A pregnant Crystal. Watch out.

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.

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?

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.

Read about it here.   

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.

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.

In case you want to see the finished project (note the blue satin enemy looking full of shame):

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.
 

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.

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.

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?

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/

Oh, burn

450-degree glass baking pan + my little arm = SUNUVA BITCH OW OW OWWWW

black eye?

After my literal run-in with the front door this morning, I think a black eye is in the works.

(I still have not learned how to use photoshop.)

Past blunders: installment 2

You think I'm close to running out of stories to tell? Nope. Not EVEN. Writing about these past blunders puts me in a wistful mood...but in a GOOD way! It's like a stumbly stroll down memory lane.

Anyway, this is a story about a trip. Trip-and-fall stories are my specialty, I think. When chatting about this now, we refer to it as the "Relationship Ender."

Chris and I had only gone out on a few dates. We were headed back to his mom's house after getting a late night bite. As we tip-toed through the front door, he whispered "My dad's asleep downstairs and he has to wake up early. So, sshhhh."
I thought it'd be smart to take the book-it-quietly approach. Bad idea. As I was quickly and ever-so-elegantly prancing up the stairs, the pergo beneath my feet yanked me down. Or maybe I just slipped? No, I blame the stairs. THOSE BASTARD STAIRS. Have you fallen on wood stairs? It hurts. And it's loud.

I woke his dad.

During the time in a relationship when it's most important to make a good impression, I became that girl who made all the ruckus that one night.

Shortly after the thunderous fall on the stairs, we made it to Chris's room. My knees were bruised, but I was lightheartedly laughing at my idiocy. Then Chris said (this is where the story gets its name) "It's a good thing I like you a lot, because THAT was a relationship ender. Are you always that ungraceful?" To which I replied, "Of course not." Which was a lie.

So, I got some groceries

yesterday and, like always, tried carrying them all up in one armload. Sometimes I think I'm stronger than I really am.

My independence often results in stubborn accidents.

I made it up the first flight, second and third. In the home stretch. I got to the door and….the sonuvabitch was locked. I tried knocking with some swift kicks. Time was running out. My little teeny tiny pinky (which was holding the bag with eggs) finally gave out and I hear a hideous CRUNCH as it falls at my feet.

Chris came to the door and got an eyeful: me crouched down, groceries all around, hair in disarray, egg goo on my hands.

Assuming the worst

Let me preface this short story by saying this: Chris is not a serious guy. He's laid back, easy-going, fun and goofy--MOST of the time. We laugh a lot.

Today after work I was driving him to the Utes game. Earlier, he picked us up a CD/DVD burner for our computer (I have NO clue why it didn't come with one. This is the year 2009, right). The burner was in the backseat in an open box. Just before we arrived at the university, he says to me, in the most stern tone i've ever heard from his lips

"Can you please take this upstairs without dropping it?"

I reply, "Yeah, sure!"

And he's all "No really. You can't drop this. It'll break."

And I'm all "No really. I don't drop everything."

"Yes, Crystal, yes you do."

Just the presumption on his part that I ruin everything I touch, makes me laugh. Because it's so untrue. Do I drop a lot of things? Well, yeah. He will be happy to know that the burner made it up the three flights of stairs safe and sound; however, I did drop all the mail and a package through the stairs once I got up to the third floor. Oops. If it wasn't the burner, it HAD to be something else.

Past blunders

FLASHBACK. When Chris and I first started dating back in 2003, I was a shy, awkward teen (really, the only thing that's changed is my age).
There are several stories about me trying to be cute for him and (consequently) looking stupid. This is one that stands out.

It was late afternoon and Chris had just stopped by to pick me up for one of our first dates. I remember spending a significant amount of time fixing my hair in some unnecessary updo to impress him. I even put on heels, which (even to this day) rarely happens. We exited the house through the garage door. Chris made his way to his car as I entered in the garage code. He stopped and turned to admire me. I remember he smiled with genuine affection and his eyes sparkled in the sunlight as he said "you look so cute today." I was lovestruck. I stood there, smiling, feet planted firmly on the cement driveway, then it happened. I just…fell. Sort of like when it happened to Carrie Bradshaw…



…except I was STANDING STILL. I don't even know how it happened. I blame the heels.

After he asked if I was okay, he came over and helped scoop me up off the floor. He STILL tells people about this. He's like "and then she tripped…standing still!"

I tripped up the stairs yesterday

Okay. I predict that A LOT of posts on this blog are going to begin with the words "I tripped." I'm distracted, tired, stressed: whatever. It's inevitable. I trip, stumble or fall at least once or twice a day. Usually, it's a small ordeal; I'll pick myself up, brush off and go about my merry way. Yesterday, the trip sucked a little more than usual because it happened on the third floor
stairs at my apartment.

These aren’t ordinary stairs. They're the steel ones with cheese grater-like construction.


So it goes like this. On the way home from work, I'd drifted off into a deep sleep (one of the many perks of a carpool). It was one of those naps that leave you feeling that nothing else exists but you, your dream and the soft surface upon which you lay. Aaahhh car naps. Anyway, when Chris nudged me because we'd arrived home, I groggily picked up my lunch box and headed for the stairs thinking nothing else in the world matters more to me at this moment than sinking into the abyss of flannel pillows on my bed. I was on the last three stairs, so far luck was on my side, then it happened. My foot slipped.

The lunch box containing my Tupperware, phone, tampons and compact flew from my arm as I took a nosedive toward the next cheese grater stair.

The loud crash was followed by the tiny sound of my flip phone landing open, three floors below on the hot cement. That thing was brand new. I just bought it a month ago.

The imprints on the palms of my hands didn't go away for like an hour. It stung. Bad. But on the plus side, I was awake enough to make it to the gym.

Climbing stairs is a weak spot for me.

Clumsy

According to research, clumsiness is caused by stress, worry, too much multitasking--things of that nature. Some say that it's just bad luck,

or maybe even hereditary.

Whatever it is or wherever it came from, it found me. I'm a walking disaster. My mishaps aren't usually HUGE, though. There are mostly just lots of tiny ones.

My recent accidents, along with encouragement of coworkers and friends, have inspired me to start a blog ALL about the clumsy. I'll be sharing more of my stories and pictures along with anything anyone else dares to share. C'mon, let's be awkward and ungraceful together!