Ouch

I'm a total panty.

A week and a half ago, I fell. Now, saying, "I fell," doesn't seem to encompass how badly I fell. I should probably say something like, "I launched my body into the concrete." See, I was walking on PCH at night, by myself. This is not as seedy as it might sound. I mean, it is probably a lovely place. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of scary people around. It was Redondo. I think I was the only person using the sidewalk. I don't think people walk in LA unless they're working out. I was walking 2 blocks to the drugstore. But I was by myself in an unfamiliar place. So I was a little hyper aware.

All those self defense tips were running through my mind. Walk with a purpose. Keep your hands out of your pockets. Be aware of your surroundings. Watch for places where people might hide to jump you. Use all your senses.

I was walking at a fairly brisk pace. I was careful not to get too close to the hedges and buildings, and was careful to stay out of arms reach of the passing cars and the parked cars. You don't want to be inside my head. Scary things happen there.

So when I thought I heard footsteps behind me, despite my brisk pace, I turned my head to look. And I didn't notice that the sidewalk changed to grass. I felt my right foot slip. I tried to catch myself with my other foot but I think I couldn't get it forward in time. I realized that the sidewalk was coming up pretty darned fast and I had better just accept that I was falling.

Bam.

My left side caught the force of it. Amazingly, I didn't spill any blood on the sidewalk. At least not blood that seeped out of my body. The left side of my palm caught the worst of it. And my left boob. I'm a week and a half out and my left hand is still swollen. The bruise is fading, but I still have discomfort with that hand. Thankfully I can grasp. Weirdly, the back of my hand is what is swollen, and needed to be iced. I'm sure somebody out there can explain it to me, but it appears that all the bones are intact.

I've cursed my big boobs a lot in my life after puberty. Sure, they were fun to have in my teens and twenties. Got me lots of attention -- often unwanted. But it appears that they're not the shock absorbers that you'd' thing they'd be when you're slamming your body into pavement. Actually, maybe they are. Certainly somebody  out there can explain the physics to me. But they didn't protect me from rib damage. I don't think that I broke the ribs, but they sure do hurt even after all this time. Take in too deep a breath, try in any way to use my left pecs, and I'm in pain. Coughing is torture. Hell, burping is bad too. I hate this.

Maybe pain isn't the right word. Maybe it should just be the less frightening, "discomfort." Because surely, other people are truly in pain. If I don't move or use my left hand, or breathe deeply, or open the driver side door with my left hand... I'm fine.

Makes me wonder how those MMA fighters get the snot beat out of them and then get right back in the gym and workout. Surely their hands get hurt at least as badly as mine did. Remember when Rich Franklin continued to fight when he broke his hand? He didn't stop striking with that hand either. And hell, BJ Penn continued to fight with broken ribs -- I could even see the ribs sticking out at odd angles. Still he fought!

So I'm a total panty. I know I am.

Writing assignments

My dear friend Peter has challenged me to a couple of writing assignments. We both like to write, but actually donning the title of "writer" still doesn't feel right. So for the past couple of weeks, we've been challenging each other to these writing assignments. Sometimes they're the same, sometimes they're slightly different. But I thought I'd share some of them here. 


The first assignment was the 55 fiction. The challenge was to write 3 discrete stories in exactly 55 words. There is a website dedicated to this style of writing. It is almost like haiku, the way you have to write them. Here are my attempts:

Complications

Approximately one and a half hours, the oncologist had said to both he and his wife, unless there were complications. The conversation replayed in his mind:  likely benign, labs have false positives, nothing on imaging. Each phrase evaporated with the minutes ticked off in the waiting room. At hour three, his focus rested on "complications."

On his tab
Freesia scented air filled the honeymoon suite. His absence was most often heralded by the scent of what had been her favorite flower. Apologies and promises yet to be broken were written on the card. Coolly, she set the flowers outside the door. Then she methodically emptied the contents of the minibar down the drain.  

Sleeping Beauty
The baby emerged with the epidural fully numbing her nethers. She feared it numbed her heart also. Should maternal instinct kick in automatically? Instead she felt only fatigue. When the infant was ultimately deposited into her arms, she thought she should kiss it. Like the princess awakened by true love’s kiss, her heart did too.  

The second assignment was to write a 500 fiction. The other stories were shared on my Facebook profile, but this one seemed a little too on point for that website. Here it is:

 500 fiction:  Was It Real?  

The thing about this kind of break up is that there are no obvious signs to anybody else. After all, he’s married. You’re married. You haven’t even seen each other in real life.

But there is Facebook. That modern marvel that has replaced the tension filled 10 year or 20 year high school reunion. Facebook has robbed those events of their great draw:  to see who is in the lead now that we’ve all had time to try our hands at life. Who still looks young? Who got rich? Now, all those questions are answered well before you even step on your tread mill to lose those stubborn 10 pounds to fit in that size 6 dress you bought for the occasion.

So he found you. Initially, it was a sweet surprise to find that the braces were gone from his teeth, his slender lanky arms have filled out and his shoulders are just as broad as you remember. He showered you with compliments. That you’ve grown ever more beautiful. That your husband is a lucky man to have you. That your children are lovely, just like their mother. That teen aged girl you had forgotten about? She swoons again at his charming words. How does he have that effect on you?

You don’t even notice that now you log in to your Facebook account daily when previously you’d go weeks before ever looking. Whether you know it or not, you’re generating content just for him, hoping that he’ll see it and comment. You scan your news feed to see what he’s up to. You stare at his picture to remember the first time you kissed when you were kids. You’ve relived every date and fumbled awkward embrace you shared back then. You think about how you could show him what age and experience has given you.  You’re worked up into a lather well before the reunion date.

Fool.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t see this day coming. His texts became infrequent as the date approached. But still you held out hope that he was truly, “just busy.”

When did you first know? When he wouldn’t tell you where he would be staying? When he didn’t call from the airport? When he didn’t pick up his nametag at the reception? Yes, that was it. You finally knew then. Every imagined fantasy of how you thought the weekend would go, the imagined debauchery with this man gone with that simple act of not picking up his name-tag.

Funny how his 18 year old picture smiles up at you from the table.

You try to enjoy the festivities, reconnect with your old friends. But he was the only one you wanted to see, and now, there is no point.

You do what any rational woman scorned does. You delete his contact information. You block him from your phone. You unfriend him from Facebook. You convince yourself that none of this happened in real life. You resign yourself to forget him. Again.

The most recent challenge was a 750 fiction. Notice the trend? But the challenge this time was to write something from 3 different points of view. Tricky, this one. 

750 fiction:  Taco Sauce 

Gloria:
As far as first jobs go, it is  pretty good. Especially the late shift. There’s hardly anybody here. My friends come in and make fun of my black polo shirt, black slacks and Jack in the Box baseball cap, but that’s okay. I totally rock this look.
Soon I’ll be old enough to work at a *real* restaurant. My older sister works at Red Robin and they make tons of tips. Same stupid shirts, but they get real money. She told me how some nights she’ll serve a “five topper” and make like $12 in tips! Awesome! I wish they’d tip here.
“Gloria, go check on the condiments and napkins,” comes a call from the dickwad manager.
“On it.” Great, Herr Manager noticed that I wasn’t busting my ass for half a second. Why does that guy hate me? It isn’t my fault that he’s old and still working at Jack in the Box. I bet with my sister’s recommendation, I could get into Red Robin when I turn 18. Damn, the taco sauce dispenser is out.
“Hey Gabe, could you grab me a new thing of taco sauce?” I flash him a smile. Gabe is such a sweetheart. He goes to my high school but I’ve never seen him there. Bet he hangs with the emo kids.

Gabe:
I get to work with the hot chick again tonight, I mean Gloria. Right now she’s asking me about the taco sauce. It can’t be out. People don’t use the taco sauce that much.
Frick. This is going to mean more work for me, isn’t it?
At least I get to look at her. Who would have thought that black slacks could hug an ass just right. Damn.
“I just refilled it yesterday. It’s empty? You can’t just push on the pump.” I say. She opens the dispenser and pulls the pump too hard. It splatters taco sauce all over her. She’s laughing.
Oh what I’d do to lick her taco sauce. Heh.
“Gabe! Bring me a towel?”
“Just use the napkins,” I suggest. But if I bring over the towel, would she let me wipe sauce off of her?
“Gabe, fix the dispensers. Gloria, mop the dining room,” the manager yells. He used to be cool but now he’s kind of an a-hole.
“Okay,” I tell him. Wiping sauce off of Gloria’s chest? That’s going in the spank bank.  

Manager:
What do I have to do today? I can swing by the WalMart after work and pick up the baby’s medicine. Have to drop it off at Mom’s house. Maybe sleep a little there. I should be able to visit Monica at the nursing home. I wonder if she’ll know me today. Then off to the job site.
How the hell am I going to keep this up?
I hope that I can keep paying for the nursing home until Monica’s brain wakes up again, the docs say that it can happen. My wife lives in a place that smells like urine and disinfectant. How can that be?
I didn’t know having a baby could almost kill you.
Pay is better at the construction site, but I need the benefits. Glad to know that my BA in Business came in handy for this Jack in the Box swing manager job.
In construction, the men are hard working. You tell them once, the work gets done. Over here, all I see is what I don’t want my little girl to grow up to be -- vapid and work averse.
Feels like all I do is tell Gloria what to do. She thinks her job is to look pretty for the customers. I can’t wait for her shift to be done. I used to be able to tell Gabe, “keep an eye on the front,” and all the jobs would be done. Now that Gloria is here, I have to remind him that he’s not getting paid to watch her ass. I should train her to work the back so that I’d have at least one good worker but I can’t stand the thought of spending more time with her than necessary.
She’s laughing. I’m in hell.
“Gabe, fix the dispensers. Gloria, mop the dining room,” I bark out the orders. They act like kindergartners on teen age hormones.
“Okay,” Gabe walks out there just as Gloria rolls her eyes and goes to get the mop.
Pick up medicine, drop it off at Mom’s, sleep, visit Monica, then work. Rinse, repeat. 

Dear Catholic Bishops & President Obama

I just wanted to let both of you know that I'm Catholic and I use birth control.

Sincerely,

Tess

Catholic Bishops Oppose Obama Birth Control Compromise