But, I’ll be here to rant about life and it’s unfairness for having a rather large ass. And too small boobs for said ass.

Also, I’ve been writing a dear BP, fuck you for killing my childhood home and a lot of people I know livelihoods letter but I keep deleting it. Every time I start writing the letter I want choke someone and then I start crying. As I am about to right now.

Maybe in a day or two I can compose the letter to my satisfaction.

If you have, I hope that you noticed the good manners and my inability to be mean/out of sorts with the group and I certainly didn’t go off on rants with things that tick me off. Nope, I keep all of that inside. I rarely complain about situations that I don’t like, I suck it up and go with the crowd. Sure we can go for asianfusion cuisine, I’d love to try sea cucumber intestines.

And up until about age 25, I had the word doormat stamped across my forehead. People utilized that functionality about me quite frequently. I do know how to stand up for myself

But here, here I can rant.

I can say, “FUCK YOU!” to the bitch that cut inline at the checkout counter when I had already been standing there for 10 minutes. Or “MANNERS PLEASE” to the woman that came to a dead stop in a crowded shopping mall and didn’t realize that those behind her would run into her because we didn’t read her mind.

And to the guy who almost killed me while I crossed the street AT THE CROSSWALK WITH THE GREEN LITTLE MAN TELLING ME TO GO, well I hope you get a really fucking painful disease that starts at your cock and makes it fall off. Oh yeah, I was screaming at you to stop your TRUCK because I love my hips in their non-shattered form. I’m just glad that I had reflexes that allowed for me to get out of your way.

You might have heard that I went to a little yarn thing in Atlanta a couple of weeks ago. Where I might or might not have spent way too much money on fiber. (I’m an addict. I admit it.) But all of this happened on the way to yarn heaven. Okay, really, it was to my friend’s apartment.

I landed in Atlanta around 9 pm and had to catch the train (MARTA) to get to my friend’s apartment. Thankfully, the train stops at the airport so that part was pretty easy to navigate and get a seat to myself. But when I had to switch trains, the car had gotten full with people that had been watching the Braves wear really tight britches throwing around balls. Hey, I know what I appreciate about baseball, the uniforms.

Getting on the second train was NOT fun. All the people pushed, shoved and didn’t care about letting me on to the train – heck, I almost didn’t get on it. And then when I did, there was no where to sit so I stood in the aisle with my rolling bag, shoulder bag and hand bag. I tried to get situated before the train started moving but I was not successful, as the train jerked into motion I slammed the left side of my back into a hard plastic seat.

Thankfully, a gentleman saw my distress and kindly offered his seat. Which was great because I was ready to bite someone’s head off – I was tired, having been up and gone to work, then traveling and finally getting on two trains. And I didn’t mention that on the first one that I got stuck behind a group of former sorority sisters that only knew how to describe every other statement with “Oh, I SOOOO know what you mean.” “OMG!” And “LIKE WHAT?!”

Finally, I got to my friend and got to lay down. But I had no clue what I had done to my back until a few days later when bruises started to appear on my spine and there was sharp flank pain. And by a week later after a slew of symptoms and a battery of tests (including a CAT scan where I got to be radio active for a few minutes), it was determined that when I hit my back into the train seat that I had caused some wonderful kidney stones to play ping pong in the kidney bruising the inside while the chair did damage to the outside. Good times, good times.

Really? I find the perfect, I MEAN PERFECT, A-Line skirt for my pear shape body on-line. (I’m not going to say where because I don’t want to give these people anything – and I’m lazy – probably why I can’t fit into their skirts.) I see it on a normal woman on a popular blog and I click the link. This leads to a PLETHORA of skirts and I’m giddy because this place has A-line skirts that hit right below the knee…it’s skirt heaven. The proportions look right and the materials have a great drape that are can transition from business to a casual Saturday afternoon.

Then I click to see what sizes these perfect skirts come in – Small through X-large. More giddiness abounds. Because right now, I’m extra large. There just happens to be more of me to love, thank you very much. But, I’ve accepted me as of right and I’m working on making me more compact to love but until then I’m going to dress for the right now.

Since it’s a new shopping site, I click on the sizing chart because I can tend to teeter into a large when some places use vanity sizing. No, this place uses the “bitch-slap-back-into-reality-of-how-fat-you-are-and-give-people-serious-eating-problem” sizing. Extra large for this dress maker is a 10-12. Yes, that’s right, a size 10 to 12. If you’re the average American woman and sporting the curves of a size 14, so sorry, they don’t want your business. That means I’m definitely out of the running because my size 16 (14 on a good day) ass is WAY too big and my wallet is not good enough for them to cut their clothes for anyone with waist bigger than 33″.

Yup, this company is telling over half of American women, “You’re too fat to wear our clothes”. Now, if this was a business that was housed out of a foreign country where most of their women are compact and petite, I’d be understanding. But, nope, this is a good ol’ USA company. And, yes, I do know that it’s the company’s prerogative to make clothes up to a certain size but to call a size 12 woman an extra large, that’s just insulting.

BAH! BAH ON YOU STUPID PERFECT SKIRT COMPANY!

One takes shoes for granted until you lug around a five pound boot that doesn’t fit comfortably for the foot it supposed to help heal and squeezes my leg constantly. Even when I get permission to wear shoes, they aren’t the cute sandals that my tootsies long for – oh no.

Sandals (and the pedicures that go along with) that’s not until May, eight weeks after the event because I have to wear supportive foot gear. And supportive sandals are NOT pretty.

She felt the need to never be alone, taking on a new boyfriend, a one night stand and then the series of fiances. They all loved her and I was going to be a bridesmaid many times over.

During the parade of men, I had graduated college and moved on with my life. The time she and I spent together was sparse moments when I was home. No matter what was going on, I encouraged her to better her life.

Then came the day when she called me, exasperated. She told me it was all a big misunderstanding. And that she had not been called. It wasn’t really her fault and she was going to make the next court date. The crack pipe that Child Services had found under the bed of her second child wasn’t hers, it was one of her fiance’s friend’s. And no one from the court house had told her what time her custody hearing was, it wasn’t her fault that she had lost full custody of her children. Yes, she was still going to marry him.

That was the day I walked away and couldn’t help anymore. I had always seen her as the 18 year old girl I had shared my dreams with. I thought I could save her from the bad decisions by giving her what I thought she needed. But that day, my own dream of her saving herself with my help was shattered and there was more anger at myself, as there was at her and her poor decisions. I was her enabler and she was in denial and I couldn’t support either one of us in that manner anymore.

Of course, it wasn’t on purpose. And I won’t go into boring detail but I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary when the event occurred. Alright, got the boring stuff out of the way.

But the one thing that I’ve learned about having a broken foot, is that bathroom stuff SUCKS! Especially on crutches. Yes, I know that you’re shocked that being handicapped isn’t a breeze. The worse is taking a shower. Stepping requires a full strategic plan from what foot goes where and how to use a crutch to support your body weight. Then the important events of shaving your legs are out the window because you can’t put your weight on the foot with the broken bone. Stupid broken bone, getting in the way of smooth calves. I guess I’ll start the ‘be like Mo’Nique, hairy leg freak’. (And if for some reason Mo’Nique reads this – covering all bases – I love you girlfriend and your new husband Oscar!)

Because my foot was the target, I decided that I was going to try to balance as much as possible on the good foot while trying to shampoo, condition, scrub, exfoliate, and rinse. Guess what I found out? I don’t have much of sense of balance at all. But I think you all figured that out when I told you that I broke my foot. Thankfully, B was nearby in case I needed because after getting out of the shower, which required hurdle/tub jumping (I’m so ready for the 2012 games!), he helped me put on my pants. I’d go with skirts because they don’t require leg shimmying but please see last line of previous paragraph. I’m not that bold yet to show my new leg beards off.

So, now we’re all up-to-date. Tomorrow, I find out how bad the damage truly is to the metatarsal and determine if surgery is needed. We’re going with ‘please no surgery, I’ll be good and where the boot’ begging stance when I see the doctor. Until next time.

My lack of creativity isn’t contained to just writing, it’s also affecting my sewing and knitting life. Projects that I’ve been jonsing to do are sitting on the side waiting for my motivation to come back from the vacation that it took without my permission.

And I know what chased part of it away and I don’t really want to talk about it because I’ve bored you enough with my inability to deal with my Grandmother’s passing. Sometimes it feels better to do nothing that to do anything, especially when she was such a huge part in fostering my drive to be creative in the area of crafts. There are also other pressures that are compounding it that I won’t bring into the blogging world.

All I can ask is that you forgive me for not having fabulous posts, or pseudo-fabulous posts of late. Writing isn’t my forte but it is part of the outlets that I have to get things out of my head and it’s much cheaper than therapy.

Now, if I had lost my voice ten years ago, I would’ve been able to email people my plights and scribbled on notepads my communications. Or performed various kinds of charades, dancing out ways to get my point across.

Okay, I did do some various monkey moves to try to let people know what I needed to communicate in person – I think my boss would’ve loved to have had a video camera when I got mad over a situation and there was no way to yell the FUCK I was feeling. Though, I will say that no computers, electronics, or coworkers were harmed in my hissy fit.

Thankfully, I had ways to tell the outside world about my situation – Twitter and Facebook. I could still voice my opinion even if nothing was coming out of my mouth. Let’s face it, nothing vital was really coming out of my fingertips either.

Also, Murphy Law sooooo applied during my period of muteness, EVERYONE called me. Honestly, I use my phone more for texting and email than I do for talking but my work, home and landline were all ringing because everyone but my mother wanted to talk to me. (Mom had contacted me via IM and knew I had lost my voice.)

And the kicker, my husband, who obviously was reveling in the silence contributed to the vocal frustration when he told the dentist office to call me about setting up dental appointments. That poor dental receptionists hearing will never be the same since my hearing my squawks which were supposed to sound like the English language. HA!

It’s so ingrained in me that all people are sir or ma’am, no matter the age and I expect to hear it back. Though, it did take me quite a few years to become accustomed to myself as a ma’am, because that was reserved for grown-ups, some place that I was no where close to being. But as responsibilities have been assumed and I’ve progressed through the ranks of the corporate world, there is no denying, I’m certifiably a ‘ma’am’.

(Which if anyone is confused is completely different from a Madame, in the non-French Mrs. meaning. If I was, my blog would be a whole lot more interesting.)

And most of all, we were taught to respect our elders.

So when I was walking along in a big box store shopping for my needed items, and not so needed items, I was stopped by an older gentleman, who had to be in his sixties – graying hair and pants pulled up to his nipples. We were walking in opposite directions down the aisle and I wasn’t hogging the space so that his cart couldn’t pass mine, I was taken back by his very stern voice stating, “YOUNG LADY!” I immediately snapped to with a quick, “Yes sir?”, thinking “Oh God, what have I done.” Wondering did I cut him off, take the last of a product he wanted or hit him on accident.

But I didn’t have time to consider all the variables for I was in store for a rant.

“Young lady, I am offended by your shirt. I can’t believe you would dare disrespect a branch of our armed services. I proudly served our country with pride and went to Korea so that you could be free. The least you could do is not show your indignity to our nation. This is not what our Founding Father’s meant when they gave you the freedom of speech!”

I was completely befuddled because I’ve never worn anything offensive in my life but maybe naughty clothes gnomes had switched out a perfectly respectable shirt for one that Russel Brand would wear. So, I quickly looked down to see what could possibly be on my shirt that would cause this man to get riled up.

An Old Navy T-shirt.