I’ve actively avoided going into the saga of my bedbug debacle here on Sad-Sigh, mainly because it would take up 300,000 posts, and has already been blogged to death.
However, I think it’s sad, and perfectly sigh-worthy, when, as soon as I’ve gotten rid of the bedbugs, I go to a project at East River Park, and get bit to shit by vicious bird-sized mosquitoes. I now look like I’m covered in boils.
Boo.
So, it’s been a while, and the last one fizzled out, but I got another Crazy Blind Date text this week, and will be attending my next CBD tomorrow evening. More to come, for sure afterwards, but until then I leave you with this:
I threw my back out on Sunday. Luckily, it only took me 2.5 days to start feeling normal again, but, seriously, OLD. Plus – the saddest part is that I got injured at the gym, and the last 3 days all I’ve been able to think about is how I miss going to the gym.
My life has taken several turns for the worse. I’ve become one of them.
I spent a long, long day at Bumbershoot, Seattle’s excellent arts, comedy and music festival, where we saw many, many excellent bands. My friend EZ and I had decided to see the guys from Human Giant as our comedy selection, but it turned out David Cross was a surprise addition to the comedy lineup. David Cross rules, so we got passes for the show. David Cross, in case you were unaware of this, is dating Amber Tamblyn, who recently was in that movie about magical pants.
Walking across one of the lawns toward to Intiman Theatre, I joked to EZ, “Hey, maybe we will see Amber Tamblyn.”
“Yeah,” said EZ, “We can tell her how much we loved her pants movie. Or we can just be rude and yell PANTS at her.” We had a good laugh. Why would Amber Tamblyn take time off from her busy pants-promoting schedule to come to lil’ ol’ Seattle?
We get settled in our seats and guess who sits directly behind us in the tiny theater.
Yeah. Amber Tamblyn.
Obviously, I am awesome! What I say happens! I am like God and all the infinite possibilities of the world are open to me!
So what do you think happened later when, sitting on the lawn watching the patently awful Saul Williams, I flinched as a seagull flew too low?
“Why are you so scared of them?” EZ asked.
“I’m afraid one will shit on me,” I explained.
Two seconds later, I had a big ol’ bird shit on the leg of my jeans.
Sigh.
I am accident-prone. People tend to find this fact surprising about me (people who haven’t known me long), but I am also more or less the indestructible woman. Once, I fell down two flights of stairs, landing directly on my neck. Sure, I dislocated my shoulder but it could have been much worse. Much worse. Yet people still act shocked when I say that I am utterly, completely without the necessary elegance it takes to, say, walk.
I wasn’t surprised to find myself tumbling down subway stairs this weekend with another Sad Sigher (I tumbled; he watched in horror). Nor was I surprised when the only bruising I ended up with was where the man with a cane had tried to helped me up, and inadvertently left bruised fingerprints on my upper arm. I fell down, but then I got right back up and limped with my broken shoe back to the apartment. This is par for the course. I didn’t think anything of it.
Unfortunately, it was the harbinger of further bad luck. Upon exiting the subway the following day (having boarded at an above-ground station where the sun was shining brightly), I stepped out to see a purple-looking sky, warning of a storm. “No matter,” I thought, trudging forward with two suitcases, “I only have three blocks to walk to get to where I’m going.” As if on cue I felt a raindrop. Then another. Thunder crack. Louder thunder crack. And suddenly, rain the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my last visit to Florida during hurricane season starts pelting me and everything I own.
(Keep in mind that I am wearing 99 cent store flip flops I had purchased to replace the shoes I broke falling down the subway stairs).
“Only three blocks,” I say to myself, sliding precariously on my own shoes as I step into a massive puddle. “Only three blocks!”
Well, normally only three blocks. That day? Six extra blocks thanks to those wily gays, who were having a parade down 5th avenue. Sure, I got to see wet, naked, hairless men marching down the street on the Nair for Men float (mmmm…so smooth!), but the price I paid was arriving at my destination soaked completely through – down to my underwear.
Which itself presented a new problem.
I was on a little vacation for the weekend, and, only needing two days worth of outfits, I had only brought one bra.
So here’s where the Sad. Sigh. comes in. Picture this: Me, in a robe, sitting in a freezing hotel room drying my own damn bra with a hairdryer and later, putting a shirt on over the still-damp bra and ending up with circles of dampness around my boobs. No, that’s not sweat. No, I’m NOT nursing! Just a little rain, is all.
I think I have PTSD.
Seriously, every time some asshole construction worker decides to heave a crossbeam from the scaffolding he’s taking apart to the dumpster 25 feet below, instead of handing it to the guy who’s right below him, I have a fucking heart attack. My palms start sweating, I taste the adrenaline in my mouth, all of my senses become heightened, and I begin planning my nearest exit to safety. Whatever commentary this may beget about my awaking to a plane hitting Tower 2 back in ’01, or tied to my childhood balloon story (goddamn, mother-loving balloons!), this response happens every time I’m exposed to a loud noise. I can’t even drop a stapler at home without wanting to dive into the nearest foxhole. And don’t get me started on those evil little Chinese firecrackers.
But none of these sounds even compares to thunderclaps. The sheer terror that mighty Thor puts into my heart as the thunder rolls across the sky to hit the (only slightly) taller building right next to ours, is absolutely unparalleled. And here’s the worst part: I’m apparently supposed to think that t-storms are SEXY. Good God, that is the last thing that comes to mind, unless you count diving under the covers and cowering my version of a ‘come to bed’ look. Continue reading