I'm sick of talking about fertility. Jeff and I were watching "How I Met Your Mother" last night, and Lily, one of the characters on the show, is trying to get pregnant. She kept bringing up all sorts of random baby issues when someone mentioned relatively benign words, such as "rattled" or "crib" that people wanted to stop hanging out with her. Granted, it was comically dramatized, yet I received a few pointed glances from Jeff, but he kept his mouth shut, lest Hurricane Estrogen should choose to hit land.
So, out with the old, and in with the new (or the old).
This blog has seen rebirth several times throughout the years. I started it in law school and passed along my random thoughts and experiences on life. Mostly, it was self-depreciating, as I continually find myself in awkward or embarrassing situations.
When I was a sophomore in college, my roommate, Mindy, and I went over to the boys dorm to "hang out." Because that's what you do when you're a sophomore in college. I'm sure one of us had a crush on someone over there (or perhaps both of us did) and we went over to play "wing man" or "study" or "something." I can't remember why we were ever over there in the first place. Regardless, that's not the point of the story. We must have had a few cocktails or we missed the last bus back to St. Ben's, because we called our friend, Cristin, to come and pick us up over at St. John's. Cristin drove this fabulous grey Buick, I think...it had wonderfully cushioned back seats, and the front seat felt like a couch. It wasn't unusual for several of us to pile into the car because you could pile four people alone in the front seat. Anyways, another friend of ours, Molly, rode along with her to pick up Mindy and me from St. John's. Cristin drove around to the back of the dormitory and pulled up a relatively steep hill and waited for Mindy and I to make our way down. Of course, I was probably wearing completely inappropriate shoes and it was wintertime. As I trip-tropped down the hill to the waiting couch on wheels, I hit a patch of ice, causing me to slide down the hill and under Cristin's parked car. Only my head and shoulders remained peeking out from the underneath the front fender. Of course, hilarity ensued. Mindy may have lost bladder control. I believe that Molly jumped out from the front seat to pull me out from under the Buick.
This has been something that has been recalled fondly by us over the years. If we ever need a good laugh, you only really need to say, "Remember that time...?" and we will dissolve into fits of laughter.
So, fast-forward to the present day. I'm now gainfully employed, and I continue to wear equally inappropriate shoes. The parking garage attached to my building is comprised of five and a half levels, however the elevator only goes up to the fourth floor of the garage. This parking ramp is constantly under construction. Bits of concrete routinely flake off and I firmly believe that, one day, we will get a call telling us that the entire structure has fallen down and has taken all of our cars with it. Of course, however, the ingenious ramp designers have decided that, to get the most "bang for their buck" they'll also try and cram as many cars as possible into the ramp, so the spots are incredibly narrow.
In any case, if you're not parked at the ramp before 8:00 a.m., you're forced to park on one of the top levels. I arrived at work yesterday around 10:00 a.m., as I had an appearance in Bloomington. Therefore, I was resigned to the fact that I would have to park on the top level of the ramp. What's particularly difficult about this fact is that I own a briefcase on wheels, like most attorneys do, and it's always jam-packed and really heavy. Since the elevator only goes up to the fourth floor, you're left with the choice of either carrying your fifty pound bag down a set of concrete (and often slippery) stairs, or rolling it down the ramp to the fourth floor to catch the elevator, consequently dodging oncoming traffic as they make their way to the upper floors of the ramp. I've always chosen the latter option.
From late October through April, there is not a spot in Minnesota that isn't icy. Yesterday, this ramp was no exception. Yesterday, my "load" was particularly cumbersome. I had my purse, my briefcase on wheels, two bags of caramel corn that I had brought in to share with the office, and a cup of scalding hot coffee. I managed to balance and carry this, and I'm trip-tropping down the ramp when a car turns the corner. So, I move out of it's way, only to hit a patch of ice. I went ass-over-teakettle, and slid directly under the yielding car. The caramel corn goes flying, as does my purse, and my cup of Jamaican-Me-Crazy coffee spills down the front of me, onto my cranberry colored, silk skirt. I lay, dazed, under this car for a minute, doing a mental check that all my faculties are still present and nothing is broken. By this time, the woman of the car I'm lying under has jumped out, and is screaming at me, wondering if I'm okay. Since I decide that I am, for the time being, I attempt to slide myself out from under the car, only to discover that I can't grasp onto anything, as everything around me is covered in a thick coating of ice. She attempts to pull me out, and subsequently falls down with me. After a few moments of attempting to scramble and scoot out from under the car, we realize that we're stuck. Fortunately, a man working on the parking ramp comes over and hands us the end of his broom, which we use to pull ourselves out from under the car.
I make a motion to go and retrieve my belongings from the various points where they've landed and I lose my purchase again, and subsequently fall down. This time, however, I can stand up and realize I must look like a fawn who just learned how to walk. He comes over (with his rubber-soled shoes on) and picks me up and carries me to safety.
As I make my way into the office, I note that the Glad Resealable Bags used to contain the caramel corn have done their purpose, and the bottom of the bags suffered the most damage. My purse is unscathed (God bless Louis Vuitton), and my coffee is still half-full. Granted, I smell like it, but at least its still drinkable. I, unfortunately, am the worst off. My elbow has begun growing to disproportionate degrees, is changing colors, and my right leg loos like I tried to slide into second base.
Point being, some things never change.
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