I had planned on posting the most amazing photo I took Friday night of a small but very muscular young gentleman standing on a table outside a bar on a main thoroughfare in downtown wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, boots and tighty whities and shaking his moneymaker for dollar bills.
It was such a beautiful sight at 1 o'clock in the morning that, of course, as Martini, her Flower Guy and my Obnoxious Neighbor walked home (or rather Martini and I danced --her with shoes in hand and me with my arm in a sling -- while Flower Guy beat boxed and even the halfway house junkies stared at us like we were crazy) I screamed "Stop! Guys give me some money!" so I could stick it in those obscene underpants and take a picture for your viewing pleasure.
To my great displeasure, though, when I checked my mother fracking phone, which I've drop in everything from jello to boiling water, nothing was there. Big frown.
When I went to see the orthopedic specialist about my arm last week his instructions were pretty straight forward.
Him: Keep your splint on, go to physical therapy and no wild dancing.
Me: Do you say that to everyone, Dr. Nice Old Man, or do I look like the wild dancing kind?
Him: (dead pan)You look like the wild dancing kind.
Well, after one delicious lychee fruit vodka and mandarin orange juice cocktail, a wee bit of sake and my pain pill, when Martini suggested dancing at our favorite gay dance club (That will still let me in. Yeah, I've been banned from at least one such establishment. Something to do with hogging the stripper pole and then lifting my dress up over my head when they asked me to stop ...) who was I to argue?
Um, so, there's a reason the nice doctor said not to do that. Sometime around 5 a.m I woke up with the kind of pain I had when I first broke this dumb arm. No. More. Wild. Dancing.
Injuries are a complete drag and I'm annoyed I have one because it's completely taken over my life. I've always been a real fuddy duddy because I'm terrified of being injured. I grew up with three brothers who were always gashing something open, so I learned caution at a young age. I didn't have to have stitches until I was 26 (And then it was because I had skin cancer. Yikers!) and this is my first broken bone. I don't do dangerous things -- no dirt bikers, quads, snowboards -- I won't even let my friends jaywalk (it's very dangerous, trust me.)
Not only is the sole thing I can seem to think about this stiff appendage at my side (that's what she said) but it's all everyone around me talks about. One of the amazingly asinine middle-aged secretaries at my work actually said: I bet you wish you weren't single now. It would be a lot easier for you.
REALLY dumb lady? Do you think this is the thing that made me wish I wasn't single? Really, do you think it would be easier for me?
Then, I had this great interaction while waiting for the train to go home following the run-in with dummy-face.
Possibly Homeless Guy: What happened to your arm?
Me: I broke it.
Possibly Homeless Guy: We got to end domestic violence!
Me: Oh, no, I just fell.
Possibly Homeless Guy: That's what they all say, honey.
So would it be more trouble to be single or in a relationship?
Anyway, after Wild Dancing Night I needed the rest of the weekend to allow the swelling to go down so my right hand wouldn't look like one of the corpse bodies they find on CSI that's been floating in the water for two weeks.
Saturday afternoon I got to enjoy one of the many benefits of working for the fab place I work -- free club level tickets to see the Diamondbacks. I am such a baseball girl. Something about being outside, entertained, in a place where people bring you beer ... amazing. We lost, but it didn't count!
I'm trying to develop team loyalty. I grew up near Cleveland and am through and through a Tribe fan, so the enthusiasm is forced sometimes, but I'm getting there.
Further complicating the afternoon was the fact that I had asked The Ex to come along (friends who are reading this, I KNOW! Don't say it.) Me and The Ex are complicated, mostly because he treated me terribly and feels very guilty and wants to still be friends to atone for that and I'm a huge asshole who keeps falling for his shit and a bunch of other messed up stuff I should get into in another post when I feel like being honest because right now I'd just write a bunch of psycho babble crap I picked up from the terrible therapist I used to see. She wasn't very bright. It would all be BS. Another time ...
A Moment with the Art of Chris Sheban
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