I'm only 26 and already a cripple!

As some of you know, and some of you may not know, I compete in powerlifting. This is NOT the kind of competing where the women dress up in tiny gold lame bikinis, get fake tanned beyond recognition, and flex their gigantic muscles. I deadlift. I squat down, grab hold of a barbell loaded with weight, and push/pull it up to lockout (which for me is about crotch level).

So, I was working out Thursday night, making sure to wear my very thick pretty pink weightlifting belt. All was going great; 118 lbs x 2, 135 x2, 155 x 2 (a little painful in the back, but surely just a cramp). Then I did 165 x 2. I took off my belt & it hit me. Holy crap my back HURT! I sat down thinking it was just a cramp, Boyfriend thought so too, but 15 minutes later I tried to get up, and couldn't move! I mean literally could not move without feeling like someone was stabbing me in the back over, and over, and over! All I'm thinking is "Damn! I'm a cripple!! I'm only 26 and already a cripple!" Boyfriend was kind enough to get me to the couch while I yelped "Ow ow ow ow ow ow!" like a big ol' baby. He got me a cold compress, some pain pills & back support. Let me tell you. I have NEVER experienced plain like that in my life.

I stayed in bed and worked from home the 1st part of the next morning, took some more pain pills & slept the rest of the day. Let me tell you my loyal readers, pain pills make life a happy place when you've got a pulled/torn muscle. Those, plus lots of alcohol helped me deal with being dipped while dancing, pulled down on the dance floor by a crazy lesbian, and gave me the strength to push a crazy Brazilian to the floor after he tried to shove his tongue down my throat. (Yeah, I hosted a bachelorette party downtown Friday night)

I'm feeling much better today. Still very sore. Still getting muscle cramps & twitches like crazy. It remains to be seen whether I'll be able to stand an entire day sitting in my hard chair at work, but all-in-all I'll be fine. Just another reason why no one ever called me graceful, and why everyone always calls me accident prone!

And Then All Hell Broke Loose

Today I am going to start the story of the divorce (and marriage) that Jerry Springer probably wouldn't even believe. I'll start kind of in the middle, go to the end, then maybe swing back to the beginning.

Once upon a time (April 2002) I was a naive 19 year old, who 7 months prior, had crossed the country from my home of 18 years in Southern California to my new home in North Mississippi, (making a 1 night stopover at the parish jail in Opelousas, LA). And only 4 months before that I had been released from an inpatient mental health facility. Yes, dear readers, my stay in the nut house had something to do with the move, we'll get to that in another blog. The point is I was19, naive, but not really.

I was naive enough to "fall in love." 6 months later I was engaged to the guy we will now affectionately refer to as Redneck Redhead. At 22, despite my reservations and nagging doubt, I married Redneck Redhead. Apparently, it was also despite the unexpressed doubts, fears, and protests of many of my family members. Nonetheless, we were married, and then all hell broke loose. (As is usually the case when you marrry a Redneck Redhead)

14 months after the "I Do's" the first of many What the Hell Was I Thinking? episodes occurred. I was a teacher, and had to chaperone football games as part of my job duties. Redneck Redhead (RR) had already informed me that he would never come with me to one of these events because, "I don't make you come to work with me. Why the hell should I have to go to work with you??" So, this fateful night in September I left for the game and told him I'd probably be home around 10 PM. So sad for him; I got home at 9:30.

RR was nowhere to be seen, and left no note. I called his personal cell first, and it rang until I got his voicemail. I called his work cell second, and the same thing happened. I tried the personal cell again and it went straight to voicemail. He'd turned it off. Same thing with the work number. Oh no he di'in't!

I called his mom's house to see if he had gone to Mommy Redneck's house for a haircut, as he was prone to do. Nope, no RR there! I looked under the bed just to be sure, no RR there! I called his brother, Stoner Redneck, thinking RR'd gone there to hang out but he informed me that he hadn't seen or heard from RR in several days. I tried both cell phones a second time and, again, they went straight to voicemail. OH NO HE DI'IN'T! So there I sat, on my couch, checking between the cushions for RR (yeah, he was that scrawny) and wondering what happened to my husband. Did he get into a car accident and end up lying dead in a ditch? Had he been abducted by aliens? Or the more obvious choice; was he with another woman??

Finally 1/2 hour later my phone rang, and it was RR! The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi baby! Where are you?? I got home early & you weren't here. I was worried!

RR: I'm at my brother's house. Didn't hear the phone ring.

Me: Don't lie to me. I just talked to him and he said he hadn't seen or heard from you in days. Where the hell are you???

RR: I swear, I'm at my brother's!

Me: Don't fucking lie to me you bastard!

RR: OK. I just got here. I was at Fat Redneck's house hanging out & playing the drums.

Me: Really? Why didn't you tell me in the 1st place?

RR: Because I thought you would be mad if I was out hanging out with my friends while you were at the game & I didn't go with you.

Me: Ok, fine. Give me Fat Redneck's phone number. I want to call him & make sure.

RR: Oh, uh well, let me call you back when I get inside my brother's house. I'll give it to you then.

Me: No, you've got it right there in your phone, just give it to me now.

RR: No. Let me call you back.

Me: I'm not going to let you call him & tell him the lie you just told me so he can cover for you. Give me the number.

RR: No.

Me: You were with a woman, weren't you? Please just be a man & admit it.

RR: No.

Me: I'm going to stay at my parents' house. I don't know if/when I'll be back.

RR: No, please, no.

Me: *Click*

Please, before you label me insecure, bitchy, etc. please know the suspiscion didn't just come out of nowhere, trust me. I should have left for good then. I knew he was up to no good. Deep down in my gut, I knew then that he was having an affair. But by Sunday he was at my parents' door crying and begging me to come back, and I went. My parents were unsure, but I was in love. I was married. I wanted to try to make it work. I had no idea there was nothing on Earth that would ever make Redneck Redhead a better man.

Ok, so maybe I did have an idea, but who wants to admit that????

Until next time . . .

The Episode Where Things Fall into a Million Pieces

I am at a loss.

As some of you know, Boyfriend's dad died in early April. Tuesday morning his grandmother passed away while clutching the urn filled with her son's ashes. The burial of those ashes was scheduled for this Sunday. So now Boyfriend will bury his father & grandmother on the same day. This morning his grandfather suffered a severe stroke and is looking like he may not make it.

The right words are hard to find. What do I say? What do I do to ease his pain? I will be traveling to New York with him for the burials, but it doesn't seem like enough. There is too much sadness, too much death, too much loss. My arms can't encircle him enough times; they aren't that long. I'm so sad for him & his family, but I'm so angry, too. Why would God deem it fit to heap all of this pain on a family at once? Why, after the childhood he endured and his struggle to become the wonderful man he is today would God do this? I'm going to be a 5 year old about this. It's just not fair.

This is Where Things Get Tricky

Today Boyfriend and I have an appointment to meet a possible new addition to our family. Yes, that's right; we're adopting a dog! A few years ago I, sadly, had to give my Yorkie named Gidget to my parents because she was just too high maintenance. She needed constant attention, other dogs to play with, to be let out every 2 hours, and I just couldn't provide that for her. I have had dogs all my life, so these last 2 years without a cuddle buddy has been tough.

Saturday we went down to the grocery store, and lo and behold, they had dogs for adoption! I played with a few, but I knew none were quite right for us. I couldn't let it go though, my desire for a dog had somehow completely consumed me and damnit! I was going to talk to Boyfriend about the merits of having a dog until he caved. So we came up with a list of qualities we wanted in our dog:

• An adult
• Housetrained
• Relaxed, but playful
• Non-destructive
• A good companion
• Happy to be an only dog

That's when Boyfriend brought up an ex's Boston Terrier. The only dog he had ever really liked. So, I searched for adoptable adult Boston Terriers in the area (knowing full well that this was a long shot.) To my great surprise Odie popped up. A 2 year old male Boston Terrier who loves to chill inside on the couch during the day, then go frolic & take walks in the evening. A dog happy to be alone with just his parents AND housebroken!!

This is where things get tricky. Who knew that adopting a rescue would be more complicated than any process Angelina Jolie goes through to acquire one of her many exotic children?! We went down to the adoption center and filled out a 5! page application. Odie wasn't there, so we scheduled a meet & greet at our house this afternoon. Our home and yard must be inspected, our interaction with Odie will be observed, they'll pull a full criminal background check on both of us & maybe even take a blood sample! I understand, though, it's all to make sure he goes to a good home. I'm a little nervous that they won't like us, or something will go wrong. I really want this dog, man! So cross your fingers that Odie will be our new baby!

You Might Just be a Crackhead out to Trade one for a $2 Rock

So, Friday I had to stop at the drug store twice on my way home, and when I was in the second one I learned an important lesson in Urban Living.

Lesson #1: You can tell what kind of neighborhood you're in by where they keep the condoms.

The first drug store I stopped in was in East Memphis. I went to pick up a few little things, and had forgotten that I needed condoms, but I had wandered through the isle with the condoms.

• I noticed them because a little girl (maybe 8 or so) was running her hands along all the items in the isle as she walked; regular condoms, giant condoms, vag infection fighters, vag creams, super-extra absorbent pads that show through your pants (any pants!) I thought it was pretty funny that these were innocuous little nothings to her. She was totally unaware that the necessary use of them, later in life, would become the bane of her existence. Okay, probably not the condoms, but definitely the other stuff.

But I digress; the point is, the condoms were just out there, ready for you to grab a box and get down to business all protected & ribbed for her pleasure. There was no Plexiglas lock box, just pure accessible condom joy!

Somehow during that stop I forgot that Boyfriend and I were out of condoms & would need some if we were going to party this weekend. So further down the road in a sketchier part of town I stopped at the same chain drug store. I wandered around and around. I found the isle where the condoms would be, but it was a prophylactic desert; not a latex love-glove to be seen. Finally after a few laps of the store I gave up and asked the elderly gentleman working the floor where I might find the condoms. Here is how our exchange went:

Me: "Excuse me sir, where might I find the condoms?"

Him: "Oh, those are behind the main register. We have to keep them there, otherwise they'll all be stolen."

Me: "Wow! I guess some people will go to any length to avoid getting pregnant."

Him: "Nope. The crack heads come in here and steal them. They can sell them to the prostitutes for a $2 rock!"

Me: "Um...huh, never thought of that."

Him: "Oh yeah! The new thing is air fresheners. They steal them and sell them on the corner so they can go buy a $2 rock."

Me: "Gee, thanks for the info sir. You learn something new every day."

The elderly are always more knowledgeable and wise; always. So I went and bought my condoms. Relegated to the same treatment that smokers get. And even though I'm a grown woman and am in a committed relationship it was still a little awkward and embarrassing to deliberate on the kind of condom I wanted in front of EVERYONE in line behind me.

So back to the Urban Living Lesson. Here is a breakdown: Good neighborhood: The condoms roam free in the isles like free range chickens; Okay neighborhood: The condoms are in the isle, but they are caged in a Plexiglas box and you must ask the pharmacy for assistance; Bad neighborhood: The condoms are behind the register, hidden like some sort of dangerous vice, because you might just be a crackhead out to trade one for a $2 rock.

Like plus sized clothes, but for your feet!

I have a confession to make: I have horribly ginormous feet; ginormous! I wear a size 10, and I'm 5'9". Not so lucky for me. I have 2 friends who are 6', and 6'2"; we can share shoes. I was a size 9 in fifth grade, and 5' tall. My mom kept telling me not to worry, that I'd, "grow into them." I'm still waiting.

The kicker is my toes. I have this theory that my foot stopped at size 9, and my toes kept going until 10. My boyfriend likes to call them my monkey toes. When I was in girl scouts, the scary stories around the campfire weren't that bad, but the E.T. impression I did with my "pointer" toe in the tent afterwards was enough to get some screams.

Finding shoes in my size is a ridiculous exercise. It's as though shoe makers think that there couldn't possibly be that many women with Sasquatch size feet, and surely not all of them want fashionable footwear. Wrong, bitches! There is a science to finding the right shoe for a foot like mine. The right combination of covered and open. Pumps with a peep toe are fine. Pumps with an open toe and side cut-out? No good. Strappy sandals with no back? A definite no-no! I can't go wandering around the world with the whole enchilada hanging out scaring people! If I find the right style, more than likely they never did carry it in my size, or it's all sold out because all the other Sasquatch girls have already snatched them up.

That little trend a few seasons back where all the shoes were made to be super pointy? My worst nightmare. Every pair I tried on made me look like the Wicked Witch of the West with huuuuge feet! You know how awesome Chuck Taylors are? Yeah, I can't wear those, they make me look like a clown.

Over the years I've come to accept my foot fate. I've even decorated my foot with a tattoo, but I hope someday Jimmy Choo will design a line of shoes for us Sasquatch girls. Like plus sized clothes, but for your feet!

She also wanted to "smoke some of the marijuana."

I only have one grandparent still living, and her name is Nana. Yes, Nana. If you’ve just met her, she will tell you to call her Nana. If you call her anything resembling a formal name she will tell you to, “Shut the hell up!”

My love for Nana is a strange and strong thing. It is part admiration, part incredulousness, but mostly just pure love. She was the fun grandparent; taking me to IHOP with my best friend and letting us build castles out of the creamers, then throw jelly packets at them. She had this giant white afro (yes, she’s of the Caucasian persuasion) that she kept perfectly round. My sister and I loved to pretend we were dribbling it like a basketball. As a kid I thought she was lots of fun, and her “lots of fun-ness” grew older with me.

When her husband, Papa, died, I met a whole new Nana. That woman was crazy! At age 69 she got her 1st tattoo because, “That old grump never would let me get a tattoo!” I sat in the shop while she & my sister got matching butterflies. The whole time she kept taunting me about the fact that I was too young to get one with them.

When I was 16 she started regularly giving me gift cards to Victoria’s Secret so I could buy sexy underwear, and confided in me that she wanted to try “that thong underwear.” Later she whispered that she also wanted to “smoke some of the marijuana.” And, boy-oh-boy, it never stops. Just the other day she asked me if I could get some for her next visit.

Nana spends her afternoons drinking margaritas and playing cards with her buddies at the old-folks trailer park. That, or drinking white wine that her friend Peggy brings over in a jug, over ice, of course. She tells me that “all those penis pills have ruined old age” because now she can’t just have a male friend; “they all still just want sex!” She has determined that she had plenty of sex when she was married to Papa, and doesn’t see why she should have to put up with it anymore. Lord knows why she feels the need to share all this with me!

God bless her 77 year old soul! She an amazing woman with so much fire in her belly, and aches in her bones to complain about that I swear; she’ll outlive us all! More to come . . .