Blizzard

 

Yesterday I witnessed my dog slipping on the snow.  Other than her love for her mom (me) and salmon skin, she has cannot get enough of the water and snow.  The water disappointed her first, during her second trip ever to the ocean.  She had launched herself onto the beach in a frenzy, eyeing the water excitedly and and walked forward to gently dip her paws in.  She’s not an idiot, obviously the tide was doing something she was not familiar with, but after a little bit of aggressive coaxing my boyfriend and we got my dog in up to her collar.  This was fine for less than five seconds before the first wave hit her.  

 

For seven years the snow has also been her friend.  Despite my sincere attempts to put her in warmer climates, hoping that she’ll eventually get used to the heat, there has been no denying the weird animal happiness that takes place when she sees snow.  Even in the most miserable of blizzards, with her mom muttering expletives underneath my breath, she still leaps around with the energy of a puppy, stuffing her snout in any pile of flakes she passes.  

 

Yesterday, after a quick jaunt in the snow, she fell.  It was fast, she got up and she was fine.  You could tell she felt betrayed though.  

 

I was concerned at first with the intensity that she fell but there was no limping, and the pouting stopped as soon as we returned to the apartment.  Other than dismemberment there is truly nothing a decent sized dog treat can’t fix.  Shortly thereafter, I gathered up my things to go to work.  The moment that I zipped up my winter coat a colleague called.  Against my better judgement, and my boyfriend’s wise advice that I warm my car up earlier than later, I answered the phone.  The conversation was important, also incredibly long, and after I noticed we’d hit the fifteen minute mark I stopped taking notes and headed out the door.  As I stepped onto the sidewalk I apologized for the gentleman for having to go and hung up on him without waiting to hear a response.  The time popped up on my phone- 9:20am.  It usually took me forty minutes for get to my office on a good day, and this meant I was fucked.  I broke into a sprint.  

 

Then, with the ice filled street spinning around me I fell, hard, ironically at the exact same spot my dog did.  Unlike my dog though I didn’t jump up and look confused.  Instead I remained twisted on the ground.  My purse, from what I could see laid remarkably intact, three feet away and still looking fly.  Somehow the four hundred dollar investment I had been hesitant to make, in the form of a Kate Spade accessory I might add, had also managed to protect my oversized iPad.  This was obviously a display of good luck.  My purse had made a sacrifice for my twisted body, and in my haze I took this as some sort of display of good karma.  I had earned this.  

 

I would’ve readily patted myself on the back if I hadn’t had my arm pinned underneath my torso and caressing the pavement.   “Ohhh.”  I said toward the purse, which to a passerby probably would’ve been interpreted into an “Ow.”   For better or for worse though, no one was around.  I would have had no problem welcoming some sympathy, or at least a hand up, but I also happened to live next to a number of young families with children.  Odds were that if anyone would’ve been nearby the observers of my dramatic fall would have been under the age of ten, and not immune to a thirty something flinging expletives into the ozone.   

 

Unlike my dog during when I hit the ground, I was wearing clothes.  My pants, as well as my tights, ripped open all too easily in my graceful tumble.  This was bad enough, they were my favorite pants, but I also hadn’t had the chance to do any laundry for two weeks, presenting yet another layer to my problem.  It wasn’t even until I gathered my purse and found my car keys next to the ditch that I noticed my leg was bleeding.

 

Did I mention I was running late?  For a split second, in the middle of the road, I turned to look at my apartment building.  Did I go back in and change?  Did I have any BandAids?  Was I about to use a “Get out of Jail Free” card when it would be better utilized playing hooky and going to a bar on a day when I wasn’t actually injured?  

 

I turned back toward my car.  I would not be sacrificing a fake sick day for this.  I limped defiantly, toward my car and buckled myself in with authority.  Then, I looked down at my knee.   It seemed to be bleeding quite a bit.  I usually had an array of napkins easily available in my pockets or in my passenger seat.  Sometimes they were used, sometimes they were not.  Ironically the week before my boyfriend had found a napkin that wasn’t his own in his pocket, unarguably used and I had made a mental note to discard all my paper products.

 

“Fine,” I had said to him.  “I’ll get rid of the napkins.”  He had no way of proving they were mine, anyway.   I was doing us both a favor.

 

Luckily when I fell I still had a some Dunkin Donuts trash wedged between my seat and the console I had failed to see.  “Thank God,”  I thought outloud.  “This is what they must do in emergency situations.”

Update- I am now properly bandaged and grossly bruised.  For the first time I understand the need for lawyers who specialize in situations like “slip and falls.”  My dog may have enjoyed the winter, she may still, I haven’t asked her, but as we nurse our wounds together I will be mentally prepping her once again for a move to a warmer climate.   

Advertisements

Mary Jane

A friend of mine offered to give me some pot recently, marijuana if you will, and of course I said yes.  I have said yes a few times, to a few different individuals in the past month yet no one has yet to follow through.  I’m not sure if this is my fault for not seeming sincere, or if there is a certain protocol no one told me about that needs to be adheared to.  Regardless, I’m impressed that I have people actually offering it to me.  I’ve come a long way.

My siblings smoke, my friends obviously smoke and if I adopt a new acquaintance, I will find out if they smoke.  They all do.  It’s no longer a taboo subject, if it ever was.  I would be the last person anyone should turn to for intel on the matter anyway, I went from cherubed faced innocent to boozehound flirt in the same time it took to move my comforter from my parents home to the college dormroom.  What never crossed my mind though was replacing the handle of vodka in my underwear drawer with plants.

When I was a Sophomore in high school, the Varsity Tennis members and I went out for a dinner meant for bonding.  Varsity was small, four members including myself, and the two  Juniors suggested we go to Rasta Pasta, a favorite for some of the upperclassmen.  One of the girls lived in my neighborhood, she was ranked number one on the team and had long black hair.  She was beautiful, a race other than the ninety nine percent caucasian population in my city and cool as shit.  Her counterpart, number two, was the opposite.  She was a cheerleader part time, bleached blonde and as white as my mother’s accountant.  I never saw them together in the hallways of my high school but on the tennis court, or Rasta Pasta, they were the best of friends.

We ate pasta, as that was the only thing on the menu and my supposed equal and I laughed at our two mentors.  They were hilarious, they got along and they were welcoming us into their world.  They wanted us to smoke with them.

I ruined that possibility.

After dinner, before we made our way out, one of the girls asked if we would like “to join in.”   She could’ve been asking if I wanted to join in shoe shining competition and I wouldn’t have known the difference.  I started to ask if she meant we were getting dessert when my fellow sophomore put her arm in front of me. Instead of answering verbally my friend gave the upper classmen a huge sigh and a head shake.

That’s the part I really remember  A sigh.  And a head shake.

She knew what they were talking about.  She knew and the sigh meant she wanted to partake.  But what about me?  What about the naive companion she was babysitting?  I was not only ignorant of anything of importance that was going on but she assumed, rightfully, that I would’ve flipped out at the thoughtful offer.

My parents should high five each other if they ever read this.  They successfully scared their firstborn into thinking the consequences of smoking were unrecoverable, dirty, and punishable by an eterinity in Hell.  Maybe.

Or maybe not.  Call me, friends.  Give me an offer I can’t refuse.

Change

Recently I had the opportunity to go on a boat ride.  A pontoon boat, usually lame and/or filled with 16 year old individuals filled with tequila shots.  This time it was filled with my boyfriend and his family, still unsure whether the purchase of a pontoon was a good decision.  

It was.  

The boat, despite all appearances, flew at a swift 40 miles per hour.  We were in low country, and watching the reeds stay still in contrast to our movement gave the impression we were hovering over the water at an incredible speed.  Moments before we boarded to head home in the direction of Beaufort, I received news from an employer, not only devastating, but inconvenient for limited time with my loved ones.  
The ride, while beautiful, was as though we had taken flight and I was left without any thought or senses in the front of the boat.  The sun had been setting and at this point was caught in the haze of the storms that had missed us.  I sat, with my sunglasses on, only tears to keep my feelings in check.  While the rest of the boat laughed and clung to each other in our journey home, I sat, staring ahead to whatever birds or dolphins might show themselves, and let my sadness fall randomly and quickly behind me, making contact with individuals who would mistake them for spray.  

Dog Day Christmas

I have spent the last three days trying to distract my dog from the Christmas tree.  Unless the poor girl is distracted by things that dogs become distracted by (other dogs, sausage, the ping of the carbon monoxide detector), she has been trying to solve the rubik’s cube that is getting to her presents.  And yes, she knows she has presents.  Call it my mother sending strong mental signals from Missouri to her granddog or just plain ‘ol quality puppy products, but the holiday gift box that my animal child has received is scented to a degree that calls on her wild animal senses.  

The first indication that she suspected something occurred after leaving her side for a moment brief enough to only grab a glass of water.  Upon returning, she was in the exact same position I had left her, only now joined by a brand new toy, sitting at her feet.  “And HOW did you get THAT?” I asked, obviously impressed and wanting her to know.  Her response was to stare.  

Because round one was so successful she spent day two standing as if made of stone, snout pointed toward the back of the tree, face in the sap covered limbs, until I made her a deal.  Yes, I would give her another “early Xmas gift” if she would cool it.  I didn’t wait for a response but instead reached dramatically into the gift box to reveal a *gasp!* genuine elk bone.  Lily sat instinctively, as though I might decide her demonstration of of the most basic of commands might seal the deal.  

Her elk bone, while substantial, broke into two pieces as she gently lunged for it.  Eyeing me suspiciously, she paused for a moment with one half in her mouth and backed into the living room.  Her gaze never left me as her jaw went slack, letting the bone hit the carpeted floor five feet from where I stood.  Still maintaining eye contact she sprinted back to the discarded piece, promptly grabbing it and sashayed, tail up, to devour her femur.  
Day three.  I don’t know what is left in the gift box.  I don’t want to know.  Possibly a stuffed animal, maybe a bull pizzle, perhaps a baked good.  What Lily doesn’t understand is that it is not, in fact Christmas yet.  I have now distracted her from her Grandmother’s gifts by bribing her from MY Christmas gifts…. Which means I will now have to buy her new gifts.  And yet… she is not fooled.  

lily

 

Monday

Cheers to you Monday and helping me be the worst version of myself.  I suppose it’s not all your fault- in fact, I’ll put some of the blame on Sunday.  I very distinctly remember deciding to go to sleep last night as opposed to spending a little bit of time writing.  Rolling over, I grabbed my phone and set my alarm for 7:00 am.  As I looked at the screen, I noticed that the battery level was at 21%.  That seems like a pretty reasonable amount, right?  Reasonable enough that I didn’t bother to get up and grab a charger or, even lazier, call sweetly to the other room and have my BF bring me one.  How simple would that had been?  Simple, sure, but why even bother if I still had TWENTY ONE PERCENT on my phone.  

 

As it turns out, 21% isn’t enough.

 

This morning came too soon, as they all seem to do, and as I lay in bed, willing myself to go back to sleep I noted the increasing level of noise, from both foot and automotive traffic.  This *usually* means the morning has officially begun and people are headed into work.  “Why are so many people already heading into work?”  I cursed into my pillow.  Careful not to move fast enough to to wake BF or dog, I let my hand slither across the bed to hit the menu button on my phone.  I was mentally prepping myself for it to say 6:54 am so I could then curse myself for wasting 6 precious minutes of sleep time.  

 

It took me 3 presses, each dramatically more violent, to realize that my phone was, in fact, dead.  Mother ****ER!  I launched myself out of bed and over the dog, trying to remember what obscure part of the apartment I could’ve left a charger.  As I fumbled through a pile of things in the living room I heard BF get up and start shuffling toward me.  

 

Bf: “Oh hey- everything ok?

 

Me: “MY PHONE IS DEAD AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS AND I CAN’T FIND A CHARGER”

 

Bf: “Oh ya, my phone is dead too”

 

Me: “I HAVE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT TIME IT IS”

 

Bf: (picking up laptop) “It’s 8:56-”

 

Me: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ITS EIGHT-

 

Bf: “Whoops, that’s pm, it’s from last night.”

 

Me: (Stare)

 

Bf: “Oh (yawn) – Here it is- it’s 7:49”

Me: “$%^(#)!!($%$(*#$%($^(*#$(

 

Eleven minutes is not enough time for any functioning human to get ready, much less a 30-year-old woman who hasn’t washed her hair in 3 days and spent the previous 24 hours hiking.  Luckily, as I struggled to throw water on my face and grab deodorant, Bf took note of the level of panic emanating from my body.  He calmly set out my clothes and gathered my work things so that I wouldn’t have to.  He also reassured me that I would make it in time and that my day would go smoothly.  Shout out to you, Bf.  

 

It was only after my appointment (which I did arrive to on time) that I got to look in the mirror since leaving the apartment.  I noted a piece of something crusty in the corner of my lip, a smudge of black (mascara?) on my eyelid and some dandruff sprinkled above my right ear.  A model of professionalism.  My customer had sat there, served me tea and listened to my sales pitch as half of my eyelashes were stuck together.

 

In an emotional fury I pulled my car into a parking lot and grabbed my makeup bag, try to undo everything my customer and I had just seen.  Ever done makeup in a tiny mirror in a Dodge Challenger with minimal light?  It isn’t easy.  In this particular light I believed that the “more is best” tactic was needed to undo the morning.  This was proven wrong when I pulled into a gas station 30 minutes later, shocked to see a frowning clown looking back at me in the bathroom mirror.   See the below:

me

This is a photograph, by the way.  Please note the squiggly marks indicating the high level of smelliness.  This picture can be interchanged with Sweet Dee from “Always Sunny in Philadelphia” when Frank did her makeup.  Look it up.  You’ll be shocked at the similarity.

 

Monday is now coming to a close and I find myself coming to peace with the day.  I have one appointment left to go.  Just one.  After that, I can go home and shower- maybe have a beer in the shower!  I can brush my teeth!  Wait, did I brush my teeth this morning…..?   *$&!

1 Pill = 70 Oranges. Also, I’m famous!

I was going to write a quick piece about these over the counter pills I bought today because I’m super psyched and think they are going to be like the Fountain of Youth “Walmart style” but then I was sidetracked, so this is going to be a two-parter.

Part One– the bouncer at my neighborhood bar and I were chatting it up last night and  he told me about this stuff:

alive

ALIVE!   Doesn’t it sound great? Maybe it’s the exclamation point. He said he’s only been taking it for a week but he feels like he’s superman or some crap.  I commented that I could “So totally use something like that because I feel like hell all the time and my eyebrows are falling out and I keep having this nightmare that a tooth just falls out of my mouth while I’m speaking publicly and I can’t go on living like this.”  It must have been fate, because he reached into his pocket and happened to have a coupon for the stuff.   “You know,” he added, “It would probably help to lay off the booze too.”

Ain’t gonna happen, my man.  Gettin’ some ALIVE!

Part Two– Documentation of what sidetracked me from the above post as narrated through an email exchange with my man and I:

BF: ALIVE!!! Jessica I’m sorry you had a really bad start to your day.  How are things going now?

Me: Meh.

BF: Meh, me too, hard to focus.  Trying to ship things now blah blah blah.

Me: Boooooooo.  Guess what?  At Starbucks now- this just happened:

  • Guy: Can I take your picture?
  • Me: What?
  • Guy: Can I take a picture of you sitting there working on your laptop?
  • Me: Why?
  • Guy: Because I’m a photographer and you’re pretty
  • Me: Good enough for me

Alllrighty then

BF: Is that really all it takes Jessica?  Just a guy saying you’re pretty and then you’ll let him take your photo?

Me: Today? Yes.

BF: Ok….did he show you the picture?  Are you sure this guy doesn’t have a wall of photos just of you?  Maybe he’s creepy and this was just the start?

Me: Actually, he took three photos…… and no he didn’t show me any of them….  He had just bought two iced coffees so I assumed he had friends which by default means he’s not a serial killer.  Iced coffees= Non-serial killer.  It’s like a math problem.

BF: Well how are we supposed to see the photos, what did the camera look like?

Me: Like the two on the top leftcamera

BF: …….I like the research.  Did you get this mystery photographer’s name?

Me: He wouldn’t give it to me

BF: What???????!!!!

Me: Jk, I didn’t ask.

BF: So you have no way of seeing these photos?

Me: I guess not.

End Scene.