Tag Archives: Boyfriend

What Bike Accidents And The Incredible Hulk Have In Common

Wisdom of the day: beware of slow-moving bicycle accidents!!!! SMBAs are the 4th most dangerous accidents in the whole world, behind complications from hot-dog eating contests, cartwheel miscalculations, and boa constrictor bites!!!

I know this because my big sister, Lee, got into one yesterday, and boy oh boy was it a doozy:

So there she was, minding her own business, politely passing a few recreational cyclists on the East Side bike path, in a hurry to get home and see her family, and BAM! Out of nowhere a bicyclist turns left in front of her, WITHOUT LOOKING BEHIND HER AND WITHOUT SIGNALING, and the two of them go crashing toward the ground.

Now, maybe you’re wondering: who doesn’t look behind them before turning left? Allow me to explain:

she are sooper gif-ted and tallented

But don’t worry — my new friend is fine. Walked away with nary a scratch. And my sister? Slightly more complicated. Now might be a good time to look up Femoral Artery. It’s confusing. Something about crushing it, and sirens, and morphine, and surgery and I think one of those minor procedures…maybe called a bypass?

You see, I have a slight problem remembering the details, because when someone harms my sister, this happens to me:

My protectiveness probably started when kids made fun of us on the school bus in the second grade. They’d alternate between “Lee, Lee, took a pee” and “Sally pooped in the alley.” And whoever had the bye day rallied a valiant defense against the evil forces.

Hell hath no fury like an alley-pooping Sally.

But anyway, Lee’s okay, and I visited her after work at the hospital. I’m trying to get her to press charges and hire one of those ambulance-chasers that have the commercials during daytime TV, but she keeps talking about pesky things like “forgiveness” and “not doing anyone any good.”

Whatever. She’s still hiding the police report from me, but when I get my hands on it, watch out, tubby, directionally challenged ladies: I’m going to bust out a can of whoop-ass on all y’alls.

I realize this has very little to do with reading, writing, or remission. But wait — it does! This was my very first time being in the hospital and NOT being the kind of doped-up looking one lying prostrate on the bed! Thank you, thank you very much. Thank you, Lee, for voluntarily breaking my streak.

We should have known something like this was coming. Fransons have a hard time going six months without catastrophe. That’s why Jimmy Cliff wrote a song just for us.

If anyone wants to join my vengeance gang, I’ll be the awkward-looking one on the pink Schwinn who looks like she’s never been in a vengeance gang before!


Whatever. I’m totally over it.

For Medicinal Purposes Only

Sometimes we reach a moment in which it becomes important to stop and take stock of our lives — where we have come from, where we are going. One might, then, not find it too difficult to imagine that a certain one-year anniversary of a certain shitstorm of a diagnosis might inspire said reverence and introspection. And one would be right, but only partially.

Because over the past year, if I have learned nothing else, I have learned about the holistic health benefits of pie. You can cry into a pie.
You can be simultaneously energized by the sugary interior and soothed by the crusty fat of a pie. You can remember your grandmother with a pie. You can remember that slumber party food fight with a pie. And if you make one big enough, you can actually hide in a pie.

Which, by the way, would look something like this:

Anyway. The one-year anniversary has come, and at first I responded like any normal, healthy, well-adjusted girl would: I picked a fight with Ben and honked angrily at other cars and got pissed about the mascara smeared on my cheeks. But when I got home from work…there it was, my mama’s rhubarb pie. The same pie she baked for me the first time she came with me to the doctor on Ohio. My, oh my. What a gal.