….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?
The frantic OMG!! GUESS WHAT???!!! text from baby girl Saturday night gave me a start. I was thinking either a) she was pregnant or b) she won the lottery or c) I won the lottery and didn’t realize it.
After my equally frantic WHAT? WHAT? text back, she sent this:
“Paul Walker is DEAD! He was only 40!”
To which I replied:
“That would probably mean something if I had a clue who he was.”
To which she did not reply. No doubt shocked I didn’t have a clue who he was.
Then I asked Uncle Google, and he told me that Mr. Walker was an actor and he made movies about fast car. Not so ironically, he died in a fast car.
It’s tragic, but more tragic is his 15-yr. old daughter left behind and the 8-yr. old son of the driver who upon witnessing the accident apparently attempted to pull his daddy from the wreckage.
That’s fecked up. Big time.
In other news, several thousand (or maybe hundred, I’m too lazy to actually look it up) also died on that day in car crashes and while it’s tragic when anyone dies too soon, too young, let’s remember it’s just as tragic for the not-so-famous and their families.
Drive safe out there people, and remember that cars don’t behave IRL like you see in the movies. Not. At. All.