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.
I’ve been clicking through blogs, stalking people on Facebook, researching all sorts of biznass, and generally using the Internets as a temporary distraction from insomnia.
You know The Internets has got you when, upon logging into your gmail account, you are greeted with “Waking up at 2 AM? Get some sleep. Get the facts about Insomnia”. Yes, it’s one of those Google-generated ads that subtly populate gmail pages, and yes I do actually read those ads, no matter what. (What? I was in the advertising industry for seven years, you’ve got to assume that something rubbed off on me!)
Le Sigh. Does that counting sheep thing really work? I have tried it but usually get distracted in under 30 seconds and sooner or later (sometimes, shockingly “sooner”) I am thinking about the plight of monks in Myanmar or how on EARTH to convert grams to teaspoons and what, exactly, is the problem with not believing in the current fashion trends/best selling authors/government. Everything runs it’s time of popularity. Even New Kids On The Block*no longer wears acid-wash, pleated denim.
*This is the first New Kids On The Block reference on this blog, I doubt I could recognize a song of theirs if I tried. I grew up listening to Bach and Chopin and Rachmaninoff…not New Kids On The Block**
**I will never be able to abbreviate them to NKOTB, because I can never figure out what in the world people are so obsessed about when they simply write “NKOTB”…I keep trying to pronounce it phonetically, or try and remember what is so important about “En-kott-obb”.***
***You may now shun me.
I am fighting with my phone. I have service in odd-ball places and normal-person places, my camera works just fine, the mp3 player is so fancy I still don’t know how to use it…but I am fighting with my phone.
There’s the first reason, the hating to listen to voice mail; and there’s the ugly, monstrous, second reason–apparently my X still has my phone number.
Now, I am of the opinion that there are certain instances where phone numbers should be erased, deleted, forgotten. Instances like when that really cute guy doesn’t remember your name, for the 17th time in a row. Or when your favorite Chinese take-out place becomes a tacky tattoo parlor. Or when the coffee shop around the corner stops using sugar. Or when you leave a psycho x-husband. Numbers. Should. Be. Deleted.
I was the dutiful, comply-with-rules-of-disengagement one who promptly black-listed the X, deleted his phone number and tried to forget all of that nasty, sticky, X stuff.
And then? Then my phone decides to hate me. Big Time.
The situation: A slowish weeknight last week, watching some sort of T.V…heidikins receives a text from an unknown area code stating the following:
Stranger: Heidi–is this still your phone number?
heidikins: That depends, who is this?
Stranger: Someone in [redacted city] who has been thinking about you, how are you?
heidikins: (audibly, and not in a text) “What! The! Hell! Are you kidding me?!?” (obviously, no response was sent.)
X: The other day I saw a blonde girl with a big hairy guy walking down the street and I thought of you. I also walked past [redacted landmark] and remembered how much you loved it, how happy you were that day.
X: What? No response for ol’ [redacted name]? I just wanted to make sure you’re ok. I haven’t heard from you forever, how are you?
X: Do you still have the same email address? [answer: no.] I tried emailing you the other day to no avail…
heidikins: “Seriously? What the hell is wrong with him!? Does he never get the hint?!
X: It was just a “Hey, haven’t talked to you, what have you been up to” email. No big deal. It’s just been a long time, just want to make sure life is going well for you.
X: I’m done with school for good in a couple of weeks–then I can fully concentrate on the [redacted sports team I now hate by association] for the summer! How about you?
At this point I turned off my phone, I couldn’t handle the constant bleeping reminders of a whole life I willingly left behind. And in the second place, why does he feel like he has to “make sure I am doing ok”?!? He could have cared less when we were together, why the sudden urge? Ugh.
But despite the dramatic, difficult-to-deal with emotions this little non-exchange brought to the surface, I am generally pissed. I mean, I know it’s a free country and everything, and I suppose a (bastardly, dead-beat) person could text another person at any point for whatever reasons. In recent months I have received several spam text messages for all sorts of ridiculous things…but not a single one brought up a spewage of memory vomit like these did.
New Rule: No drunk-dialing, no x-texting, and definitely no drunk-x-texting–while I was not intoxicated during this transaction, but I would bet good stiletto-money that he was sloppy-faced drunk. I would also bet that whatever poor girl he’s somehow suckered into dating him has recently picked a fight, left him or otherwise broke up with him. And in some ways that makes me happy…but mostly that makes me feel sorry for him.
*See how I take the repeated x-texting and turn it into drunk-x-texting and the demise of his assumed relationship? Yeah, I’m mature like that.
I am constantly amazed how quickly life can change, aren’t you? One minute you’re chit-chatting about nothing in particular, the next minute Everything is Serious. One moment you’re texting a friend, the next you find out Bad News. One day everything is completely normal, the next it’s Chaos.
Well, a year ago today I was just traipsing back from the airport to pick up a friend (and, for the record, NOT texting) minutes later my life was literally spinning out of control. Serious. Bad News. And Chaos.
So, there I am, driving Miss Daisy–may she rest in peace–chatting with my friend Nate about his trip to Washington, D.C. and all of a sudden I am literally spinning through the intersection. A man who was being chased by three different police departments (see all the cop cars with the twinkly red and blue lights…ok, so they aren’t actually twinkly, don’t judge, ok?) zoomed right through a red light going approximately 55 miles per hour and slammed into me, T-Bone style. I spun out of control, he kept going and, according to the 3 different officers who told me about it, a half-block later he got out of his vehicle, started running on foot, and was chomped in the gut by a ginormous German Shepherd named Blade or Shark or Monster, or something ferocious-sounding like that.
And then I was on T.V. wearing my pajamas with smudgy mascara and no bra, because, at 11:30 pm on a Tuesday, that’s how I roll, yo. Too bad I couldn’t have had a picture with the German Shepherd; we could have been on talk shows as the terrible two-some who caught that particular Bad Guy.
I was really lucky, I walked away. Granted, I was hyperventilating and shaking like a leaf, but I was walking. I wasn’t bleeding. I didn’t have bones sticking out of my body. I didn’t have cuts on my face or hands or shattered glass embedded in my scalp. I wasn’t splayed out on the asphalt in pieces. Nate & I both were remarkably lucky.
Mostly.
Except…well, “lucky” is a relative term, right?
Here’s what…I ended up with a lot of skeletal and muscle damage that I still feel every. single. day. I had class 4 (out of 5) whiplash and was in neck-traction for weeks to try and keep my neck from compressing into my spine. I had a couple of bulgy disks in my spine, and in case you have never had bulgy disks in your spine, those suckers hurt like crazy. Non-stop hurt. The muscles in my back were so stretched and torn that my ribs kept popping out of place; my muscles were not strong enough to keep them lined up neatly in my rib-cage. Have you ever had a rib popped back in? What about six or seven? What about six or seven twice a week? Gaaaah! It is something I hope and pray every day I will never have to experience again. I had perpetual bruises on my back and my chest from my physical therapist working my ribs back in place. Hello, torture. I’m telling you, Guantanamo could learn a lesson or two from my P.T.
Besides having an achey-brakey neck, shoulders and back…I had some major issues with my hips. Apparently, when I spun-out my pelvis twisted farther than my body, or my body twisted farther than my pelvis…at any rate, they did not twist together and the end result was my pelvis sitting wonky on the base of my spine. Wonky Pelvis, people. Your pelvis is supposed to be a nice triangle, not a freaky trapezoid. Do me a favor, make a “gun” shape with both your hands; index and thumb fingers out, pinky, ring and middle finger folded into your palm. Are you doing it? With your palms facing you, touch your thumbs together and your index fingers together. You should have a nice little triangle, yes? Now, this is what your pelvic bone is supposed to look like under normal, non-wonky circumstances. Now take your left hand and rotate your hand counter-clockwise until your palm is facing the floor…that’s what happened to my pelvis. Big. Trouble. HUGE. Trouble. One leg was shorter than the other, I didn’t sit flat, I didn’t stand straight, I couldn’t lie down without being in pain.
The good thing is this particular brand of Trouble is fixable without surgery. I went through–and am still doing–physical therapy to move my pelvis back to a nice, even, triangle shape. The easy part is a set of 20-ish stretches and strength-training exercises done only on my left side, to help those muscles. The excruciating part is cracking your pelvic bone. Not like Crack! broken. But like cracking your knuckles…did you know your pelvic bone can crack like your knuckles? Yeah, I didn’t know that either. And when my physical therapist did her voodoo magic and cracked my pelvis I screamed, and then I swore, and then I cried. It kind of feels like having a flat-head screw driver attached to the front of a freight train thrust upwards through your skeleton. I needed this torture treatment done at least once a week for months. A freight train, people, a freight train. Shudder.
All that being said…the physical side-effects of my car accident were not most difficult. The physical stuff was a beast–and in some ways still is–but the Life As I Know It stopping without warning was the worst. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t exercise, I couldn’t do anything of any real value to me–at the time. I hated driving, I hated doctors, I hated having to be packed in ice for 12 hours a day. I was depressed. I gained a ton of weight. I felt like I had stopped Life cold turkey and I went through major withdrawals. It was terrible. Months went by and my physical body was starting to heal but I was still a complete wreck. I hated myself, I hated what I had become. I had been full of energy, bounding along full-speed ahead. Doing Things. Going Places. Being Someone. And then it all stopped, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to make it come back. Ugh, just thinking about all this again is giving me anxiety.
I didn’t talk about it much. It’s hard to explain how everything was so different when I looked exactly the same. I wasn’t in a cast, I didn’t have physical scars on my face…I looked fine. And perhaps that was part of the problem. No one would guess that just under the slightly bloated surface I was absolutely drowning.
Every time I see a yellow VW bug I feel sad. Part of that is because I miss Miss Daisy, she feels like a real life friend (and I’m totally wearing yellow shoes today to remember her). But I really miss Life Like It Was Before My Car Accident. In so many ways it was just…easier. Sigh. I feel like I’m okay, 12 months have come and gone; I’ve been to over a hundred doctor appointments and racked up thousands and thousands of dollars in medical bills (Thank you, Insurance!*). I’m not “back to 100%” and I don’t know if I will ever be at 100%. But I’m still progressing, physically and emotionally, and that is what is important to me. It is difficult not to fall back into that depressed, stagnant, deep black hole. I keep trying to remind myself to look ahead instead of backward. It’s a daily struggle.
A million thanks to those of you who constantly supported me over the last year; but particularly to Handsome and Lurch who took the brunt of my sobbing and wallowing and who always responded positively and with undeserved encouragement. I could not have made it through this without you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
*Do me a favor, will you? Call your auto insurance company and request your PIP be increased to the maximum, allowed amount. PIP is your Personal Injury Protection. This is the dollar amount your insurance company will pay for your medical bills. Minimum requirements vary from state to state, but in Utah the minimum is $2,000. Which means that unless you change your policy, if you get hurt in a car accident, your auto insurance company will only pay for $2,000 of medical care. $2,000 will buy you one ride in an ambulance, a few hours in the E.R. and a bandaid. The maximum available PIP coverage varies by insurance company, some max out at $25,000, some at $100,000. Make the call, find out where you are at and request the maximum amount of coverage. The extra $5 a month could not be better spent, I promise you.
**Also, if you have a friend/family member who has been in a serious car accident, or, heaven forbid, they get in a serious car accident, please try and remember that it takes months and months to heal. Be kind. Be considerate. Call to say hello. Invite them to lunch. Listen to them chat/vent/cry. And then gently remind them that there is an end, it’s a long way off, but it’s there. Can you do that for me?
