Category: Young-adulthood

What to do when you get your butthole touched by a child on the street, part 1

Sarah Leave a comment

 

Have you ever been to a rainbow party?

Maybe they’re mythical—like unicorns or Canada. (It’s unfortunate, because Canada sounds like a nice place).

One day, my husband and I had dinner plans with his mom. Engrossed in conversation, we exited the Washington, D.C. Metro.

And I got punched in the face.

So much blood—at least two drops or more. Just enough to make me look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. 

We looked at my attackers. The attackers stared back, curious how we would retaliate.

I cut them deep with my words.

Would have been a lot cooler if he did… (The way Matthew McConaughey says it in Dazed and Confused).

Canceling plans due to “I got punched in the face” feels weird.

On TV, there were rumors about teenagers punching strangers in the face. I’d placed those rumors in the same category as rainbow parties: possibly fake.

Maybe rainbow parties ARE real.

After composing myself, we continued to dinner with my mother-in-law.

We tried to enjoy dinner but there was a crying baby in the restaurant.

After dinner, we walked to the theater.

I totally held it together.

At the theater, I grabbed a playbill.

The play began with a spotlight shining on a disturbed elderly woman screaming like a wailing baby. 

Then my husband said something really mean.

Three hours???

The wrong person got punched in the face that day.

I later confided in friends about the punching incident.

Should he have left me alone and bleeding?

Is that something people do?

I felt like a turd.

I don’t think I had a cunty look on my face.

What joke with the peanut?

END OF PART 1

Read PART TWO

 

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

Sarah 12 Comments

I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love you, a story about a young woman whose husband suddenly dies.

Following the funeral, the wife lies in bed calling his cell phone over and over.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

I sobbed when she didn’t answer.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.

I pulled my family into it.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

It was a little funny.

During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

Something that barged in on my pity party.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

Something that introduced me to Jeff.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

I hung up on Jeff.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

Melissa’s cell phone account had only been closed a few months. My beloved calling routine had been taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.

As pack leader, it was my job to ensure that my younger brother and sister knew how to react.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made a call.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

He seemed game.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

Jeff and I connected immediately.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.

Jeff and I had an amazing summer together.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.

Classic Jeff.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

I don’t remember much of our conversations.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

What I do remember is the excitement shared when Jeff and I connected on the line.

If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.

A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.

I called my dead sister’s phone to hear her voicemail. Jeff answered.

My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.

Author’s Note:

I discuss the 3 D’s and Jeff on the podcast Everyone Dies, a nonprofit exploring life-limiting illness, dying, and death. To jump to the interview, begin listening at 30:39 minutes in. In the first half of the podcast, nurse practitioner Marianne Matzo and co-host Charlie Navarrette discuss the role of depression, cognitive tests, and brain imaging used to diagnose dementia or other possible causes. You can find the podcast on Spotify, Apple, or wherever you get your Podcasts. Just search Everyone Dies (Every1Dies‪). Or listen here!