If you recall, while I was pregnant we were living with Tyler’s parents. We were desperate for a vacation, a weekend away from work, from our roommates, from everything. Knowing this would likely be our last chance to get away just the two of us for… a while, we decided to go for it. We would have loved to make a trip down to Mexico and lie on the beach, Tyler consuming copious cocktails at the all inclusive, while I drank mocktails and tried not to get sunburned. Alas, we were still looking for a house and trying to save money, and there was the whole Zika thing to keep an eye on. So we decided we’d fly down to Santa Monica for our babymoon.
We got permission from our doctor and booked flights during my second trimester (hands down the best trimester, 9 out of 10 pregnant ladies agree). It was springtime, so we anticipated decent weather, and little to no crowds. Of course the weather ended up being freaking gorgeous back home (although I would have complained about the heat had we been here). There was a thick marine layer keeping us from getting too warm or sun burned- it was perfect. We booked this airbnb a few blocks up from the beach, which was awesome and so were the hosts.
We spent some time each day chilling on the beach, although not much swimming as the water was still a little chilly; but we got to nap, see dolphins swimming, and let my belly be free.
Our plan for the second night was to go watch a Dodger’s game, but didn’t take into account how long it would take to get there. Tyler, checking out the route the previous night at 10pm had an approximate time of 40 minutes from our Airbnb to the stadium. But that LA traffic is truly as nuts as they claim it to be. We ended up giving up after 2 hours in bumper to bumper traffic and heading to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. We searched out Jeff Bridges’ star, dodged street performers, and watched a couple nice young men comply with commands as they were taken into police custody.
The next day we planned better, and left for the game 4 hours before it began.
YES, 4 HOURS.
We ended up getting there really fucking early, but the alternative was sitting in traffic and missing the game again if we left any later. We got to watch some warm ups, and scope out the food and drinks. I ate my way through the innings; garlic fries, hot dogs, rootbeers, ice cream, you name it, I ate it. Despite my large-ish size I still had a psycho superfan ask me to get out of her seat (a stool, in a common area, that she was not using). I didn’t argue or point out the fact that I was pregnant or there were seats a little further down, because she looked like a maniac. Head to toe Dodger’s crap, glittery patterns, I’m fairly certain the stadium had thrown up its garbage all over her.
The next day we headed to Venice Beach, stopping at In’n’Out Burger on the way. We hung out on the beach for a little while, dozing in and out of greasy consciousness and letting the sun keep us warm like a pair of old cats. After some lounging we decided to walk around the little stores near the beach and grab something to drink. While walking on the outside of a FLAT sidewalk, I looked up into a store front and that’s where things went sideways…
I caught the edge of the sidewalk where they had planted a tree. My ankle rolls completely, my knee gives out, I let out a yelp and start falling forwards towards the ground, arms flailing slightly behind me. Tyler standing next to me, completely stunned, watches as gravity and momentum take control. He will tell you, it was as if I had been hit by sniper fire. There was no warning, you didn’t even hear the shot before I started to go down. Like a scene from Saving Private Ryan (without the honour), I fell towards the earth; my belly and torso leading the charge, my limbs and head wildly trying to catch up.
As I fall forward, I notice an object in my trajectory; a vintage children’s tricycle. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT DOING THERE?! Somehow, I manage to get my hands in front of me; landing on all fours over the tricycle, like some sort of fucked up National Geographic documentary. My belly thankfully only mildly hitting the tricycle. To my rescue came my husband, and what looked like an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang member. They helped me up and hid the strain of helping me over to a chair. I try to keep my crying to a minimum, and thanked the leather-clad good Samaritan for his assistance. I tell Tyler I’m done, its definitely a sprain and that I need some ice. He ran off to get me some ice, and once that was on my pudgy, bulbous ankle, he went to get the car.
I apologized for ruining the trip, pointing out that I had even worn proper shoes to avoid this from happening. We went back to our digs for some old fashioned RICE magic. We debated between ordering a pizza from Domino’s or sticking to our plan of going out for a nice seafood feast.
Eventually we left the house and arrived at, unbeknownst to us, a super chic restaurant. They had valet, they had sexy servers and clientele; we had no reservation. I was wearing one flip flop and only a tensor bandage on the other foot. No crutches, sporty shorts and a t-shirt. Tyler essentially, dressed to match. They said we could sit on the couch and if a table came up we could move. The couch was perfect given my ridiculous state. When the server came over to take our drink order, I was sprawled across this couch. My foot elevated on the coffee table and all the pillows piled up behind me. Tyler was no better, slouching so much he was becoming one with the couch. You could see her think “Dear God, what am I in for?”.
These couches were for people to sit and have a cocktail while they waited for their table; and here we were, 2 people acting like this was our God damn living room. Sexy singles and classy couples came through, dressed to the nines. They squished politely onto the other couch, avoiding us at all costs. We told our server we were fine to stay here, and I think she eventually warmed up to us; especially after we explained what had happened. We ate our delicious seafood, and lounged like we owned the place. Eventually we hobbled out of there with less fucks than we had coming in.