Wedding Times

I just attended my cousin Sara's wedding in which:
1) I put out a fire with my bare hands,
2) The police showed up,
3) We made a soul train line while dancing to "The Hora" because we're SO Jewish (and by "we" I mean my mother and other guests and definitely not me),
and 4) I had possibly the worst drinks ever in my life (a Dirty Martini and a tepid cup of Earl Grey).

Later on you shall find:
1) A recap of the aforementioned events,
and 2) A rant -- sorry, thoughtful discussion -- about cocktails.

Now 100% More Crutch-Free

Today was the day. The doctor gave me the OK to ditch the crutches plus a few more benchmarks:
One Week: Driving. Don't have to wear the boot around the house.
Two Weeks: Ditch the boot.
4-6 Months: ... Back to 100%. (He said I'd be ready to play sports again in the Fall.)

The crutches immediately got shoved to the back of my closet and I'm downright speedy, now that I can officially walk without them. (I may have been walking around without crutches prior to word from the doc...) I can also carry things while I walk, fix my hair or scratch my nose while I walk, and swagger with a nice boot/gangsta lean. Still, I'll have my boot at my cousin's wedding this weekend -- good thing I've got a dress to match!


As you can tell, I'm doing much better. Jonny Wilkinson, however, is missing the upcoming English tour of New Zealand for shoulder surgery. What can I say but that I feel his pain? Nationals were in Albuquerque this past weekend, and they were hard to watch. So very hard. Still, I'm glad I went and supported the team. Here we are after our last match:

Four(ish) years with this team have been great. It's going to be very hard to leave.

And now, my life in science:

From xkcd, a wonderful, nerdy comic.

This Week On Crutches

1) Sucks
2) Will hopefully be my last.

Now, for a taste of insanity:
Kids' book on plastic surgery

Can I just say that surgeon is frighteningly buff? He's got a tiny little head! And not to mention that the plastic surgery somehow also gave mommy longer legs, smaller feet, and better hair. As for the rest of the content... I don't even know where to begin. So I won't -- there's too much to say.

And a wee bit of sanity, for thankful counterbalance:
France targets anorexia in media

Message from the front, in the War against Los Angeles

At The Battle of the Rooftop Bar at The Standard, Downtown

Guy at the bar: Hey, do you like salad?
Me, after 3 drinks: I fucking hate salad!
Guy: What? What's wrong with salad?
Me: It's full of vegetables. I fucking hate vegetables!
Guy: ... You're a troublemaker. (Pause) How'd you hurt your foot?
Me: Playing rugby.
Guy: Are you American?
Me: Yes.
Guy: Wait, you're American?
Me: Yes...
Guy: And you play rugby?
Me: Um, yes.
Guy: Wow! Props for that! (Gives me a fist pump)
Me: Right... anyway, they like salad (pointing to my two friends next to me).
Guy: (Turning to talk to my friends) Oh, you guys like salad? Awesome!

I have to say that "Do you like salad?" is both the worst and most LA pickup line I've ever heard. Memorable other failures include:

Guy: Hey, how much does a polar bear weigh?
Me: Oh, about 600-800 pounds. Why?
Guy: ...... (Sheepishly) Just enough to break the ice... Hi my name's [Redacted].

Guy: Hey, are you Greek?
My Greek best friend from high school: Yes.
Guy: ... Oh, 'cause you look like a goddess.
My Friend: Get lost.

Memorable successes include:
"Are these cookies homemade?"
"What'd you think of that band?"
and
"So, what beer do you recommend?"

There must be more... must be... possibly... maybe not.

Oh, Los Angeles. You make me... sick? No, amused. I leave you with this:

[Later on at the bar...]
Same guy: (To the three of us) I can't believe you live in California and don't speak another language!
Me: I speak another language.
Guy: Oh, do you speak Spanish?
Me: Yeah.
Guy: Se habla espanol?
Me: ... Si.
Guy: That's great. I'm Mexican, and I don't even speak Spanish.
Me: Wow.