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.