Who Needs Wine...

I won’t pretty up my abysmal lack of stature; I’m short. It sucks – if you’re short too*, you know that there are evil cupboard gremlins that deliberately move the extra-virgin olive oil to the very back of the middle shelf. Where you can juuuuuust touch the bottle with your fingertips but grabbing it is impossible.

I’m 5’2″. But I totally rock Uma Thurman on the inside!

Thanks to my mother’s mother, who is a tiny Scottish lady, not only am I short, I also have curly red hair and ridiculously tiny feet. And when you put all that together, it’s like trying to drive a mini-cooper on Big Wheel tires. With nasty red handlebar streamers. During a thundershower.

Or something.

It’s like the reverse-hobbit effect (sans hairy feet, thank you very much); short person walking on feet too small, not to mention the well-known fact that I’m also busty (thanks to my sperm donors family for that – I hope you All get Hemorrhoids!)…like a ship without sails…or a rudder…or whatever the hell that’s called. Shit, that’s not right. OK, like one of those blow up punchy dudes I had when I was a kid, dude that BONGED from side to side whenever he moved, the one I named Bert and practiced french kissing on… But anywhore, it makes for some grade-A klutz moments, all of which star yours truly (see, totally channeling the Uma again!).

Most Notable (or, Why I Would Totally Win the “Are you sure you aren’t drunk?!” contest):

Numero Uno:
Seventh grade. Skiing. I didn’t need lessons because I was the awesomest, hottest girl around (I am not responsible for your personal delusions) and I was all over skiing the hill with the black rating with my more agile friends. My snowplowing skills were legendary and I was immortal. I had a cape, even - swear, it's in my linen closet attracting moths as we speak! A quarter of the way down the steepest fucking hill in the entire world (did I mention that the scenery is devoid of mountains?) my chicken-legs started failing me and I made a sharp turn to the left, heading directly towards the group of students from my school who were lined up in a row. Taking lessons. The instructor was yelling at me to STOP, I was shrieking that my brakes had locked up…..and BAM! I took out the last kid in line. Who, in turn, took out the kid ahead of him. Who, in turn, took out the kid ahead of him. And so on and so on, exactly like a game of dominoes but with blood and snot and all that squishy OOF and OW-NESS. I came out relatively unscathed but was banished from ski days for the rest of the year. Because I totally rock like that.

Numero Deux: 
Fast forward about ten years and picture this: our protagonist is taking a leisurely walk with The Greatest Mom. Ever., and her younger sister. The camera pans to show road crews working in the heat, tearing up three feet of pavement directly in the path of our main character, The Artist Formerly Known as Her Highness The Spanxster. Mother and sister walk slightly behind The Artist Formerly Known as blah blah blah, engaged in a heated discussion. So heated, that sister walks directly into a light standard. Baha.
Yeah, keep on laughing.
The Artist blah blah turns around to laugh hysterically and point at her now raccoon-ed sister, smugly showing her graceful manner by prancing backwards, laughing and pointing all at once. What Talent! What Grace! Until our doomed A-blah-blah continues to step back…into nothing. And proceeds to fall, backwards, three feet into the dug out road. Duhn-duhn-duh. To the couple sitting on their porch in audience, trying desperately not to inhale their entire cigarettes as they laughed, our protagonist grits her teeth, smiles, and says:
“I’ll be auditioning for the circus tomorrow! See you there!”
Sexy, eh?

Now, picture all this light-bottom, top-heavy, reverse-hobbit-ness perched atop size 5, three inch spike heels.

Yep, if I was a man, I’d totally want me.

Except…are you sure you aren’t drunk?

*Anyone taller than 5’2″ is Not short. And we hope you get hemorrhoids too!