Oh Sweet Cookie

The other morning, I was awakened by the persistent pounding on my front door. These days it takes me a little longer to wheel myself from point A to point B, but I executed the stretch in record time. As I opened the door to the world’s largest cookie bouquet, it became increasing clearer to me why injured folk tend to become part time fat asses.

Alas. I digress. A few weeks ago, an Escalade attempted to make-out with mon petit Jetta, rendering it in the shape of a recycled soda can. Note: My friend and I were still inside. All the King’s horses and a few of Tulsa’s finest extracted yours truly with the famed “jaws”. My friend was pulled from a window with hardly a scratch by a passing good Samaritan. I had a concussion and a bruised lung. Oh yeah, and I broke my pelvis in three places. While it’s a miracle to have my life at all, I’m experiencing the worst pain I’ve ever known. I traipse around my apartment like a little old lady juiced up on sherry, all with the assistance of a walker. Oh yes, a walker.
So, this finds me back at the cookie bouquet. I open the card, and see it’s from some family in Connecticut I don’t even know. “Why, hello cookies,” says I. “Get well Berry Soon,” says an iced strawberry shaped cookie the size of my head. I can barely wipe my own ass, I don’t know how I’m going to schlep the amassing garbage to the dumpster, I haven’t unpacked into my new apartment and don’t know how I will - but how can life be awful when the “Who-zee-what-zits” in CT dropped a huge chunk of change on this epicurean masterpiece? But because chewing is one faculty I do have left, I of course sit down and break off a cookie flower. Again, perhaps others just delight in watching the injured become fat asses. It’s like they know all I have left are my arms and my mouth – lift and bite. Lift. Bite. Fuck Em’. Lift. Bite. Boxes of cheap “Get Well” candy. Lift. Bite. I broke my pelvis. I don’t need to “get well”. I AM well, thank you. By the end of the day, the bouquet gets sent home with a coworker who I think will Berry much enjoy it.

I hate to be bitter, but really. I find it amusing how many people have very strong opinions about my pelvis. How many folks in perfect health will walk right up to me and tell me that this time of stillness is to teach me something. That I need to take it easy. It must have happened for a reason. So easy to say coming from the person who can get up and walk away, no? Or how about, Isn’t pain just a wonderful reminder that I’m alive? Why yes. As a matter of fact, I was considering smashing everyone’s pelvis so that they could share in this joyous reminder of life and all its wonder.

In attempts to perhaps make my walker better suited for my personality (and demographic), I decided to dress it up with a little marabou. It didn’t help. Attached right to the front of it was a brochure with senior citizens shopping in an arts and crafts store. I for one, plan on writing a very strongly worded letter to Guardian Medical Supply. It’s just outright prejudice. For starters, I’m not exactly senior material over here, and I happen to shop at arts and craft stores. And yes, that was pre-walker. Secondly, I resent that they only feature geriatric models. I mean, what about showing the twenty-something out at the bar on their walker! And think of the attachment options there! A beer bottle caddy. A shot glass holder! Why even a puke bucket to put over the side for when you can’t haul off to the bathroom in time. There could even been a pullout platform in front for passed out friends. Just like that, the one with the walker is the designated driver. Tell me I’m not onto something here.

Sure, I sound like a cynical broad, maybe even a little angry. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t even describe how grateful I am for my overall health, as well as the amazing people that have been such a great support system. I just want to offer the reader a few tips God forbid anyone in their life ever is forced into gimp status. For starters; The best gifts? Once out of the hospital, no more freaking flowers. In gimp state, how in hell can anyone tend to florals? It’s depressing to watch pretty things die. Just send a box of cereal or other grocery need your gimp won’t be able to easily acquire. Cards are fab. Calls are okay. The best gift however? Patience.
I know people worry about me. I know I’m scattered up and down. I also can’t worry about calling everybody else to tell them how I’m doing. Let me rest and let me heal. Pain killers dope me out. Yes, I spend a lot of time frustrated and sad too. But I need that time, and I need to work through it. No news is good news. I appreciate everyone. I’m going to be okay. My friends and family need to know that, but most importantly, I need to know that.

Anatomy Of A Bad Date

I have two words that should never join together for the purpose of a date. Especially a first date. Ready? Taco Bell. Nothing says romance like a Nachos Bell Grande combo. Now, I have my high maintenance moments, but you really can take the girl out of Connecticut. I wear my lipstick pajama pants to the grocery store and find makeup to be more of a nuisance than a necessity. Yet, Taco Bell? Am I expecting too much? If faux Mexican was the mood du jour, couldn’t we have hit up Chili’s? Hell, I’d even pay for my freaking self. Anything to circumvent these other two words I’m feeling as a result of Taco Bell – In Digestion.

I should rewind a bit and confess what fault I own in the debacle I am about to unfurl. I have a hard time saying no. As “tigress fab” as I am, I melt like an M&M on a hot car seat when a guy asks me out. Correction: when a sketchy dude asks me out. When someone of interest makes the first move, hey! I’m all over it. Let’s go right now! What’s the hold up! I’ll go grab the car. However, when cornered by the long lost fourth stooge, I feel myself lump into a pile of mush. Who am I to say no? Do I think I’m better than he is just because I have more hair? More height? Guilt dissolves me into a virtual puddle at his feet as a reluctant “yes” squeaks from my lips.

This is how I found myself on my drive-thru dream date du jour. I thought he was kidding when he selected the value meal route for our liaison. Obviously, cost was going to be an issue, but surely there are more creative ways to address the affordability piece. I’m a modern woman; I’m all for paying for myself! Especially on a first date (and in this case only date) scenario! Who says food even needs to be involved? Why, there’s always coffee, meeting at the bookstore. Hey, come with me to plant trees for community service at 7:00 am, and we’ll see how much you really like me…

I try not to be too judgmental (who am I kidding) – I’m not exactly Heidi Klum over here – but let’s call a spade a spade. Actually, he kind of looked like a spade. I had at least a good two inches on him, and that was sans heels. That vantage point gave me a very good view of his balding head and the hair pouring over the back of his shirt. Queso anyone? What he lacked in height, he made up for in girth and a most peculiar odor. Sitting across from him in our cozy little booth, the truth of his financial situation was revealed to me. Unemployed and almost thirty, he was currently living in the basement of his “friend’s parent’s” house. Uh huh. Until he could “find himself”. Uh huh. And that’s when he breaks out the bottle of white wine from his messenger bag . I’m not kidding. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. It had a bright orange $2.99 sticker right on the neck. Granted, it was white, but at that point he would have needed to break out a bottle of Grey Goose to even think about redemption.

So, boys and girls, what did we learn from Miss Christie’s waltz through Taco Hell?