I might blog soon. When I drag myself out of this hole.
In spite of the utter horribleness of this whole ordeal, there have been some bright spots. And like I said, when I drag myself out of the pit of grief, I'll tell you all about it.
Until then, here's a funny rerun from a livejournal I kept in 2003:
In 1989 I owned a pretty blue and white floral print dress. It had 3/4 length sleeves and a fitted bodice that buttoned up the front. It was the first "form fitting" dress I had ever owned because, up until that point, I was really chubby. (In the years from 7th - 9th grade I grew 8 inches without gaining a pound, therefore stretching out all of my fat.)
One boring weekend afternoon, I convinced my then 10-year old little brother to try on the dress. We completed the look with a lovely white hair bow and a pair of pointy white pumps. He looked stunning.
So of course, we concluded that he needed to model it for my mother, who was downstairs in the living room reading. Jason's first tentative steps in the white, pointy pumps were wobbly at best. By the time he reached the staircase, it seemed he had caught the hang of walking in high heels.
He managed to make it down the first two steps of the long staircase with little effort. Then something went terribly wrong. An ankle gave out. Knees buckled. Arms flailed. He struggled to upright himself, but it was too late. As he flung himself toward the bannister, the shift in his weight caused him to plummet headlong down the stairs.
Startled by the commotion, my mother turned toward the staircase only to see a blur of blue and white flower print material toppling down the stairs head over foot. She jumped to her feet.
"Oh goodness! Are you alright?!" Then confusion furrowed her brow as she questioned, "Jaime, why are you wearing that dress?"
He finally landed at the bottom of the stairs, in a rather unladylike position. Her confusion turned to absolute bewilderment and then a cross between disgust and amusement as she stated the obvious. "You're not Jaime."