It was only four times yesterday I thought to myself that I needed to call and check on Mom.
That’s down from five times last Monday.
It’s been a month. Holy shit.
I can’t bring myself to even open the big pouch from the funeral home. It has all the acknowledgement cards, the guest book, and all that shit I need to send thank yous to the people who came or sent flowers, or baked pound cake (which I may, or may not, have eaten every last morsel of).
For now, it sits on the floor of my room…my she-cave…the one room in my house filled with just me stuff. It’s judging me for being so damned intimidated by a friggin’ leather pouch, and probably fake leather at that, isn’t it?
This will get easier, right?
….my mother died and then I had a head-on collision a couple of days later?
Yeah, so that happened.
I think y’all have heard me gripe about our frat boy neighbors across the street a time or two, amiright?
Well, one of them got up close and personal with me the day we were traveling to my mother’s funeral a couple of weeks ago.
And I don’t mean that in a good way. He hit me, head on, on our street as I was taking the critters in for boarding. They are fine, by the way. Me, not so much, but I digress.
He was turning onto our street at a “T” intersection, and I was coming up to the intersection to turn off the street. When he turned, he cut the corner really sharp and accelerated – as you do, when you’re 19 and too cool for school – when he looked up, and remembered this isn’t England a millisecond before his Beemer hit my Impala smack in the nose. One inch to the right and my airbags would have deployed, likely totaling my car, but the gods of mechanical shit were with me and instead of totaled, the car sustained about $5K in damage. He bent the frame when his little car went under mine or else it wouldn’t have been so much.
Amazing what an impact at 20 mph will do to a car and the bodies inside.
So, after he hits me I just sat there staring at him through the windshield and after a minute this big boy, covered in tattoos, gets out of his car..and he’s crying.
Crying. There’s no crying in car crashes. But there he was, crying like a baby about having just had a crash “and it’s my fault” he kept saying.
Damn right it was, and I was pissed…and this is what happened next as I sat in the driver seat dialing 9-1-1 as he approached me.
ME: What the fuck? HOW did YOU not see ME??
CRYBABY: I don’t know. I just….*sobs*
ME: Stop being a pussy, will you? Are you hurt?
CRYBABY: *hic* No.
ME: Well, I am..my chest hurts and I’ve got the cops and fire department coming.
ME: Geez…you live across the street from me, right?
CRYBABY: *sniffle* Yes
ME: First, why the fuck do you think I want to hear your music all hours of the day and night?? TURN THAT SHIT DOWN!!
CRYBABY: *sniff* Okay.
ME: And that has nothing to do with this. I just saw an opportunity. Now, the police are coming, everyone’s fine, you just stay where you are.
*an aside, I’ve had dipshits try to run on me before – this is accident #7 and twice that’s happened*
CRYBABY: I’m not fucking going anywhere.
ME: Don’t you talk to me that way, young man!
CRYBABY: (stares at the profane old lady in the car)
So, the police and hunky firemen came (seriously, why are all firemen so damned cute?) and checked me out. My chest was bruised, and I had a goose egg on my knee from hitting the dash.
I rode to my mother’s house with an ice pack strapped to my knee. And every breath hurt.
I thought I was fine.
I’m cute when I’m in denial.
Last weekend, two weeks after this incident, I noticed a GIANT lump in my chest. Looks like I’m growing a third tit, and it hurts a whole helluva lot.
What. The. Fuck.
My doctor took x-rays and said I fractured the xiphoid bone, and have a large hematoma (third tit) in my chest.
No worries, none of that is as bad as it sounds. It’ll heal on its own and the hematoma isn’t in a vein or anything. It’s on the bone and surrounding cartilage. It’ll just take time. Time and ice. Really, ice seems to help a lot. But, I can’t go around with an ice pack in my bra at work. Stupid social rules and shit like “propriety” get in the way.
Since the day of the crash, I’ve been trying to get Crybaby’s insurance to accept liability. First, they had no copy of the police report. Then, no copy of the report AND Crybaby was not responding to calls or letters. Then Crybaby said it was MY fault, and they were investigating.
THEN, this morning I went all bitcharoni on their asses in a pain-induced fit of rage. Lo and behold, they have their reports, they got his statement, and they are 100% sure they are accepting liability.
Hallelujah, holy shit, where’s the Tylenol?
When a larger-than-life character departs from this world it leaves a big hole. A ginormous, gaping wound of a hole if that person is someone you love-despised.
That someone, for me, was my mother.
She died on April 25th, 2016.
I just typed that my mother died and I still can’t wrap my head around it. Granted, she was not young nor in the best of health, but her death was very sudden (heart) and unexpected. I mean, six hours before she left us I was talking to her and her last words to me were “I love you, baby”. She was in the hospital, having been admitted that morning with chest pains, and we were still awaiting test results. The EKG was normal and all they’d found so far was she was dehydrated. Then they found her on the floor, unresponsive, and with no clear code status in place (no idea why, but that got missed on the admission questions to my nurse-sister) they resuscitated her for AN HOUR. By then, the mom we knew was gone. It just took another 24 hours for her body to catch up.
She was exasperating, exhausting, funny, mean, smart, vulnerable, beautiful and flawed.
And I loved her awful…and sometimes did a terrible job of that, but she knew and I knew in the way only mothers and daughters can know. It’s that tie that binds, for good or bad.
R.I.P. Mom, and give ’em Hell up there. Lord knows you are capable.
Well? Is it?
Is it YOUR fault?
And, in many ways he’s right.
What say you?
I may have mentioned a time or elebenty hunnert that I live with an enormous amount of daily physical pain.
I’m beginning to think I may actually be a reincarnation of the goddess Odyne. Which reminds me, why can’t I be like Athena or even Artemis? I’d like to be able to say I possess badassery or indescribable beauty because I’m a descendant of the goddesses of both, but nooooooooooooooo I have to be Odyne, the goddess of pain. Oh well, at least I’m a goddess, even if I don’t rate more than a mere mention in mythology and lack a Wiki page of my own.
Is there a goddess of sleight? Because I’m pretty sure Odyne has a valid grievance here, and I’d like to talk to someone about that.
And, I have gotten waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay off track.
See, that’s what pain will do to your brain.
So, the sources of my pain are numerous and boring – eight ruptured discs, spinal stenosis, fibromyalgia, arthritis, blah, blah, blah…
Most of the time a liberal application of heat, and the liberal downing of pain medications I take, keep me upright, mobile, and not feeling all stabbity to the world.
This week, though, it’s been different. And by “different” I don’t mean ‘oh joy and happiness, I don’t feel like I’ve been run over by a truck!’ I mean it’s been ‘holyfeckballsoffirebreathingdragons, what.the.feck. is going on?’
My sciatic nerve, heretofore a quiet little dude that I gave nary a thought to, is pissed.
Royally, royally, pissed.
He’s decided to show me how pissed he is by setting my right leg on fire, while simultaneously stabbing me from ass to heel with a hot poker.
This is going on all. the. time.
It’s actually a breathtaking kind of pain. As in, I gasp with each wave of pain, am nauseated most of the time from it, and cannot focus on what anyone is saying to me until the wave subsides and I wait anxiously for the next.
Even upping the pain meds is not dulling it much. And they are strong motherfeckers, let me tell you. Sciatic-Bob (yes, I named him) is stronger.
I know the inflammation will pass, and I really wish I could take anti-inflammatories but they make me pukey, I just wish it would pass sooner rather than later.
This gettin’ old shit? Ain’t for wimps.
Or so I’ve heard, not that I personally have any knowledge of what “drunk” feels like, or even how to spell the word, or that I’ve ever known anyone who got drunk.
But, what is not fun is waking up, getting out of bed, and immediately falling down to your knees.
That. That is not fun. That is painful.
It’s also quite startling for the dog lying beside the bed.
But, it’s what happens when you wake up, stand up, and are suddenly more dizzy than anyone has ever been since the beginning of humanity. And, it’s what happened to me this morning.
The dizziness subsided a bit after I was up a while, but then driving to work I noticed my head was tilted to one side and it was difficult to keep it ‘tween the lines. Good thing I drive a tank, and good luck to everyone around me.
As I sit here, typing at my desk, I feel like I’m on a perpetual roller coaster…or drunk…with much less funnage (it’s a word, now) than I imagine either activity creates.
No, I don’t know what’s wrong, but because OLD I suspect either I’ve got some inner ear fluid thing going on or my rocks ‘er off. And, by “rocks” I mean the inner ear bones that keep the world from going all funhouse (no, that is an effin’ word Mr. SquigglyLine) on me have gotten out of alignment.
It happens, as I said, because OLD. As we age those bones wear down and move out of alignment. When that happens, BAM! drunken old person syndrome (DROPS) ensues. If you do happen to get drunk, you can just tell everyone you have DROPS and because you’re old they will believe you and probably offer to buy you a ham sammich or something.
I just hope the nausea that usually comes with dizziness didn’t come with this funpack, and I hope this shit clears up soon.
Like I said, it’s no fun. And, yes, if it persists or gets even weirder I’ll go see the doc. Another not fun activity I try to avoid.
The other day my son was texting me, gushing on and on about how I’ve helped him recently.
He’s been unemployed for 345 years, and I’ve helped with food, gas, and some minor bills along the way.
He kept telling me what a blessing I was.
It really was sweet.
Then he said he wanted to get in a position to “pay you back…” some day.
Honestly, if he’s been out of work for 345 years already what do you think the chances are that he’ll get a job between now and the revival of “Firefly”? (are you even listening Netflix??)
Yeah, me too.
Anyway, I quickly responded to his text whilst simultaneously doing some work-related task…probably curing cancer, just kidding, when I sent him what I thought was this:
“Don’t worry about it, I want you to just pay it forward some day.”
But actually was this, because Siri knows me all too well:
“Don’t worry about it, I want you to just pay for war some day.”
Because we are all about letting slip the dogs all up in hee-uhh, he didn’t miss a beat when he responded with:
“You bet I will, if the opportunity ever presents itself. BANZAI!”
Boom. (and no, we aren’t Japanese, at least I don’t think we are, but who says only the Japanese warriors can shout “BANZAI”?)
I love music.
No, I mean I really, really love music.
I have two genres that are tops on my list.
#1 – Blues and Swing; from Billie Holiday to Voodoo Daddy
#2 – Celtic; from the Celtic Women to..well, everyone else, it’s not a large pool here in the States
Numbers three through elebenty-hunnert include gospel, classic rock, Rat Pack, and country.
The other day, as I was shopping, I was listening to Pandora radio on my headset. I have one station called “Thumbprint”. It’s fairly new (to me), but I’m sure you kids have seen it. It takes music you’ve “thumbed up” and lumps it all together in one station.
(An aside, you young’uns don’t remember but back in the day radio stations were mostly AM and most of them played a wide variety of music. It wasn’t until electricity came along, and FM was born, that specific stations with specific music were created.)
I was getting my groceries to the crooning voices of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, and tapping my feet to the huge sounds of Voodoo Daddy and Brian Setzer.
I was in the produce aisle when a beautiful hymn called “Down To The River to Pray”, sung by the incomparable Alison Krauss, came on and I stopped and closed my eyes for a second.
Then I started to sing.
You know how when you have headphones on you think you’re being really quiet when, in fact, you’re being exceedingly loud and everyone around you notices only you don’t because you’re so caught up in the moment and sure at any second someone from a major label is going to spring up from the fruit display and offer you a million dollar contract on the spot because you’re the most amazing singer since singing was invented and angels weep every time you use those pipes?
Well, let me tell you, it’s every bit as interesting as finding out you left the house without pants again. Except with fewer recording contracts.
Totally busted while belting out a song in the middle of the produce aisle? Can check that one off my bucket list.
.…uh, Ceasar, this is Imperator Gaius Doofus and I’m lost…
I know the battle is in three days, that’s why I’m calling now!
Yes, yes, I did ask Sirius to find “Germania” , but apparently she doesn’t speak Latin.
Wait, let me get a stilus and tablet to write this down.
Okay, go north from Rome…turn right at…..
I have a
connudd, a conand, uh…I have a problem.
There’s this super-annoying coirker of mine that’s super. annoying.all.the.time.
She’s actually at a site miles from here, but in the power industry we’re all just one big dysfunctional family.
Anyway, she sent out a mass e-mail and from what I can gather she wants all the other secretaries, excuse me, “administrative support professionals” in the region to join her in a hand-holding session when things get “too stressful” for us.
A little background here – I work at a power plant. We make electricity here – not nuclear generated or coal fueled; we use natural gas, so y’all just simmer down out there – and yes, there are times of high stress…like mainly Monday-Friday, but only during work hours.
The rest of the time is an alcohol-induced haze, so it may be stressful, or it may not. Hard to tell. I’m kidding. Maybe.
So, Miss Annoying McAnnoyerson thinks we should “reach out” to one another, via e-mail, for stress relief.
She wants us to share “a funny picture” or an “inspirational quote” with each other as a means of support.
My gag reflex is on overload right now, guys.
I am a girl, no doubt about it, but I’m not a guurrrllll. Apparently, I did not get that gene.
I loathe shopping, mani-pedis, lunching with the ladies, girls nights out, talking on the phone, and inspirational quotes/cutesy picture e-mails.
Which brings me to my original problem.
How do I tell her that not only do I NOT want to be part of her all-girl band, I don’t want to see anyone else’s “inspiration”, nor be a part of the stress-relief program?
No, really, how do I do that without coming off as a total beeyotch, which let’s face it I really am and she should know that by now?