A Week From Hell

It started out with Shingles and a bad back and ended with a car crash and a parking lot hit and run.

Let me preface the inevitable and imminent bitch session with the following:

"EVERYONE IS OKAY."

"I AM GRATEFUL."

"I AM STILL GOING TO WHINE."

My weeks of highly irregular wintertime exuberance and "sunny-side-up" daily outlook came roaring to a halt under the oppressively bleak and poisonous inversion-laden skies.

I had been feeling listless, lethargic, completely drained. Then I noticed the pain. That special burning, needle-like pain that sears through flesh, bone and marrow straight to the core of my sanity. It took me about 24 hours to remember what that pain was: Shingles. I checked out my posterior (unfortunately where my affliction likes to 'rear' its ugly head) and sure enough, there was a pox upon my ass. Ugh.

At least now I knew why I felt so crappy. I have a pathological need to know the reason for why I feel "off." Coming from a long line of chemically imbalanced people, I hate to think it's just the usual depression coming 'round for a visit. So boring. So blase. So pathetic.

Then, with impeccable timing, my back decided to really do me in and leave me cripplingly bent over and unable to move (or even breathe) without punishment.

On Thursday, I was finally able to stand mostly erect. I celebrated this development by cooking dinner. Having been unable to stand at the stove all week, the girls had been surviving on leftovers, frozen pizza and chicken nuggets. As I fried up some taco meat, the phone rang.

"I was in an accident," came Savannah's voice, over the 3G network.

"You were in an accident?" The words just weren't computing for me.

"Yes. I was in an accident."

"You were in an accident?"

Again, "Yes."

"What happened? Is the car drivable?"

Then, finally, "You're okay, right?"

I am the absolute worst for having an appropriate mom response in such situations.

Here's my rationale:

1. I knew she was all right because she called me herself and was talking to me calmly on the other end of the phone.

2. As soon as I registered that she was all right, my next thoughts were "How bad is the damage?" "How do I fix this?" and "How much will it cost?"

3. I default to a detached, somewhat angry place. It's a protective move. I have to stay focused and unemotional in order to deal with whatever crisis is unfolding--if I let myself get all worked up, I won't be any use to anyone.

Terri told me that she thinks Jeff would probably react the same way. This leads me to revisit the words of a former therapist who told me that I needed to develop my feminine side--that my way of relating to the world, especially in relationships, was very masculine. I had also been told the same thing when I thought I was having a heart attack instead of going crazy during a panic attack. Apparently, women usually think they're going crazy, while men always think it's a heart attack.

My feminine side decided to show up when I saw Savannah's car. I wanted to throw up. I still can't believe that she didn't get hurt. She had to slam on her brakes at 55 mph on the highway before running into the back of a house framer's truck. He got a tiny dent in the rear bumper.

God is good.

Finally recovered from the shock of the close call and the towing bill (ouch!), I got a call from Gabi. She had just been hit by a car in the parking lot of Smith's. It was a case of stupid teenagers trying to run down other kids. They caught Gabi's leg while turning and she fell across the hood of the car and onto the asphalt.

Her friends got the license number of the car and ran into the store yelling for help. A cop was in the store and came to their aid. Their story really pissed him off, but he had to go deal with a fight that had just broken out elsewhere in the parking lot. (The full moon makes Bountiful a much more exciting and dangerous place.)

When Gabi told me what happened, while limping to the car, I wanted to find those little shits and run them over with my car. Sometimes I just hate people! Surprisingly, Gabi got a call from the pissed off cop yesterday afternoon. He tracked down the car and the kid and charged him with a hit and run. Way to go, copper!

Nothing is broken, but Gabi has once again employed the use of her boot from when she broke her toe. That kid has spent probably half of the past four years in that damn thing! Although it's usually due to her calamity Jane ways--not being run down by delinquents.

Well, I think that just about sums it up. I can't remember the last time I was so happy to see a week end!

Wet Dreams

I haven't been sleeping lately.

Not really.

But when I do sleep, I dream of the ocean.

I see it. I hear it. I smell it. But I never get to feel it.

Every night I get that butterflies-in-my-stomach feeling as I see the sun glistening off the ocean while I drive up a slight slope in the road in Newport, OR, craning my neck for that first glimpse of my beloved.

I usually make it to the beach. I can feel the sand in my toes. I feel the tickle of excitement making it's giddy voyage through my body from foot to forehead. But I never actually get to taste the salt on my tongue.

When I wake up it's not only in the midst of overwhelming frustration, but to the crippling reality that I am actually tangled in the flannel sheets of my queen-sized bed. In Utah.

(Sigh)

Waxing Poetic

the afterglow is in its death throes
the sun of a last touch
stealing all warmth as it sets
so far in the distance
withered fingers claw
where playful hands once held
scratching
trails of desolation
on soft pink flesh
i close my eyes and try to sleep
to a lullaby of sirens
tepid water lapping
at the tips of toes
looking
for a good place to jump in

The Fat Bastards Club

A new year (hell, a new DECADE) has dawned and once again most of us have found ourselves running around the revolving door of goals, resolutions, and what have you. And, like Buddy the Elf, we often end up overdoing it and hurling those well-intentioned resolutions into the nearest trash can as soon as that revolving door stops.

In order to avoid the nasty after-taste of regurgitated resolutions my friends and I have decided to declare our goals (well, some of them) to the masses via this blog.

Like most Americans, our top priorities for the new year center on how drop-dead gorgeous we want to be. The first step in that quest is, of course, weight loss.

I know, I know! But we are as shallow and vain as the rest of you (and don't pretend you're not!).

Therefore, the Fat Bastards Club has been called into existence, with each of us proclaiming for ourselves, "Hello. My name's Becky and I'm a Fat Bastard. It's been 29 years since my last confession. (Wait. That's wrong. Flashbacks to my roots in Catholicism. Let's try again.)

"Hello. My name's Becky and I'm a Fat Bastard. I have a disproportionately fat-looking round face that makes me look (in pictures) like I weigh 30 pounds more than I do and I want to lose 10 pounds to see if that reduces the impact of my fat face--for photographic purposes only (riiiiiight)."

After we had all made our confessions, er, rather, declarations, we realized that among us (there's 6 in all) we have at least (AT LEAST!) two whole people to lose in order to reach our collective weight loss goal.

I'm a little fuzzy on the exact number, but it weighs in at around 270 pounds. WOW!

I don't know about the rest of my Fat Bastard compatriots, but I have not started off well. You see, I've been sick and everyone knows that you need to listen to what your body craves when you're sick, right? The good news is that for the first three days of my illness I had no appetite (score!) but yesterday it came back--with a vengeance. So, after my comfort foods of popcorn, Reese's Pieces, chicken pot pie and Frito's with bean dip, I think it's pretty safe to say that my three-day fast is now null and void.

Here's to the start of a new week and my promise to post weekly updates on the progress of our Fat Bastards Club as we embark on one of the least original and most challenging of resolutions: losing our fat asses in 2010.