the weekend I went to the hairdresser and she made some pretty drastic changes to my 'do. I've been rather blonde (dirty blondeish/light brown?) for a long time and I wanted to go very dark. It's close to black with some light brown melts toward the ends. A very subtle highlight. She also cut some inches, added some layers and freshened up the yuckies on the ends. Stunning. She did a fabulous job. I was feeling pretty fancy about myself after Collette told me what a great skin tone I had for pulling off this dark hair.
"I was skeptical about how dark you wanted to go, but now that it's done, I see that you have the type of skin and eyebrows that can pull probably any color off."
My hair was shiny, the day was sunny, I had a date night planned and I was feeling confident about things in general. I contemplated the night's outfit and shoes as I jogged the stairs of Collette's basement salon.
Right as I arrived at the top step, the dreaded tip-of-the-shoe scuff happened. Just before the long trip from my feet to my face, a gorgeous couple pulled up in a nice car RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. For some reason, her eyes are what I chose to zero-in on as I collapsed to my dignity's demise. My book flew to the left, my keys flew to the right and my water bottle went straight ahead, rolling right underneath gorgeous couple's stopped tire.
My hands stung from catching my body's weight on the cold winter pavement, but my face burned more from the sheer embarrassment of the fall. I'm used to falling or making a fool of myself, but this was different. I was feeling so fantastically good-looking with my new hair and then the universe sensed that vanity and knocked me on my ass. That's what I get, I guess. (This reminds me of a separate story, similarly played out, of when I had some sassy new stilettos on. I wore them cautiously all day, wondering if they were too high for me to master. The second I felt that I could walk boldly and balanced, I tripped.)
The gal in the passenger side of the car opened the door and asked if I was alright. She collected my water bottle from beneath her Benz tire and handed it to me with a look of sweet pity in her eyes.
It seems stairs are a particular struggle for me. Remember these other accidents?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Past blunders: installment 3
It's been a long time since my last post here. There have been no hospital trips, no stitches and no major accidents (WTF is wrong with me?).
So, I thought it may be time to revisit this hilariously gruesome and ironic mischance. In 2009 while working as a copywriter, I was cut to the bone. By a butter knife.
So, I thought it may be time to revisit this hilariously gruesome and ironic mischance. In 2009 while working as a copywriter, I was cut to the bone. By a butter knife.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Caution: the merry-go-round is dangerous.
Saturday was my first amusement park experience of the year. As you can tell by the nasty photo, the day wasn't all good. It started off super. My niece and nephew were enjoying themselves, nobody was getting hurt, the weather was divine. But then the damned merry-go-round changed all that.
Have you noticed sometimes that when the horsey stops on the pole, it's clear toward the top? Shouldn't it default toward the bottom--uhh--because IT'S A KID'S RIDE? Little children (and little Crystals) could be seriously injured.
Luckily, this week-old leg bruise is the extent of the damage. But it HURT. (I may have yelled some swears.)
My lovely lil niece and sweet sister in law.
Monday, January 24, 2011
I was just trying to do a quick, cute craft.
Have you seen these cute embroidery hoop wall bubbles? It's a quick, easy craft project that's sweeping the web. Fabric clasped within the confines of a simple, wood hoop. Nail in wall. Hang. DONE.
When my eyes first fixed on these beautiful little artsy fartsy pieces, I was thrilled. THIS SEEMS LIKE SOMETHING I CAN DO AND NOT MESS UP, I thought to myself.
Hoop #1 turned out perfect. Gorgeous, if I may say. Hoop #2. Lovely. Hoop #3. What a cinch. I own this project.
Hoop #4, though, will now be referred to as the blue satin enemy. As I fixed the satin fabric in the main hoop and placed the smaller hoop inside, something awful happened.
A nasty mistake was made. One that won't soon be forgotten. Instead of pounding and pressing the wood until it fit into its corresponding piece, I smoothed my hand over the top, in one swift motion. The cheap, thin wood, its grain going in the opposite direction, revealed a tiny thorn that couldn't wait to attack the meatiest part of my fragile, little hand.
Folks, this sliver was 1/2-inch long. It was far enough beneath my skin that it couldn't easily be plucked out, but close enough to the surface to be seen in its entirety. I violently grabbed at it and pulled (first instinct). That was another stewpid mistake. The fragile wood broke off, leaving the majority stuck (and inaccessible) inside my palm, with nothing left for me to grasp.
This project is no longer my bitch.
No one was home, so I continued to angrily yank at the wood chunk. I started using tweezers and trying to push the sliver from the opposite direction toward the entry wound. Since this happened to my right hand, and alas I am not ambidextrous, it was looking more and more like a lost cause.
I ran to the Nabors' house (yes, my neighbors' names are Nabor).
No one home.
Sam licked my face. My whining and erratic behavior was concerning the lil furball.
Twenty minutes passed. My body started to respond to the embedded foreign object. The meaty part swelled and turned red and the stinging became a little more apparent.
Chris got home and dug into it with a knife, breaking very little skin, and smoothly removing the rest of the sliver.
Not too serious of an accident, but definitely a tiny mishap.
When my eyes first fixed on these beautiful little artsy fartsy pieces, I was thrilled. THIS SEEMS LIKE SOMETHING I CAN DO AND NOT MESS UP, I thought to myself.
Hoop #1 turned out perfect. Gorgeous, if I may say. Hoop #2. Lovely. Hoop #3. What a cinch. I own this project.
Hoop #4, though, will now be referred to as the blue satin enemy. As I fixed the satin fabric in the main hoop and placed the smaller hoop inside, something awful happened.
A nasty mistake was made. One that won't soon be forgotten. Instead of pounding and pressing the wood until it fit into its corresponding piece, I smoothed my hand over the top, in one swift motion. The cheap, thin wood, its grain going in the opposite direction, revealed a tiny thorn that couldn't wait to attack the meatiest part of my fragile, little hand.
Folks, this sliver was 1/2-inch long. It was far enough beneath my skin that it couldn't easily be plucked out, but close enough to the surface to be seen in its entirety. I violently grabbed at it and pulled (first instinct). That was another stewpid mistake. The fragile wood broke off, leaving the majority stuck (and inaccessible) inside my palm, with nothing left for me to grasp.
This project is no longer my bitch.
No one was home, so I continued to angrily yank at the wood chunk. I started using tweezers and trying to push the sliver from the opposite direction toward the entry wound. Since this happened to my right hand, and alas I am not ambidextrous, it was looking more and more like a lost cause.
I ran to the Nabors' house (yes, my neighbors' names are Nabor).
No one home.
Sam licked my face. My whining and erratic behavior was concerning the lil furball.
Twenty minutes passed. My body started to respond to the embedded foreign object. The meaty part swelled and turned red and the stinging became a little more apparent.
Chris got home and dug into it with a knife, breaking very little skin, and smoothly removing the rest of the sliver.
Not too serious of an accident, but definitely a tiny mishap.
In case you want to see the finished project (note the blue satin enemy looking full of shame):
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A funeral fluke.
My husband's grandpa died last week. For the past 7.5 years, he's been like a grandpa to me. The first time I met him, he insisted I call him "grandpa." Sweet, sweet man. Before he passed he told his wife specifically what he wanted to happen. Cremation. Celebration of life. Food. Fun.
So what does this have to do with me falling/acting stupid/dropping something? I'm getting there.
The service was beautiful. It was full of heart-felt stories about Cliff and the legacy he left behind. There was laughing and crying and every other emotional output you can think of. We headed to the church for lunch where we sat next to grandpa's son--Junior, his friend--the vet, and his neighbor. Nice guys, good reminiscent conversation.
Chris pulled out my chair for me and as I lowered myself to the seat, my exposed knee (I wore a mid-length dress and cowboy boots. What? Grandpa would have loved it.) bashed into some metal bar under the table. Why do fold-out church tables always have this bar? I'm no engineer, but I feel like perhaps a table design not involving metal supports ALL THE WAY AROUND THE EDGE could be implemented. Or maybe I'm just looking for a way to buffer the shock of my oblivion (?). Nonetheless, it hurt and I swore. (I'm deeply regretful of this, Mormon church.) The bruise is green and centered by an unsightly cut.
Oh but that wasn't it.
I ate my ham and three different assortments of funeral potatoes (not kidding). Then it came time for the main course: CAKE. I pressed down on my fork with my pointer finger on the side, trying to be ladylike.
So what does this have to do with me falling/acting stupid/dropping something? I'm getting there.
The service was beautiful. It was full of heart-felt stories about Cliff and the legacy he left behind. There was laughing and crying and every other emotional output you can think of. We headed to the church for lunch where we sat next to grandpa's son--Junior, his friend--the vet, and his neighbor. Nice guys, good reminiscent conversation.
Chris pulled out my chair for me and as I lowered myself to the seat, my exposed knee (I wore a mid-length dress and cowboy boots. What? Grandpa would have loved it.) bashed into some metal bar under the table. Why do fold-out church tables always have this bar? I'm no engineer, but I feel like perhaps a table design not involving metal supports ALL THE WAY AROUND THE EDGE could be implemented. Or maybe I'm just looking for a way to buffer the shock of my oblivion (?). Nonetheless, it hurt and I swore. (I'm deeply regretful of this, Mormon church.) The bruise is green and centered by an unsightly cut.
Oh but that wasn't it.
I ate my ham and three different assortments of funeral potatoes (not kidding). Then it came time for the main course: CAKE. I pressed down on my fork with my pointer finger on the side, trying to be ladylike.
What happened next is confusing. 
I'm not sure how it came about, but my accidental strength somehow BROKE the plastic fork into pieces, all while cake soared elegantly through the air, landing in the hair and on the nice, collared shirts of grandpa's friends and family.
I'm not sure how it came about, but my accidental strength somehow BROKE the plastic fork into pieces, all while cake soared elegantly through the air, landing in the hair and on the nice, collared shirts of grandpa's friends and family. My profuse apologies were followed with jokes and unaccusing laughter. Thank goodness no one was offended and /or horrified. Grandpa wasn't there so someone had to make fun of the blunders.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Two falls in a row
Anyone out there anymore? Eh, if not--oh well. I still like this blog and still have plenty of accidents to post about. Time was not my friend there for a while, though. Now I will make time to post these silly accidents. Because it's fun. To make fun. Or something...
Okay, so a couple weeks ago we went to a friend's wedding. Gorgeous. Perfect. Stunning wedding. It was held in the fancy backyard of a large Kaysville, UT home. Waterfalls, booze, dancing, BBQ. Completely dreamy.
But I wore heels. And backyards mean lots o lots o grass. Do I even have to finish the story?
Um, no.
On the way out those damn heels (like they always do) let me down. This tumble was special, though. I fell in a slow, almost graceful manner. Foot roll. Then knees. Then hands. {At this point I'm just sitting there in a dog-crawl stance.}
Chris laughed. I laughed. He helped me up and that was that. Until we got to the grassy curb where the car was parked. BOOYAH. Two in one night. This may be a record for me. Two, 100% feet-swept-out-from-under-me falls in a matter of 1 minute.
image cred: http://karaandgroomzilla.blogspot.com/
Okay, so a couple weeks ago we went to a friend's wedding. Gorgeous. Perfect. Stunning wedding. It was held in the fancy backyard of a large Kaysville, UT home. Waterfalls, booze, dancing, BBQ. Completely dreamy.
But I wore heels. And backyards mean lots o lots o grass. Do I even have to finish the story?
We were doing great the entire night. Chris and I even slow danced. I even had 3 glasses of wine. The night was looking promising. Would this perhaps be one of those rare, accident-free moments? Could I just relax and be proud of myself for rockin those 4-inch stilettos? Perhaps I'd matured into a poised woman. Maybe embarking upon marriage brought non-frazzled, non-clumsy girl to the surface.
Um, no.
On the way out those damn heels (like they always do) let me down. This tumble was special, though. I fell in a slow, almost graceful manner. Foot roll. Then knees. Then hands. {At this point I'm just sitting there in a dog-crawl stance.}
Chris laughed. I laughed. He helped me up and that was that. Until we got to the grassy curb where the car was parked. BOOYAH. Two in one night. This may be a record for me. Two, 100% feet-swept-out-from-under-me falls in a matter of 1 minute.
image cred: http://karaandgroomzilla.blogspot.com/
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