I’ve had Lola for almost three years, and I’ve always wondered what would happen if I dropped her. Lola is a masterful feat of Italian designed (and likely Chinese built) ingenuity, and a lot of her price tag came from the fact that she’s mostly made of actual metal. In contrast, both Oscar and Sally were 95% plastic and if (when) I dropped them, I could easily wrestle the scooter upright again. Lola is in another class altogether, and I worried that should she fall over I’d be unable to pick her up.

Turns out my fears were entirely grounded in reality: Lola weighs a million pounds (okay, 350 pounds) and I absolutely can’t get her into an upright position on my own. However, I also now know what would happen if I dropped her: a big burly man with a big burly moustache would step out of his big burly pickup truck to help me pick Lola up!

I dropped Lola today, for the first time ever. I am seriously bummed out about it, because she was pristine before this afternoon and now she has ugly scratches on her right side. I know things could have easily been a lot worse, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to curse my own stupidity (more on that in a second) and feel sorry for myself (and Lola).

I’m also likely going to be really fucking sore tomorrow.

See, I didn’t so much as drop Lola as I did completely fall off of her. Luckily, I wasn’t moving at the time (my relationship with gravity is an abusive one at best) and the damage is relatively minor; confined to her lower side bumper (and on the only piece of her body made out of plastic). I also made it 32 months with the Vespa before I had an incident – my first crash on Sally happened 13 months in (wet leaves), and I banged up Oscar but good on Day 6 (tipped over trying to turn around on a hill, slid down it). Getting a little banged up in almost inevitable, and I should be at least pleased that it was an incredibly minor event that didn’t hurt all that much. And I will be, later. Right now: pouting. Lots and lots of pouting.

So, what caused the fall? Nothing major: just my being really, really stupid and cocky and bad with measurements – you know, the usual.

Most of the time, I’m smart. I’ve finally learned to acknowledge that what I usually dismiss as “I just have a way with xyz” is actually some pretty serious intelligence on my part, and the reason I pick things up a lot faster than those around me. It’s a nice feeling; admitting something good about yourself – I’ve never really done it before, out of fear of seeming egotistical or in love with myself.

Of course, there’s another side to my smarts that quickly quashes any sort of ego that might arise: the side that does things so incredibly stupid that you wonder how I manage to get from A to B without a government-appointed handler.

See if you can spot the problem here:

big mirror is really, really big

no worries, i'll just turn it sideways!

It was a gorgeous afternoon, so I hopped on Lola and went for a ride. I decided to go to Ikea so I could pick up the mirror I wanted for my Lady Cave – I knew it was pretty big, but I was confident it would fit. After all, I’ve ridden home with lamps, moving boxes, 40lb bags of cat food – how hard could it be? I enjoyed a glorious ride out to Coquitlam, had some meatballs for lunch, then bought my mirror. Hooray!

Then I ran into a problem.

I knew the mirror was a hair under three feet high, but for some reason (possibly sheer stubbornness) decided to ignore my limitations and charge forward. I had no rope, no bungee cords, and nothing big enough to make this work – there was nothing to do but try. What’s the worst that could happen?

Well, I could fall off the damn scooter, for one.

The entire time I was trying to make this work, the aforementioned big burly man was watching me from the bumper of his truck and laughing. It really, really didn’t help matters that he was wearing a Harley Davidson shirt and biker boots, meaning he was either a poser or far more likely, a biker who would never do something so stupid. Still, he did give me a hand when I fell off Lola. After he drove off, I inspected the damage:

:(

Shiiiiiit. I had fucked up my scooter, leaked a bunch of fluid, and I STILL don’t know how I’m going to get home. I didn’t want to call for help (because that would have been the smart thing to do), so I went ahead with plan C: removing the packaging to see if the mirror would fit sideways in the bag:

take THAT, laws of time and space

I rode home like this; a precarious and ridiculous sight all the way down Lougheed. I made it back in one piece, and so did the mirror. It took some bumps and bruises to get here, but I triumphed over my own stupidity .. and now I have a giant mirror for my Lady Cave. Success! Sort of. My foot hurts, where I landed on it.

It’s a good thing I’m pretty.

I might be too depressed to shower, but it’s equally likely (if not more so) that I am just lazy. I haven’t showered in TWO DAYS and am generally a giant mess – it may not sound like much to you, but I am usually dressed quite well and I always smell great. I’m the girl who shows up to breakfast at 9am the morning after the party looking like I just slept for 12 hours on a bed of feathers and marshmallow fluff with winged infants flapping a gentle breeze across my brow. My friends routinely comment on my varying levels of fanciness, from the “hey you look nice today” to “so what time are you meeting the queen?”. Right now, I am not fancy. By my standards, I am disgusting. Once many years ago Ed was without a job and he managed to go 7 days without showering or getting dressed – I am not that strong (or gross). The only thing keeping me from having a shower right now and getting dressed as though I were going to buy and sell people like toilet paper is the fact my bathroom has once again been hotboxed courtesy of the people downstairs (and it’s almost 1am and Ed’s asleep). Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow I will wake up, have a thorough shower, and put on clothing that does not have to be tied around my waist so that I am not in danger of tripping over myself and falling down. I will shave my regions, and I will put on a skirt. I may even put on a petticoat – if I’m going through the trouble, I might as well go all the way. I don’t have any plans for the day other than my usual job hunting duties, but I will pry myself out of the house and go somewhere. I don’t know where. Maybe across the street; maybe to Surrey (just kidding). I am tired of being at home, looking greasy, feeling sorry for myself, and staring at the internet: tomorrow I will pretend I have a purpose (outside of monitoring Twitter all day long).

Honestly, I don’t THINK I’m any more depressed than usual. My therapist likes making me Rate My Crazy on a scale of one to ten (one being I am the best I’ve ever been and exude a trail of glitter everywhere I go; ten being too depressed to shit out sparkle one), and these days I tend to hover around a 4/5 – things could be better, but I keep on keepin’ on. Maybe I’d put myself at a 6 right now, because I am increasingly convinced that I will never find a job because no one responds to any of my emails or applications (except that one guy who was so moved by my lack of skill he felt he had to shut me down immediately). I’m stressing out a little – and I’m bored out of my friggin’ mind – but I don’t think it’s the reason I’ve let myself fester in my own crapulence like this. I think I’m just really lazy. It was fun while it lasted, and now I know the limit of enjoying my own filth (2 days is too many days) so tomorrow I will clean myself up and go outside. I need an adventure. And more Diet Coke.

Wow – I was looking around for an image to post here, and ended up doing a search for myself. Apparently, some French website wrote an article on HIV and used one of my swabbing photos from Flickr. Awesome! My name is also on some Justin Bieber fan art site, because of the masks I made in ’10 for Northern Voice. How awkward for me!

Tomorrow will be a good day.

Or else.