My Arch-Enemy

My arch-enemy is the driver who came into my lane and changed my life forever. I did not know his name until I received the police report.

I will call him Sean.

Sean is about 5′ 10″, portly and looks dopey. He looks like the typical redneck sort you would see on a show like  Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo.

He never checked on me. He caused all this destruction and never displayed the conscience to see if I was okay. Instead, Sean was walking around the crash site asking the most ridiculous questions. “Did anybody call 911?”, he said to another driver who retorted, “Yes, don’t you see the ambulance coming?”. “Can I call my wife?”, he asked another person. I heard someone say, “Call whomever you want!”. “What are you doing?” he questioned the police officer who was trying to open my car door. The police officer yelled at him, “What do you think I’m doing?”. Even in my condition, I could tell Sean was missing more than a few marbles.

They whisked me away in the ambulance and took me to St. Luke’s Hospital in Bethlehem, PA.  After my discharge from the hospital, the police station summoned me to give my statement. The police officer kept me there for an hour and I felt he really cared about well-being. He stated that Sean was receiving  a citation and I would be getting the police report by mail as soon as he finished it up.

Several weeks passed before the document arrived in the mail. I reluctantly opened the envelope and took out the 15 page document. I rifled though the first few pages and noticed his name under the name Driver 2. The bold, black letters stared me in the face- Sean Kirby. The police report indicated he lives in Bangor; PA, a town filled with slate quarries.

Next, I got my laptop to check if I could find anything about Sean. The first website I visited was the most logical given this day of technology: Facebook. I typed the name into the search bar and found Sean Kirby from Bangor; PA. I clicked on the profile picture and eureka! It was a public profile. See, I told you he was missing a few marbles.

I scrolled down and noticed a post dated February 5, 2011, which was the day after the accident. Oh look, a comment! What I saw next pushed me to the brink, the words burned my eyes. Here is what it said: “I’m so depressed. I was in a car accident yesterday and my truck got totaled .”

I screamed to my mother, “Get me the phone. I’m calling my lawyer!”.

Advertisements

“They All Think I’m Dead”- The True (Very Brief) Account After The Impact

After the impact, I blacked out. Seconds or minutes passed, that fact is still questionable.

I remember looking at the floor and noticing that my right foot was in bad shape. It was limp and mangled.

I saw that the car’s center console flew into the passenger’s seat, and the whole passenger side was caved in.

It seemed surreal to me. I was watching myself looking at the destruction. As reality kicked in, I could smell and taste the burning, bitter powder the airbag released. I could hear the blaring of my car’s horn and some commotion outside.

Within seconds, an intense feeling of anxiety, panic and fear washed over me. All I could think was, “They all think I’m dead. They all think I’m dead.”

I unbuckled the seat-belt and started pounding on the window, while in excruciating pain.

Someone finally opened the door after what seemed to be an eternity.

My Latest Addiction. They Rhyme With Wookies

Image

Houston, we have a problem. Okay, maybe I’m the only one with a problem.

I like to have a cup of coffee and maybe a cookie or three while relaxing at the end of a long day. Most cookies just don’t cut it. I feel a little cheated.

I remembered a recent flight I took to Sarasota and remembered enjoying the Biscoff Cookies with my coffee. Granted, there were only two. They equaled the 100 calorie maximum allowed by airlines though, so they’re off the hook. However, they satisfied me in a way two cookies hadn’t before.

Now my coffee isn’t complete unless I have at least one of them to accompany it. That scares me because I’ve been trying to lose at least thirty pounds (That’s a whole other blog!). I suppose we need to sacrifice some things for another or I need to travel more.

While I save up my pennies for the next destination, goodbye, my beloved Oreos. Hello, my “In-Flight Treat”.

Say My Name

The origin of my first name, Sherry, is questionable.

Some people say it’s French and means “darling” while others say it is Israeli in nature and means “beloved”.

This is what I do know. My parents were debating what I should be called. They flip-flopped between three names: Laura, Temple and Sherry. Ultimately, Sherry was chosen for me. My mother said my father, quite the prolific drinker, “named you Sherry because he couldn’t call you Vodka”.

During my youth, I was embarrassed by my name. Many would break out into the song performed by Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. In my adulthood, I’ve learned to embrace it. When people ask me to spell it, I always say, “It’s like the wine or the song”. Usually, everyone gets it, but I’ve gotten my share of Cherie, Sherrie, Cherry, Sheree and Sharon’s.

I am blessed not to have been named Laura. I would have gotten a lot of questions about Luke or how my little house on the prairie was doing. If I was called Temple, I would be forced to have a career as an environmental activist or an adult entertainer.

My opinion is once a child is born, the parents know what to call their newborn because it just fits.

What about you?