Okay gang, I am writing this under cover of darkness.
Technically I am writing this under cover of Hot Latin Boy being on the patio lifting all sorts of heavy household good in preparation for my personal exodus out of Villa Plumcake which is happening in oh, about four hours. Which is why I should be moving stuff. But I’m not. Because I’m here.
It also doesn’t help that I’m all bruised, battered and generally in less than in ideal moving condition because –wait for it– I fell in heels.
I know. I was as shocked as you are.
For the first time since the Toothfairy Ball incident of 2005, wherein I had to emcee for a charity in a costume that included these boots:
and a industrial-sized bottle of codeine cough syrup consumed entirely on stage which people thought was part of my clever dentist costume but was in fact because I had pneumonia.
Anyhoodle, steep stairs, a raging cough syrup high, and six inch vinyl hooker boots does not a well-balanced Plumcake make (in either sense of the word) and I went tits over teacups on stage in what I was told was a rather breathtaking way.
My most recent tumble was not nearly so exciting, but I came off quite a bit worse.
On Friday night I went to my former village’s one restaurant to say goodbye to some pals and avail myself of the tuneful stylings of a man billed as sounding exactly like Barry White, which he does, providing you a) have severe head damage and b) have never actually heard Barry White.
I was going solo for the night and the problem with the village is any woman under the age of about six thousand is considered a hot commodity.
As a result I have perfected the Polite but Potentially Armed rebuff, which involves among other things not letting anyone other than my friend the former Golden Gloves champion boxer walk me to my car.
He wasn’t available, so after having my Manhattan, enjoying a nice chat with an oncology surgeon I hadn’t seen in ages who has graciously extended an invitation to Morelia, and biting a lounge singer (I told him if he touched my cheek one more time I’d bite him, so why was he surprised that when he touched my cheek during a particularly horrible rendition of the already horrible “After the Lovin'” that I kept my word. He’s lucky I didn’t keep his finger, too) I walked to my car.
Remember last summer when I wrote that anyone who thinks cobblestones are romantic either has smaller breasts or cheaper shoes than I do? Well, it holds true. Cobblestones can [redacted] right off.
I mean what sort of world do we live in where a totally sober woman in a pair of extremely solid, bordering on sensible Diane Von Furstenburg cobalt pony hair heels can be assaulted by the forces of gravity in such a cruel and unprovoked manner?
The damage was relatively minimal: One cut-up hand, a skinned knee and an impressive case of road rash on my left elbow.
The shoes, thank God, are fine.
Once again my borderline germphobia saved the day because I was able to immediately disinfect my cuts and scrapes with the many MANY bacteria-killing products in my car, leaving Hot Latin Boy to pluck out the bits of gravel from my person when I arrived safely (all things considered) home.
So…that was my weekend and I think I hear HLB trying to move my booze cabinet so I should probably go supervise. I might be a little scacre this week, but in the meantime, how was YOUR weekend?