Bambi Finally Gets a Motherf#$&ing Job. Hooray!

A few statistics from my six months spent as a crippled, unemployed person with issues –

(And let me say, I can’t even begin to tell you how much better it feels now that I’m finally a crippled, employed person with issues.)

Number of episodes of Judge Judy watched: 330

Number of dress sizes increased: 4

Number of hours spent lying on the floor while physically unable to get up: 3

Number of hours spent lying on the floor while physically able to get up but lacking any real reason to do so: 14

Number of hours spent sexting with the firefighter: 180

Number of hours spent actually having sex with the firefighter: 0

Number of friends who stopped speaking to me as soon as I lost my job: 3

Number of house plants dead because I stopped caring: 8

Number of minutes spent hiding half-naked behind a door in a laundry room from somebody’s mother: 4

Number of additional part-time and or secondary jobs lost: 1

Number of problems shared with Jay-Z as per the song, 99 problems: 99 – and a bitch IS one

Number of Tim Horton’s steeped teas with two creams consumed per day: 2

Number of hours spent crying to the Adele 21 album: 23

Number of hours spent inexplicably crying to the Abba Gold album: 4

Number of EI applications submitted: 1

Number of EI applications rejected without any legal or procedural explanation but a letter attached explaining how to appeal: 1


Number of individual job applications submitted: 107

Number of interviews: 8

Number of full-time job offers in the fundraising sector extended and accepted: 1. 

A wise philosopher by the name of Kelly Clarkson once said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”  Fantastic - because taken to the next logical conclusion: I am now Iron Man.   At the very least, I should be impervious to bullets, sharks, most strains of E. Coli and honey badgers. 

The sad fact is though – I am just as tightly clenched as I was the day I lost my job.  I don’t feel any relief.  Instead, I feel like I could lose the job I’m now working in at any second. 

My boss called me today to arrange a conference call, and I nearly burst into tears, certain that he wanted to talk with me about how the organization had made a terrible mistake in hiring me and were reversing that decision.

Even if I’m not let go immediately following my two-week employee anniversary, I’m kind of convinced that my body will just keep failing, and I won’t be able to function anyway.

I’m now in physiotherapy to address my back problems and subsequent disintegration of my knees but…something else can go wrong.  Anything else can go wrong.  Trust me people – if your genitals ever explode you’ll be rendered terribly, terribly alert too.

I don’t have normal people health problems, which means at any time I could fall victim to scurvy, Ebola, that infection that eats your skin, or whatever goiter is. 

Or I could just bend over the wrong way and not be able to move again.  Or try to have sex with somebody only to learn that instead of just exploding, my vagina has grown teeth. 

And what if something terrible happens that hasn’t already happened?  Something NEW and terrible?  What if just by worrying about it I’ll make it happen like the Stephen King version of the power of attraction? 

What if something happens to somebody I love?  What if I lose something else?  My family?  My friends?  My iPhone?

(I include my iPhone only because of the naked pictures. They’re not of me of course, but it would still be a disaster.)   

Basically, I’m waiting for further catastrophe.  If it comes, I’m devastated.  If it doesn’t, the dread remains exactly the same regardless.  Basically, I think my resiliency announced sometime in November 2011 that it was officially quitting this bitch, and I can hardly blame it.

Frankly, if I wasn’t already so afraid of being terminated in some other way, I’d quit this bitch too.

And Then I Lost My Shit and Gave Up

If I was a different person, finding out I didn’t get my dream job might have only emboldened me to try harder.  After all, by this time, the jobs I had applied for were starting to overtake my number of Facebook friends – which is really kind of an alarming realization, on many levels. 

By then, I should have been used to the relentless rejection.  Finding out the hiring panel for my dream job with my dream company (conveniently located in the same city as my dream guy) chose another candidate should probably have left me still capable of standing. 

If I was a REALLY different person, I might have considered this outcome to be a sign from the universe that this job prospect simply wasn’t meant to be.  Better things were just around the corner.  It would all work out in the end. 

Of course, if I were to be that kind of person, I’d probably want to shoot myself in the face, the same way I want to shoot other people spouting off those same platitudes whenever shit goes down or gets real.

So instead, I’m Bambi.  And I cried myself into hiccup spasms for seven days straight and ate nothing but peanut butter using chocolate covered graham crackers as spoons.  I refused to answer the phone.  I didn’t go outside.  I woke up at 3:00 pm with peanut butter in my hair. It was glorious.

Despite having managed to not get hired out of every other job competition I entered, this one disappointment left me absolutely shattered. 

I wanted that job so badly, in my mind, I had already moved cities and house, into a lakefront property I could now afford.  I had already traded in my car for that new convertible with payments now within my reach, and was practicing jaunty ways to put my hair up in case of a windy day while driving. 

I already knew what evenings Alex could spend with me, and rehearsed several calm responses for when his girlfriend inevitably found out and wanted to kick my ass.  I would try for an air of regret, empathy, bravado and defensive posturing.  And then I figured I’d go for her eyes if I had to. 

Even more than that, I wanted the damn job.  I wanted to be good at something again.  I wanted a reason to feel hope again.  To get out of bed.  To shower. 

Not getting that job meant I would never have any of those things.  Ever.  It was my one shot at everything I ever wanted, and I didn’t get it.  Ergo, I would never have anything I want.  Ever.  I realize my logic may be slightly flawed here, but try to follow along.

What made the sucking disappointment that much worse, was the reason why I didn’t get the job.  After about a week or so of hiccupping snot, tears and chocolate flavor, I called my dream employer to find out what I could have done differently in my interview.  Or more specifically, why in the fuck they didn’t pick me. 

You’ll need to be sitting down for this one.

Apparently, they loved me.  They were so impressed by me.  However, given that a large part of the role would be engaging with a high school aged audience, they felt I was too mature of a presence.  Not too old mind you – but too mature.

Umm.   Who did these people think they met??  
 

In fact, for those five people who read this blog, let’s try an experiment.  Regardless of whether you know me well or have never met me, I suspect the results will be the same.  All you have to do is fill in the blanks below with any word of your choosing, based on what you know about me.

Bambi is one of the most _______ people I know.  Whenever I talk to her, she always has a story that demonstrates her incredible capacity for __________.  That one time, when she was still optimistic enough to try online dating and that one guy stole her ___________ and then that other guy wanted her to _______ him with a ___________  that he hid in his laptop bag while eating ice cream…that was kind of ______.  Bambi manages her relationships with guys like ______ and ______with utmost ______ and behaves in a perfectly _______ manner, at all times.  Unless there's a _______ uniform involved, in which case, all bets are off.

Now I ask you – did you complete any of those sentences with the words mature or maturity?  If you did, I’m astonished.  If you didn’t use any one of the following words: ridiculous,bizarre or fucktard, I’m equally shocked, although I suppose fucktard could technically count as two words.   

If you did drop the m-bomb, I suggest you go back and read some of my archived blog postings, because clearly you’re confused.  Either that or you make even worse life choices than I do, in which case, we should really meet for a drink.

And yet, despite my history and what should be common knowledge, I lost out on my dream job because of my maturity.  And so I cried, because at that point, all of my mature responses had been used right up.    

And then this also happened.

So...you know how when you're hiding from a guy's mother, half-naked in his laundry room with your winter boots held over your boobs for modesty's sake?

No?

Well not everybody can be so worldly.

In my defense...they were really nice boots. Completely appropriate for meeting somebody's mother for the very first time, even if they weren't exactly on my feet.

As I peeked through the wide crack in the door at Alex trying to prevent his mother from continuing up the stairs and into his house where all she would have to do is turn her head slightly to the right to find out exactly where she'd heard the sound of a girl laughing, I started to panic.

I've wanted to meet Alex's mother for years. If she found me in her son's laundry room, and if she happened to notice I wasn't her son's live-in girlfriend, the ensuing conversation would probably be very different from the one I'd repeatedly imagined.

Just in case, I readjusted the boots in front of my boobs should a handshake be called for, requiring the use of my arm.

The day before, I had interviewed for my dream job at my dream company, conveniently located in the same city as Alex. The interview had gone well enough for me to be wildly hopeful. In two weeks time, I could be living in his same city, making more money than I'd dreamed and getting paid to travel to glamorous locations.

I told Alex all about it after I arrived at his place early the next morning, well before he had to go to work and just after his girlfriend had left for the day. After he gave me a tour of the house I'd only ever seen glimpses of in our webcam "dates," leading from behind with his arms wrapped tight around my waist and his face buried in my neck. After he called in late for work, then later still an hour later. After we were naked, watching the snow fall outside the windows from the floor where we'd somehow landed, we talked about my dream job, and what it could mean if I got it.

If I got the job, we could be living in the same city for the first time since we met. In two weeks, the biggest obstacle to us being together could be eliminated (well...one of the biggest obstacles...top five at least) a proposition that thrilled Alex. He actually seemed more excited than I was.

Probably because he wasn't currently stuck behind a door in his laundry room.

He was however, doing a fantastic job of convincing his mother that the female laughter she'd heard from her suite downstairs was the television. What Not To Wear. He watches it every morning. Yes, he does. Really Mom, every morning. Stacy and Clinton. What Not to Wear. She'd heard Stacy London. Not his girlfriend. His girlfriend was at work. Just the TV.

This was a revelation. Alex knows who in the hell Stacy London is?? What else don't I know about him? In a morning that had already included Alex answering the door wearing...I don't even know how to say it. He answered the door wearing...well...

....

....

Crocs.

Yes, I said it. Crocs. Crocs!!

For the love of sweet peanut brittle...until I remembered that he would have to see my thighs that morning, I could hardly look at him. One can never underestimate the sacrifices we make for love.

As I considered how much more we could learn about one another just by newly found proximity, I took a moment to look around my hiding place. Alex has good taste. Very expensive washer and dryer set. Fashionably colored. Front loading. Very pretty.

Folded on the dryer were a pair of girl's jeans and a bra. Jeans - size zero. Bra - D cup. What the shit? How is that even possible?? Nobody has those proportions. Not even Barbie has those proportions. Barbie comes close to those proportions, but I'm guessing Alex's girlfriend doesn't have a smooth plastic area where her va-jay should be, so she's still way the fuck ahead of Barbie just by being able to pass water. Although being a size zero, I'm not entirely convinced she's got room to hold it.

(Later, as I ranted to my sister that all I could think about while hiding half-naked in the laundry room was how Alex could possibly still be attracted to my overly large sorry ass when his girlfriend is a size zero with boobs bigger than my head, she sighed.

"Do you ever listen to yourself? You were HIDING in his LAUNDRY ROOM and all you're upset about is the size of his GIRLFRIEND'S JEANS?"

Well of course not. That would make my priorities really skewed. Her boobs being ginormous and perfect while mine can be easily covered by one pair of water-resistant Hush Puppie booties was also concerning. Clearly, my sister needs to pay better attention while I talk.)

I'd like to say I felt guilty about this whole episode, but I didn't. Not when Alex and I went for coffee, in public, like normal people. Not when I hung out with him in his office, talking and laughing and being silly, spinning in his office chairs and firing elastic bands at one another, pretending to be seriously conversing when his colleagues walked by. Not even when I asked him if it felt weird to have me in his office, and he answered, no. It didn't feel weird at all. In fact, it felt like how it's supposed to be.

I didn't feel guilty when we said good-bye either, and he refused to say it. He wasn't going to say good-bye to me one more time. This time would be "see you in two weeks." No arguing.

"Just hurry up and get here, OK?"

I've always loved his optimism.

An Open Letter To the Loudmouth Granny In the Hot Tub

First of all, my apologies for making you repeat yourself twice when you yelled at me across the hot tub at the community pool the other morning.

Admittedly, I was preoccupied with trying to determine whether the giant roll in front of my bathing suit bottoms was a result of bubbles or pudge. After a moment or two of finger poking, the answer was revealed: pudge.

The second time I couldn't hear you over or around the back hair of the gentleman sitting next to me. It may have actually been thick enough to affect the acoustics.

When I finally heard you telling me I could be pretty if I smiled, I apologize for not immediately smiling. I assume that was the reaction you were hoping for, but...well...fuck you Granny.

If it wasn't so hard to have a conversation amidst the bubbles and the back hair, I might have told you that I haven't really smiled since October.

Unemployment can do that to a person.

Yes, I am unemployed. You and the other grannies in the morning aquafit classes I've been attending have been looking at me kind of strangely. Being the youngest person in the class by at least 35 years does make me stand out, and I'm sure you're wondering why I don't have anything better to do weekday mornings.

As it turns out, I really don't have anything better to do. Should finding gainful employment not ever work out for me again, I'm considering releasing a work-out DVD titled, "Floating With the Old People." It'll feature 55 minutes of me, in a pool, waving my arms and straddling a water noodle while surrounded by octogenarians. Also straddling water noodles. Clearly, I'm still fleshing the idea out.

The point is, Granny, that I have no job. I used to have a part-time job working with...well...other grannies and assorted old people at a seniors centre, in addition to my full-time job, but then I lost the part-time job too.

I lost my mortgage paying job because my position was "terminated," I lost my grocery paying job because the senior centre is going bankrupt, and I've kind of lost all hope since then.

By now you're probably about to say something trite, like...at least you have your health.

Granny - I'm a 35 year-old woman whose nipples are not yet grazing my knees, and yet, I have more difficulty getting out of the pool than you do. In fact, I have to wait until all the other grannies are out of the pool, otherwise there would be a grey-haired line-up behind me as I try to haul myself up the ladder.

First, my vagina exploded over the summer. No, seriously, it did. As if that weren't bad enough, shortly after I lost my job and all the health benefits that went with it, my lower back woke up one morning and declared, "I quit this bitch." And quit it did.

In the months since the terrible morning my back was in too much pain to maintain a seated position while peeing on the toilet, I've been given a diagnosis. That morning though, I had no idea what was happening. I was forced to fall to the bathroom floor, where I stayed for a couple of hours, unable to move, alternating between blacking out and retching.

You may be asking yourself why in God's name I didn't call 911 once I was finally able to crawl. Being extremely old, you're probably aware that if you fall and can't get up, 911 dispatch will first send a goddamn fire truck. You know, just in case you fell over because you were on fire and just failed to mention that detail when calling for help.

Granny, neither you or I have time enough on this planet for me to explain why I wouldn't want the fire department called to help my half-naked ass off the floor. Just trust me when I say I have my reasons.

It turns out I have what's called a large herniation. One of the donut shaped squishy bits between the vertebrae in my lower back just fell right the hell out.

I'll need surgery to fix it, but before that happens, I need to get stronger and try to lose the nearly 30 pounds I've somehow managed to gain since my life went to hell in mid-October, all without hardly being able to move. Hence, my new Floating With the Old People work-out.

So let's recap. I don't have a job. I don't have my health. To be fair, I do have some great friends and family, and boobs that are still located where I've always understood boobs to be. Normally I wouldn't count this as a blessing, but having seen some of my fellow aquafit companions naked in the change room, I'm officially adding the current state of my boobs as a reason to be grateful.

Some days the blessings outweigh my losses, and I think I can pull off an expression close enough to a smile, though it may not make me pretty. Other days, I just can't.

And Granny, you caught me on a really bad day.

Screw You,

The Unpretty Girl With the Still Fantastic Rack in the Hot Tub

This post brought to you by the Bee Gees.

You know how when you watch a horror movie and some bobble-head who was just having slutty sex with her football captain boyfriend decides she's going to investigate the maniacal laughter emanating from the darkened basement without telling anybody where she's going, without a flashlight and or light sabre, and dressed only in bra and panties, and you're thinking, like, oh dear GOD. DON'T GO IN THE BASEMENT. Followed immediately by, I would never do something so stupid...

We've all been there. And by there, I mean yelling at our TV screens as opposed to being on the verge of dismemberment because we foolishly had premarital sex and then decided to check out the basement armed only with our panties.

My point is, we all assume we know what we would do and how we would feel given what should seem like some pretty cut and dry circumstances.

I used to think that, but now I know I'd probably be the idiot having my head chopped off in the basement. I'd definitely be the idiot having slutty sex with the football captain.

In a way, I recently experienced my own horror show. I survived. As per Dr. Q, I did so "kind of by the skin of the teeth," but here I am nonetheless. As one commenter on my blog put it, the universe sent me a bitch-slap of a wake up call and now I need to do something about it.

(To my commenter: I would agree, you may have watched too many Oprah reruns. That's OK, I love you anyway, and agree with you. Actually, I read her magazine every chance I can, which is worse than watching the reruns. Her new show Oprah: Behind the Scenes is fantastic by the way. I've somehow become hooked on Oprah 25 years after the party started and subsequently closed down. At any rate, your comments were exactly what I needed, when I needed them...so thank you.)

The problem wasn't that I had survived something that could have just as easily have left me with a mild case of decomposition, but that I wasn't doing it right. Surviving that is.

I have always believed that when faced with a near-death experience, a normal person would automatically feel blessed, and so much MORE alive for having survived.

A normal person wouldn't take another minute for granted, would realize what mattered most in her life, and would seize every day like it was her last, having had the fact that future days aren't guaranteed bitch-slapped right into her.

In fact, it's not uncommon for people having survived some pretty bat shit circumstances to wake up the next morning and completely change their lives. How often have you read some survivor story profile (probably in O Magazine) that says something like:

"As soon as that airplane toilet was sucked out into the stratosphere with me still on it, I just knew I was in trouble. As I flew through the air, I thought about my family, my children, my friends, and all my dreams and hopes for the future. Right before the toilet swung around and knocked me unconscious, I remember thinking that if God/Buddha/Allah/Sweet Baby Jesus/Grown Jesus/et al. would just spare my life, I would be a totally different person and would never waste time complaining again! Since I landed safely on top of a Bouncy Castle with my pants down at 150 mph, I can honestly say I am so grateful for every day, and am living life to the fullest. I left my kids with their father, and moved to Portugal where the men are hot and the drugs are legal."

Or something like that.

The point is, surviving something is supposed to feel lucky. I wasn't feeling lucky, and I sure as hell wasn't feeling grateful either.

I really wanted to feel both. I desperately wanted to feel grateful and happy to be alive. Not just happy - I was expecting meadow-twirling levels of exhilaration.

Needless to say, what I actually felt was a bit of a letdown in comparison. Admittedly, there have actually been moments where I was pissed. Pissed right off that I lived.

Clearly, I'm a survivor failure. Just continuing to breathe should be simple, and yet I've been fucking it up.

However...I'm done with this too.

Frankly, I will never feel lucky because of what happened. Being raped, horribly injured, left untreated, and then horribly injured even further isn't lucky. It's terrible. Lucky is winning the lottery - not an exploding vagina.

My life circumstances didn't immediately change because I kept on breathing. They're not going to, unless I change them. This may take some effort, but I'm still breathing, which is one less thing to have to work on at the same time. I can't imagine things would be any easier if I were deceased.

I have no idea what my life purpose is, but I can think of at least three people that I annoy greatly. Since I don't like them either, my continued ability to annoy them still counts for something. It may not be much, but I'll take it.

Also on the good news front, the indomitable Dr. Q has declared me, "perfect." He wanted to know if I had had sex yet, and I told him he was crazy, particularly because the last time I asked about sex he had made it sound like I could only ever have the most boring, terrible, passionless sex imaginable and even then the man would have to have a very small penis. Hardly seemed worth it.

Apparently that's not exactly what he said word for word, but nonetheless, he revised his opinion following my very last exam. I am perfect, there is nothing wrong with me, and I can have any kind of sex I want. Not even another doctor looking at me could ever tell what had happened. Only...how important is anal?

To which I replied, what if it's the most important thing ever?

Really..?

No, I've never tried it. But what if I wanted to?

Fiiiine. Go have anal. Just be careful. And with that, Dr. Q shook my hand, said good-bye, and went on to his next patient.

And so to summarize...don't be an idiot by checking out the basement. If you do, put some clothes on. I'm not feeling lucky but I'm feeling better. Also, anal sex.

That is all.

The Proposal

My desk is a mess.  My colleagues don't know how I can find anything, and I don't either.  I'd really rather not bother looking.  However, when I found my forehead resting on top of a coffee lid and scissor handles, it became apparent that I should at least clear a space for when I just need to put my head down and cry.

Surprisingly, my forehead becoming attached to the sticky side of a coffee lid had little to do with actual work and slightly more to do with Alex having just told me his girlfriend is pregnant. 

I had called him from work to keep the conversation short, and business-like.  In contrast to the months of thought I had put into how I would once and for all end our friendship and put a stop to all future communication, I figured the conversation itself would be short and sweet. 

(My original plan had always been to have this conversation in person.  In my fantasies we would be alone together, I would know exactly what to say, I would look amazing, and there would possibly be a wind-machine somewhere in the vicinity to blow my hair around fetchingly.  If I cried, it would be no more than a very pretty tear or two - enough to demonstrate heartbreak, but not enough to generate any snot or swelling.)

(In turn, he would be devastated, and would simply say that he understood completely how and why I felt that way.  Depending on my level of delusion on any particular day, I imagined he would then break up with his girlfriend rather than face the thought of not being able to send me text messages any more, and we would all live happily ever after.  Except for the girlfriend. Imagining a happy ending for myself can be hard enough, so she was on her own.)

I had even made plans to visit him on my holidays, but as it turns out, my vagina exploded and I spent the first night of what was to have been my holiday in hospital. 

Not that it would have mattered all that much, because Alex and his girlfriend had taken a last-minute vacation package to Mexico, so while I was laying there wondering what it meant when the nurse told me my vagina was packed, he was on a beach with her. 

So we stood each other up.  One more than the other. 

Actually, it was this thought that made me angry enough to force the inevitable conversation.  While I was experiencing one of the most horrific and terrifying moments of my life, his girlfriend was at an all-inclusive...with him.  I realize that life isn't fair, but should I ever make it to an afterlife, I'm going to be demanding an explanation, and somebody or something is getting kicked in the balls. 

Once Alex returned from Mexico, he wanted to know if I had been out his way and gone already.  I told him I never made it, due to a bit of an accident. 

Suddenly, he was very worried about me and wanting to know what happened.  I wasn't sure I wanted to tell him, but it made for a great excuse for a phone call. 

Which is roughly when things went off the rails - presuming things had ever really been on the rails to begin with.

First off, I hadn't planned on telling him what happened.  Alex is actually one of the few people I had told about the original assault, and we spent a good several hours crying together on the phone when I did. He actually cried with me, and I did not need a repeat.  Not so much the crying - I couldn't bear Alex being amazing all over again when I needed him to be the guy worth getting rid of.

I told him everything anyway, and he was amazing. 

For my part, I wasn't eloquent.  I stumbled and stammered and heard my voice breaking, felt my nose getting snotty, and instead of ending with the by now well-rehearsed and sunny sounding proclamation that I'm sure I would be just fine and am getting better every day, I told him how I may as well be a fucking eunuch and I was so sick of hurting all the time and I can't even take a shit properly and how I'm never going to be normal again. 

I couldn't believe I told him all of that - particularly the part about going number two, because he and I have had actual arguments over whether girls really do that or not.  I had always assured him we did, but for a guy who refuses to buy toilet paper in public, it was a hard sell. 

Even more worrisome was how quiet he got after I was done. I had no idea what he could be thinking. First he said that although he knows I don't know who that piece of shit bastard who started this whole thing was, but if I ever did know, he would kill that guy.  Straight up kill him.  I know that, right? 

Then he said this.  "You also know, that whatever you can or can't do sexually is like, the least important thing about you right?  To me, you are so much more and so much more important than that."

And then he told me Shelley is pregnant.  He's so glad I can tell him things like I do, because he tells me things that he doesn't tell anybody else.  Not even Shelley.  He tells me things he can't tell her.  In fact, the only people who knew she was pregnant at that moment was him, her and me. 

This is when my forehead hit my coffee lid, and stayed there. 

In defense of all that came next, I really did try.  I actually used him telling me how he can talk to me in ways he can't talk to her as a jumping off point.  Didn't he think that was a bad thing?  Didn't he think that it was probably a good thing we never ended up seeing each other, and didn't he think that now that Shelley is pregnant we should stop talking? For good?

As it turns out, he did not think any of those things at all.  In fact, he thinks that I'm the most amazing woman he's ever met and can't imagine not having me in his life, in any way possible. 

In case I didn't believe him, he spent the next twenty minutes describing all the ways I'm amazing, and if he didn't feel that way, would we even be talking at all still?  And even though he knows others would consider the relationship he has with me to be cheating, he knows how he feels about it, and that's enough for him to know it's not wrong at all.

Why couldn't he just say he saw my point and leave it at that? This unplanned for reaction was exactly why I wanted the conversation to happen in person.  I still would have had no idea what to say, but at least my hair would have been blowing fetchingly.

And so I back-pedalled.  I back-pedalled like the Tour de France on rewind.  We would stay friends.  We would stay in touch.  We do have this connection.  I feel it too.  We always will.  I miss you. I miss you. I miss you too.

I had tried to end things, but I've never been good at writing conclusions.  Instead, once we had re-declared our intense, undying like for one another, there was nothing left to do but congratulate him on his impending fatherhood with another woman.

Only...he didn't seem that happy.  He sounded scared and sad.  It wasn't planned, although from everything he told me I can't help but think there was a little bit of planning on her part.  He had trusted her to take care of things.  He wanted kids, but maybe not now.  He always thought he'd be married.

I told him if everybody waited until everything was perfect and they were totally ready to have children, the world would end due to population decline. 

He knew this was true, but still...he just thought he'd be married.

Better buy the ring, I said.  She's no doubt waiting for it. 

Maybe he said.  He's not getting any younger, and neither is she.  Maybe it's time to grow up.

Maybe it is.  Better go jewellery shopping.

There is indeed a time for everything, apparently up to and including a time to counsel the man you love to buy another woman an engagement ring and marry her. 

Somewhere in between a time to reap and a time to sow, I'm sure the authors of the bible considered slipping that one in there, but probably deemed it too fucking depressing. 

******

And so, right now, I'm working on a proposal for a book.  I'm pitching it to publishing companies as the opportunity to score another bestseller along the lines of "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert.  If they could make money paying for that that bitch to travel all over the world because her marriage was going badly and she was experiencing distressing levels of ennui that only eating and praying and banging some guy in Bali could ease, have I got a deal for them.

In fact, they don't even have to send me around the world.  I'd be fine with a weekend trip somewhere.  I'd be sure to capitalize on the Eat, Pray, Love template, but I can't promise I'll pray.  Maybe...Eat, Drink, and I'd Love to Bang You But You Can Only Stick It In Half-Way Unless You Have a Small Penis...?  It's a working title - not written in stone.

The point is, I'd very much like to escape my life for a little while, and being paid to travel the world and write about how it perked me up a bit would be a great start. 

Maybe they don't pay for me to go to three countries - maybe I propose they just cover gas money for me to go to IKEA.  The point is...I feel like I'm done with just about everything.  So done, that it's time for something different.

Is this really "better"?

There's something mildly concerning about being wheeled to the operating room with your purse.

My purse is gigantic, so there was the immediate concern that one stretcher wouldn't be enough for both of us. If it couldn't stay where it was, crammed between me and the stretcher rails, I wondered where they could put it during the procedure. What if it tripped somebody wielding a scalpel?

I had arrived at the hospital barely forty minutes before my giant handbag and I were rolled up to surgery, which felt like a record. Appetizers take longer to roll out at most restaurants.

Two days prior I had been sent home from emergency room number one (ER#1), following what could best be described as my vagina exploding. The doctors and nurses on staff at ER#1 were clearly trained in the not giving a fuck area of emergency medical care, and so for two days I continued bleeding profusely before I was could snag an appointment at a wonderful local sexual health clinic.

Bleeding and pain weren't the only disturbing symptoms I had noticed in those two days, but they were the only ones that made any sense. My pregnancy test administered at ER#1 was negative, as were the STD tests - a huge relief, as I'm sure an epidemic of a previously undiscovered genital-exploding STD strain could have caused some panic within the community.

By the time I was ready for my examination at the clinic, the doctor was already suitably concerned by the bleeding alone. There didn't seem to be a need to share any of the other red flags I had noticed.

In fact, I didn't have to hardly explain anything at all. She examined me for approximately two seconds, and knew what was wrong.

Much like burns, there is a classification system for bodily tears. I wasn't sure if this classification system followed that for burn victims, but apparently I had 2nd degree tearing.

Second degree means too deep to heal without stitches, and I would have to go immediately to emergency room number two, where her staff had already notified the gynecologist on call that I was coming.

At least I knew what was wrong, and would worry about how in the name of sweet nugget of Jesus this could have happened at a later date. For now, all I cared about was whether the gyno on call could sew straight.

He assured me he could, because I actually asked. Dr. Q examined me within minutes of my arrival at ER#2, and told me I'd have to be put under. He did not recommend I have stitches without anaesthetic.

I shared his well-informed medical opinion whole-heartedly, and was greatly relieved to find out it would be a simple procedure, and I'd be heading home that night. So simple, I could even take my purse up to the OR.


****


The first time I opened my eyes in the recovery room, I stared at the clock on the wall. I'd gone to the OR close to 6:00 pm. It was just past 10:00 pm. Clearly, their anaesthesiologist did not fuck around.

The second time I opened my eyes, I saw another patient lay directly across from me, his feet facing mine. His toes were huge. They freaked me out.

The third time I opened my eyes, his toes were still freaking me out. Then I remembered that the bottom of my feet were still orange, due to serious self-tanning miscalculation from a week before. He was going to wake up and see my bright orange feet and be really freaked out too. I felt bad.

The fourth time I opened my eyes, a nurse was asking me whether I needed to throw up. I didn't. Next was what my pain level was on a scale of one to ten, and did I need morphine. I sure did. Finally, I wanted to know what time I'd be getting out - friends would be coming to get me.

I wasn't getting out. Not that night. Maybe not even tomorrow. Did I know the rectal and vaginal wall was perforated, and it took three surgeons working on me to put me back together? Did I know that? The sutures were extensive. The tearing was fourth degree, not second after all. I had a catheter and my vagina was packed. I wouldn't be going anywhere.

First of all...no. I didn't know any of that. She sounded somewhat accusatory, like I had rolled up on the OR, determined to pull one over on the hospital staff. My plan was to present like I just had little bit of second degree tearing, but once they got all up in there...surprise! There was actually no "all up in there" left!

I supposed it had been my fault. I could have mentioned that the one bowel movement I'd had in two days seemed to have...taken the wrong exit. I could have mentioned that I had sneezed once, and fell to the floor screaming in pain. Nobody had asked though, so these details didn't seem that important.

For now though, these details still didn't seem important. All I could think about was that I had a packed vagina. What on earth did that even mean? What was it packed with? I hoped to God it was bubble wrap and not Styrofoam peanuts. That shit gets everywhere.

The night passed very pleasantly in a morphine induced haze, and I was annoyed to be shaken out of it by Dr. Q. He wanted to know if I was ready to tell him what had actually happened yet


Considering I was still struggling with the fact I somehow had a packed vagina, it didn't seem fair to be shaken awake and asked a completely baffling question. I had told him exactly what happened the night two days previous when my vagina exploded.

He said the odds were very good that I wasn't going to heal properly. The holes in the vaginal/rectal wall were unlikely to close. If that happened, I would have permanent fistulas. Did I know what that meant?

I did not, but I assumed it was bad. I had said all I could say though, and I went back to sleep.

In retrospect, I hadn't actually given him the entire story at that time. In my defense, even I didn't fit the pieces together until days after I had been released from the hospital.

I had quite a bit of time to think because I couldn't do anything else. Literally, nothing else. I thought about how it was this had happened. Normal people's vaginas don't just randomly explode like faulty gas tanks. It took a couple of days, but I finally had to admit it had been a long time since my vagina was normal.

Close to five years actually.

Five years ago I went out dancing with a friend for her birthday, sat down next to a good looking blond guy, who slipped something very strong into my drink. I didn't see him do it, but I only have a handful of memories after that, so I'm taking an educated guess. One of those memories is lying on the stairs leading up to my apartment, while he tried hauling me up by my shirt.

I can't say exactly what happened that night, but I woke up the next morning with my covers pulled over my head and my arms folded across my chest. I stepped over a few used condoms on my way to throw up for the first of many, many times that day so I could make a couple of assumptions.

Over the next several weeks saw doctor after doctor. My doctor at the time tried to treat my terribly swollen vagina with Celebrex. My inability to walk without limping was initially thought to be caused by my "stressed out" mental state, but this was later revised to "fractured pelvis."

Another doctor I saw in an attempt to figure out where the searing vaginal pain was coming from examined me and then called me a liar. I had to be lying, because what he was seeing couldn't have been caused by an assault. I had to have been in a car accident, or something like that. Besides -- was my face mangled? No? If I had actually been raped, he would have done damage to my face. Because my face was fine, I was lying and he couldn't help me.

It took six months of steadily looking for answers before a female doctor examined me and took notice that there was vaginal tearing. It was deep enough to be difficult to heal over on its own, but had gone untreated for too long, stitches may not be beneficial.

It would just have to close over eventually. She was also able to diagnose significant nerve damage, and prescribed medication that eased most of the physical pain due to nerve damage within 24 hours. I'm still on that medication, and will happily stay on it for the rest of my life.

I attended weeks of physiotherapy to help with the nerve damage, and to prevent incontinence that could arise from the damage I'd sustained to my pelvic floor muscles. I hated having to be touched there, and stopped going.

Bad things happen to good people, and they happen to me. Life has a way of moving on whether I choose to or not, and I assumed it had moved on far enough for me to be safe.

Life also occasionally has a way of bitch slapping you to let you know when it's time to stop moving and to start talking. Safety is very, very relative.

It only took Dr. Q asking me twice more what really happened during my post-op appointments before I told him what more there was to the story. He seemed greatly relieved to be told something that made sense. Frankly, so was I.

The damage that had gone untreated five years ago was like a crack in a windshield. It might have stayed cracked, or the wrong combination of conditions could cause the whole thing to shatter.

I guess I shattered. The original scarred over injury tore open again, and tore everything else open too when it did. How it didn't happen any sooner is a mystery. Then again...not really. I never had sex with Alex and the firefighter...well...he was always just that good.


Every day I'm figuring out just how extensive the shattering was. It was Dr. Q who persuaded the other two surgeons not to give me a colostomy bag. He told them I was too young, and should have a chance to heal.

Every week that passes it's less likely the stitches will "blow." If the stitches fail to hold, I get a colostomy bag. I'm very grateful to Dr. Q for giving me the chance to maintain free-range pooping status. So far so good.

The blood loss was significant, but the chances of turning septic were far greater than bleeding to death. I don't know how I didn't in the two days I walked around around with my internal organs just blowing in the breeze.

It'll be another few weeks before all the stitches are gone, and a few weeks after that before I can exercise normally again. By the sounds of it, it'll be never before I can have normal sex.

No toys. No vibrators. No well-endowed men. No going in all the way if they are. Nothing outside of the missionary position. No risking "certain angles." No anal. Not ever.

It's funny how no goal is ever so desirable as the ones you're told you can't have. What's also funny is how I prided myself on having not lost my sexual desire.

I was so happy that there was one thing that piece of shit never took from me. He did a lot of damage, but thank God I could still enjoy being passionate and wild and sexy.

It took five years, but I stand corrected. Guess he wins that round too.