This weekend was uncharacteristically eventful for me as of late. I got a lot done, even if the result was a weariness that struck deep into my bones. My check engine light was finally repaired after three years of constantly reminding me of my inadequacy as a car owner, which was followed by a nail biting smog re-check (after failing the first time when I frantically drove my car to the station after the light was reset by the dealer, only to find that the smog test machines are smarter than a 28 year old woman who is lying through her teeth to the mechanic). I will not have to endure the shame of displaying a large sticker advertising that I cannot maintain my vehicle according to DMV standards. Thank god. And all it cost me was $700. And three blowjobs.
Friday night Janessa and I went out to sushi, which was glorious despite the fact that I had already eaten not too much earlier and that I was sleepy. To counteract the tireds, I consumed two bottles of unfiltered sake. Then we went to E&O where it quickly became apparent that I was drunk. I drank more and then went home earlier than I had planned, which unfortunately meant drunker than I planned.
*SCENE MISSING*
I woke up alone and with the realization that I probably did something bad. After calling Hector to beg forgiveness, I learned that not only did I insist on driving the night before, but I left when I was given specific instructions to wait for him to come back down with his car. I know, I am a bad baby. And I was properly chastised, so you don't have to worry. But as I told him, I have been so good lately it's disgusting and this will put the fear of god in me for at least a couple more months. And by then I will be living near the light rail so my chances of drunk driving will be further minimized. Everyone wins!
Saturday I got a call that my apartment was ready to be moved in, so I went to fill out the forms and get my keys. After not living on my own for three years, it's kind of exciting/scary to be thrown out into that world again. Also, I really really don't want to move all my shit. I ended up napping for three hours after getting home from doing various tasks, and then when I woke up at nine (after realizing that no, it wasn't Sunday morning or time to get ready for work) I decided to start moving some things into my new abode. Then I got a craving for tater tots and chicken nuggets, so the moving was short-lived. I rented a couple movies and began my baked feast. And some advice: if you ever get hit in the head and decide you might like to watch Music and Lyrics, don't. It's pretty damn awful, and this is coming from someone who insisted on finishing The Next Best Thing.
Sunday I woke up early and began moving more junk into my car to bring to the new place. On my very last load, I was taking this clumsy chair I have for some reason not thrown away yet out the front door and trying to balance my purse, keys, and hair all while closing the door. I started closing the door and heard a loud POP!! followed by exploding pain in my left thumb. Turns out, I had been for some reason stabilizing myself by holding the door in the exact place where it closes on the hinge. If any of you have taken Physics, you would know that this is excruciating. My thumb turned purple instantly under the nail and blood began pouring out of the cuticle. Sexy. Not to mention, the throbbing in time with my heartbeat. If I was less of a woman, I would have thrown everything I was carrying down and commenced sobbing like a baby. Instead, I let out a loud gasp and stood there looking at my thumb as it bled, unable to believe I had been so stupid. For the record, this is the second time my hand has been caught in some way in a door. I had no choice but to finish loading up my car and go to the apartment as planned because my car was not driveable all day as it was stuffed with bags of purses, lubes, and stuffed animals. So I drove to San Jose with my thumb in the air, calling everyone on the way to whine that I had just mutilated myself. Because hearing their sympathetic cluckings made the pain go away just a little.
My new place is on the third floor. It is hard to carry heavy bags of crap up three flights of stairs when your thumb is spilling its life's blood all over the stairwell. But my pain didn't stop there. In the middle of heaving four bags and a sewing machine up the first flight of stairs, an elderly gentleman in a suit approached me from the side. He said something, but I couldn't hear him above my whimperings of pain. He asked if I was moving out or moving in, to which I replied that I was moving in, and then for some reason (I wasn't thinking clearly, my blood loss was making me lightheaded) I added which apartment number I was in. He was old, and therefore harmless. Then he asked whether I was living alone. I am stupid, obviously, because I said yes. THEN he told me what apartment he lived in, and said I should come by. At night. Or...whenever. I was shocked, and disgusted. And intrigued. What is it about me, in distress, that brings the nasty mens a callin' like sharks to a wounded baby seal? So long story short, I will be visiting apartment 81. And I may or may not be wearing underpants.
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