Category Archives: Heros

A Little’s Enough

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I wrote fan mail once and I mean like once in my whole life. 

I facebooked Tom Delonge from Angels & Airwaves (also Blink 182) and tried at first to NOT sound like a deranged teenager and then gave up because who cares?  I wrote about what his music had meant to me at an especially wounded time.  I went ahead and threw in a “you saved my life.”  I’d be more ashamed except I really truly meant it.

Secret Crowds

Everything’s Magic

Love Like Rockets

A Little’s Enough

 

As I was writing a chat window popped up and “Tom” asked me for my info to send me free tickets.  It was obviously a hacker, and I don’t recall whether I bothered to hit send on my email or not.

All that to say that as much as I like to think of myself as someone who holds her shit together around people who are celebrities, Tom Delonge was above and beyond.  If I met him?  Pregnant and out on rape charges.  That’s how that would go down.

This weekend I had a mild inner ear infection.  The kind that make you dizzy, really, really dizzy.  I spent my weekend on the couch crocheting.  I was feeling better today and in yoga pants I’d put on Friday night and never bothered to change, I took my bike up to the corner grocery store.  It’s important to have a visual of my wet hair, sequined tshirt with cat hair, and bike helmet.  I had about 18 items in my cart but since I’m in that store like every third day I know that the express lanes are often waiting and totally accepting of more items.  I have the decency to pretend to care when I start unloading my items onto the counter. 

“I hope they don’t count past 15,” I mutter to the tattooed elbow in the corner of my vision, just so I don’t seem like the bitch who ignores signs.  Rocket ship tattoos, it registers.  Really awesome rocke- HOLYSHIT.

HOLYSHIT.

HOLYSHIT.

THIS IS HAPPENING.

HOLYSHIT.  I know who that is.  I glance at the clock beyond his head.  Yep, that’s Tom Delonge.  I pretend to consult my blank wrist to the time on the clock.  Still very Tom Delonge.  Stop looking at a blank wrist.  Tom is buying groceries with his daughter Ava.  I am melting down while wearing cat hair, sequins and a bike helmet.  He’s attempting to do normal people things.  I’M attempting to do normal people things while watching him do normal people things.  Do not touch him.  DO NOT BURY YOUR FACE IN HIS TSHIRT AND CRY, VJ.  STOP MUTTERING THESE INSTRUCTIONS TO YOURSELF  TO YOURSELF UNDER YOUR BREATH HE MIGHT HEAR YOU.

He turns and looks at me.  I hope I wasn’t making strange strangled noises, I don’t think I was, but who really fucking knows?  His eyes meet mine and my face splits in an enormous smile and there was a moment of I-know-you-know-that-I-know-and-I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know and Ava said “Daddy!  something I didn’t catch.”

.

.

The cashier said “cash back?” and I stopped blinking. 
“That was Tom Delonge from Blink-182, you know.”
“Was it?”
“He’s kind of the only person that I don’t know that I totally care about.”
“You should catch him in the parking lot.  I’ll hold your stuff.”
“No ……. I don’t think I could do any better with words.”

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“What’s going to happen at Christmas, an outbreak of leprosy?”

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That’s a line from an old kids radio show that Jesse and I used to listen to as kids, an episode about a Thanksgiving gone horribly wrong.  It was also said a lot this past week and a half, as Buckman and I went through a series of insanely awful events.  As in, the hospitalization was not even the low point.

I’m not kidding.

(Quick background info.  Buckman hasn’t been able to find work here, and my company is floundering.  Between the long overdue paychecks and the expensive vet bills, my saving account won’t can’t cover me anymore, and so I gave notice to my apartment and told Jesse to clear the spare bedroom.  Buckman arranged to go back to DC.  Moving day was scheduled for last Sunday, and Buckman flies out tomorrow.)

I’ll start this tale of woe with the Weds before Thanksgiving.  I popped into my gyno’s office for what was supposed to be a painless procedure.  I left an hour later, in tears, minus a bit of my ladybits that I’d been rather attached to, which was taken from me without so much as a warning much less any sort of painkiller, by a device that resembled the lovechild of a fruit picker and a hole punch.  As a parting gift, I was also given a piece of paper which warned me to treat my vagina like a gift, as in Do Not Open Until Christmas.

Lovely.  Thanks.  You’re not my gyno anymore.

The next day, Thanksgiving, dawned bright and clear and Buckman puking his guts out.  By two in the afternoon he was delirious and the question was no longer “should I take him to the hospital?” it was, “how on earth am I going to carry him down three flights of stairs to the car?”

At one point the doctors where prepping him for surgery to remove his appendix, but eventually it was determined that he was suffering from gastroenteritis, which is essentially the experience of food poisoning, just with more pain.

I ate Thanksgiving dinner in the hospital cafeteria, and I’ll admit it.  I felt sorry for myself.  If only I’d known what I know now, I’d have been laughing like Buckman on painkillers.

After a failed attempt at Thanksgiving dinner for Buckman, in the form of cranberry juice from the nurses, I took him home.  He’d lost eight pounds that day.

Friday was a lovely bright spot in that week.  I left my dying cat and recovering Buckman to look after each other and watched my sweet Samantha marry Mickey, on a boat, in a full day extravaganza of food and dancing and food and did I mention food?  And more dancing.

Sometime in the night that night, Dulce yakked all over the bathroom rug.  Which was a delightful little surprise to find at three AM, when I joined her.  All of Sam’s carefully prepared goodies were seeking escape from my body, through any route possible.

Yes, it turns out gastroenteritis is contagious.

I crawled back to bed, only to find that Dulce was not going to be outdone in the sick department, and had thrown up there to.  I piled all the laundry by the door and slid in under another blanket.

I spent the next three days not packing and moving as planned, but meditating through the pain of stomach cramps, trying to hold down popsicles, and maintaining a quarantine of the apartment against wonderful helpful friends.

Come Monday, I could stand for short stretches of time, and I used this newfound power to drive Mau to the vet’s office to say goodbye.  I was too weak to dig his grave.   Buckman, Jesse and Bethany had to do it for me.

Did I mention my therapist just went on three weeks vacation?

Tuesday, now days past my moving date, I managed to box my things, and my wonderful friends all pitched in to help me pack.  In the middle of carrying down boxes, the fella I’ve been seeing, well …. he gave me reason to decide not to see him anymore.

We loaded up the car, and Angelica’s SUV.  And then her battery died.

I finally cracked.  I sobbed until Triple A showed up.  Somehow I managed to get through the rest of that night, get everything moved, and clean the apartment.  In hindsight I’m not even sure how.

Fast forward to today.  I’m alive.  The past few days have been a lot better because, well, they’d pretty much have to be.  Plus I can eat full meals now.  And I’m unpacked.  Rudolf enjoys playtime in the backyard, and Dulce’s starting to recover from the stress of the move.

I guess what I’m saying is, I think I’ll live.