This post is a mess of unfinished thoughts and feelings because I go home today. Home to Nashville and Husband and three crazy chipmunk murdering, dog bed eating, totally smelly dogs. I’m feeling the whole gamut of feeling that go along with being old in the place I was once young. Of being a parent to a parent that used to parent me. Of being mortal in a place I was invincible and unaware of my mortality.
My sweet small town has changed to a cold selfish place where every other vehicle is a tesla or a Google self-driving car and people push past each other without acknowledging each other. My stern and solid mother is shaky and slow and fragile. My dreams of what would be, what I would be, are been found dusty and unused in corners of the house. It has been a very emotional few weeks and I’m sure to feel the repercussions, the earth quaking for months to come. This place that I grew up in is unrecognizable. Like that girl at the high school reunion whom you know only by nametag but with her new breasts and nose, hair extensions and fake tan, in a tight spandex dress showing off her newly enhanced ass, you can no longer see the person she was. The Palo Alto of my childhood is gone, hidden behind new construction, stupid wealth and new residents that do not acknowledge the past or and choose not to know each other. I’ve been here almost three weeks and walked with the Mom to get a paper every morning and do you know how many times we’ve had someone say “Thank you” to us for moving out of their way on the sidewalk? Twice. Only TWICE in three weeks. And how people passing us walking have responded to our morning “Hello”? Only one lovely ten-year-old boy. The rudeness and indifference that folks show each other here has been shocking and painful. It has been as gut wrenching as watching the Mom count out her dimes as the check out lady does her best to not patronize her as the line behind us grows. And yet, there have been moments of joy. The crossing guards know Mom’s name and cheerfully greet her each morning as she walks to get her paper. The ten-year-old boy who runs past us each morning chirps his hello with a smile that often overshadows the indifference of the others. The sun has been shining in the bright blue sky most every day. And my friends, my lovely friends have not changed. They are as charming and fascinating and as loyal as they were when I was younger and saw them more often. So there’s that. If this world is to continue without imploding, it is necessary we see each person as a human being that matters. To spend time getting to know our neighbors and care about their well-being. To actively reach out into the community and grow as one. I hope the blowback of the Asshat spouting hate is a return to basic caring for all. Blah, blah, blah… In the meantime, there is ice cream and sun and cheerful ten-year-old boys to pin the hope of the future on. And tonight, there will be hugs from Husband and furry, chipmunk murdering, drooling dog love to lick away my tears until the next time I come ‘home.’
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I don't know about you but I’m OVER Broken Ankle. This will be my last post blathering on about it. Unless, of course, something tragic and gross happens and I feel you need to hear and, of course, see all the gore and gook.
I broke the stupid thing twelve weeks ago yesterday. I'm now in a sexy Ankle Bustier for the foreseeable future and start physical therapy on Tuesday. Doc says the bone is healed and now it's time to work on the muscles and tendons, which, by the way, are PISSED OFF at me right now. Anyway, here are some things I've learned since June 9th:
I'm sure there are more bits of wisdom I've gained throughout this mess of an experience but I'm over it. I can't wait to define life as something other than Broken Ankle. With that in mind, below is a photo timeline of Broken Ankle in all its sexy purple wonder to close out this episode of my life. Enjoy. UPDATE: Apparently this post got folks feeling guilty. This was not my intent. I was just trying to express my feelings - imperfect as they are. Ah well. This was Husband's response to the comments on my FB page. And why I love him so very much. He. Is. Awesome. HUSBAND: It lools like there are a few folks that have read todays blog and are now feeling guilty......not sure why, we are big enough and ugly enough to ask for help. That being said, if you really really are stricken with overwhelming guilt, I have set up an Amazon Wish List "It's Never Too Late To Make It Up To ej" that has a few choice items on it ;) Included in this list are the following : Trip To Hawaii, Coffee Maker, Towel Set, Games Compendium, Cuddly Toy, TV, Boat, Private Jet, Butler (English not Gerard) and of course Leather Brief Case with $5,000,000. Because of Broken Ankle, the dogs getting let out the front door more often than the back door, an unusual amount of rain this summer, the usual amount of humidity, the lack of lawn care due to lawn guy getting fired for running over the light and generally making a mess of the yard, and my inability to do anything yard related, this guy has moved in to the patio wall. Though we delight in yelling “Beaver” every time we see him, this is not a Beaver. This is a Woodchuck or Groundhog. (For size reference, that's Pepper the Wannabe Cat's chewed up frisbee bottom left.)
Right now Mr. Woodchuck is cute and shy and runs every time he sees our shadows watching him from the den window but one day soon, the dogs will find him and the digging will begin. And when the digging begins, the yelling starts and when the yelling starts the neighbors will hate us. Not to mention our wallets can't handle any encounter our dumbass dogs are likely to have with Mr. Woodchuck. Especially since we know dogs will not win. So, as entertaining as we find our shouts of “Beaver!” Mr. Woodchuck’s eviction notice will have to be served. Since I am still incapacitated, I nominate Husband to do the evicting. He did such a nice job with the 5ft Rat Snake last summer. I’ll stand by with one hand on the video record button and the other on 911. Either way it goes, it’s sure to be a story worth telling – especially if any or all of us end up in the ER again. Until that day, we will continue to entertain ourselves by yelling; “BEAVER!” at the top of our lungs and then watching the dogs go mental and Mr. Woodchuck scurry away. We’re really just children in overgrown bodies… Brother likes to say I go crazy in August. He says that I tend to call him with random stories that don’t show me in the sanest light. I say he’s an ass. But he’s not wrong. August is when I found out about ex-boyfriend’s extra curricular activities with people who were not me. It was also when I found out that karma was not going to get evil boss in time for me to keep my womb from imploding from the stress induced fibroids. Bad emotional stuff has happened a lot in August. Which is why, last night when I was telling Brother about how Baby Owl keeps trying to eat Pepper and he told me that would be a good thing, I understood. Not because we want Pepper eaten. That would be totally traumatic. But because, “My sister called me and told me that Baby Owl ate her dog” would make an awesome story. Especially since every story this year has been about what the dogs have done and how it’s affected my/our life, i.e. Broken Ankle and everything that's come with it. And every picture is an “Ick, I can’t look.” shot of the nastiness that is Broken Ankle or some variation of THIS: Family. They know you and your sick mind best.
Lest you think I am the only one in the family with gravity issues, I present the sole content from an email from her guy yesterday: Chunk from log splitter popped out and caught her just above the eye. We will be more careful in the future!! That was the first email, just those two sentences. WHAT??? So much information missing!!! That first sparse email was followed by a second, which just had this image of my mother: Yeah, that didn't make me feel any better. And I still don't have enough to go on - like did she lose consciousness? Did you go to the hospital? Is she making sense? I mean.... WHAT IS GOING ON???
The text message from Brother later that night simply said: Oh my goodness Because what else can you say? This is her fourth eye incident. FOURTH!!! The first one that comes to mind is when she stumbled on a bit of raised sidewalk and stopped her fall with her face. For weeks she looked like she’d gone a few rounds in a boxing ring and yet no one asked her about it. I mean this woman looked like she might need an intervention in her home life and not one person checked to make sure she was okay. And this wasn’t a “Did she mean to wear her make-up like that?” black eye; this was a kaleidoscope of colors all over her face. Some people suck. Mom’s second 'face hits a solid object' event was when she “tripped and gracefully fell” in the driveway, conked herself on the head on a rock and didn’t tell a soul. I found out a week later when she showed up at our house thinking I wasn’t there, the motley purple-green evidence still very present on her face. She tried to play it like I was over reacting but when your face is still swollen a week later; a doctor’s visit should have taken place. And when your daughter informs you of this, laughing in her face and telling her she worries too much is not a happy answer. The third incident was later that year when Tigger the Dog spotted a squirrel and “pulled” her over. I blame Brother for that one. Who lets a 60 something woman who barely weighs 100lbs walk a new 70lbs rescue dog with anxiety issues? We were in the Philippines trying to help Brother manage the situation from there but Mom refused medical care – despite not knowing the name of Brother’s girlfriend of many years. “But he’s had so many...” was her response. Cold! When I got back I insisted she go to a doctor and was pleasantly surprised when she reported she had. Until I asked her what the Doctor said about her face and she informed me it was the gynecologist she’d seen, for her annual check up, and that “the head wasn’t the part of the body he was interested in.” And now this little “chunk from the log splitter” popping out and whacking her in the eye event that they have informed me via email. Seriously? By email??? She, of course, will not be seeking medical care. Why should she worry that she’s whacked herself in the same area FOUR TIMES and that at Seventy-two, there might be an issue with repeated head wounds? Especially when it's is large chunks of wood flying out of log splitters and hitting her at what I imagine is not a pillow soft thunk and leaving that kind of bruising on day one? And the proper response to my concern is not to laugh and tell me "it's going to look spectacular in a few days." ARG!!! Adulting adults is so flipping frustrating!!! UPDATE: Picture of day two below. Sigh. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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