Girl, You Be Trippin'

Sorry I haven’t written in awhile. I tripped and fell over my elliptical while playing tag with my kid and blew out my knee. I started physical therapy and am having surgery in a couple of weeks blah blah blah. Neat. Now the better part of a year is being devoted to an appendage which brings me to the moral of this story: Stop playing with your children. Get them an iPad, throw some Lucky Charms on the ground, and stay away from them. It is much, much safer this way.  

My surgeon gave-no I paid $400 BEFORE INSURANCE, for this gigantic, attention whore leg brace that I have to wear before and after surgery and it is not even designer. I sat there with a blank stare while the nurse put it on me. At this point in my life, I never dreamed I would be having any surgeries that would not make me prettier. My surgeon thoughtfully quipped that fixing my dangly leg is “sort of like plastic surgery.” I am totally having this quote embroidered and framed for inspiration when depression sets in.

Anyhow, after dragging my asshole leg around for a week, I realized I kept getting hit on. Not just by Paul McCartney who has an affinity for one-legged broads, but actual men of substantial height, with teeth, jobs, and cars.  I was entirely puzzled by this unusual phenomenon until it occurred to me…THIS IS A SPORT’S INJURY. Omg. Men actually think I am an athlete.

I am not athletic. I hate sports. I hate nature. The only reason I exercise is so I don’t get fat and can watch TV.  In my mind, it is just an added bonus if my heart somehow benefits from me working out.  

Since the “full” recovery of my knee is nine, repeat NINE, months, I am treating it like a pregnancy. 

Annnnnd right now, I am nesting. I am ripping through my house, cleaning and throwing out everything in my path. My little white dog was laying next to a pile of stuffed animals that I was tossing in a garbage bag to donate and I almost threw her ass in there. It was quite terrifying since I actually thought a stuffed animal growled at me and tried to bite my face.  

I also decided I could not possibly have surgery until my cups/mugs were arranged and sorted. I informed Mike that I would soon be attacking the kitchen, but not to get too excited because I wasn’t moving out.  Mike has a penchant for using words/phrases in an improper context (ie: “gang bang” and “happier than a pig in heat”.) I love this little quirk SO much, I totally would have married him even if he wasn’t rich (and I wasn’t pregnant).

Anyway, Mike said, “Actually that is a good idea. I am sick of looking at that ‘menage a trois’ of cups every time I open the cupboard.” I narrowed my eyes and grinned, “Omg. I haven’t noticed our dishes making passionate love to one another! Weird.” “Erin- You were supposed to save your pain killers until after surgery. You are such a freakshow.” “Michael- The word is ‘menagerie’.” And then we started laughing super hard because dishes totally do get dirty. Bow chica bow bow.  

I have to go throw more of Mike’s stuff out now and seduce more gentlemen callers with my athletic prowess. I hope you all have a fab weekend. Lots of love.  XO