Thanks to the Internet Gods, I bring you: My Dad is a Total Badass

After reading my last post, you may think the Wells' are a bunch of insensitive assholes who are incapable of showing love and affection, with my dad leading the pack. While this may be true, we're also a clan of badasses, with my Dad again at the forefront.

On November 9, 2010 at 6:35pm PST while preparing to shower away a booty-kicking spin

class, I received this text from my mother: "dad

fell off the roof this evening and broke both his

heels one worse than the other. i posting on facebook. when i know more you'll know more. love ya."

After rereading the text a few times, rubbing my eyes in disbelief, I dropped my towel and called my mother. Keep in mind, I work with veterans who have traumatic brain injuries, including

several who have sustained injuries falling off roofs, balconies, etc. Visions of him laying in the front yard with his skull cracked open and brain

matter splattered across the clematis vines danced through my mind. I grilled my mother for ten straight minutes asking her what happened, if he had lost consciousness, if the paramedics administered the Glasgow Coma Scale and what his score was, if he had any internal injuries, and

many others. Apparently after falling from the SECOND story, he attempted to stand up, realized his feet and some ribs were busted and then proceeded to ask their traumatized neighbors if they would kindly put him in his car

so my Mom could drive him to the hospital. Yes, he attempted to stand and walk it off. Yes, he knew he was fucked up. No, he did not call for an ambulance. (He’ll tell you he wouldn’t let mom call for an ambulance because they cost too damn much.) Badasses don't roll with an ambulance,

they provide their own transportation to the ER.

Now the neighbors had come over because they

heard the bang of him and the ladder crashing down. They thought a car coming down the street had hit a parked car, so they came out to see what had happened. Instead they found my mom outside with my dad sitting on the ground. My

neighbors loaded him up in the Pimpmobile and

my mother drove him to the new St. John hospital. However, this brand new, three story with two wings hospital that has a big red EMERGENCY sign was apparently "not a trauma center, it’s just a stand-alone urgent care facility and they had no beds or anything, and he needed to go to a different hospital!" according to the nurses. Rather than take an ambulance to a hospital with a real emergency center as the nurses insisted, my dad again said to mom, “Get in the car and let’s go to another hospital.” He's

serious about providing his own transportation - I did mention us Wells' are rather independent, right?

My parents finally made it to the correct hospital where my dad was admitted, poked, prodded and diagnosed with two broken heels (one shattered) and a couple of compressed ribs. Luckily he had no internal injuries and no head injuries. I’m told he continued his day of badassery by teasing the nurses while they were cutting his pants off of

him.

According to the grapevine the King of Badasses had already planned a couple of days off from work for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday and ended up missing only three extra days of work total from the initial accident and the subsequent surgery to put a metal plate in his foot. Yep, that’s right, my dad can totally kick your dad’s ass!

However, it is here I diverge from explaining to you what a badass my Dad is to insert an amusing twist in this story.

It was only AFTER talking with the doctors (4 hours later) did my mom disseminate the news of his fall. Rather than call her offspring, my Mother, who is more social networking tech savvy than I am, thought the most efficient way to disseminate the news was via FaceBook.

“Jerry felt off the roof today and is now in Henry Ford with two broken heels. Guess we will see what the orthopedic surgeon guy has to say tomorrow. With sarcasm dripping off my mouth,

this has been the end to what was probably a wonderful day--not for Jerry though.” 6:35 PST - Yes, it is posted as the exact same time as her text to me.

While she is correct that this is indeed the most efficient way to transmit data these days, I have a feeling I will never know if she posted the news of my Dad’s accident on FaceBook before or after texting my brother and me. While my dad is overtly the Commander in Chief of Badasses, I have a feeling my mom is secretly one step behind him.

For anyone concerned about the health of my father, I saw him over Christmas, and His

Highness was doing well enough to chase me around the house using a walker. (Mom’s comment - Now you have to tell them the next day after his accident he had a wheelchair and I caught him in the garage doing fucking wheelies.)

March follow-up. Dad is out of the wheelchair, off the cane, is walking around, and the ortho doctor said that since he’s 3-4 weeks ahead of the power

curve he’s not going to assign rehab, and doesn’t want to see him again for any follow-ups. So now he’s just waiting for the bad weather to end so he can go back to riding his toy.

Dad's bionic foot!

Dad's Toys!!

Meet The Master of Mockery and Sarcasm

This next post may be a bit of a cheat. Rather than come up with my own material, I thought I would finally unveil a minefield of quotes I have been sitting on. After purchasing plane tickets to visit my family over the Christmas holidays, I sent my parents an email asking if I could borrow their car for a day to visit some friends who live about an hour from them. Keep in mind this is shortly after my Dad had broken both his legs falling off our roof (yes, there will be a post about this eventually) and wasn’t using his car anyway.

Below I have posted the email exchange, verbatim, in its entirety. Some people wonder where I get my dry wit and acerbic sense of humor. Continue reading, and you will see who the Master of Mockery and Sarcasm is: My very own Dad!

**********
My email to my parents:

Hi you two

I would like to spend one night in Ann Arbor when I am in town next month. This means several things: a) I would prefer to borrow a vehicle, although I can probably get someone to drive me :-) and b) I would like to know if you already have things planned?

Sylvia will be out of town after xmas, so my preference is to visit AA on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday, stay the night and come back the following day. Right now it looks like Wednesday or Thursday might work best with her schedule.

And would love to drag mom to birch run, too, if possible. Maybe we could go before xmas for some last minute shopping, although I am fine with going after too, i need some new work clothes!

Also, what do you guys want for xmas? Grandma?

much love

rachel

My Dad’s response the next morning:

I can get you a corporate rate at Enterprise, and in fact I am so generous I will rent out Mom’s car for 25 % discount on the already low rate.

We know we are but a waypoint on your journey of self-idolatry narcissistic indulgent pleasures, and that any moment we get to have you somewhat exclusively is a moment to be treasured, to be sung in poetic ballads in the great halls of Valhalla.

Why should this visit be any different from any of the others? Why of course you can do as you like, I will even get the blankets and pillows ready for you to SLEEP IN THE CAR YOU UNGRATEFUL WHELP. (Oh, did I say that out loud??)

Make your arrangements, I’m sure we can survive.

Love you- Mom & Dad
**********

In case you can’t believe this to possibly be a normal exchange between parent and daughter, during the week I spent with them this past Christmas, I compiled a few of our more interesting tête-à-têtes.

My Parent’s recommendation on how to properly convey the importance of energy savings:
Mom: “There seems to be some child of ours who comes to visit and leaves all the lights on.”
Rachel: “There seems to be a mother who passively aggressively refers to her children as though they aren’t here.”
Mom: “Look you goddamn bitch, I am tired of you leaving all the fucking lights on, you cock sucker.”
Dad: “Besides that being a brief but adequate description of Rachel, I would prefer if you didn’t talk like that.”
Mom: “Shut up.”

Dad’s view on relationships:
“Next month your mother and I will have been married for 35 years. Now if either of us had killed each other, we only would have gotten 15 years.”

Mom’s response to having to driving Dad, who recently broke his legs:
“Hell no I’m not driving with your father in the car. Haven’t you ever driven with him before?!”

Dad’s opinion of others:
“Yeah, people are kinda overrated too.”

Dad’s thoughts on kids:
“Keep it up, you’ll be gone soon. We can always make another one, and this time your mother won’t be on drugs.”

Mom on the never ending chore of being a mother:
Mom: “Make sure you go pee before we leave.”
Me: “Ummm, I’m 26.”
Mom: “So?”

Mom on sharing:
“I like your bracelet; I think I’ll take it.”

Dad on tactfully informing someone of weight gain:
Rachel (to Mom who moved the cup rest): “Hey where is my cup rest?”
Dad: “On your belly which is getting rather large.”

Dad’s feelings on aging:
“My goal in life is to live so long, that somewhere in DC the minimum of a lieutenant commander is assigned to call me every morning to ask me if I am going to die that day so they can stop paying me my benefits.”

Dad on a woman’s place:
Dad: “Do you know why brides wear white?”
Me: “Um no, but I am sure it is going to be sarcastic”
Dad: “Because all kitchen appliances come in white.”

Grandma Jean in reference to her speech about feeling bad for not Christmas shopping, and me interrupting to tell her we don’t care:
“You shut up.”
Don’t worry, she also told my mom –her daughter- to shut up, too.

Mom on genetics; this is after Dad has spent the last ten minutes preparing his vehicle for a trip, eager to get us out of the house:
Me: “Oh, are we going somewhere?”
Mom: “You’re really a bitch sometimes.”
Me: “I wonder where I get it from?”
Mom: “Your dad.”

After a rough day of bickering:
Dad: “I can be a grumpy old bastard.”
Mom & Rachel in unison: “CAN be?”

And I end with telling you I love my parents more than anything in the world. They have raised me to be independent, tenacious, intellectual, perceptive, and, yes, even caring. For the readers who know me (yes all five of you), you can attest that, although I am sarcastic, caustic and blunt, I will move mountains just to bring sunshine into others’ lives. Exactly like my parents do for me every day. Add cheesy to that list of characteristics...

Why I Hate Traveling (part II)

Dear Readers,

Sorry to leave you hanging; I know you were all on the edge of your seat, wide-eyed, scratching your heads in wonder, imaginations run amok, curious as to what physically ails me when I travel. Speculate no longer, as I have spelled them out below!

Physical

1) My body hates flying. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain is a chip that activates when boarding a plane. My hands and feet begin to swell and my stomach starts twisting in knots. Despite the fact that I’m anxious about losing things or missing flights, I am not in anyway nervous about flying. Or at least not nervous enough to cause serious physical discomfort, but there it is. Take a good look at that photo and let me know if you can find my ankle. Nope, it has disappeared beneath swollen, bloated skin. This was taken after a 4 day trip to Mexico; I’m pretty sure it was about another 4 days until I saw any bones in my hands and feet.

2) My already sensitive skin overreacts to circulated plane air, causing me to break out like an NSYNC-bound teenybopper and my lips to chap and crack like the Saharan desert. No matter how much $25/bottle noncomedogenic, hypoallergenic, zitzapping lotion I slather on my face and neck, I still wake up the next morning wondering if I’m 26 or 16. My lips require one tube of chapstick a day simply to not peel and bleed.

3) Bloodshot eyes. Whether I wear my contacts or glasses, no amount of Visine can keep me from looking like a stoner the first 24 hours after traveling.

4) And this isn’t to mention what happens to my digestive track. Let’s just say it isn’t pretty and involves a lot of bloating and anal clenching and me doubled over in pain for the next few days…

5) As if these bodily ailments aren’t enough, I have not only inherited the motion sickness gene from both of my parents, I have received it in spades. Swaying, rocking, lurching, wobbling, and weaving all cause me to run the gamut from simply being unable to keep my eyes open to Technicolor yawns. Friends, take note of the following list as it may have certain significance to you when planning future trips; do you want your Rachel green, burping, asking for AC to be blasted and eventually display in colorful ways her last meal, or would you prefer her to just clonk out for a few hours? In order of least to most vomitous: planes, cars, trains, boats.

So why do I continue to subject myself to the torture of traveling? Because all these ailments and complaints have absolutely paled in comparison to the wonderful and astounding experiences I’ve had the moment the doors open unto my destination. So here’s to many more anxious bus boardings, sick train rides, missed plane connections, and, hopefully even after this post, amazing travel companions.

Below are some photos of recent travels:

Las Vegas with Christine, Robyn, and Hanh: 8/20-8/22

Salt Lake City with Courtney: 9/10-9/13

Palm Springs for Megan's bachelorette party: 10/1-10/3 (boozing at the airport!)

Yosemite with Kristin, Courtney and JohnScott: 10/8-10/11

San Diego to visit my Brother and Megan & Eli's wedding: 10/29-11/1

Guadalajara & Aguascalientes, Mexico with my Primo Marco: 12/3-12/6

Quick layover in LA to see Kristin andKeith: 12/6

Macomb & Ann Arbor, Michigan to visit family and friends: 12/21-12/29

***And here's to many more***

Why I Hate Traveling (part I)

So rather than work on my manuscript for work and get published for real, I thought I would compose a blog explaining why I hate traveling. I realize this may be hard to believe considering all the traveling I have voluntarily done the last few months, but it’s true. I’ve often been told, and repeated as well, that “sometimes it’s the journey and not the destination we should be focused on”. This may be true in figurative facets of life, but for literal situations it’s a load of bull shit. Whether trapped in a plane for hours on end with a seat oozer, cramped up in a car with a gasser, or motion sick on a rickety train, swaying boat or any other form of transportation, I HATE the getting there part.

Psychological

1) The great thing about living in California is all the public transit; I’ve often used CalTrain and BART trains and VTA busses. However, this “convenience” has its own set of hiccups, from negotiating the fastest and cheapest routes, finding the correct boarding areas, boarding the right buggy, to getting off at the right stop. I’ve often wondered what other commuters thought of the doe-eyed girl, map shaking in her hands, constantly checking her phone and harassing others by continually asking what the next stop was. Attempting to navigate public transit in the second-most densely populated city in the US still causes me to break out in cold sweats, tuck my tail beneath my legs and whimper in utter defeat. And this is often just the start of my journeys…

2) For anyone who has ever had the displeasure of accompanying me on a flight, I tend to be slightly neurotic about forgetting and losing things. I often walk around with my ID and ticket in my hand, as if they could somehow crawl out of my wallet, jump from my purse and scurry away. If you question whether I remembered to pack something, even though I KNOW I tucked it away in my bag, I will have to tear through my luggage until I have located said item. Although an amusing game for my companions, it creates a lot of wrinkled clothes and only serves to increase my anxiety over whether or not something fell out of my bag while rifling through it and if I remembered to grab my ID and ticket off the floor.

3) After finally making it to the gate, rummaging through my luggage 6 times, and checking to make sure I am still holding my paperwork 12 times, I now have to worry about boarding and seating drama. Since my seat is usually in the very last row thanks to habitually purchasing tickets last minute, I am usually first to board (after firstclass, you bourgeois assholes). However, somehow by the time I’ve walked to the very last row of seats, overhead compartment space is nowhere to be found. Really? On a plane that seats 200+ , the first 20 assholes have somehow managed to multiply their luggage into mutant bags that take up the entire compartment space? Now I have the damning choice to either attempt to cram my bags under my seat or play Jenga with other people’s belongings while being glared at and elbowed by others doing the same.

4) Although I am a fairly small person, I still require legroom and at least one arm rest. Or so I thought. Apparently being young and somewhat still slim (not after this past Christmas’ cookie binge…) there is an unwritten rule somewhere stating that if I have a middle seat, I get neither of my arm rests and if my leg room is not occupied by my carry-on, it is reserved for my seatmates’ coats. If I am lucky enough to score a window or aisle seat, the middle seat is almost always occupied by what I refer to as a seat oozer: a rather large person with a rather large butt, belly, legs and arms. Window seats afford me the luxury of having my ass squished under the arm rest and aisle seats have my elbows and legs constantly bumped by patrons and flight attendants passing by due to said oozer’s oozing body parts. How is this psychological you may ask? It takes an enormous amount of willpower and patience to not go completely fucking apeshit and start shoving oozing body parts back on their side.

5) In the past year and a half, I have taken 11 trips requiring flights; do the math and this equals 22 flights. Of these 22 flights, a grand total of SIX have been direct flights. This equates to a lot of layovers. Which equates to a lot of running, missed luggage and a second round of searching for overhead compartment space and battles for seat space. This also means that what should be a 4.5 hour flight plus 2 hours of airport time now becomes a whole day ordeal, or as is the case when I fly East, it means I am often resigned to taking red eyes. Try being pleasant to family and friends after an all night flight of seat oozing, crying babies, and recirculated air. It’s not easy I tell you…

Along with this assortment of psychological symptoms, I also suffer from an array of physical ailments, which shall be presented to you soon…

Kitty and I travel in similar fashions: SLEEPING

Why it might be time to stop drinking

A special shout out to my liver for making this post possible, especially as I sip rum and nog on this beautiful Christmas morn. Enjoy your holidays, all!

I like to drink. I enjoy drinking. I LOVE TO BOOZE IT UP. Ok, maybe that’s taking it too far, but for those of you who have uncorked a bottle of wine, unscrewed a bottle of liquor, or uncapped a bottle of beer with me, you’ve seen the glimmer in my eye and the pep in my step. Cue in concerned gasps, “Rachel! Are you an alcoholic?!” No, no where near; nonetheless, I’ve certainly asked myself that question a few times throughout my life. As an experiment three years ago, I went booze free for four months. Successful? Yes. Easy? Definitely. Burdensome? Nope. Fun? Meh…Not as much as when there is a martini glass glued to my hand.

While I’m no longer concerned with being a souse, I am concerned that maybe it’s time to at least cut back on the saucing, and here’s a lovely little narrative that delineates why.

Our journey begins about a year ago when my NorCal BFF, Megan, took me on my first trip to Napa Valley and my love affair with wine began. I still remember calling my mother and telling her, “I found this red wine I really like. I think it’s called port.” To which she replied, “Jesus Christ. Of course my daughter would like port. It’s not even wine; it’s practically liquor!” Since then, my liver and I have had had a love-hate relationship with this libation. (I love to pour it down my gullet, while my liver hates sieving it from my bloodstream.)

Couple this newfound wine affinity with the greatest dive bar ever, Fred’s, within walking distance of my apartment in California, and a year later I have beaten, drowned, dehydrated and trained my liver into an awe-inspiringly efficient filtration system.

After a restless red eye into Guadalajara, tacos de rata and freshening up with a little Head & Shoulders, I was ready to hit the town with Marco and his Mexican posse. And so began the true testament of my liver’s ability to outdistance even Mexicans. Our first stop was to a traditional cantina where I was introduced to songs, chants and cheers and a terrible beer called Pacifico. Next up, to appease la Gringa, we went to a blues bar, where, no longer being able to endure Pacificos, I decided to move on to tequila shots. Some eyebrows were raised in my direction, but a Mexican Flag was eventually ordered for me. Ok, American Girl, you want tequila, we’ll show you how to do it right. Smash a lime slice in salt, take a bite, thrown down the shot and then sip up a shooter glass of tomato juice. More eyebrows were raised when I then exclaimed, “This is how I’m serving all my tequila shots from now on!” Becoming anxious that I would soon drop to the floor, they decided to take us salsa dancing to work the liquor out of our systems. However, one shouldn’t salsa without a little liquid refreshment, and it being Mexico and all, you probably shouldn’t drink the water. Coronas for all! Dancing was had, more beers were drank and eventually the bar closed for the night. However, home we did not go, but rather to a techno club. My feet were aching, my legs sore from dancing and voice hoarse from laughing, but we soldiered on and finished the night strong at 5am with strobe lights, glow sticks and vodka and Redbulls. And by we, I mean me; I was ready to go to the next club, but alas my escorts were ready for some shut eye.

Now here is the heart of my journey to self-realization that I have been taking my dear liver for granted, my first Mexican wedding. The night started off pretty tame, a lovely dinner, a brandy and coke, watching the beautiful bride and groom have their first dances. Then came a torrent of traditional Mexican wedding dances. You know what helps you understand a foreign language better and improves dancing skills? Alcohol! Another brandy and coke and I was out on the dance floor getting my groove on. What?! Another version of salsa I have to learn on the fly? Ok, another brandy and coke then! Another choreographed tango line? Yesshhh, another brandy and coke!! Rinse and repeat this a few times and I was having a goooood time. However, all good things must come to an end, and the band started packing up around 3am. I started to gather my belongings, but no one was leaving. Hesitant to bother my translator for the umpteenth time that night to ask what the hell was going on, I quietly sipped what may have been my 20^th brandy and coke while rubbing my frigid hands over my swollen toes. 3:15am and another band walks in and sets up. You’ve got to be kidding me?! I call over Marco and ask him what in God’s green Earth is going on, and his response will forever be etched in my memory, “Of course. It’s Banda,” all the while shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly and returning to his prior conversation, as if all weddings have a second band that comes past 3am. The music starts again, and so begins another round of dancing. At this point my feet refuse to be trapped by strappy sandals and I take a seat. Several of Marco’s cousins join me and a round of tequila shots are ordered. Uh oh, this could go down quickly. As more and more guests join the table, more and more shots are ordered. And more and more eyes are drawn to me. Hmmm, Gringa seems to be holding her own. We’ll fix that! A Spanish drinking chorus is begun, a glass of whiskey is thrust into my hand, and the crowd looks at me expectantly. I ask what I’m supposed to do and am told, “You can say: Bottoms up!” Ummm, ok. I take a sip of my glass, and the crowd cheers. But wait, I’m being shouted at again, “Fondo fondo foooooooondo!!!” I take another sip, the crowd roars, but the chanting starts once again. After several rounds of this, I finish my glass and magically another one appears in my hand. Crap, what do I do?! I ask again and am given the same response, “You can say: Bottoms up!” Ooooh, what the hell; I tilt my glass back and pour down the entire contents in one fell swig. The crowd goes silent for several seconds, and then a new chant is started: “Rachel for president! Rachel for president!” A few more tequila shots, and we end the night no longer strangers from different countries, but primos, brought together by our unusually high alcohol tolerance.

However, if Mexican 20-somethings are impressed with my drinking skills, then perhaps it may be time for me - a corn-fed, Midwestern, Caucasian girl- to cut down on my drinking, After all, I did promise my liver I’d treat it well in the new year…