Yesterday morning I was running a titch late to work, but nothing to really worry about. I picked my way across the snowy, icy street to my car, sighed at the crusting of salt covering EVERYTHING, and started down the block. Exactly one block from my apartment I have to cross a fairly busy street, I usually try and avoid this intersection, there is a drive-thru coffee shop on the corner with a cluster of vehicles crowding into the street and X street is the main thru-fare in my neighborhood. It can take several minutes for a break in traffic to get across the street. But, I waited patiently, listening to the BBC on the radio (yes, I still listen to the radio), minding my own business.
SCREEEECH!
SLAM-CRUNCH!!
Swear words. (Which, by the way, was the actual term that went through my head. Not #*$&, or ^(@#, or #!@$&!.)
I glanced in my rear-view mirror to confirm what I already knew: I had been rear-ended. I turned off my engine and got out to assess the damage and talk to the other driver, who I’ll call The Jerk. The Jerk was pissed. Specifically, The Jerk was pissed at me. He was swearing up a storm that would have probably made a Marine blush. He accused me of not going through the cussing intersection when I cussing should have/could have, which was the only cussing reason he ran into me and cussity-cuss-cuss.
While my ears were assaulted by every swear word I’ve heard of, and a half-dozen new ones I checked out the damage to my car (minimal) and his (also minimal) and did a quick self-assessment of my body (fine). A few minutes later he still hadn’t stopped yelling obscenities and when I told him I would like his insurance information he announced that it was MY fault and he wasn’t paying anything (of course, with another dozen curses of me, God, the insurance industry, and the world-at-large). I told him, politely and calmly, that I was going to call the police and file an official accident report and we’d let the officer make that call. I pulled out my cell phone and he let off yet another hail of curses. He told me that if I didn’t put my cussing phone back in my cussing pocket right this cussing minute he was just going to leave. I continued with my phone call and firmly mentioned that if he did so I would report him for a hit-and-run, and then I repeated his license plate number back to him (something I had memorized when he started with the yelling and cursing and kicking of (his) tires). He stopped howling for about 20 seconds and looked at me. There I was, calm and collected but silently fuming at being treated so poorly. In my skirt and heels I think he had initially thought I was some dumb blonde push-over. Au contraire, mon ami! I am not about to let some jerk-face #$*&-wad boss me around, not on your life.
I called the police, told them the situation, mentioned that the driver who I believed was at fault was threatening and pushy and had mentioned leaving the scene; three minutes later two cars carrying Salt Lake’s finest arrived and sorted out The Jerk. No, that doesn’t mean they tased and cuffed him, sadly. Officer Awesome wrote him a ticket, made sure I was alright after the fender-bender and the verbal assault, and lectured The Jerk about his anger management issues, particularly when he was a) in the wrong and b) in front of a lady. (Did you hear that? Officer Awesome called me a lady. Awww.)
I continued on my way to work, now an hour late, a bit crankier and with the morbid anticipation of a little soreness.
Would you like the good news in all of this? I mean, besides the fact that I am a lady in the face of a self-possessed jerk-face monster (who, it should be noted, very much resembled a water buffalo). This morning when I woke up I wasn’t sore. Not at all. My neck was fine, my back feels great, my hips and everything have no aches or pains. If you’ve been around these parts for a while you may remember the really horrible car accident I was in 3-years ago and the resulting mangled car and months and months of intense pain.
This is nothing like that.
A little chocolate, a little Dr. Pepper, and a scheduled massage for this weekend should put me right again. (And don’t worry, I’ve got an appointment to get checked out JUST IN CASE this afternoon. I’ve been to this particular rodeo before and I know the ropes, but please accept this pre-emptive “thank you” for your concern on that front.)
In most of our lives there are moments where we are hit with something completely unexpected and out of the blue; an idea, a personality, an experience. Yesterday I was blind sided by such a moment; I was left speechless (which rarely happens, I’m usually overly verbose), and even now I have a hard time sorting out exactly how I feel about it.
Allow me to explain.
On second thought, I should probably summarize.
Not too long ago a friend of mine did and said several things over a couple of months that hurt my feelings. He was not hurting me on purpose, nothing like that, but his decision to deliberately withhold information built this monster that left me scared, exposed, and drowning in enormous pools of self-doubt. Ultimately I found my way out and the emotional hurts scabbed over (and I picked the scabs because I’m gross like that) and eventually left the kind of scar you wear as a badge.
Yesterday, unexpectedly and without provocation, this friend sincerely apologized. I was surprised and caught completely off guard; I didn’t know what to say or how to properly respond. My scars were instantly raw wounds, leaving me floundering in a tidal wave of painful emotions I couldn’t explain, let alone control. At first, I was shocked and angry that he knew (at least in part) the consequences of his action/lack of action and their ultimate affect on me. I was upset to think that he routinely took the easy way out, even if it meant that I would be hurt time and time again. I was angry at myself for not realizing this pattern earlier on and putting a stop to it. Soon enough, the anger subsided and was replaced with deep sadness, a sadness so pervading I had to fight back tears for the better part of the evening, without much success. (Meaning when a few tears escaped while I was in the middle of a room full of people I totally lied and blamed allergies, or a bit of mascara in my eye, or contacts that I don’t wear. I am slightly embarrassed to admit this happened more than once in the course of the evening.)
Today I can still feel the emotional aftershocks. I really don’t know why such a simple thing, an apology for bad behavior, has rocked me so hard. I wish I could explain how these few sentences have dredged up all these insecurities and hurts. I wish I could explain the myriad of emotions that are duking it out in my head; each fighting for the upper hand and my full attention.
I am struggling with an intense sadness mixed with a bit of mourning. I have these heart wrenching pangs of loss, realizing how different things could have been if he hadn’t acted the way he did. If I hadn’t allowed his behavior to continue without consequence. I am relieved to hear from him that he can see room for improvement in his life, that through self-examination he recognized a weakness in himself that must be addressed. (I cannot stress enough how essential this ability is in men and women; it is only valuable when coupled with the ability to act on these realizations, but that is another post for another day.) Even with that small bright spot, I still feel like a little piece of me is lost, wandering aimlessly through a dark place. I hope I’m wrong, but right now I can’t see anything farther than today. And right now I’m sad and lonely and have a stinging in my heart that won’t go away.
Yes, this is slightly cryptic and for that I apologize. I am not in the habit of using/abusing my place on the Internet by calling people out for their mistakes or flaws. I’ll talk until my fingers are numb about my flaws and mistakes, but not about those of my friends or frenemies; I know better.
I am not a vegan. I am not a vegetarian. I have never had qualms about red meat or raw fish and have even eaten snails. Really, with the exception of popcorn and nuts, I will eat almost anything; except I can no longer eat chicken. This doesn’t have anything to do with some political position, nor does it have anything to do with abject horror at the way chickens are treated before the end up neatly wrapped in the grocery store. I kind of wish it did, but it does not. I briefly mentioned a few posts back that I had food poisoning while I was in Washington, DC. The real story behind that is a little bit more intense than a one-sentence mention, and the end result is that I have been unable and unwilling to eat chicken for a solid 5 weeks. Chicken! It is everywhere! And I can hardly think about it without getting nauseous. I don’t imagine this will change any time soon.
On my way to Washington, DC I had a 3-hour layover in Detroit. I got off the plane, stretched my legs, and because I have never been the kind of girl who can survive on stale pretzels and diet soda, I stopped for lunch at a nice-looking Mediterranean restaurant. I ordered the waitress-recommended Chicken Caesar Salad Wrap, sauce on the side. It was quite good, not life-changing, but tasty. In fact, if I’m trying to be completely unbiased, I think I probably really enjoyed it. Asiago cheese, romaine, grilled chicken; it was light and healthy and went very well with my “leave me alone with my book” mentality.
An hour or two later I boarded the plane and settled in for the short flight to the east coast. Tragically, this “short flight” ended up being the most turbulent bit of air travel I have had the misfortune to experience. From take-off to landing the plane rattled and shook and dipped and dropped all over the place. I felt horrible. My stomach was all crawly and my mouth was dry. I asked the flight attendant for a glass of ginger ale, hoping it would settle my stomach a bit. It did not, I was still queasy. The woman sitting next to me filled several of the vomit-bags during the hour-and-a-half flight (turns out, she was pregnant, so it is forgivable) and my queasiness turned into full-blown “I’m going to throw up on this plane!” panic! I tried not to think about it. Upon notification of our imminent landing, I put in a fresh piece of gum, tightened my seatbelt, and held on for the inevitably bumpy ride. It was a bounced landing. Meaning the plane’s wheels hit the runway, bounced, and then landed again. Had the pilot been anywhere near my seat I would have…well, I don’t know. But it would have been messy.
Once on the ground, I was collected by my friend Nate and we headed back towards his house with a quick stop at Home Depot to pick up a nail or a screw or a bolt or something. I was still feeling pretty rotten, so I grabbed a bottle of water from his trunk and sipped my way through the nuts-and-bolts aisle. Being on solid ground was not making me feel better. In fact, if I had to guess, I was feeling worse. And then, un-mistakenly, I felt it; you know that feeling where you know you will be throwing up in short order. Foolishly, I tried to tell myself that I was not, in fact, going to vomit; I tried forcing my stomach to calm down through sheer argument.
This was a mistake.
By the time I stood up to make a run for a garbage can it was too late. My lunch came up and all over the floor of Home Depot. People, I threw up. In public. I am not a child, nor am I pregnant. I have no excuse. I was mortified, but I knew I wasn’t done. I vaguely remember saying something to Nate and heading for the door, trying to side-step/leap over the shockingly enormous puddle that completely covered the aisle (and Home Depot has really wide aisle). Once in the parking lot I threw up two more times in some wood-chip-covered flower bed. I tried to wash out my mouth as best I could and nearly swallowed an entire (travel-sized!) bottle of Listerine. Ugh. Throwing up in the privacy of your own bathroom where you have means to clean up the mess is horrible enough…but in public? With no shower or toothbrush or anything? Gaaah, it’s horrendous. Not recommended.
I feel like I need to insert a very belated, but still heart-felt apology to the Home Depot in Arlington, VA. I didn’t mean to. I promise! If there was any way that whole, messy situation could have been avoided I assure you it would have been done. I see my mistake in waiting when The Feeling came, but I honestly thought it was the bumpy flight, not the diseased lunch. I am regrettably sorry about The Incident and will always choose Home Depot over Lowe’s to show my utmost appreciation and support for your fine establishment. Again, a thousand apologies.
If this had been the end of my poisoning problem, it would have been bad. But, sadly, it was not. There was no more Throwing Up In Public, but I spent the rest of the night in the bathroom watching partially-digested Chicken Caesar Salad Wrap make it’s way down the pipes of the greater Washington, DC area. The next day I heard about a recall on romaine lettuce in many eastern states, including Michigan, due to E. Coli. I wouldn’t doubt that the source of my poisoning came from the sullied lettuce rather than the chicken…but it’s the images/smell of upchucked chicken that haunts me. In the ensuing weeks I have had lettuce quite frequently, but I haven’t been able to eat or even look at chicken.
What about you, any food-poisoning stories? Any foods you cannot touch ever again? Any Public Vomiting episodes?
On the very small chance that an employee of the Arlington, VA Home Depot happens to read this, I really am terribly sorry. I know it must have been horrible for you, believe me I can commiserate. It was horrible for me too. And I solemnly swear over the entire world supply of Chicken, Chicken Caesar Salad, and Chicken Caesar Salad Wraps, it won’t ever happen again, cross my heart and kiss my elbow.
Dear Internet,
Last week was a really hard week. Really hard; one for the record books. And, believe me, it has been recorded. Elsewhere. It has been recorded elsewhere. So many things happened, and most of them I just can’t talk write about. And it’s been hard to think or write about anything else. So I haven’t been writing. I’ve been baking. And now I’m out of chocolate chips and must face the real world. Sadly, I must face it sans my stash of emergency chocolate; without which, by the way, the real world is so much more tedious.
I can’t get into the long, complicated, messy version of anything here, but I will give you the condensed version. Keep in mind, this has happened since last Tuesday, goodness, it’s been a rough week.
1. For the last little while I have been really excited about a New Life Development, which I have mentioned a little here, but not much. Well, last week there was a huge explosion in New Life Development and I’m still trying to pick up the pieces; they aren’t really fitting together as well as I had thought. It’s been messy. Ugly and messy. This is one I won’t be delving further in to, but I feel like I had to at least air the situation a bit. It gives a point of reference for the rest of this list.
2. I found out last week that I have some incredible back problems. I have been in constant, increasing pain for a few months and finally went to see a new doctor about it. I am really worried about what he had to say; terrified, actually. X-rays show my spine is curved like an “S” in three different places; my left shoulder and left hip are a full 9 mm higher than my right; my pelvis is uneven; my left hip is twisted in; and he explained that my back is basically trying to twist in on itself, kind of like what happens when you wring out a towel. My spine is the towel. Doesn’t that sound pleasant? Some of this can be attributed to my car accident, but my doctor thinks that most of it is actually just degeneration of my spine, possibly inherited, but maybe just unique to me. He thinks it’s fixable (or rather, reversible), but it is a problem I will deal with for the rest of my life. Super.
3. I have made the decision to cut off all communication ties with an old friend, someone I feel like I should love dearly but, upon closer examination, someone for whom I feel nothing but pity. For the last decade this person has been passive-aggressive to an outstanding degree. This person has been hurtful and inconsiderate and rude. Sure, there have been times when we were both trying to make whatever relationship we had work, but it has never been enough. A situation happened and I realized that our relationship will never get better, it will always be unnecessarily hurtful, purposely heartbreaking. I can’t do this anymore. Part of me is relieved to not have to fight this fight anymore…but the rest of me is horribly sad that this person who should mean so much to me just…doesn’t. And never will. This is not me being overly-dramatic, the few people who have heard the whole story have been open-mouthed and speechless. It’s the kind of drama that only happens in bad first novels and trashy soap operas. D-R-A-M-A.
4. I was fired on Friday. At 7:00 at night. Via email. The only reason cited was “it’s become apparent that your heart just isn’t in this anymore.” Let me stop right there, let’s take a little stock of this situation, shall we? I work 90+ hour weeks taking care of a disabled man. I have given up my social life, my apartment, my friends; my entire life has revolved around Vladd and I have never been happier in my job. YOU CANNOT WORK THOSE KIND OF HOURS IN THIS KIND OF POSITION WITHOUT HAVING YOUR HEART IN IT NINE THOUSAND PERCENT!!! I asked for a job review a few weeks ago and never heard a WORD about anything I could do better, anything they wanted tweaked, nothing. I have heard them repeatedly saying how much they liked what I’ve been doing, how I’ve been doing it, and all of Vladd’s doctors have been very impressed with my caretaking. And then completely out of the blue I get an email telling me that my heart just isn’t in it and I’m fired. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. I have tried calling them to talk about this, they won’t return my calls. Or my email. Nothing. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
….And that about rounds out my life since last Tuesday…well, all that and several batches of cupcakes. And a few bags of chocolate chips. I’m not back to Square One, I’m much farther below that. I’m in the slumpy-dumps. I have not been wearing heels. I have not been reading books. I have not been reading blogs. I had to quickly “Mark All As Read” for the overwhelming 3,267 posts in my Google Reader. (I then immediately cleaned out and organized my G-Reader to prevent additional overwhelmedness.) I have not been updating Twitter or Facebook or paying attention to anything but how much more buttercream frosting I need. I have missed a ton. And I would love for you to tell me what I missed. Come on, let me know what is new in your life. Good, bad, awesome, horrible, other. Tell me about you. Please? I could use the distraction…I’m dangerously close eating the last cupcake in my stash.
Yesterday was just one of those days.
Firstly–I hate having to wake up and drive 50 minutes to work in the cold and the dark and the snow.
Secondly–this is infinitely more difficult on a Monday.
Thirdly–this is even harder when the preceeding three days are spent in Las Vegas, painting the town and gorging one’s self on sunshine and shopping (stories and pics of shoes forthcoming, I promise.)
That being said, I was surprisingly cheerful upon arriving at work, this mood lasted approximately 5 minutes. Vladd is diabetic, right? So the first thing I do in the morning is check his blood sugar to make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be. So I went into his room, like I always do, signed good morning, like I always do, and let him know it was time for his test…again, like I always do. That’s where the normal routine ended. Before I could complete this test (which I have down to 37 seconds or something), Vladd started vomiting.
It was all over him (thankfully missing me), all over the floor, the bed….ugh. No bueno. So, I cleaned that up as best I could, and then tested his blood only to find it astronomically high. As in, four times higher than it was supposed to be. FOUR TIMES HIGHER! HOLY SWEAR WORDS AND WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO! I kind of panicked. I hoped that the stress of throwing up had spiked it temporarily, so I gave him a glass of water and waited 10 minutes (while I continued to clean up vomit) and checked it again. It was a titch lower, but still three times higher than normal. In case you have not picked up on this yet…this is a rotten way to start your morning. For me and for him.
The rest of the day has consisted of my cleaning vomit out of couches, carpet, more bedding, clothing, hardwood floors and spending an hour and a half waiting for doctors to tell me that my instincts (more fluids, lots of rest, keep checking his blood sugar–and praying to every diety imaginable that it would be slightly lower than last time) were correct. Um. Excuse me? Couldn’t you have mentioned that AN HOUR AND A HALF AGO! If these instincts are so correct, couldn’t the nurse who answered the phone have been a bit on the helpful side instead of prophesying doom and gloom and encouraging me to bring him in to the E.R.? Ugh. I’m still bugged about this. Note: this kind of frustration does not help a bad day become anything but more frustrating.
That being said, I had big plans to tell you all about my Vegas vacation, the shoes that were purchased, the parties attended (and the shoes worn to said parties), the shows seen…but, well, those plans were drowned in Lysol and carpet cleaner before 8:30 am. So, you’ll just have to wait another day…like, tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow will be all about the shoes and the shopping and then some more shoes.
I have known for a while that at one point I would have to announce the following to The Internets, I have been putting it off for a few months because it hurts to think about, let alone to see in tidy, even type.
Miss Roxy, my adorable red VW Beetle, has a new owner.
I’m sorry, will you excuse me? I need a moment…and maybe an emotional tear or twenty-seven two. (I wish I was kidding about the tears, actually, but I am not.)
[Swabbing face with Kleenex, reaching for bag of chocolate chips and giant glass of eggnog for strength. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.]
It’s true, I no longer drive that sassy little Bug. I know that for many people 2009 was a crap year as far as finances and employment are concerned…I am no exception. I had 4 different jobs–one of which failed to actually garner a paycheck. Several months with absolutely no income is tricky…especially when the several months leading up to that consist of sketchy part-time fired-and-hired-repeatedly (un)employment. In October I decided that I could no longer afford to keep my shiny new car. The monthly payment and higher insurance were just too much for my diminishing bank account. So I did the heartbreaking and responsible thing and gave her away. (This is a bit of a mis-statement, I actually sold her with proper documentation and transfers of funds…but that makes her sound so slave-like, or hooker-like, and Miss Roxy is neither of those things. Obviously.)
I miss my car, and I am honestly fighting back tears writing about this. I know, there are so many horrible things going on in the world and here I am whining about a vehicle. But please give me this one, okay? I have had a lot of those horrible things happen to me, and in a consumerist, sick-and-twisted way Roxy was my happy place. She was my “pocket person”. A million ailments magically healed by taking her for a spin and letting her turbo engine do it’s thing. (Again, I know this sounds uppity and selfish and horrible…I get it. I just don’t care. You may have children, or pets, or someone to snuggle when you were having a bad day. I had a shiny car with some serious zip. Don’t judge.)
I am not without transportation…not exactly. I paid cash for another car, purchased from a family member, and I have been reassured that it will last me a year or two if I continue to take care of it. It’s not zippy, or shiny, or sassy. It’s not even rust-free. I am now the disgruntled owner of a 1997 Dodge Neon with peeling aqua-teal paint and funfetti-esque seat covers named Mallard, the cranky, gangreenish duck. I have already had to utilize The Boy Who Has Yet To Be Named and his mad Car Fixing Skillz to keeep the stupid thing running. (P.S. Having a boy around with skillz is, shockingly, better than taking the car to the dealership and enjoying their free wi-fi and donuts low calorie health snacks. The Boy will kiss you afterwards, while the dealership Grease Monkeys will just gawk at you inappropriately.)
While driving Roxy I would get excited when I hit 100 mph (which only happened once a few times under controlled circumstances…I’m not a crazy driver or anything). With Mallard I get excited when the engine turns over on cold mornings. Roxy had an ipod plug-in and much missed heated leather seats. Mallard has speakers that are constantly on the fritz and I routinely scrape ice off the inside of the windshield.
Even so, I am grateful to have a car that runs. I am grateful to not have a car payment. (And I am INFINITELY grateful that six weeks ago when I hit and killed a deer I was driving the already dented and peeling Mallard and not Roxy. Thank you AutoGods.) But, I am already day dreaming about the day–hopefully only a few months off–when I can donate Mallard to a good home and zip around in something a bit shinier, a bit newer, a bit less like a cranky duck…and I am convinced that whatever vehicle I own long-term must have heated seats and a compass/temperature gauge…it’s just too many damn steps to look that stuff up on my phone. Until then, I have been humbled.
Anxiety is the crazed hour between waking up to discover you have missed your flight and the time the delightful ticket agent re-books you at no cost.
Anxiety is the feeling you get when an old friend leaves a message or sends a text saying “hey, I really need to talk to you, call me as soon as you get this.”
Anxiety is stomach-wrenching feeling that usually occurs when you notice a police car following you, regardless of whether you have broken the law or not.
Anxiety is the hand-wringing involved when you are shopping the J. Crew sale, hoping beyond hope that the adorable cardigan/skirt/sweater does not sell out in your size and color choice in the time it takes to locate said item, add to shopping cart, and jab in credit card number.
Anxiety is when it’s twenty degrees outside and you are away from home and your car won’t start. And it won’t jump. And you have inexplicably left your cell phone at home.
Anxiety is when before 9am on a Sunday you have received a text message, a voicemail, and an email from your [redacted adjective] X-husband saying that he really wants to meet up over the holiday, go to lunch, catch-up, chit-chat…..
That’s right. It happened again.
Let me just give you a minute to let that sink in.
Did you get that? Yes, it’s as bad as it initially sounded. I was/am pissed. Not in a “shucky darn” kind of way, but in a “move out of the way I need to smash something” kind of way. (Luckily, no persons, animals, or home furnishings were harmed during this episode. The chocolate orange, however, was splintered prior to unwrapping.)
There is this huge part of me that would like to think that I am fine and it doesn’t affect me and the whole thing just isn’t that big of a deal. I would like to think that this rising tide of massive anxiety has nothing to do with the fact that my psycho X can call, email or text me anytime he wants; that it has nothing to do with the knowledge that a few well-chosen Google searches can pull up this little blog and, subsequently, my entire life (which is why I have a strict No Last Name policy–if you link to this blog with my last name and my X happens to find me that way, I will place a pox on you, your family, your pets, your shoes…you should know better than that).
You know what it is? It’s some freakish signal that has been let loose in the Universe, “heidikins is happy! let’s go muck everything up again!” I thought Karma and I were friends for heaven’s sake! I do nice things for people and donate time, money, and other items to various charities. I don’t hurt animals, I recycle, I make wishes on evening stars and I give people* second chances (*It goes without saying that X doesn’t count as “people”, and also he already had his chance and his second (and 8th, and 23rd) chance).
Now I have an incredibly tricky choice I must make. Do I completely ignore any contact from X and pretend like he never existed (also included in this scenario is a single response that he must have the wrong number). Or do I agree to meet up with him and inflict all sorts of bodily harm on him when he least suspects it–I’m thinking I’d start with pepper spray, a swift kick (or 30) to the groin wearing as spiky a shoe as I can find, followed by a solid karate-chop on his jugular and then write horribly degrading things on his face with Sharpie. Cleary, I have my priorities in order. (It should be noted: I would not be alone during the second scenario…luckily The-Boy-Who-Has-Yet -To-Be-Named can be kind of a badass and he has volunteered to be my back-up in case my 30 kicks to the groin don’t quite render X completely incapacitated. And, dear Internet, he’s one of those Good Guys who hates Bad Guys…it would be epic.)
Ok, so here’s your choices again:
A) Ignore and/or Lie regarding contact information
B) Beat him to a bloody messy pulp and then spit in his eyeball.
C) Eat more chocolate, drink more eggnog, and hope it all goes away.
Yesterday I did something really scary that I have never done before. Yesterday I hit a deer.
My new job is in a tiny mountain town that has herds of deer in every possibly open space. They hang around in the fields, and people’s yards, and on the grounds of the resort. In fact, there are so many deer here that every other neighborhood is named after them. There’s Deer Hollow, Deer Meadow, Deer Glen, Deer Hills, Deer Humbug…ok, maybe not Deer Humbug, but there’s Deer Everything Else. Yesterday Vladd and I were driving home from the grocery store and it was already pretty dark. I grew up in a deer-abundant town and am aware of their wily ways (and their complete denial of cars having the right of way) so I was driving carefully. I had my brights on, I was paying attention, I was going under the speed limit. I didn’t want to be surprised by a deer popping up in front of me.
Well, Surprise! All my precautions turned into a Big Fat Fail.
Mr. Deer popped right in front of me and in the split second before I heard a horrific thud I saw head, neck and antlers directly in front of the steering wheel on the driver’s side (and one eyeball…I can’t get over the eyeball). I screamed. And I maybe swore. And then I apologized (verbally) to Vladd–who is deaf, remember–even though he didn’t hear either the thud or the scream or the swears. (Thank heaven’s he didn’t hear the swears…because I could probably be fired for the string of profanities I let loose.) (Ok, probably not, but it was a really sweary string.) It took me another few seconds to realize that he hadn’t heard my apology, so I quickly signed if he was okay. He nodded, eyes a little larger than usual, but otherwise he seemed fine.
When I got back to the house I took Vladd inside, got him situated for a bit and then went out to check the damage. I am missing one driver’s side mirror, my windshield and driver’s side window have all sorts of, um, goo on them, and what was once a small rock chip is now a crack the height of my windshield. And my driver’s door handle has fur on it.
That last bit was what got to me the most. Fur. On my handle. Where I have to put my fingers to open the door. Not that I’m blaming Mr. Deer for this or anything, quite on the contrary. I am the one who hit him (although it could be argued that he was on my road, although I doubt that is an argument I would win in any situation where either PETA or the ACLU are involved).
I didn’t really know what to do. I called the highway patrol and let them know the approximate location of the accident and told them everything that had happened. They thanked me and said they would look into it. If Mr. Deer is “napping” on the side of the road in the morning I will be heart-broken. I ran over a kitten once in high school and I cried for several days. Admittedly, I am not in any way attached to Mr. Deer like I was to the fluffy kitty, but even so, it’s one of God’s creature’s–a majestic one at that–and I fear I may have killed it.
Please bless Mr. Deer is just missing a bit of fur on his right side, with perhaps a bruise from annihilating my side mirror. I really just feel sick about the whole thing, despite my hopes and fervent prayers to Mother Earth (who, I think, takes care of creatures like Mr. Deer in the event they get slammed into by a vehicle) I am afraid Mr. Deer is going to the Happy Hunting-Not-Allowed Ground in the Sky.
(Also, please bless that any PETA people, or other animal fanatics out there realize this was a complete accident and I did everything I could do to avoid it–I was paying attention, going slowly, had my brights on. I called the police. I may erect a memorial to Mr. Deer. I already feel horrible, please don’t call me a Bambi killer just to rub it in, okay?)
There are some things for which one can never be quite prepared; your first trip to the ocean, or the view from a mountain top, the undeniable rush of joy that comes from making a baby laugh, or the immediate hurt and sadness from losing a loved one. Or the sight of a cockroach in your previously pristine and roach-free kitchen sink.
EWW! ewww! EWW! ewww! EWW!! [shudder]
People, there is an infestation at hand. In my kitchen sink and, by extension, my entire apartment. I would post pictures of the critters but it makes me all creepy-crawly to think about it. My apartment–my lovely apartment–has cockroaches.
You may be excused while you go do the “Gaaah! Get them OFF me! GET THEM OFF ME!” shimmy.
I have become an expert at this particular move. In fact, it has been repeated several (hundred) times in the last 24 hours due to the fact that MY KITCHEN SINK HAS A DOZEN OR MORE NASTY GROSS COCKROACHES IN IT EVERY TIME I WALK IN THERE!! I have stopped cooking. I have stopped thinking about cooking. The kitchen has nearly become off-limits. My landlord is as skeezed out about the whole thing as I am and the Superhero Bug Man is coming tomorrow to get rid of the nasty little buggers.
[Gross!! Get them OFF me!]
I’ve noticed teensy little bugs for a little while now, but didn’t think anything of it. It was the middle of summer, there was fruit on the counter, the windows were all open, I assumed they were just fruit-fly derivatives who were interested in nothing more than the bananas. However, when they gradually started getting bigger and increasing in population numbers, I began to be suspicious. Yesterday afternoon I finally got really brave and googled images of cockroaches.
EWW! eww! EWW! eww! EEWWW!
Cockroaches. On my computer screen. Cockroaches. In my kitchen sink.
Vomit. Sick. Nasty. Get the OFF me!! OFF!
Cue panicked email to landlord, who responded immediately with an appointment time and date with pest control. The Superhero Bug Man requested I try and capture one of these disgusting infestations so he can be sure that the chemicals he uses are for the right bug. People, this means I had to get CLOSE to one. Close enough to scoop it into a glass jar and, quite possibly, feel it’s creepy little feet skitter across my thumb.
[dry heaves] ohmygoodness, I’m getting all crawly just thinking about it.
That being said, I captured 3 cockroaches, from my kitchen sink, and have them held prisoner for the Bug Man. Ugh, I am getting sick to my stomach just thinking there are cockroaches on my kitchen counter, regardless of the fact that they are safely confined in a glass artichoke jar with a tightly screwed on lid which is possibly covered with a 5 lb. bottle of pickles, just to make sure those bugs do not get out of the jar. Ever.
Did you hear that, Internet. I caught cockroaches! With my own bare hands! Without the assistance of a man! I am She-Woman, Hear Me Roar! (Admittedly, my “roar” sounded a lot more like a squeal with a lot of hopping around–because apparently squealing and hopping are intrinsically frightening to cockroaches?!? On second thought, because there wasn’t anyone around to verify the squealing-hopping fact, I’m going to stick with the story about RAWR-ing the roach into submission.) When I just thought they were harmless little bugs I was kind of indifferent…but what a HUGE difference a Google search makes. They are verifiably roaches and I am so incredibly skeezed out I seriously considered not spending the night in my house. The thought of sleeping in a room adjacent to the roach room makes me jumpy.
I don’t get it. In WALL E the little cockroach was somehow (inexplicably) charming and not creepy at all. In my kitchen sink? Super slimy, creepy, crawly and nothing remotely close to “charming.” Sick. Disgusting. Nasty. Gross. This is a classic example of yet one more instance where Hollywood has led me astray and convinced me the vomit-inducing was actually cute and cuddly and petable. Wrong. Wrongity-wrong-wrong. I feel like I should sue Disney for pain and suffereing or something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go do yet another repeat performance of the “Get them OFF me! GET THEM OFF ME!” shimmy, and take a shower in boiling water to remove any remaining roach residue. EW! ew! EW! ew! EEEEW!
Sometimes I feel like a kid. I crave grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles–not squares–and dot my i‘s with hearts and wear my hair in two pig-tails. I watch cartoons and refuse to eat my vegetables and play with floaty toys in the bathtub.
Sometimes I feel like a teenager. I have emotional explosions responses to just about everything, start to break out in rashes and whine about things like a curfew or homework or something. I write brooding poetry in cafe’s, paint my fingernails turquoise and wear enormous, brightly colored plastic necklaces with Chuck Taylor’s.
Sometimes I feel like an unstable 20-something (in fact, most of the time I feel this way). I drag my laundry to a laundromat and loathe writing that monthly rent check. I am constantly changing direction, flip-flop through jobs and majors and am forever trying to answer that elusive question: isn’t there something else?
Sometimes I feel like an adult. Although, if we’re being completely honest, this feeling is fairly fleeting. I should stop gloating about my adult moments; the feeling zen, the self-acceptance and the moving on. It seems, as soon as I think I’ve made it over some hurdle or another–and subsequently brag about it on the Internets–Life gets pissy and throws me under the bus again. And again.
Right now? I’m very much in a return to adolescence. Ugh. Adolescence…that is one time period I don’t think anyone wants to relive! Braces and acne and embarrassing moments in front of cute boys and generally thinking you’re an adult only to be hit upside the head with a solid (and generally exasperated) “No. You’re Not An Adult. You’re A Peon.” type response. My re-adolescence, let me detail it for you:
1. Acne
Thanks to my mother I was blessed with lovely epidermi-genes (yes, that’s a word) and I haven’t had any real pimple problems for about a decade. Sure, I’ll get a rogue zit pop up in times or stress–i.e. when I am so depressed I smother my face in french fries and chocolate. What, like you don’t do that too. Stop judging. At the moment, and without any encouragement, I have no less than seven giant red pimply volcanoes that arc from my left eyebrow to my hairline. It’s like the Pacific Ring of Fire has somehow relocated to my forehead. Ugh.
2. Embarrassing Moments In Front Of Cute Boys
In the last several days I have had a lot of really big problems with zippers. That’s right, zippers. Over the weekend I was on a date, wearing my favorite pair of jeans–dark and perfectly cut, long enough that I need 5″ heels and a tall date (check and check). Sometime between the fruit smoothie and the home-made french toast I noticed–with horror–that my zipper was down! What? How long had it been there?! I quickly excused myself to the restroom to fix the embarrassing situation before he noticed. What started out as minor embarrassment quickly turned into near panic–my zipper was not stuck, it was broken. Broken! As in “No Possible Way To Make It Stay Put!” I yanked and tugged and finally got it halfway up only to have the bottom half of my zipper break apart. So now I have the zipper tuggy thingie in the middle of the zip and wide open breezes both above and below. I may have sworn under my breath and then tugged my shirt down as far as possible to cover the gaps. I tried to keep my shirt strategically covering the gaping hole in my pants and when a movie was suggested I jumped on the chance to hang out in the dark for a few hours.
Luckily, I don’t think my date noticed. Awkward moment: Avoided. Permanent Silent Embarrassment: Still Lingering, Unfortunately.
3. Thinking I’m An Adult…When Really? I’m Sooooo Not.
For all my bragging, I routinely find myself back at Square One. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of being in Square One. Major developments are in place to permanently remove me from Square One…I’ll keep you updated. In the meantime, if you know of any magic spell to make me Grow Up For Real overnight, I’d really appreciate you sending it my way. Or pills. You could send pills. Especially if you live in Canada, I hear all the good pills come from Canada. Begging strangers on the Internet to send “Grown Up” pills from Canada is Adult Like…right? Right? Ok, so maybe it is a little juvenile. Whatever, I need “Make Me An Adult” drugs. Just send them, okay? I can offer you one pair of fantastic, hardly worn jeans, size 6 with a 37″ inseam, dark wash, look fantastic with heels with just one busted, slightly broken, totally stuck, sometimes touchy zipper.
