Vermont is trying to kill me.

I wish I were kidding, but it doesn’t take Jessica Fletcher to realize that Vermont has it out for me and will stop at nothing to have me dead. And when I say “kill me”, I mean actively kill me dead. Vermont has come to play and I’m just out here trying to survive, man.

First it was the pneumonia. Something, despite all the years with my garbage lungs/body, I had been able to avoid. Even while living in NYC, a place thats basically the inside of a grease trap filled to the brim with botulism, somehow, even there, I managed to be healthier. I now live in the damn land of milk and honey, er syrup, and I’m fucking trashed. Its a wild-ass ride, life. Obviously the pneumonia was a bummer, but I figured this was my “big shitty thing for this half of 2019”. Then, like, two weeks after that, death comes a-knockin’ again.

It was a normal Monday morning, with me just trying to leave the cozy confines of my house in order to go to work, a place where things have been very stressful and decidedly not cozy, when things took a bit of a turn. See, in my attempt to walk down the staircase, I forgot I was wearing socks and that the stairs are steep, old and slick, and I ended up very quickly losing my balance and falling violently down onto the staircase. Where Linus, my trusty little pup, had unfortunately positioned himself below me. My ass hit Linus’s body hard, wedging him between my body and the staircase. I started screaming in fear that I killed him. Linus was squealing, squished below me. And Winnie was running in circles, freaking the fuck OUT about all the chaos around her. Somewhere between the first and third stair, Linus, got himself free and shot away from me, yelping. I spent the remainder of the fall, which lasted for another 4 steps, screaming, “I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” over and over. It was a legitimately awful and traumatic experience. Thank GOD he was ok, but I have never wished for Xanax more than when I had to drag my crumpled body over to peer under the couch where he was hiding, to see if he was hurt. Because if he had been seriously hurt, it would’ve been due to my ASS. Think about that - my ass. There’s no way to get around that. I would have killed my dog with my fat ass and that is probably the worst way you can accidentally kill something. Imagine carrying the fact that you squished your beloved pet to death with your giant, killing machine, ass! Even just considering that outcome has me wanting to call a therapist. But, he was ok, albeit freaked out and very leery of me, but ok. So after confirming he was ok, I did what any 39 year old who had almost crushed their dog to death would do, I curled up in a ball, tried to ignore the pain shooting through my back and ass, and screamed into the rug to no-one/myself that I “hated everything”, before having to pry myself off the floor and limp out to the fucking driveway. The rest of the week seemed to follow that days lead, which is just rude. A few days later, a pipe in the ceiling above the bar at work had a leak. And not just any leak, nah, it showered us with pure, rusty, old, urine from the public bathrooms in the upper levels of the building. True Story. Having a golden shower rain down upon me really should’ve been the indicator that something was amiss. That I had definitely angered the wrong Gypsy, and whatever hex had been placed upon me had definitely been activated. Little did I know all that was just the amuse-bouche to this Winter’s shit-feast. A horn-of-plenty’s worth of absolute fucking nonsense.

The next Monday morning, I was already in a funk. I guess narrowly avoiding killing your dog with your butt, and having a stressful work week on top of getting a piss shower, of unknown piss from unknown people, can do that to you, huh? And I know I was in a grumpy mood because I broke out behavior from my past life as an assistant - I spent a solid 20 minutes of my morning looking up appropriate grumpy gifs to send as responses to anyone dealing with me that day. Its an important coping skillset I honed after years of bad jobs and bad days. So, after downloading all the gifs that I thought would encapsulate my feelings for the day (boy was I wrong), I headed down my hill and towards work. Now, the one thing I (and my coworkers) struggle with during the winter months is parking. Our establishment only has one parking spot and its reserved for the owner. Parking in our town is very limited, and free parking is a crap-shoot depending on when you arrive downtown. Before 7am? You’re good. 7 am and after? Who knows. In summer you have tons more leeway. The weather is nice. The roads are safe. A little walk in some fresh air can do you good! In the Winter? The air, if you’ve got busted lungs, even for a few block walk, will trigger an asthma episode. And the ice/snow create a “Storming the beaches of Normandy” scenario. You may make it ashore, but at what cost, soldier? Most of the time, I just save myself the trouble and park at a meter nearby. This is a problem for two reasons: one, I’m paying upwards of $14.00 a day to the meters, and two, I’ve got beef with one of the meter maids. One meter maid is lovely. She’s a spunky, middle-aged lady who wears blue eyeliner and is in a perpetually sunny mood. She’s chipper, she’s sweet, and I feel like makes the town a brighter place. The other meter maid is her polar opposite. She’s a fucking grouchy-ass woman who does * clap * not * clap * like * clap * me * clap. The first time I met her is when she booted my car last spring for unpaid parking tickets. Only, I had paid them online. There were no outstanding tickets. So I tell her there has been a mistake and show her the electronic confirmation numbers, to which she responded by screaming at me that I was lying and needed to take it up with city hall. Actually screamed, by the way. So I rush down to city hall, only to be greeted by some fucking backwoods Newhart shit. I get into a “who’s on first” back and forth with the woman in charge, who claims they don’t have on online payment system. I keep asking, well then who is operating your website because there are payment functions, and the woman keeps saying thats not the case. All the while I’m trying to pull up the website on my phone, but of course the cell service in Vermont is on par with a developing nation after a typhoon, so nothing would load. FINALLY after 10 min of arguing, she angrily gets up and walks out the door. Another five minutes pass and she comes back and says, “oh, you did pay. We just didn’t get the information from the people who process the payments”….I said, so, you understand that you do have online payment options? The grouchy “Larry Daryl and Daryl” woman responds with pursed lips, narrowed eyes and a “mmmmm”. Like a shitty, New England Slingblade. Reader I almost burnt the entire city to the ground at that very moment. The fact I didn’t shows incredible restraint on my part, if you ask me. So after all that, I have to walk back to my car to show ol’ Grumplestiltskin the paperwork so she can remove the boot, and boy that did not make her happy. I think me calling them on their mistake caused the parking department to pencil me in as EVIL RESIDENT #1. Since that experience, I’ve gotten another boot on my car, and been yelled at by the meter troll multiple times - like, actual yelling, not just curt tones. And this is a quiet town. Do you know how embarrassing and uncomfortable it is to have a little angry goblin hollering at you in the middle of the road? Its a lot to process! She’s my local nemesis. And she works Mondays. So on this specific Monday, grumpy mood and all, I knew that parking on the street would lead to another 10 bucks and a ticket/confrontation with the parking ghoul. So, I begrudgingly went a few blocks away to the free parking area. And, I immediately knew it was a bad idea. Bad because it was cold as fuck and my asthma immediately kicked up, and bad because there was ice on every single surface. Road. Sidewalks. Nothing was safe. In fact, the plows had been through and kicked up giant ice chunks that rendered most of the spots unparkable. But I ventured forward! And after finding a spot and beginning the march towards work, it was clear that I basically had to do a long-program ice-skating routine in order to make it to my destination. And somedays you’re fucking Oksana Baiul, ice- princess-ing your way to gold, and other days you’re Nancy Kerrigan getting your fucking leg whacked by a low-rent, white-trash hitman, screaming “WHHHHY” into the void. You can imagine which was to be my destiny that fateful morning, can’t you? Y’all I was really trying to be careful, but it was ice and I’m a klutz. And then it happened.

Cute candid of me on the sidewalk after shattering my wrist.

I didn’t just slip. No, sir. I did it up right. I fell violently sideways onto the icy sidewalk, throwing my left hand down to buffer myself/try not to clock my head on the pavement/try to save the laptop I was carrying a bag on that shoulder, and in the process shattered the fuck out of my wrist. Do you know the sound a corn-cob makes if you break it in two? That was the sound my bone made. I’ve always wondered if I would know if I broke a bone - like, obviously, if the bone is sticking through the flesh, yeah, but in general would I be aware of how bad a break was when it happened? Would I immediately know, “oh thats definitely broken”? I assumed not. The answer though, is a resounding, yeah. I mean, no question. I sat up on the pavement and my left wrist/arm was immediately equal parts numb and throbbing and limp. I let out the most feral, most guttural moan/scream of my life. It was, not a good look. I sat trying to get my bearings, while moaning, “fuck, fuck, fuck” over and over again for at least a solid minute. I was already in a terrible mood, and this was truly the icing on the strawberry shit-cake. And to make it all worse, I couldn’t get up. I mean, I wanted to get up, but between my arm, being splayed out on the ice, and trying to retrieve all the shit that went flying when I fell, I was in a bit of a pickle. It was 7am, on what I thought was an empty street, and I coudln’t figure out how to fucking stand up without falling again. So, I did what anyone in shock and lacking pride would do, I started scooting. I scooted on my ass, using my feet as little engines, through the ice, down the block, with my limp arm dragging beside me, and the good arm dragging my purse and laptop. It was about ten scoots in, that I noticed something out of my peripheral. A person standing outside the library, across the street from me, staring at me, mouth agape in wonder. And in that moment I snapped and screamed, “WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING LOOKING AT??” knowing damn well what they were looking at: They were looking at a woman who had “eat pray loved” herself into this fucking maple syrup nightmare. A woman who had somehow deviated from her Nancy Meyers plot line into Stephen King’s MISERY. Point: Vermont.

Once I scooted far enough, I was able to use my good arm to pull myself up with the help of a parking meter (irony), and then hobble the two and a half blocks into work, moaning the entire way. I was like Hansel and Gretel, only instead of leaving breadcrumbs to mark my path, I left little bits of my pride, and a trail of moans. Shortly after making it into work, a kindly coworker drove me to the ER. And, after a number of X-Rays, being forced to twist and contort my wrist, sans any sort of pain medication, the Doctors confirmed what we already knew, that I had badly shattered my wrist, with the bonus information at it would require immediate surgery. Oddly by that point, five hours in the ER, fielding calls and texts from work, I realized that the broken wrist/surgery wasn’t the worst thing I’d go through that day. No, the scooting and moaning and shattered wrists were just part of it. Even the fact that this all happened during a lapse in insurance, which of fucking course it did, wasn’t the worst. Nope, the worst part was having to field off well intentioned, but uncomfortable, requests to help me. There were a select group of people who wanted me to need their help like I was Shelby from Steel Magnolias. Shelby while she was in the diabetic coma after the kidney transplant failed, which we knew it would after she got that reactionary haircut. Y’all, that was a “I’m about to die, might as well do something bold” haircut. Anyway, news moves fast in a small town. So fast that, I shit you not, the man who delivers maple syrup to our establishment, sent me a get well text while I was still in the fucking ER. While I was also in the ER, I had someone come by and get legitimately angry with me because I wasn’t asking for, what they felt, was the appropriate amount of help. Instead of listening to me, an adult woman of almost 40, who has lived alone for twenty years and who has SEEN SOME SHIT, they decided to make it about them. And they decided it was pride clouding my judgment. And my independence was a character flaw. And when I politely declined some of the help they offered, help I truly didn’t need at that moment and felt uncomfortable with, they dramatically began crying and told me that I needed to listen to them. And they got right up close to me on the gurney, while angrily crying, and said that being around me is exhausting because I refuse to ask for help. Reminder that I was on hour 5 in the ER sans pain meds at this point, just trying to get through that shitshow with minimal stress. So I responded the only way I knew how, with a bemused, “I’m sorry?”. Because thats a fucking insane thing to say to someone. But such is life in a small town.

The “Spinster Delay” allowed me to be released from the hospital for a day so I could get my affairs in order and make sure my pups were taken care of while I was getting my Luke Skywalker wrist. Score one for the single ladies. On the morning of the surgery, a friend from work drove me to the hospital. While sitting in the waiting room waiting to be admitted, we joked about where my spirit would haunt if I happened to die during surgery. Because I have to admit, I was a tad nervous. Not of surgery, but of where I was having surgery. I’ve been really lucky to have had amazing care whenever shit has gone sideways. I have a bone tumor in my hip - I’m fine - but its a whole thing, and during the process of figuring out what was going on, I somehow ended up with one of the best orthopedic surgeons in California. No joke - it was me and a bunch of athletes and celebrities. I talked to Ryan O’Neal in the waiting room once! But, I’m not used to a rural hospital. One that, thankfully I didn’t learn until after, used to have a very bad reputation for killing folks. And of course my pneumonia decided to rear its ugly head again directly before all of this nonsense. I was not looking forward to going under with busted lungs. No, sir. My biggest fear was, if I died in that Central Vermont Medical Center - would my body be forced to haunt that area? Or do you get a choice? Because If you’re only allowed a specific area, I’m assuming the Hosptial, given its track record, is full-up on ghosts, so the next closest establishment is a “mall” that is one of the most depressing places I’ve ever been. And I’ve been to Eastern Europe. All I could think of was haunting that run-down, empty rural mall for eternity - just floating up and down the halls, whining about how being a ghost sucks and trying to remind the customers about the BOGO sale at Bath and Bodyworks and doing my loops by the weird kiosk that only sells flannel wolf blankets and dreamcatchers. Occasionally pointing a lost looking soul towards the JC PENNY, depressed for both of us. That future seemed just bleak enough to be a real possibility, and therefore activated my anxiety. Luckily though, the pneumonia was able to be kept at bay for surgery, albeit with some creative fixes, and after a few hours, I came out of it all and was back home, propped up, and tending to my new bionic wrist. I’m now a very cranky, cusp of middle-age, cyborg!

Its been a few weeks since my surgery. I upgraded from the surgical splint to a hard cast. I’ve had this super fun thing happen where my incision (which goes from my palm down my wrist) feels as if its on fire for no reason. Which is awesome. And sure there have been some sleepless nights, and a lot of discomfort, and I legit sobbed when the stitches were taken out, but I made it through solo. Like I was most comfortable doing. And did it without taking the OxyCodone the doctor prescribed. Ya girl is already fighting an uphill battle in life, and the last thing I need is a debilitating opioid addiction on top of that, ya know? Could you imagine? Woof. So, here I am, typing with one hand and icing the other, while my two trusty pups keep me company. They’ve been such sweet companions these past few weeks - I think they even know Vermont is out to get me and are doing their best to protect me. Even if I almost ass-murdered Linus. And the thing is, in the grand scheme of everything, this Winter of bullshit is nothing. It’s a blip on the radar. I can complain about all the bad shit in my life and know, truly know, that everything will be ok, and that this move to Vermont, while proving to be a real son of a bitch, is/was the right thing to do. I can also say that I think this Nancy Meyers movie i’ve created for myself has taken a bit of a dark turn. The plot points have gotten a little more intense, and there has been a shocking, SHOCKING, lack of Sam Shephard-esque dong for my liking. I was looking for Baby Boom, and its turned into Somethings Gotta Give meets SAW. Lets lighten shit up, ok, the sooner the better. Karmically speaking, something truly has to give.

But the grass is going to be sprouting up soon. And the trees will be budding. And thats when I’m expecting my karmic payback for this shit. Thats when I’m preparing for my windfall. And what I’m preparing for is to be showered in Patagonia-clad fuck-daddy dick, and piles, and piles of money. Diving into a pool of them both, Scrooge McDuck style, and then retreating to my Nancy Myers inspired kitchen for a glass of wine and a bowl of pasta that mysteriously never allows you to gain weight. And as I lift the glass of Pinot Noir to my lips, I’ll glance down and see a faint outline of the scar on my wrist, the one hiding the metal plate and screws they implanted on my that fateful Winter day. And I’ll chuckle quietly to myself, and Sam, (that will be my Vermont boyfriends name) will look up from the Washington Post, and ask whats so funny? And I’ll say, “oh, I was just remembering that one Winter when Vermont tried to kill me” and we’ll both laugh and laugh, because its true, and also because I made it through, like I knew I would. And then we'll bang on the handsomely styled kitchen island, because I deserve that too, ya know? And All of this will be exactly as it should be, a fucked up chapter in a weird time in my life, that will lead to something better. As long as I stay true to myself and invest in a very expensive insurance policy.

So try your best, Vermont. I have seen some shit, you flannel clad, green-mountain motherfucker. I'm not going anywhere. I survived worse than this on any given day at my old jobs. I am ready for your nonsense. I survived Harvey. I survived East Texas and my childhood and a stint working at the Sara Lee snack cake factory. I will not fall victim to your Hallmark Channel-ass. I’m not going anywhere, fuck-face.