I had a face-on collision with a retaining wall. Guess what? I lost.

As I write my sorry tale, I’m thinking this is actually Mr. G honey’s fault, or Gracie Allen’s fault, or the neighbor’s visiting dog’s fault. It couldn’t possibly be my fault.

I was minding my own business Thursday night. Wrapped-up in a ton of blankets. Gently snoring. I was! Next thing I know, Gracie Allen was standing by my side of the bed whimpering. I tried to ignore her. I just new in my sleep-drunk bones that it was late.  I flopped over to the see-no-evil side.

Mr. G, honey: Sounds like Gracie needs to go out.

Me: I’m trying to ignore her. And it better not be 3 a.m.

Mr. G, honey: Guess what? It’s 3 a.m.

Mr. G, honey offered to take her out, but my idiot side said no. What is wrong with me? Any time a man offers to get out of bed at 3 a.m. and take out the dog, do a little mental boogie and pull those covers tight. Tight!

I togged up in sweats and socks, slapped some glasses on my face, trundled down the stairs, and let Golden Pup out.

This is where it all begins to unravel or the plot thickens or whatever. Our neighbors are away and someone is house-sitting. That someone brought a big dog that has been parked in the yard 24/7. Let’s just say, he took an instant-loud-posturing dislike to Gracie. Gracie, who has the sweetest temperament in the world, took Golden umbrage at that and has made it her mission in life to visit him at every opportunity, and show some teeth.

My strategy has been to stand in the yard and redirect her, because I like my fence. I like my quiet. I like my neighbors. So, it’s 3 a.m. — I mentioned that right? — and I don’t want the neighborhood disturbed by barking and carrying on and posturing. That would just be wrong.

I step out onto the patio near the side garden and wait for Miss Gracie to take care of business so I can pounce before she shows her teeth. The cheeky little bugger finishes, feints to the right, and then barrels down the side yard, hugging the retaining wall. I stepped over to block all 74 lbs. of her, fell over her instead, and did a face-plant into the retaining wall.

Readers. Do not try this at home.

Agony.

One  ER visit later, one triage nurse later, one room full of staring patients later, one bout of poking and prodding by the ER doc later, one set of x-rays later, I looked like this:

My right eye 3 hours after impact. Oh, boy!

No. You don’t get to see my bedhead. You know that sexy bedhead everyone has? I don’t have it. I have frightening — night of the undead — bedhead.

Let me tell you. You do not want to go to the ER  at 3 a.m. on a Friday morning with that shiner. You know what I’m saying? Fortunately, no facial or skull fractures, but we would be doing the head injury protocol for the next 24 hours.

I didn’t think it could get any worse than that, but by the evening, it surely had.

Have mercy!

No vision on the right. No peripheral vision. No depth perception.

Saturday, after being awakened every hour for almost 24 hours, it looked like this:

Houston, we have eye contact!

My green eye goes nicely with the purple shiner, don’t you think?

I did what any female would do. I rallied. I put some gold eye shadow on my left eye — I’m thinking Mardi Gras colors! — slapped on some lip gloss and earrings. Feeling girlie. Feeling fine.

ER Doc said it would be weeks — WEEKS! –  before it clears up. I’m praying that’s not true.

Elen’s got a shiner, and it’s not Bock, baby!

I can’t even talk about Sunday.

Here comes Monday.

Elen

This is probably my favorite Valentine’s Day post — Not smarter than an eleventh grader…

It’s two V-days later, and I’m wondering how that lanky eleventh grader is doing. He’s not sixteen anymore, and he’s probably growing into his hands and feet. He’s, no doubt, working on a start-up company somewhere. One thing’s for sure. He’s got a date and a reservation!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Elen

Twitter friend @AuthorToniBlake gave me my blog post for the day when she tweeted the link to this video. Thank you, Toni!

Nothing like a little bit of fun on Wednesday, aka Hump Day.

So, Happy Hump Day!

And thank you, Erin Dealey and Andrew Heringer, for the entertainment.

Elen

I’m playing a game. A game of tag with a bunch of Spark people over at Spark People Dot Com. It’s a challenge. Two teams running relays, pitting their brawn, their brains, their nutrition skills against each other. Let’s just pause here. I’m not sure I have any of those things B.E. — before elevenses.

Back to pitting. It works like this. Two teams. A list of tasks — shorter than the teams — and a time frame. The first challenger does the first task on the list and Scores! Then, it’s the whole Tag, you’re it! to the next person, and they do the next task. It can be a nutrition task — eat a piece of fruit, drink 8 oz. of water. It can be a support task — give a hug, virtual or real. Yeah. Wait for it. It can be an exercise — precisely, the exercise of the day. Who do you think got that?

There are skips and forfeited points and…

The challenge started Monday. Goes through Sunday. I should last so long. I checked down the line to see what I would have in the first round. Oh, boy. Exercise of the day. Goodie. Can’t wait. For Monday, that was Dumbbell Flys. Excuse me?

I’m thinking, What if I get tagged while I’m eating dinner? I’m not dropping and doing dumbbell flys on a stomach full of Cora’s Lemon Garlic Chicken which, by the way, is fabulous. So, I dropped and did two sets of flys pre-Cora and waited to be tagged.

And waited.

Waited…

Yes. You’re getting the picture. My fellow challengers are scattered all over the galaxy and have X amount of time to complete their task before they tag the next challenger.

Moral of the blog: never anticipate.

We were all playing in the land of dreams before the person before me was tagged.

My enthusiastic, early-rising teammate is up before the birds. Before the cock that crows. Before Kronos. He has to give a hug, virtual or otherwise. At 5:28 a.m. I can give a hug. Maybe not virtual, but of the otherwise persuasion. Def. That’s a total lie. I can receive a hug at 5:28 a.m. That is all. Right Mr. G, honey? Mr. G isn’t even here, and I know his shoulders are shaking.

Let it be known in all the lands that Elen is not a morning person.

Not. A. Morning. Person.

It’s 7:30 a.m. I’m on the intertoobs. I’m checking. I’ve been tagged.

And there is a NEW exercise of the day.

So. Oh, joy. I did premature dumbbell flys for my chest which, the girls and I agree, we so don’t need.

Now, I’m scrolling the page looking for the new exercise of the day.

Squats with front shoulder raises.

Oh, God.

Muscles worked: quads, glutes, hamstrings, shoulders.

Oh, God II.

I don’t have any of those.

Nor, do I have the medicine ball I’m supposed to use to do these squats.

I improvise. Improvise is my middle name.

I run to the kitchen and snatch some cheese for a protein shot. Like it’s going to have time to work in the next 5 mins.

I run to the pantry and grab a canister of sugar (it’s worth a good 5 lbs.). Medicine ball substitute.

I run back upstairs to my office, which is big enough for squats.

All that running was my warm-up, but just  to be sure, I stick in the iPod earbuds and crank-up The Warrior Song. Thank you, Sean Householder. Honey, this is not your mama’s warm-up tune. It’s pre-caffeine a.m. What else would I use?

And I squat. 2 sets. 15 reps each.

My only thought — Pop-Tart or oatmeal?

Pop-Tart is not the Spark way. Dang.

But that Pop-Tart visual got me a little excited and, after the last squat was finished and I was feeling truly smug and sparkly, I tripped, the canister of sugar popped open, and I was looking at an ugly brown carpet full of sugar. Pre-caffeine.

Now, there is a life-sized Golden Pup pelting into my office focused on a big ol’ sugar rush.

The hand goes out.

Leave it!

Sit!

Stay!

I ignore the Gracie Allen Golden Pup stare-of-disappointment and grab the vacuum cleaner, wondering if sugar explodes if you suck it into a tiny bag filled with hot air and dog hair.

Forget the Pop-Tart. The oatmeal. The caffeine. Now, I’m thinking whiskey shot or Bloody Mary. At least with the Mary you get a serving of veg.

I sit down at the computer. Click open a window and type — Tag, You’re It!

Lucy or Ethel? Your call.

Elen

This isn’t the first time I’ve been caught talking ties. I did it here: The Dimple, It’s a Tiebreaker… For reasons I cannot explain, it turned out to be one of my most popular posts.

After being glued to the TV watching Don Draper and his band of  Mad Men, and seeing NINE, I’m all about the skinny tie of the sixties. Oh, yes, I am.

Pointy end, square end, just bring me the skinny little tie. You can view a gazillion of them here.

Today, I’m combining my lust for the skinny tie with @LdyDisney’s Friday Happy Dance of Joy! I loved this song from NINE so much that I put it on my iPod, and made it the ringtone on my cell phone.

Kate Hudson singing and dancing Cinema Italiano is a delight. This is pure entertainment — Hudson and all those guys sporting skinny ties, skinny suits, and pointy shoes. Enjoy!

TGIF, baby!

Elen