The One Where My iPhone Luck Runs Out

I've rocked the iPhone since 2009.  I put off getting one for a few years, because I am never really the type to rush out and buy the newest gadget on the shelves.  However, since buying one and becoming an iPhoner, I can't imagine having a different phone, as materialistic as that may sound.

I've had relatively good luck with iPhones.  I know so many people who've shattered multiple screens, spilled something on their phones, lost their phones, or gotten them stolen not once but multiple times.  I always felt pretty proud that a scatter-brain like myself managed to dodge a lot of iPhone killing bullets!  (Okay, there was one time where my iPhone fell into the toilet and may or may not have stayed there for like thirty minutes before I realized it.  One time!)

That is, until this week, when my pretty and not even a year old iPhone 5 went from perfect to this in a split second launch from my waistband:

Not having access to a cell phone is not an option for me, being that I need to be accessible for work, and I'm 33 weeks pregnant.  So off to the AT&T store we found ourselves, and $150 later (I'm really in baby mode, because I all I kept thinking was how many different baby items we still need that I could have bought with that), I was the reluctant owner of a brand-new iPhone C in white.

Reluctant because I just wanted to keep my own damn phone!  I didn't want to spend the money on a new phone I don't even really like the look of (no offense, but the 5C looks like a toy)!  I didn't want to spend the money on a phone at all when we have so many other purchases I'd rather be making!  I didn't want to deal with this!

Before heading down the road of a full-blown meltdown about the phone situation, my sweet and much more level-headed and easy-going Handsome Husband reminded me that shit happens, and that it's not the end of the world.

And then I remembered what a #firstworldproblem my iPhone catastrophe was, and how lucky I am to have a man who can remind me of that.

The One Where I Get My Own Razor

I have been sharing a razor with my husband for as long as I can remember.  Is that gross?  Never weirded me out, but who knows. 

 

Anyways, I have always thought that mens' razors must give a closer, smoother shave and that I would never switch to a razor made specifically for women again.  It worked for me, it was less clutter in the shower, and it didn't gross HH out.

 

That is, until BzzAgent offered up a free Shick Hydro Silk razor.  I don't turn down free stuff, okay - it's not in my DNA.  So I accepted and eagerly awaited my new lady razor.  I'll be honest, I was expecting it to suck, and figured I'd use it once and then toss it.

 

Well I was wrong, this lady razor was not only super cute (something only a lady would care about), but the handle was so much easier for me to hold on to.  I can't tell you how many times I've almost cut a toe open by dropping HH's razor THISclose to my foot in the shower.  The chunky rubbery blue handle was easy to grip, and I didn't drop it once.

 

Let's talk about the important stuff: the shaving.  I.  Was.  Shocked.  Currently (about 12 hours post shave) I have the smoothest legs (and other areas, ifyouknowwhatImean) that I've had in years.  I think the moisturizing serum built in to the razor really makes a difference - I didn't even feel like I had to use lotion after the shower!

 

I am so happy to have gotten this razor from BzzAgent, I may never go back to HH's razor again! 

 

 

I was given a Shick Hydro Silk razor through BzzAgent for review.  All words and opinions are my own.

The One Where I Lose My Driver's License

This post is going to make you very jealous, because sometimes my husband surprises even me with his sweetness.

As I mentioned on Friday, last weekend me and four lovely ladies headed up to Solvang, CA for a weekend of wining, dining (though not really, more on that later), and laughing.  Saturday was our big day of activity and we had a wine tour planned!  You know, one of those over 21 only activities.

Cute Apartment and I headed out mid-day on Friday for the trip, while the other girls met us up there Friday night.  We got a bit of a late start, but by 3pm we were deep into our three hour drive.  We decided to make a pit stop in Santa Barbara to hit up a happy hour and maybe waltzed around State Street (a must do if you're ever in the area).

{Via}

 

We picked ourselves the most adorable little happy hour venue, with an outdoor patio fit with miniture fire pits on the tables and one bit one that we grabbed some chairs in front of.  Cute Apartment ran to the ladies' room while I persued the drink menu and decided on a classic margarita (it was a Mexican restaurant afterall).

 

When our waiter approached us, he was accompanied by his trainer, and we found out he was a newbie.  Being that CA and I waitressed together, I think we were both excited to see the new kid do his thing.  His spiel was adorable in the sense that he sounded sort of ridiculous, and so nervous.  After ordering our margs, he started to walk away but before he could his trainer whispered a little something something in his ear about asking for our IDs. 

 

Being that I'm way past my 21st birthday (though I'll be celebrating the 4th anniversary of it this year, a lovely tradition), I was happy to oblige and reached into my small crossbody bag where I've kept my license for months lately.  It wasn't in the front pocket, so I assumed I must have shoved it in the main opening at some point after a quick booze purchase.  Nope. 

 

Imagine my shock and dismay when I realized it was no where in my purse.  Cute Apartment and I hightailed it out of there in a hurry to double check the rest of my bags in her car, hoping maybe it was at the bottom of another bag.  Nope.

 

No, this girl here had managed to make it Santa Barbara on her way to a wine filled weekend sans driver's license or any form of identification for that matter.  Fudge.

 

Our later leaving LA ladies (try saying that 5 times fast) ended up being quite the gift from a wine-loving God because as I sat in CA's passenger seat trying to figure out how I'd be able to go on the damn wine tour, I realized my passport was at home.  And so was my husband.

 

After a quick call (and maybe some..favors promised), he agreed to drive my passport from South Orange County all the way to Los Angeles...in rush hour.  And then back.

 

And that is how I managed to go on the wine tour, sans driver's license.

 

Moral of the story?  Make sure you've got a passport, even if you never leave the country.  And get married to a man who loves you a lot.

The One Where I Say Something Stupid

I've struggled with how to update Our Love Story for while now, because what do you really say about the first few months in a relatonship?

They were exciting, exhilariting, all-encompassing.  I managed to become a really bad friend (something I had always, and again pride myself on) because I was falling so in love with my best friend at the time.  This is something I'll always wish I would have handled better - the juggling act of new young love and the rest of your life, but alas I cannot go back and things turned out pretty well for me in the long run.

Redheaded Kid and I fell fast and hard, and we soon started talking about our future together.  But not until after one night very early on in our courtship that I'll always remember when I talked out of my ass said something stupid, that thankfully didn't come true.

We were driving (this moment is so clear in my head, I know for a fact we were driving to his mom's old house off of El Toro Rd), and my new boyfriend, Smart-Ass Redheaded Kid, said something about the future.

Redhead: (something along the lines of) "Hey, maybe we'll get married one day (nervous laugh)!"

Me: "HAHA okay Redhead, you know we're not getting married."

Redhead: "What makes you say that?"

Me: "Dude (we still call each other dude to this day), you've only had one other girlfriend, you can't just marry the second girl you date!  You need to live some more.  But this is fun for now though, right?!"

 

I'm unsure why I thought that was an appropriate thing to say at the time, or ever, but oh glad I am that I was wrong. 

 

Come back next week for scenes of our first few months together.

Want to catch up on the story of how my Handsome Husband became my Handsome Husband? Find out how we met, what it was like going to high school with HH, how he reappeared in my life after moving to San Diego for college, and how he went from a memory to a best friend in weeks. Read about how I found out he wasn't thinking of me as just a friend, what he did for me while in Europe, and our first kiss. You can also read about how he was a total jackass played hard to get right when I was ready to give him a shot.  Then we decided to make things "official" on 08.08.08.

The One Where a Racoon Wakes Me Up

Here's the thing. 

I don't live in the freakin' wilderness.  I live in the world capital of Suburbia (and oh, how I love it!).  So when a wild animal comes waltzing through my doors (or even in my yard for that matter), I don't go "Oh, look how cute, a wild racoon...", I go "HOLY SHOOT WHAT THE EFF!" (never any reason cursing around here...nope, no ma'am).

Let's back up.

A couple years back, I found myself alone in my parents house for the night.  At the time this was quite the rare occurance as 1. I didn't live there, and 2. Four other people did.  But those four were on a little family vacation (don't get me started on family vacays sans me, though I think I had a prior commitment that prevented me from going to the Grand Canyon or some other remarkable location), so alone I was in this big 'ole house.

I'm a special kind of crazy in that I am convinced that everywhere I am is dangerous, and my parents' ultra safe and crime-free neighborhood (seriously, you should read the Neighborhood Watch section of the paper, the craziest thing that goes on around is a high school rager) is no exception.  So while I appreciated the alone time, when it came to hitting the hay, I was nervous to sleep alone in the house.  So I did what any normal 21-year-old grown ass woman would do, and I slept on the couch in the middle of the house, therefore making sure I would be aware of the happenings throughout the place.  No one sneakin' up on me in my locked bedroom, nope - I'm waiting for danger right out in the open!

Flash forward to around 3am, I'd finally gone off to snooze land, and I'm awoken by what I think is our family cat eating cat food.  But the cat was going to town on the food (seriously, to wake my up it's gotta be loud, I can sleep through a lot).  So, I snap out out my slumber and peak over the back of the couch towards the cat's food bowl. 

In my middle of the night haze, my first thought was "Wow, the cat has gotten really fat lately." 

But as the sleep cleared from my eyes a little more, I realized it was not the cat at all, but a dirty nasty hungry RACOON.

(At the time our cat was an indoor/outdoor cat, and my parents always left a little window open for him to come in and out of.  Racoons are smart, yo.)

So with a screach and a lot of super ladylike language, I catapulted myself from the couch to my close by bedroom faster than I've ever moved in my life.  While in the bedroom, I searched for a weapon to scare the little asshole out of the house.  Being that I didn't live there at the time, and for that matter never kept weapons in the room when I did, there was nothing but some trash, computer cables, and a really uncomfortable futon at my disposal.  Until I looked to the corner of the room and spotted it: the umbrella.  The umbrella I would use to defend my house against this creature.

So with shaky hands and sweaty palms, me and my umbrella exited the bedroom.  I started tapping the top of the umbrella on the ground yelling at the Racoon.  Dude wasn't phased.  Then I started screaming, and opening and closing the umbrella.  Not only was the creature not scared, that f'er was intrigued.  He got closer, and that was my cue to leave.

Back to my bedroom I went, where I decided to give up the battle, and stay in my room until my mommy and daddy came home to save me until the morning, when I hoped like hell that the racoon would have left the house. 

To make a super long story still long, the racoon was gone when I awoke, and I've never encountered one in the house since. 

Moral of the story?  Racoons are not scared of umbrellas, and never sleep in your parents' house alone.

The One Where We Miss Our Flight

By the time you're reading this, I will be 75% through my Disneyworld Florida vacation, and probably running on fumes after three days of park hopping.

But I'm writing this?  Sitting in the airport for going on 3 hours, because we I did the unthinkable.

We missed our flight.

Leisure time at the John Wayne Airport

(Because they wanted to share, Sister Singer is reading Castmember Confidential by Chris Mitchell, Sister Swimmer listening to The World As I Know It by Jason Mraz, and Hubster engrossed in One L: The Turbulent True Story of a First Year at Harvard Law School by Scott Turow.) 

In the most uncharacteristic thing I've done in years, I managed to memorize the time of our departing flight to Florida wrong, and never bothered to double check.  Granted I was traveling with three other adults who could have checked the time also, but that's neither here nor there.  It was my fault, I had taken charge of all of the details of the trip, and the feeling of messing it up is mortifying.

Wanna know how we found out?

Sure you do.

We waltzed into the airport a little after 6:00am, for what I thought was our 7:24am flight, thinking we had planned it perfectly and would get through check-in and security right at the time boarding started.  We waited about 30 minutes in line, and when we tried to check-in on the self-service computer, an error message popped up saying something along the lines of too close to departure time - please contact representative.  Thinking the machine had an error, I asked the first agent who walked by for help, who asked us when our departure time was.  When we answered 7:24am, he informed us there were no flights departing at 7:24am that morning.

Obviously now (not in the days or hours prior to departing, of course - that would be silly) was the time to confirm our flight time, and when I looked up my itinerary on my phone, I was horrified - I had mistaken the time, our flight was departing in 20 minutes.

People who have zero sense of urgency?  Airline customer service agents, for future reference.  There was zero mention of getting us quickly checked in and back to the gate - our only option was to rebook for a later flight.

After lots of apologies, a few tears on my part, and an initial verdict of having to split our group of four into two different planes - we were rebooked for an 11:45am flight, still brining us into Orlando late tonight.  (I'm pretty sure the tears helped, FYI, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation.)

A bumpy morning it's been, but I was so grateful for the grace my beautiful mature Sisters handled the situation with.  I would not have been quite so understanding at their age.  Handsome Hubster however...he's just sad he won't get to meet Mickey tonight.

The One Where Best Friend Swagger Chases Shia LaBeouf Down the Street

Yup.

The title really does say it all, doesn't it?

This is one of my all time favorite memories of Best Friend Swagger, and that is saying a lot cause I've some good ones.

Let me back up and explain a bit...

One winter break, a few years back, one of my girlfriends had the ingenious idea to head to LA for a day while people were in town from college and see this little gem filmed:

Oh yeah - those of us from the TRL generation remember this guy being quite the stud and we were an excited group heading up to see him in person!

We left super early to avoid the dreaded LA traffic, and ended up getting into town by the studio over an hour early.  Someone suggested Starbucks, and with there being one on every other corner, it was easy to find a Bucks to pull into.

We all got our caffeine fix, and were sitting in the car, mind you with the windows rolled completely down and car door or two open, when one member of our little posse said...

"Is that Shia LaBeouf?!"

pointing to a rough looking dude leaving Starbucks.

A few seconds went by with all of us straining our necks to see who she was talking about, and when we all realized it was - 4 girls barely out of their teens screeched together,

"Oh my God - it is!"

in not quite our finest moment.

But that wasn't it, somehow we convinced Best Friend Swagger that she should go ask him if we could take a photo with him.  (Though he was seriously not in photo form - dude looked about one missed paycheck away from living in a box.) If I recall correctly, it didn't take BF Swagger much convincing before she was out of the car and sashaying down the sidewalk to catch up with Shia.

The picture on the right freaking kills me -  Swaggs looks so casual.

BF Swagger caught up to him,

and here comes the shocker.

After asking him for a photo,

He said NO!

WTF, right?!

The face of let down.

Deafeated, Swagger came back to the car and told us the sad tale of how Shia LaDouche turned her down.

For years after that day, I only referred to him as Shia LaDouche because really:

1. Who says no to a photo with a fan?

and

2. Who says no to a photo with a fan as hot as BF Swagger?

(And it's funny how now we don't refer to him as anything, cause he sort of dropped of the planet.  Looks like somebody should have been appreciating those fans when he had them!  Burn!)

She mentioned something about seeing paparazzi but we didn't think much of being that LaDouche looked like LaShit and the photog couldn't have possibly thought those photos were all that important.

We thought wrong.

These photos did find themselves published, and in more than one spot!

We saw it on two online celebrity gossip sites, and Us Weekly Magazine!

One of the gossip sites really bashed Swagger, which I'm pretty sure didn't phase her but instead made her feel even more like a celebrity.

By the time it was published in Us Magazine, Swagger had left the country already for a semester abroad so I did what any best friend would do - immediately contact her via every social network possibly and buy a copy and stash it for her for almost six months.

Need proof? Check it out.

The Nail Files, or The One Where I Win a Giveaway!

A few weeks ago, the most awesome thing happened - 

I won a giveaway! 

Aimee from Chronicles of a Dime was giving away the most fun little package of goodies, and I was lucky enough to be the winner!

Pretty sweet, huh?

Go check out Aimee's blog and maybe you'll get lucky enough to see something wonderful up for grabs again sometime!  Even if you don't, you can read her fun blog anyways! 

And did you notice that little nail polish goodie up there?  Essie!  This is my first ever Essie polish, and I was so excited to use it for the first time!  
Here is the gorgeous color that I rocked on my nails this week:

The high-def camera I used is not doing me any favors in hiding my hideous nail painting technique!

The One Where I Drive a Cop Car

Sometimes, I really feel like the craziest stuff happens to me.  Like earlier this month when Sister Swimmer's Boyfriend (BF YOLO is totally his nickname - you know, the motto) hit my car while trying to park in front of it.  Freak accident, for sure.  And then, in an odd turn of events, I drove a cop car through my work parking structure.

How did this come to happen?  Take a little looksie into my life.

Saturday, April 7

3:20pm

BF YOLO's back bumper of his pickup truck is not a fan of my sassy Jeep Liberty and rips her driver's side fender right off.  BF YOLO looks like he might possibly cry out of remorse, so I save my usual overacting for another time.  We call his insurance, and everthing is hunky dory.

Saturday, April 8

Easter

I made these awesome cupackes.

Unrelated, but seriously, go check them out.

Monday, April 9

12:20pm

Sister Swimmer and Hat Dad do me a solid and take my car in for an estimate.  A whopping $800+ price tag for a little old fender, of course covered by insurance. 

5:30pm

Handsome Husband and I get into a debate on whether or not a fender is necessary.  I win, as per usual.

Wednesday, April 11

8:15am

Here's what is starts to get juicy.

I drop my car off at the body shop, and the rental car is delivered to me there.  After a suprise $300 deposit (that I managed to get lowered to $50 due to subsequent arguing - I'm telling you I should be the one heading the law school), I park my booty in my new home for a few days, a fancy little Chrysler 200:

I feel pretty cool for about 4 miles, when...

8:40am

As I pull of the freeway at my exit for work, I start hearing a really loud noise that sounds like it is coming from the bottom of the car.  Being the vehicle expert I am, I assume for about a light that this car is just very loud and I had not yet noticed in the past 4 miles of driving it.  But then, as I roll down my window to flash my badge (I'm so important) to get into my parking structure, the noise sounds not normal, and I stop the car.  A quick lap around the car, and nothing looks off.  Tires are full of air, there's nothing falling off the vehicle.  Until I notice a piece of black plastic peaking out from under the front bumper.  I lean down and check it out where I discover the problem, a huge piece of plastic is coming off the bottom of the car, and had been scraping along the pavement as I drove. 

"Are you shitting me??"

'Scuse my French, but I'm just keepin' it real.

8:45am

After a frantic call to HH, I call the rental car company.  They tell me to go ahead into work and they will have somone deliver me a car as soon as possible.

9:00am

After heading into work, I get a call from the rental car company again.  Here is where my big mistake lies.  It goes down like this:

Rental Car Dude: Hello Casey, we are trying to get a car out to you ASAP.  All we've got on the lot right now are Ford Crown Victorias...is that going to be alright?

Me: Yeah, why wouldn't that be alright?  I don't care as long as the bottom is not falling off of it!

Now, do you know what a Ford Crown Victoria is?

Let me enlighten you.

Yup.

Imagine this bad boy sans blue stripe and sirens and you've got what was delivered to me.

10:00am

My cop car arrives.  I am in a state of shock I think and agree to take this vehicle.  That is, until I drive into the parking structure and feel as though I am driving a limo.  This bitch is huge!  Way too much anxiety for a stress case like me.

1:45pm

I make a call to the rental car company (who, by now, must think I am certifiable; but you know what, you're renting our Ford Crown Victorias - who is the crazy one here?), and request, ever so kindly (read: threatening to call corporate) that I get another car, anything but a cop car to drive while my car is getting fixed.  The manage obliges, thank goodness.

3:45pm

My whip for the week arrives.  It is not a cop car, and all is well with the world again.

Moral of the story?

Never never say yes to a Ford Crown Victoria.

The One Where Our House Gets Broken Into

A few years back, when my Handsome Husband and I were only just en fianced, we lived in squander a dirty little San Diego house with two 21-year-old men boys.  It was not quite the ghetto, but it certainly wasn't the suburbia I grew up in.  It had a killer backyard though.

Evidence of aforementioned killer backyard.

We were all in college, with the three of them working on their bachelor's degree in various fields, and me in nursing school (we were quite the eclectic group actually, I think we had a nursing major, a political science major, pre-med and engineering majors).  We came and went at different times, sometimes were out until 3am, and other times we never left the couch (oh college life).  I was often the first one home in the afternoons as I was off of school at 3pm most days, and would head home, nap off my nursing school exhaustion and then get to studying while I waited for the boys to come home. 

One Tuesday afternoon heading home after a long day of lectures of mental health or pressure ulcers or something, and while chatting with HH as I pulled into the driveway of our little house, I noticed our front door was wide open. 

Here's the thing, for some people this might be an immediate red flag.  But I was living with three 21-year-old boys.  Something most 21-year-olds are not known for?  Responsibility and reliability.  Sorry, it's true.  It wouldn't have been out of character for one of them to have left the door unlocked and for it to blow open during the day, or for one of them to actually be inside but have left their car elsewhere the previous night out.

So while I mentioned to HH the fact that the door was open (I might have prefaced that statement with a What the F), I went inside without hesitation, barely looked around, and headed straight back to our bedroom.

And that's when I saw it.  All of my jewelry boxes that I kept so stealthly hidden in the drawer of my nightstand opened and strewn hastily all over my bed.  I think I may have screamed into the phone when I realized our house had clearly been broken into.  I ran outside, petrified that I had walked in mid-breakin and there may be someone still in the house, got off the phone with HH, and called 911.

It was the only time in my life I've ever called 911.  Terrified, I told the operator what I had walked into, and then realized that there was no one coming out of the house, and that it was probably all clear.  And that's when I made the biggest mistake that day.  When the 911 operator asked me if I thought there was someone in the house, I was honest and said I didn't think so.  And then it took six hours for an officer to come out to our house and take our report.  Six hours of thinking about what had happened, six hours of not wanting to touch anything (they did end up taking fingerprints). 

After hanging up with 911, I waited for HH to come home before I went inside.  While I was fairly certain there was no one inside, I was shaking and scared, and waited in my car for him.  We went in together, and tried to survey the damange.

It was hours (maybe even days) before we really realized all the things that went missing that day.  But in the break-in we lost:

A brand-new (literally a week old) MacBook Pro

Brand-new, still in the box, subwoofers and amp for HH's car

A stereo system

An older laptop belonging to one of our roomates

A jar full of coins, probably valuing over $150

And I gained?  A whole lot of anxiety.

Tune in next week when I talk more about how I grappled with getting back to real life after the break-in.

The One Where I Spell My Own Name Wrong

Yes, this happened.

No, I'm not proud.

But, yes, I do find it hysterical.

Let me first start by saying, in my defense, that I spelled my last name wrong, not my first.  And even more so in my defense, I went from the simplest, most common last name in the world (maybe it started with an 'S' and rhymed with Myth) and switched to a last name that is super uncommon and doesn't even follow basic spelling rules (I before E except after C, yaknow?).

Anyway, this story starts at a little housewarming shindig for my very good friends, Kindergarten Teacher and Twin Unicorn who recently moved in together.  Being the cuties they are, they had a fun little activity where you could write something funny on a small chalkboard and take a photo with it.  Being the hopeless romantic I am, I thought it would be adorable to write "The OurLastNames" on the board and take some pictures. 

Well, it was adorable.  

Until my Handsome Hubs took a look at the pictures.

Maybe that's our last name, maybe these are staged photos to tell the story with a fake last name.  You don't know.

Impressed he was not.

But, because he loves me so, and knows what a redonk last name his is (especially compared to starts with 'S' and rhymes with Myth), he forgave me.

And he even gave me a little sugar...

...with the misspelled name adding a certain sparkle to our photo.

The One Where a Piggyback Ride Goes Terribly Wrong

On Handsome Husband's birthday a few years ago, I neurotically planned out a very detailed pub crawl celebration in Pacific Beach.  We were still living in San Diego at the time, and PB is the place to go for a fun night out, with a huge selection of bars!

We started the night out at our current house at the time, and it seemed like it was going to be an awesome night with good friends!  Which it was...for the majority of the evening.

I started off the night looking normal, or as normal as I usually look at least.

Just your average pre-bar face.

The last photo taken before the now infamous piggyback ride.

We started our the crawl, and found ourselves having a blast as we made our way to a couple bars.  By that point, our crew was definitely a bit tipsy, but in Pacific Beach, we fit right in stomping the streets to our next watering hole.

During our trek to the next bar, I got the brightest idea - which ended up not being so bright.  I asked Handsome Husband for a piggyback ride, because I was drunk and lazy my feet were starting to hurt.  Being the sweet guy that he is, he naturally obliged, crouched down and hoisted me right up there.

All was well for about a half block, until a curb found itself in front of our little rodeo ride.  Handsome Husband, having been drinking celebrating his birthday for hours, was not 100% focused on safe piggyback riding protocol, and completely tripped on the curb.  This where things get a bit fuzzy for me, being that what followed after HH's trip was me being flung up over his head and landing face-first on the concrete, with just my face to break my fall.

I'm fairly certain I blacked out for a moment at this point, because I don't remember anything from flying through the air towards the ground until opening my eyes to our crowd of friends staring at me.  Being the drama queen I am, I began screaming in a combination of pain, fear, and panic.  Everyone had an opinion on what to do, and there are some that stand out to this day.

"Oh-my-God - look at the huge lump above her eye!"

"Lets just go to the next bar and get some water."

"Call 911"

"Why is she screaming so loud?"

While our drunken group of young 20-somethings fit right in on the streets of PB, me, lying on the ground screaming with a group of well-meaning friends crouching over me did not.  At some point, I was helped up from the ground, and made the decision, due to the massive swelling above my eye, to head to the ER to make sure there were no broken bones.

I was in a lot of pain, and poor sweet HH.  He felt so bad.  He was nearly in tears, and the poor guy just wanted to make sure I was okay.  

After a little bit of waiting (not too long, they take head injuries pretty seriously!), I was in and out of the ER, with nothing more than a pain killer prescription, some cleaned up cuts, a fat lip, and a quickly developing black eye.

Just so ya'll don't think I'm bluffing, some proof of the piggyback ride that went terribly wrong:

Minutes after walking in the door after the trip to the ER - might not be too obvious, but note the swelling above the eye and the fat lip (which only continued to grow for days).

God knows why I am sharing this photo with this terrible expression, but this was the next morning - nearly impossible to open my eye!

Two days post-piggyback ride - the bruising around the black eye transitioned through a warped rainbow of colors from black and blue, to red, to greenish and yellow.  Not hot.

Free lip enlargement?  Throw your face into the concrete from about 6 feet above ground.

Lesson learned?  It's all fun and games until someone's face hits the concrete.  

Also, no more drunken piggyback rides. 

The One Where I Get Star-Struck…by a Real Housewife

I mentioned a few weeks ago that Gardening Mom invited me to a lovely fundraiser for Autism to benefit TACA: Talk About Curing Autism.  What I failed to mention was that while at this fundraiser, I became besties with had a 30-second conversation with one of The Real Housewives of Orange County.

First of all, you should know that I have a serious obsession with The Real Housewives.  I watch nearly all of the cities, but The Real Housewives of Orange County has a special place in my heart.  Not only was it the original Housewives that kicked off the eventual franchise, but it's based in my little corner of the world - Orange County!

But back to the night I met a celebrity a housewife who's actually since been kicked off the show.

Gardening Mom and I were maneuvering our way through the crowds (I hate crowds, so I was being a little stress case-y), and she was leading the way.  She had worn a gorgeous blue dress that was a bit long, and had put on a hot pair of flat sandals instead of pumps, so the length was seriously dragging.  I kept accidentally stepping on her impromptu train, and it was driving us both bananas!  After about the 413th time my heel made contact with her dress, she turned around and said "You keep stepping on my dress!" to which I replied "Maybe you should wear a dress that fits!" (I'm telling you, the crowds make me irritable).

You'll imagine my delight surprise when a squeaky voice next to me said "At least it's cute!" and I turned to see who it was, and was met with this Bravo-lebrity:

Lynne Curtin from the OC Housewives

It took me a second to figure out who she was, but I quickly realized it was none other than the housewife known best for her leather cuffs and outrageous daughters.  Once I realized I was in the presence of one of the OC Housewives, I was suddenly a complete stuttering idiot.  I stammered together a response - something award-winningly eloquent I'm sure.

She wandered next to me (I guess she was there alone?) for about 30 more seconds, smiling mindlessly, and I continued to be star-struck by a D-list celebrity.  I think I tried to make some small-talk, but to be honest, I was embarassingly and completely star-struck housewife-struck.  After she moved on to another unsuspecting fan, I tried to tell Gardening Mom who we had just been walking along side of, and she was less than overwhelmed.

I want to give Lynney some major credit, and share that she looks much better in person than she ever looked on the show, and she was very sweet and friendly, albeit coming off as slightly airheaded.  She is also like insanely tiny, and made me feel like a cow.

While I was at the benefit because I care about autism and it's terribly detrimental effects, I have to say meeting barely talking to one of the housewives that I've clocked some major hours watching from my couch was the highlight of the night.

The One Where I Spill Potent Cleaning Product All Over Myself At Work

Last week I had an embarrassing moment.  This is nothing new to me, in fact, embarrassing moments are sort of a personal forte of mine.  But, I digress - let me share with you how I managed to spill cleaning product so potent you're really not supposed to use it without gloves...all over my stomach.  (And then let it sit there for 30 minutes before remembering I had a spare top.)


I was a rooming a sweet little baby last week at work, and was making an effort to be super sanitary - not that I don't always do so, but I like to be extra special hygienic for the little babies.  My plan was to wipe down the scale with our super-duper-strong cleaning wipes before Dad set the little munchkin down on the paper liner I would then lay on the scale.  I reached up for the container of wipes, and popped open the top - no wipe sticking out.  I assumed the wipes were just stuck in the bottom and needed to be pulled through the top.  (I'm thinking a visual will help right about here.)

The culprit

I proceed to hold the container against my body (for leverage, duh) and try to pop the entire red top off the cylinder.  Clearly my remote control bicep curls are doing wonders for my guns, because that top came off way easier and faster than expected.  You can image my surprise when not only was there no wipe in the bottom of the container, but that it was about half full with the strongest smelling cleaning product that I've ever been graced with.  Due to my extreme strength (and also, surprise), the cleanser quickly went from in the container to all over my scrub top in seconds.  

My first thought was of the baby (I know, I know - so selfless), so I had the parents move to the next exam room.  I got her weight quickly, and left them so as not to irritate the wittle teeny tiny beebee's tiny nostrils (working in pediatrics makes you learn a new language - new mommy speak).

After getting the new family situated, and cleaning up the remainder of my mess in the original exam room, I proceeded to sit in my soaked scrub top for close to a half an hour.  It was then that I finally realized (DUH) that I had a spare top in my bag, and that I was taking an unnecessarily long bath in the cleaning product.  It was a total blonde moment, and I'd like to blame it on a contact high from the strong smell.

Long story short - 3 lessons learned:

1. Don't clean your exam rooms in front of patients, because when you can't even open a container without messing it up, it's hard for them to have faith in your medical abilities.

2. Cleaning product is for cleaning, not for baths.

3. Never underestimate the strength of your biceps - even if you haven't lifted a weight in your life, and sometimes have an inordinately hard time just opening and closing doors.

Stay tuned for other embarrassing moments.

I am opening up Grateful Sundays tomorrow as my first ever blog link-up here at Stress Case - please consider joining us!