That time I hit a lady with my car.

The family got together last night and we were drunk, slap happy, and crazy as always.  My brother and sister in law are moving, and the discussion turned to re-registering cars in their new home state of North Carolina.  Brooke mentioned that it is not a No-Fault state so they needed to be careful.  She then referred to the time a biker came out of nowhere on the street and Brooke hit her with her car. This reminded me of the time a lady walked into my car.

She did. I swear.

It's a funny story. Probably not to the lady, but SHE WAS FINE, GUYS.

I had left rehearsal at the Atlantic Theater and was driving home in the rain.  I called my mom and asked if she wanted me to pick up dinner.  She wanted Jon Smith subs.  I turned into the Publix shopping center on PGA and Military, and stopped at the stop sign. As I went to turn left, a lady stepped out from the median and walked into the side of my car. She fell down and started dramatically screaming about her back.

The comedy in this is that I was on my way home from puppet rehearsal, with a puppet sitting in the passenger seat. I had buckled her in so she wouldn't get tossed about, as the puppet had been built and designed for a character I do that is basically Bart Simpson with a head cold.  It was my first puppet, and I loved her.

WHERE DID SHE COME FROM?!?!?

Anyway, it was raining.  I called 911. The lady stayed on the ground, piteously screaming, "WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?"  as I held an umbrella over her head, getting soaked myself.  I apologized and told her to just stay still.  The cops came.  I started sobbing.  The whole time, people stood on the sidewalk staring.  The cops had me move my car under cover. I told them what happened.  Two witnesses told them what happened. The lady's friend told them I came out of nowhere, speeding and hit her poor, poor friend. Ungh. People suck.

I was standing there and heard my name being called. My best friend's mother-in-law was there, hugging me as I sobbed and told her my mom was on the way to pick me up, as I didn't want to drive. She stayed with me until my mom pulled in, and took over the hugging.  The puppet still sat in the car.  I grabbed the puppet. Waited as my mom pulled the car into a parking space.  I was wet and emotionally exhausted.  The cops told me that the lady was going to be fine. Jon Smith subs had closed. We didn't get delicious subs that night.

It's not funny. But it is. WHO HITS SOMEONE WHILE THEY HAVE A PUPPET IN THE PASSENGER SEAT?!?!?

Another depressing blog. Don't read if you are sensitive or are my Mom.

The Ray Rice thing happened.

It wasn't on my radar until yesterday, when my male co-worker brought it up to my GM, whose office is next to mine.   The same male co-worker who said that Jameis Winston's alleged rape victim was asking for it. He said to my boss, "How could she marry him after that?"

I kept my mouth shut, as it's impossible to argue with him. When the Winston case came up in conversation between us, he told me to go fuck myself when I tried to defend the victim. I was defending the victim because I was one myself. Not of rape, but of physical and verbal abuse.

It was college.  I was introduced to a guy while performing in the play Baby With the Bathwater. I should have seen the warning signs as he was attracted to the Crazy Nanny character I was playing. We went out. We started dating. He drank.  I didn't.

One night, he had a few too many beers.  I said something that made him mad. He threw my open makeup bag at me, scattering brushes all over. He screamed at me that he was sleeping on the couch that night.  I went out after a while and tried to talk to him, He grabbed a glass of ice water from his coffee table and flung it in my face.  I sputtered. I cried.  I left. Soaking wet.

He called the next day. Apologized. Made it seem like it was an isolated incident. He just had a bit of a temper.

That temper flared a lot. We had a fight and I wouldn't answer his phone calls. I was in my apartment alone. He had a key. I had closed and locked the door to my room.  He tried to kick it down, screaming at me to let him in. I had headphones on and pretended I couldn't hear him, while texting my roommate to help me. I don't know why I didn't call the police.  I didn't want to be that woman.

He left and my roommate showed up with her boyfriend.  I sobbed hysterically into her shoulder as I told her what had happened. She comforted me and told me to never speak to him again,

The next day he came over and knocked. We told him to go away.  He left me flowers and a card apologizing.  His parents called and told me they would pay for everything if I just didn't do anything.

I went back.  I don't know why.

We moved in together. I thought it would be different.

It wasn't.  He pushed me during a fight. I fell over my bed and landed on my arm. I pushed him out of the room, locked the door and huddled with our dog.  He started beating on the door, telling me to let the dog out.  It was his dog, let him out. I called my sister. I packed a bag. I couldn't take it any more. I opened the door, tore his glasses off of his face, and slapped him as hard as I could. While he was distracted, I left. I went to my sisters empty apartment and cried.

I went back. This time because the apartment complex wouldn't let me out of the lease unless I had a police report. We had separate lives, separate rooms. We were ok for a while.  Then one day I decided to take a shower with my music on. He put a boombox in front of the bathroom door, and turned his music louder. I turned mine louder. The battle continued. Finally, I stormed out of the bathroom with my robe tightly tied around me. I unplugged the boombox, and tossed it to him telling him it was enough.  The boombox cut his arm.  He grabbed me.  The robe opened.  I hit him.  He called the police.  I called my friend to come get me. The next day I found a room in a friends apartment, and left with everything. My furniture went into storage. My life was in boxes.  But I was free.

I worked at the college bookstore and he came in one day. His hands were bandaged, and he was crying.  Begging me to come back.  Telling me his life was miserable and that he wanted to kill himself.  The dog I had to leave behind had mauled him. I told him to leave. I cried. The manager called me into her office and fired me. I had missed too many days dealing with the asshole, and had caused a scene. They were uncomfortable having me around.

I wish I had never gone back.  I wish I had been stronger. I wish that I hadn't played his game.  At the time I felt I deserved that kind of treatment, that I wasn't worthy of someone who could love me without hating me as well. I was broken.  I'm not anymore.  Fuck that guy.  Fuck Ray Rice. Fuck the NFL who looked the other way until they were FORCED to fucking do something. Fuck that noise.

Just...fuck it.