iamaklutz

thisisntme 
tryingtobe
clever
likeeecummings
except
different

ifthiswasfauxeecummingsiwouldbetalkingaboutsexpretendingiwastalkingaboutakeyboard

keystrokes

and

pressingbuttonsand

what

…not.

andtherewouldbe

space

youneed

space

withsex.

Thisis
no*space*bariamanidiot

becauseof
wine
notdrank
spilled
wine
Notcryingoverithowever.

Friedwinekeyboard

sosad

youdiscover
you
need
a
space
bar
quicklywhentryingtowrite

Sonowineedtogooutandbuyanewmackeyboardbecauseihaveamacathomewhichiknowsomewillthinkisbadbutidontcareihadamacsincetwothousandthree

itriedpoppingthespacebarupandproddingtheguts
thepartthatmade

space

butstusaidthaticouldelectrocutemyselfifikeptdoingthat

soi
stopped

Once in my apartment in LA, I stepped on a pile of newspapers that were on the floor, managed to lose my balance and fell backward, smacking my head on the floor. I lay there for a few moments. My cats crawling over me. . .mewing in that, ”Oooo! You’re down on the floor. . . are you dead yet so we can eat you?” way that cats have. And I knew. I saw with absolute clarity that this, someday, was exactly how I was going to bite it.

You read it here first.

If stubbing your toes were an Olympic Sport, I would be the Nadia Comaneci.

You don’t believe me?

Guess how I broke my ankle eight years ago? (Those that know, pipe down.)

Answer: Walking down the pavement (sidewalk) in Greenwich Village.

And so. Because Dear Reader, random, freakish injury is something I am terribly well versed in, it so happened in the wee small hours of the morning, I won a trip to the A&E (ER for my American readers).

Last night I had some people over for dinner. It was a no partner’s thing and Stuart was a doll and didn’t raise a fuss when I kicked him out of the house as it gave him a chance to give his father his Father’s Day present. (I don’t normally make it a habit to arrange dinner parties he doesn’t get to attend. He was supposed to still be in the US but had cut his trip short and come home early.)

Had ten people over which is always a bit of a military operation cooking for that many. Especially when you have a mix of low carbers, vegetarians and normal folks that are quite happy to eat whatever you give them.

Was a really fun evening. Wish I could have even more people over but space and my culinary ability is tapped out methinks at 10 bodies.

I had training to do the next morning so I didn’t let myself get too tipsy. Just tipsy enough.

All guests we gone by 1:30 and our cleaner would be here in the morning so I needed to do the dishes before she arrived and I left for work. I decided to clean before bed.

And so it happened that at 2am when I was three-fourths of the way through the dishes, I managed to gash the top of my right index finger. In the 10 seconds from it happening to my grabbing a paper towel to apply pressure, my kitchen looked like the Manson family had attacked me.

Okay. I could just put a plaster (band-aid) on it and carry on. Sure. I pulled the paper towel away to see if the bleeding stopped. Blood spurted like The Black Knight’s flesh wound.

Great.

Where do I go?

I called Stuart at his parents to ask for advice but he didn’t hear the phone. Don’t blame him. It’s two in the bloody morning.

What to do? I have zero clue where the closest hospital is so I dial 999 (911)

“Is this an emergency?”

“Well. No. Not as such. But I am bleeding and that’s not so good is it?”

She gives another number. I call. They give me the name to the hospital, St. George’s, which as soon as I heard the name I thought, “Oh yeah. I knew that.”

Take a mini cab the mile and half to the hospital (£7.50. Jerk. But I was too tired to fight his over charging me. I should have threatened to bleed on his backseat.

They look at it rather quickly. Tell me I will need stitches. And then I wait. And wait. And wait some more. What was odd is there were only two other people in the waiting room.

When they finally looked at me, the kid (had to be early 20’s tops) that fixed me up was great and I was sent on my way around 6. He was sweet and told me I was brave for taking the shot so well when he was numbing up my hand. (Which. Ok. I admit it. . . warmed me to him. Ooo! Look. I’m brave. But really how else are you supposed to take it. Sure those shots burn like a mother, but what choice do you have?)

I had to cancel my training this morning since I had zero sleep. Giving a class on Giving and Receiving Feedback would probably have not been a good thing.

The odds are high, that when my death (that will come from some random fluke accident like something out of a French farce) will be very funny to everyone watching.

Except to me. But hey. Feel free to giggle as I collect my Darwin Award.

Three or four- That’s a lot of vino, but I can usually handle that. Not saying it’s a good idea- just that I can handle it. I usually however pace myself – especially when drinking wine. I will drink water between the glasses. Spread it out over six-eight hours. I also usually have food in my stomach.

But not Thursday. I drank four (large) glasses of red- basically a bottle if not more on maybe 350-500 calories. In three hours.

I woke up at 6 in the morning in bed. Naked. Luckily it was my bed and Stuart was lying next to me. I flipped the events of the evening Rolodex in my head.

Left the pub. Okay. Laying here in bed. Okay.

Left the pub. Bed.

Pub. Bed.

I was missing everything in between. This has never happened to me before.

Stuart had put a large glass of water and ibuprophen on the dresser for me so I took a couple even though I felt okay and drank half the water.

Stuart stirred and peeked his head over the duvet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You were lashed.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember anything after leaving the pub.”

“You came home at 9:30 singing the French national anthem.”

“I was singing The Marseillaise?”

“See. I didn’t even know it was called that.”

“But I don’t know the words to The Marseillaise.”

“Well, they’re in your head somewhere.”

“I think I’ve watched Casablanca a few too many times.”

“I tried to make you go to bed but you refused. I tricked you by saying you would be more comfortable in your dressing gown.”

Something was coming back. “You undressed me?”

“Yes. And you weren’t very accommodating. You kept rolling around. Then you screamed, ‘Stop hitting me!’ Then you giggled.

“That’s funny.”

“I’m sure our neighbours thought so. Do you remember talking to your mum?”

“I talked to my mom?”

“Yeah, something happened with you sister. She had to have a second surgery. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. She’d called and left a message and you called back.”

“I called back?”

“At 12:30. You were sitting up talking really loudly and woke me up and I had to send you out of the room. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

I can’t believe I can’t remember either. It’s rather scary. I did some quick research on the topic this morning and I found a really great article by Aaron White, PhD. Basically alcohol messes with your brain hitting the record button.

Alcohol primarily disrupts the ability to form new long-term memories; it causes less disruption of recall of previously established long-term memories or of the ability to keep new information active in short-term memory for a few seconds or more. At low doses, the impairments produced by alcohol are often subtle, though they are detectable in controlled conditions. As the amount of alcohol consumed increases, so does the magnitude of the memory impairments. Large quantities of alcohol, particularly if consumed rapidly, can produce a blackout, an interval of time for which the intoxicated person cannot recall key details of events, or even entire events. En bloc blackouts are stretches of time for which the person has no memory whatsoever. Fragmentary blackouts are episodes for which the drinker’s memory is spotty, with “islands” of memory providing some insight into what transpired, and for which more recall is usually possible if the drinker is cued by others. Blackouts are much more common among social drinkers than previously assumed and should be viewed as a potential consequence of acute intoxication regardless of age or whether one is clinically dependent upon alcohol.

There is one benefit of me not eating enough and going to bed without dinner. I was a pound and half lighter Thursday morning than I was on Wednesday. Maybe there is something with the whole starvation thing. (of course I am kidding. And anyone that knows me knows that would not be possible for me to ever do)

I told Al that I had a black-out.

He was surprised. “You must have been drunk!”

That made me feel mildly better that while my record button had been taped over, at least I was functional. . . to someone who had had four pints.

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. Great. I’m hungry because I haven’ had breakfast, but other than that fine. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Are you kidding? That’s great. They should take your blood and study it. Do tests on you to find the secret to no more hangovers.”

While I don’t generally get hangovers, I really don’t fancy another memory gap.

Although, it would be rather fabulous, if deep inside me, are the words to The Marseillaise.

I’ve long been out of the closet about this blog, which is good on one hand and not so good on others as I need to edit myself. The problem with being a grumpy bitch is that I don’t edit myself enough and people sometimes get hurt.

Bad Nicole.

I debated all week if I should write this post, but have decided that since I still want to- then I should.

So yeah. Because I’m a bitch, I recently had one of my GRRRRAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH moments and clicked PUBLISH rather editing myself.

While I stand by much of what I wrote, I painted a group of people with a wide brush who did not deserve such commentary and were probably not aware of what was specifically winding me up.

So I clicked publish and I forgot about it and got over my grumpiness- for the most part- but the blog liveth on and some folks that were painted by the wide brush read it and rightly so felt that I had broken their trust by so publically ranting.

So since I publically ranted, I am publically apologising.

I am very sorry.

I was wrong.

And I won’t do it again.

This is not to say that I will stop posting the funny things that Stuart says. That stuff is just too good to not share.

I sit down next to my ex boss who is now my dotted line manager.

I reach behind myself up under the shirt and refasten the girls. There was no way I could do this manoeuvre subtly.

“Excuse me. My bag just unhooked my bra.”

Mark looked bemused and thankfully looked away.

Round one. Guinness.

6:19 PM
Round two. Switch to Deuchars (which is a lovely ale)

7:30 PM
This is where we said we were going to stop. Cut to:
Round three and four (and I can’t remember but there may have been a five.)

10:30 PM
Hungry, we call to try and get a table at Bodean’s in Soho. No go so we call the one in Clapham but they’re closed for renovation. We decide on a curry. We also have a pint of cobra with our meal.

11:47 PM
Time to go home. I get on a train to Balham.

12:45 AM
I wake up in East Croydon. Fucken’ hell.

12:50 AM
Get on a train going to Clapham Junction.

1:08 AM

Arrive in Clapham Junction but there are no more trains to Balham. Consider getting a bus but not sure which bus to take.

Decide to walk home.

While annoyed at myself am slightly amused at watching the packs of drunken girls wearing the exact same outfit stumble down the street. There is an interesting energy on Northcote Road and I feel safe which in retrospect is incredibly dangerous.

1:47 AM
I’m home.

>think.

Want. eggs

and grease. a vat- og of oh OH- head. I moved it.

neverdrinkingagainuntilnexttime

It’s not I eat huge amounts every day but I do make really poor food choices. And I’ve been drinking Wayyyyyyyyyy too much which is an easy way to get chubby.

So back on the wagon. I am trying to think of this as not a diet, but as a life change.

One little thing I am doing to make sure I move a little bit every day is I am no longer buying a weekly travel card and taking the train to Victoria. I’m going to do pay as you go, take the tube to Vauxhall and walk to work. Unless it is raining really hard. Or I am running really late. Or I am wearing bad shoes.

So here are the scary numbers. I’ll be doing this again on Sunday and then each Sunday thereafter.

175.8 pounds (79.7 kilograms)

Measurements (sigh)

42/24/46

R. Arm 13 inches
L. Arm 13.5 inches
R Thigh 26 inches
L Thigh 26.5
R Calf 15 1/4
L Calf 15.5

There are a few things about these numbers that I find disturbing and not just how large they are.

1. My thighs are larger than my waist.
2. The left side of my body is larger than my left.

Anyhoo.

Hopping along. . .

It was absurd. To be here. To think she was here again. For so long, years really, she thought that she simply was not I love you compatible. She was a Mac to everyone’s PC or there wasn’t a USB cord available to connect her and now here was this man saying love to her and she wanted to do nothing more but run.

What does it mean?!? I have no memory of writing the above. I have no idea what the story is.

When I dig a bit more, I find other stories that I think are overwritten, over stylized, over wrought tripe, but then I find one blurb I think is almost not vomitous.

He hated being the focus of attention. He had over the years cultivated the gift of becoming invisible. People would accidentally knock into him on the street, and then bustle off having no idea that the bump that they had just felt was a person and not a light post.

Other beginnings in search of an ending:

Sara never thought she would ever say that she hated Elvis. Hating Elvis was like saying you hated hot dogs with spicy mustard or banana cream pie or walking barefoot along the beach. There was just something wrong with you, wrong with your soul if you didn’t like Elvis. Then she saw her husband try and squeeze himself into a white jumpsuit bursting out like an overcooked bratwurst and she gained a sudden appreciation of hating The King.

And. . .

When Max ran down the list of women he’d fucked, Maggie stuck out. She’d kept a copy of Vogue and The Communist Manifesto in the bathroom. Both were waterlogged, dog-eared, revealing their owner’s bubble bath passion for Kate Spade pocketbooks and the plight of the working man. At the time Max had told himself it was a testament to her intelligence, her holding two wildly disparate ideas in her head. Later he realized that she was much more interested in what people thought she was than in cultivating any true character for herself. Great blowjob though.

Must write a proper story. Not just a beginning.

I want to earn a The End.

It’s been a while.

I decided to dress like a girl and after a bit of vino we were all really flirty with each other. Rav and I did our usual pretend to be lesbian thing for the camera.

Colm looked at the view finder, “Why do I feel I have seen this picture before.”

At one point when we were dancing, one boy who is terribly shy normally and has a partner and I know full well is not even slightly into me was dancing all close. I was surprised, “Don’t do that. Come on, I don’t want to end up on Facebook.”

Lately there have been photos on Facebook posted documenting our team’s Bacchus moments.

It ain’t pretty.

We kept dancing. Why is flirting so fun with people you have zero interest in? At one point, he did the lean in– (again. . . Sooooo not like this guy) and I don’t know why I did this. . . I leaned in too, nipped his bottom lip, pulled back, laughed, then spun away.

Even though it was totally innocent, I am mortified this morning.

The next big party I am helping organise and I think I am going to stay (mostly) sober.