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?
I am recovering from the worst sunburn of my adult life. I had gone on a hike Saturday, and flush with the sensation of “I’m fit and outdoorsy!” decided to repeat the practice on Sunday. Unfortunately, I was fooled by the overcast conditions into not putting sunblock on my shoulders (I had it on my face, thank heavens, as my face lotion contains an SPF25 anyway).
Well, two hours later I arrived home, looked at my shoulders and said, “Hm. They’re looking a little pink.” Well, like a slow and painful Polaroid, the colour developed over the next few hours into something resembling the shade of pink found on the Avenue logo to the right of this page.
Comment by La Petite Acadienne — May 29, 2012 @ 1:28 pm
I had a mostly lovely weekend, spending time over Skype with my 90 year old grandpa on his birthday, relaxing on Sunday, then spending time with good friends and getting belly henna on Memorial Day. We wrapped it up with a exciting trip to the local OB emergency floor for preterm contractions. After a delightful few hours of relative neglect and condescension from my midwife, I got to come home, shower, nap, and then head back out for an ultrasound. God bless the sonographer, she made it fun, printed us some more pictures and assured us that the little man is doing great and my cervix is shut tighter than Scrooge’s wallet. Now the whole family wants me to stay on the couch, napping and playing on my Kindle. Happy ending.
Comment by KESW — May 29, 2012 @ 2:12 pm
Oh I feel you, I have tripped/ fallen over so many times that nowadays I just get up and carry on walking and talking, like nothing happened. I even manage to fall in flats but I think being uncoordinated is a family trait so I have just accepted it.
Glad your shoes and your fabulous self are ok!
Comment by Weesha — May 29, 2012 @ 2:13 pm
The thing that I will always remember most about Rome, NOT the Vatican, not the fountains, not the Parthenon, the Colosseum or the way men can flirt but …. the way the Italian woman could run across cobblestones, in stilettos with an expresso in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Generally while simultaneously talking on their cellphone and cuddling a small dog.
Now THAT is one of the wonders of the world
PS Hope you are feeling better
Comment by Thea — May 29, 2012 @ 2:44 pm
Ooh, the last time I fell due to shoes was a spill I took last summer in a pair of gorgeous 4.5″ lacquered wood Fornarina wedges. I came out of it with a cracked metatarsal, and thus ended my love affair with said shoes.
Comment by SarahDances — May 29, 2012 @ 3:37 pm
Hope you feel better soon!
My weekend was spent lazing about, as it was storming quite a lot here. In the evenings, my family worked on perfecting the whiskey sour recipe that my baby sister had brought home– a quite news worthy event in a gin/vodka only house.
Comment by Ananas — May 30, 2012 @ 12:59 pm
@La Petite Acadienne I want to tell you Solarcaine. It is a sunburned gal’s best friend. And it comes in a spray can so if you don’t have any one to apply it for you you can still reach all the parts you sunburned.
Comment by Gryph — May 30, 2012 @ 3:42 pm
Thea! Me too! The tiny Italian women in their tottering heels running uphill like it was nothing! I felt like such a clod, lumbering around in day-hikers and having to rest at the top of the Spanish Steps to catch my breath. How do those women do it? And are they the same women that eventually turn into black-clad Nonnas in practical shoes and headscarves that creep at a snail’s pace?
Oh, wait! Maybe they do: 40 years of stilettos and cobblestone, you’re one spill away from being an old-world Italian granny in orthopedic shoes. Hmmmm.
Comment by Jezebella — June 3, 2012 @ 3:27 pm