infrastructure

"Why don't you vant anyone involved in your treatment?" Dr. Samia asked.
I exhaled with force and said, "There is nobody. I am not from here. My family would not be conducive to my treatment."
"You don't have a friend, a co-vorker...a neighbor...somebody who could bring you some of your belongings, you know?"
I wanted to scream at her. What did I just say? There is nobody. I can't call a co-worker; I am the boss. The boss can't call a co-worker! Especially not these co-workers!
This time I inhaled forcefully and looked up at the ceiling. "No! There is nobody!"
We were in the small office next to the smoking room on the unit in County Central. The staff called it the second hand smoke room. It smelled like a bar. Dr. Samia's papers and my chart were spread out on the desk. Dr. Samia's handbag, burgundy fake crocodile with large silver hardware, not designer but trying to pass, sat on the extra chair. Her shoes matched the bag exactly. I wondered what store would carry faux designer bags with exactly-matching shoes. Probably another country. Her suit was tweed with burgundy trim around the lapels and cuffs. Chanel-ish, but not Chanel. The wool was the course itchy kind, the weave of the fabric was loose, the fibers were large, the buttons were fake horn and the pants and jacket were lined. Bon Marche. I couldn't put my finger on which low priced knock off label it may be. Probably from another country. Dr. Samia was Muslim. She came to the unit on the holiday of Eid dressed in a knee length tunic covered in elaborate embroidery and beading. Under the tunic she wore pants that were very tapered at the ankle. Her hair and makeup were carefully done. She had a light complexion-very light-fair, even. Her brown eyes were enormous and her hair was long and shiny and dark brown. She was beautiful and I told her so. She was very pleased. I think she took the compliment as a sign of progress. She spoke with a middle eastern accent that turned w's into v's. "I don't vant you to vorry about vork right now, you know?" She would say while nodding vigorously.
"Tell me vhy you don't think your family vould be helpful at this time." She pushed away from the desk, crossed her legs and gave me her full attention.

"Katherine! Phone call!" one of the staff called into the dining area. Phone call? It was well after 5 pm eastern. The human resources department representative was the only person that had my number. I thought perhaps Linda was working late. I picked up the receiver.
"This is Katherine."
"Kat, it's mom. You ok?" How did my mother get this number? This is a private number. My release form didn't give permission for any person to have access to this number. Who would have given her the number?
"Uh..yeah, ma..I'm fine."
"Well, I just called to tell you that your brother Jeff was stabbed at Maine Street tavern, Your brother Steve is missing; just up and left, didn't tell nobody where he was off to, and I am going to divorce your step father. He's been havin' an affair on me for I don't know how long. I have proof he's been payin' her bills and I don't know what all....He told me I bankrupted him! can you believe that?....Kat? You there?"
"Mom, I am in the hospital. Do you understand I am in the hospital for depression? I told you I would call you when I got out. How did you get this number?"
"I got it from Rick at your store."
"No, you didn't. Rick doesn't have it."
"Well, Rick gave me the number to Carol, who gave me the number to the Human Resources Lady, who gave me the number to the Benefits lady..."
"Wait, you called all of these people at my corporate office? Do you have any idea how inappropriate that is? Of course you don't! You don't care how you humiliate me as long as you can call me and unload this Jerry Springer bullshit! Don't call me here again and don't call my work again for any reason. Goodbye, mother!" I hung up the phone. I was humiliated beyond words. As if Linda the human resources assistant needed to know my mother didn't have my phone number.

"I am really really mad at her, you know!?!" Dr. Samia was mad. Her eyebrows furrowed together and her mouth was all frowned up. "Why would she do that? That was just...stupid, you know!?! It is like she is trying not to help you, like she is trying to hurt you, you know!?!"

I know.

the upward spiral

My mind is racing lately; signifying the upswing into hypo mania. I can't keep a thought in my head for more than 2 seconds and I want to have sex with everyone I see. Watch Out!

pants on fire

In the wake of all this James Frey broo-ha-ha, I want to declare that nearly every word of this blog has been twisted, embellished and exaggerated for your reading pleasure. There is but a modicum of truth in the whole damn thing. Here's a clue; all fiction is based in truth. All truth is subject to perception. Why didn't he just call it a "fictionalized memoir" and be done with it? Oh, yeah...leave Oprah out of this. I loves me some Oprah. Oprah should be Queen of the Frickin' World. Imagine how cute we would all be....

histrionic preservation

Palookaville's Historical District contains a residential neighborhood called Rogers Grove. It is one of those neighborhoods that are on the cusp of gentrification. I live in a 150 year old building called the Herman Apartments. It is a 19 unit complex that is commonplace in any Chicago neighborhood, but highly unusual in Palookaville. Most of the architectural details are still intact; high ceilings, plaster walls, large dark wood crown molding and trim, dark wood floors and french doors on the dining room, etc. When I moved in, it was owned by a hillbilly woman named Earlene and her pot bellied husband, Jim. Earlene and Jim would rent to anybody who had the first month's rent and deposit. Many of the residents were known drug peddlers. Rumor has it Big Paula, who lived in the basement unit, payed Earlene her rent in marijuana. The kid in Unit 5 would run out of his door anytime a car horn sounded. He was running a drive-thru crack service right out of the building. When the guys who delivered my furniture from Chicago witnessed one of his transactions, they were nervous and asked, "What kind of town is this?"
One day I came home to find flyers on every door with a picture of the guy from number 3 (Key Largo Brown's cousin, who during the Prince/Purple Rain/Morris Day and the Time phase that took Palookaville by storm, wore an assymetrical jerry (jheri?) curl, a metallic trench coat and eyeliner which, sadly, pulled him crazy amounts of ass). Emblazoned across the top were the words, "Armed and Dangerous-Wanted for First Degree Murder-If Seen, Call the Palookaville Police Department." He had shot a guy in the face the night before. The guy owed him money. For crack, of course. Key Largo's cousin had no less than 4 "baby mamas" that stopped by on a regular basis to fight with him. One fight I will never forget is the time that the youngest and most ghetto-oriented mama came by "...cause (she) wanted to kick it." Now for all the die-hard honkies out there, that means she wanted to make sweet love to him. Or something like that. Now, Key Largo's cousin was down with the program, but he had some standards. "Where my baby at?" he axed.
"They at Big Mama an 'ems." she replied.
"My baby bettah not be innat hot ass cah." He gave her fair warning.
"They not! I tole you they at Big Mama's!" She was getting loud.
"Girl, don't get all loud up in here. Ima tell you one. mo. time; my baby bet. not. be. in. nat. hot. ass. cah." Silence. Door shuts. And then the hot nasty funky muffled love sounds commence. Approximately 11 minutes later, the door to number 3 opens. Key Largo's cousin and the mama exchange parting words. I look out the window. Two stories down next to the curb is parked a small grey Toyota Corolla. Through the window, I can see a baby strapped in a car seat. A hot. ass. cah. seat. Damn. Just as the mama gets as far as the car's bumper, Key Largo's cousin appears out of nowhere and with one fluid motion removes the belt from his ivory canvas "manpris" which match his ivory canvas hat, and strikes the mama full force in the face. She fell in the street, screaming and covering her face with her hands. I waited. I watched him hit her once more across her shoulders and raise the belt again. Then, I reached for the phone to call the police.
Number 10 was the lair of one Harris Marvelle. Harris fancied himself a ladie's man. The only woman not paid to succumb to his charms was Earlene. Harris paid his rent on his own schedule, ran a huge orange extension cord from under his door to the outlet in the main hallway to power everything in his apartment, was the loudest individual known to walk the face of the earth, and constantly had a foul odor seeping from under his door from his tropical fish tank that he never ever cleaned. Harris liked to cruise the parking lot of the Big Chip Casino. Desperate female gambling addicts prostitute themselves in the parking lot. Harris would bring them back to his apartment. Because I lived directly below Harris, I was often disturbed from sleep in the middle of the night by urgent knocking on my door. "Who is it?" I would ask through the door.
"Is Harrold in there?" a female voice would ask.
"Who?" I would ask back.
"Uhh, Harr....Harrison?"
"Hell, no! There is no Harrold or Harrison or HARRIS in here! His nasty ass lives upstairs!Don't knock on this door again!" I was very tough through the door. Don't meet me in a dark alley with a door between us.
"Oh, sorry..." They would say as they ran up the next flight of stairs. They were the pros, coming back to try to rustle up a trick.
"Hello, Earlene. How are you? Did you do something different to your hair?" He could sound just like Billy Dee Williams. Earlene actually giggled. "Oh, gawd, no! Same ol' hair I've had fer years!" She reached up and smoothed her Dorothy Hamill. Harris always greeted her with a compliment. I don't think Earlene had ever been complimented in her life. She absolutely lit up every single time. Now, Harris was probably 34. Earlene was every bit of 60. Harris was a former Division 1 lineman. He had to be 6'5" and 320. Earlene was...well, an old white lady. She wore sweatshirts with puffy ducks adorned with country blue bows on them. She usually wore the same one for days on end. Her skin had that weird grey undertone of somebody who has smoked a considerable amount of weed daily for many years. The most freaky thing about Earlene was her teeth. They were the same exact color as her skin. She wore a huge pair of eyeglasses. They were square shaped, gold plated and tinted a peachy tan color to about mid point on the lens. The ear pieces were shaped like rounded Zs. They had to be circa 1978.
One evening, I was going down the stairs as Harris was coming up.
"May I ask you a question?" he asked.
I paused on the bottom stair.
"Why don't you have a man? You're so fine."
I laughed and continued down the stairs.
"I'm serious! Seriously!"
I just walked out the door. As if...
To be continued.

funny puppy thing II

Recently, Henry and I went to the Palookaville Pet Store. Henry is a minor celebrity in Palookaville. People regularly stop to rub his belly, scratch his head, etc. Drivers stop in the street to say hello to him or ask me what kind of dog he is, etc. There was a little girl in the store, maybe 3 years old with platinum fairy hair and huge blue eyes. She asked if she could pet "... the pretty doggie." Whenever anybody pets Henry's head for more than 2 seconds, he falls on the floor and presents his belly. The little girl pointed and announced, "THAT'S A PRIVATE!"

medius ocris

The Palookaville Mental Health Walking Team 2006 is in bad shape, literally and figuratively. A third of the team has been either suspended, injured or out for personal reasons. Tula, our Peruvian MVP was the latest casualty. This was quite a setback. Tula is a natural walker; small, slight and built low to the ground for speed (Her Incan ancestors were the builders of a roadway system that is the precursor to today's highways, yet they did not discover the wheel. This suggests most travel was done on foot). Our current line up is no match for even the league's worst team, the Dawgpatch MH Walking Team, known in the league as "The Waddlers" due to the size of most of the members. The morale of the team has sunk tremendously in large part because of our winter practice headquarters, the Palookaville Athletic Complex.
The PAC, like most of Palookaville, is still stuck in the 80's. The color scheme is black, gray and red. Cheesy rounded fonts spell out "sun tan" and "massage" down the sides of the doorways. A huge graphic of a guy with permed highlighted hair wearing a tank top with neon lettering and the slogan, "Fitness means dedication" hangs between the men's and women's locker rooms.Team members joke that it is the perfect location for a Napoleon Dynamite sequel. Some of the regular members have been assigned walkon roles in the team version of the film. The skinny guy, Matt, who polices the direction of the track by passive agressively asking, "Uh, is this the right direction?" is a shoe in for a Kip sidekick or stand-in. Dr. Samson, the elvish psychologist should appear as himself, offering therapy to Uncle Rico or Tina the Llama. The ultimate walkon is of course one Eric Snidley, who would be a perfect assistant to Rex, the martial arts instructor who asks, "Do ya think I'm a loser cuz I go home ta Starla every night?" while gesturing to a picture of a male to female transvestite bodybuilder in drag. Snidely has come to represent something personal to each remaining member of the Walking Team.
Snidley owns a huge used car dealership in Palookaville. Adjacent to the lot is his office. The lot and office complex boasts no less than 14 signs bearing, "Snidley Pre-Owned Automobiles" The sizes of the signs vary. The color scheme is royal blue against a white background bordered with silver background. Some of the signs are backlit and stay illuminated at all times. They are on the roof, in every window, on each telephone pole flanking the lot, on each side of the two entrances/exits and on a massive billboard on the north side of the lot. They are visible from every possible angle on Maine Street. Across the bottom of every single sign is written, "Eric Snidely, Owner and President." Kiki pointed this out during practice. This display of ostentatious boastfulness represents the ultimate in poor taste to Kiki, who aspires to civility, subtlety and graciousness. It really bothers her because her mother is ill mannered and inappropriate, and Kiki has tried to become the opposite all of her life. We spent the remainder of that practice declaring ourselves "Owner and President" of different things in our lives. For example, I am "Owner and President" of my own big white ass. Siobhan swears she is going to show up at practice weraing a nametag that says, "Siobhan Sullivan, Owner and President of a Chin Strap Dildo."
Roisin is a musician, so the eighties hair metal that Snidely insists play between 6 and 8 a.m. sets her teeth on edge. She has written anonymous letters to the owner and site manager. She has conducted an informal poll of all members of the club present between these hours. Most of the members were wearing headphones they had to remove when Roisin approached them. Many couldn't discern between his music and the regular station. She found one ally in a middle aged woman wearing a fuschia shiny tank top and a pair of floral running shorts that split up the sides to the waist band. Her skin was loose and her thighs were mottled with celluite and roadmapped with vericose veins. The shorts just concealed her deflated ass. Yet she ran around the track with abandon. The woman told Roisin she had been a member for years and had complained several times to no avail. When she asked Don, the friendly elderly desk attendant why Snidley could demand his muscial preference despite objections from other members, Don just replied, "We have to have that hard rock stuff for Eric." The reason it really bothered Roisin is despite being talented, her father never once complimented her. He didn't like her choice of classical guitar and insisted on blasting "new country" like Shania Twain while he worked in the garage. When Roisin expressed her dislike, he told her, "Tough shit, Miss Priss, I'll play what I want as long as I pay the bills around here."
A common thread among the Palookaville Walkers is a desire to live a life that isn't common to our experience. We all at some point struck out from Palookaville and had extraordinary adventures in big cities, foreign countries or destinations significant for thier oddness. Through some ill-fated accident, an illness, a death, a pregnancy, a marriage, a divorce, we've all returned to Palookaville to regroup before heading off again in search of our lives. The regrouping for some of us has taken quite a while. Now that we are back, most of us have settled back into the Palookaville way of life; television, fast food, mainstream films, suburban fashion and limited experiences. Except for Siobhan. She will not go calmly into that dark night. She follows an organic vegetable based raw diet, breast fed her daughter until she was three, regularly fasts, has had waist length dreadlocks, studied with a Reiki master and lived on a Hawaiian island in a tent. When Siobhan was in middle school, her mother sewed designer labels onto her K-mart jeans. The "cool" girls busted her on it publicly and she never lived it down. That's the last time Siobhan tried too fit in.
Siobhan hates Eric Snidely. He represents all things Palookaville; the flashy American gas guzzling car, the preoccupation with 80's music, the Alpha male posturing, his overall cheesiness.
"He makes me feel bad about myself." She told me on the way home from practice. My heart seized up a little. She was speaking my truth. The deep down truth you don't speak, even to yourself. "He reminds me that I live here, a place where a vapid dork like him is considered a big deal."
I was relieved. She didn't exactly speak my truth. Eric Snidley makes me feel bad about myself for a million different reasons. He reminds me of my age. He reminds me of all the youthful indescretions that are sad and shameful. He reminds me that I am no longer attractive. He embarasses me. I am embarrassed to be my age, still regretting mistakes I made as a child. A directionless, parentless child. I am embarrassed to care about the opinion of this ridiculous person who is so base and common and simplistic; who shares none of my core values or beliefs. This parody of an alpha male gym ape.

one man

"...'A time comes when silence is betrayal.' That time has come for us in relation to Viet Nam."

origination deflation negation explanation

I have caved under the pressure of Team Shrink; Dr. Samson (Mini-Shrink, the Shrinky Dink, etc.) and Barden D. Arnette(Captain Nerdtron) and have been taking a generic antidepressant for nearly a week. My compulsive behavior is in check; no need to eat large quantities of carbohydrates or spend every penny I have on shit I don't really need. I have no organizational skills. I wake up every two hours and have difficulty getting out of bed. I can't think of a thing to write about, and if I have an idea, it is fleeting and difficult to develop. I can't seem to hold the idea in my mind long enough to develop any details or a coherent storyline. They say these side effects should wane in a couple of weeks. The first couple of days on the drug, strange thoughts would pop into my head, like a time lapse photo image of my face emaciating. I have no sense of urgency about my dirty dishes or laundry. Ordinarily, I would at least be concerned about these tasks, even if I didn't get to them. I will remain on the meds until the third week, and if these side effects aren't nearly gone, I will stop taking the drug.

I also started classes this week. Damn, textbooks are freakin' expensive! So, that is why I haven't been writing as much. Tales of County Central and Palookaville will be back soon.

sly-cotropics

"Is it unreasonable for me to want a diagnosis before taking any more pharmaceuticals?" I asked my mini-shrink.
Dr. Samson is about 50-ish. He's probably 5'1". He works out every morning with Eric Snidely of the Palookaville Snidelys at the Palookaville Athletic Complex, the teeming epicenter of Palookaville Society. They are usually there when the Palookaville Mental Health Alliance Walking Team 2006 convenes for practice. He freaks Siobhan out. "He's like a hair-covered adolescent. He strains so hard to keep up with Snidely. Did you see that? His eyes almost popped out of his head when he tried to lift that weight!"
Their form is terrible. When they lift the dumbells in a standing position, their upper torsos jerk backward violently. Snidely is a grunter/growler/yeller; one of those dudes who grunt, growl or yell when they lift a heavy weight. He insists on listening to 80's hair metal every morning over the Complex's system, much to the dismay of the Walking Team. He's also married to a former stripper, and will go out of his way to inform you of this and the fact that she's 15 years younger than he. It's embarrassing. When we were teenagers, he would hang out with some of the "cool" Palookaville guys. I remember talking with his friends at the beach one day. My friend Stacey inquired about Eric. "Who? Snidely?...aw, man, we're not hangin' out with that dude anymore. Last night we were out at club in Chicago and that guys dancin' like this..."Bob Fortis started imitating Snidely's dance moves. It looked like the dance Emilio Estevez does in "The Breakfast Club" and Billy Idol in his videos pre-plastic surgery and dreadlocks; sort of like throwing punches in time to the beat with a really serious look on his face."...we were like, 'Snidely, get away from us dancin' like that, ya cheesehead!'"
What's more embarassing is I rang in 1987 with Snidely's tongue in my mouth. Happy Frickin' New Year. Alcohol is Satan.

The Doc is slumped down in his chair with one leg up, resting the heal of his shoe on the seat. He looks like a strange bearded 12 year old who is so bored, he can no longer sit correctly.
"Nooo...it isn't...unreasonable." He puts his leg down and scoots back into the chair. "The thing is, it doesn't matter what your diagnosis is..." He puts both of his tiny hands in the air, palms out with fingers spread, "...there's really only ten total medications for any of 'em. You got some anti-depressants, some mood stabilizers and the anti-psychotics. The anti-depressants are preferable to the mood stabilizers because the side effects are generally more tolerable."
I have been off of any medication since October. Many of my compulsive behaviors have come back; cleaning, organizing, shopping, spending, editing and re-editing this blog, etc. I am still depressed and anxious. The level of anxiety is rising as the season moves along. Soon I suspect I will transition to my hypo-manic phase after this long depressive bout. The anxiety precedes the upswing. I am afraid I will take on too much and crash again in the fall. When I think about more than the immediate future, the cycle of thought that takes me to suicidal ideation kicks in, so I abruptly "thought-stop", a technique I learned at County Central. It involves identifying "trigger" thoughts and switching your focus to something else. The problem with thought-stopping is I can't get much thinking about long range goals done. I keep focused on what is in front of me, and that's how I can get through the day.
When I was in the hospital programs, I was taking 5 medications per day. I was so drugged, it took all of my energy to attend the 4 hours of the outpatient program. I would get out of bed, shower, put on something off of the floor, drive to the hospital, sit through the programs, drive home and climb back into bed. I did this for 5 weeks. Then, one Friday I woke up, looked at the pill organizer on my nightstand, and ignored it. Perhaps if I were 97 and in a nursing home, I could count on a staff to keep up this meds regimen. At 7 am, I was supposed to take Synthroid for my sluggish thyroid. After breakfast, I was supposed to take a Welbutrin XL-300 mg. At 3 pm, I was supposed to take 75 more mg of Welbutrin. At 8 pm, I was supposed to take 30 mg of Lexapro. At 10pm, I was supposed to take 50 mg of Trazadone. Who's life works that way? Who could remember it all? How could I ever keep this up and try to work at a normal job, let alone my job which requires complete schedule flexibility? Fuck it. Ridiculous bullshit.
"The thing about the meds is, the side effects are immediate. The benefits are gradual." Doc was using his arms and hands to demonstrate the initial intensity of the side effects(hand up high) versus the benefits(other hand down low) and the graduation of diminishing effects(slowly moves hand down) and increased benefits(slowly moves other hand up).

"Do you think it's weird that he has guinea pigs?" I was walking with Tula and Siobhan during practice. "I mean, a man in his 50's? A psychologist? With children's pets?"
Tula is from Peru. English is her second language. "How so? Does he eat them?" she asked. Seriously.
"No! I didn't mean weird like that...wait... do they eat guinea pigs in Peru?"
Tula didn't flinch. "Yes."
There was a pause in the conversation for Siobhan and I to absorb this. Bon Jovi blared in the background.."Cuz I'm A Cowboy...On a Steel Horse I Riiide...I'm Wanted (Waantteed) Dead Or Aliiiiive!"
"I will have many questions about guinea pig cuisine in a moment, but let's get back to my shrink being a 50 year old dude with guinea pigs. That he's named. He's named them-the guinea pigs."
"What are their names?" asked Siobhan.

"There's Buster, Ginger and Heather." Doc had his foot back in his chair and was counting off his guinea pigs on his fingers.
"Why would you ever name a guinea pig 'Heather'?" I ask him. No matter what we begin talking about during a session, it digresses to some inane topic like this.
"Because I didn't like Ashley." he looked pleased.
"Why would you ever name a guinea pig 'Ashley'?" I ask incredulously. "Did you want this guinea pig to grow up to be a stripper or just really common?"
I don't think he followed, just shrugged and told me he suspects Buster "slept with" Ginger. It seems she weighs a little more than Heather, indicating she might have "some buns in the oven."

"Now, wait...have you ever eaten guinea pig?" I ask Tula.
"Oh, Yes! It is a delicacy in Peru. My grandmother grows them, eh, breeds them for that purpose." Another pause while Siobhan and I process. "I've Seen a Million Faces...and I've Rocked Them Aa-All...Cuz I'm A Cowboy!..."
"How are they prepared?" Siobhan asks.
"They are broiled and served with a rich sauce. It's delicious!"Tula went on to explain that there is a custom observed when eating the head of the guinea pig. "There is a bone, shaped like a wolf. You take it out and paint it black and place it in the bottom of a shotglass. After you take a shot, your fortune can be read."

Folie `a Deux

Angelo Pantaglione was sitting on the couch in his parent's basement. He was 19 years old. He had a part time job at his mother's dress shop in the Palookaville Mall. He spent four hours per day at the shop, unpacking ladies clothing, organizing the stock area, lifting and moving fixtures, etc. He spent the remainder of the day in his parent's house, either in his room or in the basement, watching television and trying to avoid Big Tony. Five years had passed since he'd had sex with Natasha on this couch. Since that time, he'd been with a few of the C and D list girls in Palookaville. Natasha had told two of these girls about his rather incredible endowment. They were curious and wanted to see for themselves. The others, like Natasha, just wanted to have any contact they could with Tony, and figured Angelo was close enough. He'd continued a secretive relationship with Natasha for three years. They never conducted themselves as boyfriend/girlfriend. He was embarassed of her, she of his arm.They were both fine with meeting at her house while her mother was at bingo, sneaking to the basement in the middle of the night, going at it in the back seat of the now 15 year old Lincoln that he shared with his mother. He stopped seeing her abruptly when a rumor went around that she had slept with Key Largo Brown. Key Largo was the 1984 Mr. Foosball Honoree, also from Palookaville. That's not why Angelo suddenly found Natasha so undesirable. Key Largo (named for the city in which he was conceived) was black. The Pantagliones were avid racists. This was especially interesting because the Pantaglione lineage had been infiltrated by the invasion of the Moors. What was downright hilarious was Big Tony's taste in clothing and cars. Cadillacs, bright colors, yellow gold...many people in Palookaville called him "Pimp-taglione." Big Tony and Victoria were finally doing well enough to buy a new car, this time a Buick that, of course, Big Tony commandeered.
"I gotta drive a nice car, I'm a salesman. I gotta look the part! If ya wanna be successful, ya gotta look successful!" He used this logic to justify his wardrobe, which became more extravagant and less tasteful every year. He wore only Staymor Diamond Freebelt trousers. Because of his diminutive stature, they had to be special-ordered. Staymor Diamond had revolutionized men's trousers back in 1958 with the invention of the Freebelt style. It basically had an adjustable waistband with an extended tab closure that made it permissable to not wear a belt. The Staymor Diamond offices and factory were located right in Palookaville. Big Tony would go to the store located right next to the factory and make quite a show of ordering his pants and blazers, which he often paired with white patent leather loafers. This was all a part of his deep seated neurosis to create an image of success.
Truth be told, it was Victoria who was bringing home the bacon. She worked long hours at the dress shop, and made it quite successful. For years, it was the only store in town that carried designer jeans. She brought home more money than Big Tony, but it was never spoken of. Big Tony carried on making of all of the decisions; financial or otherwise. He implied in conversations that he was the primary breadwinner. He referred to Victoria's shop as "her little job" or "her little store."
There's a psychological phenomenon called Shared Psychotic Disorder. A delusion develops in an individual as a result of being in a primary relationship with a person with a prominent delusion; referred to as "the inducer." For example, if a suggestible person becomes involved with a person who believes he is Jesus Christ, they may come to believe it as well and even come to think of themselves as a disciple or Apostle or in the case of a female, Mary Magdalene. It is arguable that a less severe version of shared psychotic disorder is essentially the "glue" to any long standing primary relationship. In the case of Big Tony and Victoria, it was true.
Angelo was listening to his parents argue about him. Big Tony had come home and started drinking. Victoria had already had her two glasses of wine out of a box in the fridge.
"What's he gonna do, Vic? He can't just sit here in da basement his whole life!?!" Big Tony bellowed.
"SSSHHHH, Ant'ny, he'll hear you! He'll do something. Right now, he doesn't know...he's just a kid! Give him some time!" Victoria thought she was being quiet, but was tipsy and actually talking quite loudly. "He's not like the other kids, he's a late bloomer!"
Actually, Victoria didn't mind having Angelo around. Alegra had moved to her grandparent's house after graduation to take care of her grandfather, who had Alzheimer's. Angelo was home when Joey(referred to as the oops baby. Born when Angelo and Alegra were six. Also groomed for foosball greatness, but flunked out of college his sophomore year, lost interest in foosball and married a 40 year old woman when he was 21.) got home from school, made him a snack or dinner, did the laundry for her and the dishes. Angelo was the only help she received around the house.
"Late bloomer! Ha! He's a god damn freak! That kid's gotta get off his ass an' get a job, Vic! I ain't runnin' no flop house, here! Whassamatter with him? A grown boy should wanna little money, a nice car, a girl,... somethin'!" Big Tony came to the top of the stairs. "Angelo! Upstairs! Right now!"
Joey, 13, looked over at Angelo, frightened.
Angelo reached over and knocked Joey's baseball hat off of his head, "It's alright buddy. Don't worry like that. You look like a pussy."
Angelo leaned forward to stand up from the couch. Suddenly a twinge of pain went through his withered left arm. He clasped it with his right hand and grimaced. He remembered Joey and tried to recover. Too late. The nosey little fucker had seen him.

black swan

Angelo Pantaglione did not have an easy go of it. Born the second son to Big Tony and Victoria Pantaglione, he would always remain in the shadow of the first born. Being born into a family with a semi-famous champion foosball player for an older brother had it's advantages. A certain amount of notoriety preceeds you. It's good to be the brother of a big fish in a little pond. Big Tony had played his way through school in the tough side of the city. Foosball paid for college and helped him land the contacts that he needed to make a comfortable living selling funeral supplies. When Little Tony came along with a natural supereminent foosball ability, Big Tony had counted on a brood of foosball champions.
Angelo and Alegra were born on Veteran's Day, 1967. They defied medical convention by being born late and large. Angelo weighed in at 8 pounds, 12 ounces. His sister, 9 pounds 1 ounce. Another striking characteristic about Angelo was his length. He was 23 inches long. Victoria nearly died. When Big Tony held his twins for the first time, he wept. Not for joy or happiness. For sorrow and shame and the loss of a dream. Little Angelo's left arm was markedly smaller than his right. Big Tony's dreams for a Foosball Dynasty died that day. Little Tony's load got considerably heavier. It was now all on him to carry out his father's interrupted aspirations.
Little Angelo, spurned by his father, became the darling of his Mother and Nana. He was mollycoddled and spoiled until Big Tony came home. Then, Little Angelo would retreat to a quiet corner to suck his fingers and try to stay out of the line of fire. Throughout elementary school and junior high, Little Angelo grew like a weed. In 7th grade he was 6 feet tall. He wore a size 13 shoe. His good arm was lithe and muscular. His small arm stayed smaller, shorter and somewhat withered in appearance. Whenever he felt overwhelmed or anxious he would ask for a pass to the restroom, fold himself onto the floor between the wall and the toilet and suck the fingers of the small left hand. He comforted himself this way until he went to high school. His face was assymetrical, but appealing. He had an infectious grin and sparkly blue eyes. But his power lay in his one dimple. He had one dimple on the right side of his face. Without the dimple he would have been cute enough, but the dimple tipped him into adorable. He mastered a series of looks that he used on his Mother and Nana to get his way. When he got older he used the same looks on his twin sister's best friend, a girl who would come to be known in P-ville as Natasha "Natasha Will" Wilson. After the bras were frozen, the ouija board was upturned and the last toilet paper roll wrapped around the last neighbor's tree, he ended up losing his virginity to her on the family's couch in the basement after the rest of the pajama party revelers had conked out in the living room.
"Ange, you gotta swear you won't tell nobody!" she grew up across the street from his grandparent's house. He'd known her all of his life.
"I swear! I won't!" He gave her the look. The one where he looked deep into her eyes and widened his slightly while tilting his head just so. His eyes twinkled in the dark. The light fell on the dimple. She was slightly mesmerized.
"Angelo....?" She'd forgotten about his "retarded" arm about 12 minutes ago, when his right hand slipped under her shirt.
"Yeah?" He was unbuttoning her pants.
"Do...you...love...me?" He looked at her. He almost lost his erection. He felt kind of like when his older brother would sneak up behind him and punch him in the kidney. Momentarily stunned. This had never occurred to him. He remembered what was at stake and hurriedly tried to recall everything Tony had told him about sex. Tony knew alot. He had slept with 37 assorted females before his senior year in high school. After his senior year, he had nearly doubled that number. "Just tell 'em what they want to hear. They just want you to say it so they won't feel bad about doin' it. Feelings Shmeelings, they'll get over it. If they're doin' it with you, they've probably already done it with somebody else. Girls who fuck in high school are sluts anyways." Tony always talked about every girl he'd had an encounter with in detail. Angelo always felt a little embarassed when he would see these girls in school, knowing what his brother had done to them the night before. He also found it a little arousing. Tony said he was telling him valuable information about women.
Angelo nodded emphatically. "Yeah, ...uh, Yes, I...I...love you."
Natasha was an outcast at school. The only person who was as invisible as she was Alegra Pantaglione. Alegra, as a girl, was relegated to helping her mother do all of the housework. Her education wasn't important because she would grow up to marry someone who would support her. Tony's fame in Palookaville didn't extend to his odd untalented siblings. In fact, with as much ass as Tony was pulling, it was all from the B-list girls, some of their mothers, a few of his mom's employees at the dress shop and a substitute teacher or two. He never pulled a Palookaville A-lister. He had better luck with out-of town girls. That's because Big Tony acted like an asshole during in-town tournaments. And because they really didn't have any money. They all wore clothes from Sears. Tony didn't have his own car. They didn't leave school for lunch. No matter how famous he got, Tony lived in the moderately priced houses in the middle of town and his Dad drove a ten year old used Lincoln. In rare moments of self doubt, Big Tony would tell Victoria that he was a "chump in a poor man's Cadillac."
The house revolved around Tony's schedule. They ate, slept and worked in accordance with his practices, training and tournaments. Natasha and Alegra were friends out of necessity and convenience. Natasha secretly dreamed of Tony Pantaglione like other girls dream of actors or rock stars. She thought someday that he would suddenly notice her, the girl next door (to his grandparents), fall in love with her, marry her and she would finally show all of those snotty rich girls at Palookaville High. On the night of Alegra's sleepover(attended mostly by girls who just wanted to take a peak at Tony's room, be in Tony's house and had no real interest in being Alegra's friend), Natasha's mother dropped her off two hours earlier than the designated invitation "when?" time.
Natasha's mother was old. She had become pregnant during menopause and was now pushing 60 with a 14 year old. She was exhausted and as a result Natasha was odd. Her clothing was matronly and her hair remained in the same style as 6th grade; long, mouse brown, with bangs. Her parents could not be persuaded to spring for contacts, so she wore brown tortoiseshell glasses. Natasha rang the doorbell. Tony came to the door. She always had his schedule memorized because Alegra's lfe revolved around it. She knew he would be home during this window of time, alone. He didn't greet her, just stood there looking at her. He didn't even know his sister was having a slumber party tonight. He was due to be on a bus in exactly 2 and a half hours to go to a tournament. "Hi, Tony." Natasha flushed.
Tony was used to girls showing up at his house uninvited. He never wondered how they knew he would be alone. He didn't care. He knew what she was here for. He stuck his head out the door and looked up and down the street to make sure nobody saw him invite this woofer in. He smiled and took her hand and led her to his room. Once inside, he perfunctorily fucked her, lay atop her and sweated for a minute and rose. He disappeared to the bathroom to urinate. When he came back in, he looked surprised to find her there. She was still undressed and laying in his bed. "Uh...you have to go now." He said as he handed her underpants to her. He left the room while she dressed. Several minutes went by as he stood in the hallway. He went to the living room and turned on the television. That chick was takin' too long. He went back to his room to make sure she wasn't stealing his Foosball shirts. She was sitting on his bed, crying. Oh shit. One of these. "Um...Is there a problem?"
"I..(sob).. thought it..(sob).. would be d-d-different." This chick looked familiar, maybe. He wasn't sure. Had he done her before? He tried to avoid doin' 'em twice. Otherwise, they get the wrong idea and think you have a thing going.
"Look,...Do I know you?" He had to show no mercy. If you act nice to them, they just get worse. "You just show up here...What did you think? You've got to clear out, babe. My parents are gonna be back."

sister christian

Sandy looked at me. I looked at her. She raised her left eyebrow and made a smirky-face. I raised my left eyebrow, side-smirked and nodded. I was pickin' up what she was puttin' down.
Summer had once again alluded to the running nude story. Bob looked slightly amused, slightly uncomfortable and slightly turned on all at the same time. Stripped of all of her paraphernalia, implements and pageant varnish, Summer would probably appeal to teenage boys and pedophiles. She made sure to show every person on the unit a picture of herself all dolled up in a red strapless dress. She did not look unlike a Playboy Playmate hopeful with a huge rack which had been concealed until this point under her men's XL T-shirts. The men of the unit, which at that time consisted of Bob, Dave and first-day Lenny, were all suddenly slightly fascinated by her. They were much more attentive when she spoke. Their eyes stayed on her a little longer when she walked in a room.
Bob interrupted Summer's intro to the nude story, "Summer, I think everybody's familiar with why you're here. When I asked everyone to tell their most embarrassing moment,I meant one in which you were cognizant. Do you have a story about a time like that?"
"Oh, Gosh...yes I do! My husband and I were at a pool party with lots of friends and family. My oldest daughter wanted to jump off the diving board with me." I looked at Sandy again. She was with me. "Well, we jumped and when we came up, my dad came over to me with a towel and said, 'Summer Louise, cover yourself!' I looked down at myself and my whole top was down around my waist! Can you imagine!?! All of my friends and family had seen me half naked!" She put her hand over her mouth and threw her head back, "I just wanted to die!"
Sandy looked like Heather Locklear's tired chain smoking sister with a bad hairstylist. Mind you, she had been in the ICU for three days after taking an assload of pills. She looked at Summer and asked point blank, "You got somethin' with bein' naked?"
Summer looked surprised, then caught herself, "You would think so, wouldn't you!?!" She laughed. "I don't know why I just keep finding myself naked!"
Bob looked at me, "Kathy, you're next...your most embarassing moment.." I have a few embarassing moments. There's the one I tell, the one I only tell shrinks and the one I have never told anybody. I didn't feel like sharing. "I'm kind of embarassed because when I came in , I only brought myself, and all I have to wear every day are these green pajamas. I'm The Crazy Jolly Green Giant Lady!"
Lenny had come in approximately 20 hours ago. "All I have is this tie-dye t-shirt! I'm crazy Grateful Dead Guy wearin' hospital slippers!" I was beginning to notice Lenny.
Sandy said, "I have some sweats you can borrow so you can wash those. Come to my room after group and we'll find ya somethin'."
Now, I have this thing...about being helped. I usually try to avoid it. If somebody wants to help me I make it very hard for them. If you offer me help, I will not readily accept it. You will have to force the help on me. Sandy was a mother and had that keen intuition I wish I could cultivate.
After group, I slipped into my room, hoping Sandy would forget about her offer. I was also hoping she would force the help on me because with all the medication they were giving me, I had hella BO. I had spent the day with my arms clamped to my sides lest I offend. The lunch cart was late. I stayed in my room as long as I could and then went to the dining area. Sandy was no airhead. "Hey! You didn't come to my room. After lunch, we'll get ya somethin' to change into." Sure enough, when lunch was over, Sandy followed me to my room. "Here, come here, let's see what I have for you." I followed her. At this point, resistance was futile. She handed me some grey sweatpants and a NASCAR T-shirt. I wanted to laugh so badly. If they could see me now...in my NASCAR T-shirt. I haven't addressed this in my blog as yet, but I am ...a clothing snob. I've spent most of my life working in high-end retail establishments. Although I could rarely afford many of the items I sold or helped sell in one way or another, I have cultivated a certain aesthetic appreciation. I thought of any number of people I know coming into the hospital, seeing me in a NASCAR T-shirt and being even more alarmed or worried about me than they would normally be under the same circumstances. "Where did she get those clothes? She would never be caught dead in those clothes! Do you think it's drugs? Is she on drugs? Why else would she be in those clothes? She is not even herself! Dear Lord, I hope they can help her!"
I put on Sandy's clothes and was pleasantly comfortable. Free, even. They were huge! I had forgotten that inexpensive clothes are way bigger than more costly ones. The pants softly billowed around me. The shirt touched my shoulders and arms and hung nearly to my knees. Summer was on to something. This was great. I felt...naked.

cesspool vortex

Henry's vet looks like Sean Penn. I mentioned this to Siobhan, a fellow member of the Palookaville Mental Health Alliance Walking Team 2006. We hold practice at the Palookaville Athletic Complex, a veritable social vortex. Dr. SeanPenn happened to be there, playing foosball. We went on to discuss the status of his marriage, his wife's unfortunate fashion choices and details of his almost-extra marital affair with a deaf Tantric sex instructor.
"Don't you think it's weird that he doesn't know either of our names, but we know all this crazy shit about him?" Siobhan asked.
"No, because if anybody achieves a modicum of success in this economically devastated cesspool, everybody knows them and talks much smack about them. Everybody gossips about the same people in this town; The SeanPenns, The Snidelys, The Acorns, the Pantagliones, and the Popalopagus'." Four of the five names mentioned have store-front businesses in Palookaville.
Siobhan looked puzzled. "Who's the Pantagliones?" The "Pants" family doesn't have a store front business, therefore they were the only family name she didn't recognize. Siobhan is also younger and from another town.
"Tony Pantaglione was the great white hope of Palookaville back in the late seventies/early eighties. He was the 1981 Mr. Foosball Honoree. He made it to the pros." I explained.
Foosball is huge in our state. During the mid-seventies, the factories in our town started to shut down. Palookaville was beginning a slow descent into the socio-economic polarization familiar to most resort/bedrom communities in the Midwest. The unemployment rate was high. Spirits were broken. Then, from the doom, emerged Tony Pantaglione, Foosball God. His picture graced the cover of the Palookaville Times every night. My father wouold complain, "They should re-name this rag the Tony Pantaglione Times! The world could be blowing up and all we get is news about Pantaglione!" He was written up in Foosball Illustrated. He was destined to be a star. He was still in high school. Foosball became so popular in our town that nearly every house had a table. My brothers would play daily. I would watch and cheer for whoever I liked that day. "I'm (foosball legend) Jack Briggs!" Steve would boast. "I'm (the first pro foosball player) Gary Pfeil!"
My brother Jeff, younger and not so bright, would say, "I'm Tony Pantaglione!"
There are many rumours about Tony Pants and his family. Some say his dad made him train for ten hours a day. Others say his dad made him play with a blindfold on or with one hand tied behind his back. Then, there's the rumour; Tony's dad, Big Tony was a man to be reckoned with. They say that he himself once stood on the cusp of foosball greatness. That's why Tony's foosball career was so important to him. That's why he pushed Tony so hard. When Tony's foosball talent reached the media, the Pants family was contacted by none other than the godfather of foosball, E. Lee Peppard. Peppard was ready to take Tony to the big time, the show. Big Tony met with Peppard at his estate to duck hunt and talk about Tony's future in foosball. With Peppard as his mentor, the sky would be the limit. People speculated about the Olympic foosball team. There were whispers about a line of Tony Pantaglione Foosball tables and accessories. Peppard told Big Tony about his plans to ease Tony into the spotlight slowly. He didn't want to risk overexposure. He wanted to ensure that Tony was ready for the pro circuit, then introduce him at the peak of his performance and make sure Tony's career had longevity. Peppard had seen many a small town foosball wonder hit the big time too fast and burn out. Big Tony was having none of it. He wanted Tony on the circuit immediately. He would hear none of Peppard's logic. Peppard had been warned of Big Tony's temperament and demeanor. If he felt he was being shortchanged, Big Tony was fond of pointing to his large forehead (some call it an eighthead) and asking, "Does it say 'FUCK ME' across here?" Peppard was ready. He loaded the hunting gear back into the Jeep and drove Big Tony back to his car without a word. Tony went on to experience success with foosball, playing the European tournaments and breaking into the pro circuit here for a short time before being sidelined with carpal tunnel. There's always the question of "What if...?" Tony is still the most successful athlete to come out of Palookaville. The rumours continue. They say he's an alcoholic, a sex addict, bankrupt. Occasionally, there's a sighting. At the diner or the mall, you'll look over and see Palookaville's Great White Hope ambling out, moving awkwardly with his new titanium elbow replacements.

Hi-diddly-ho!

Bob was a unit counselor that worked the 3-11 shift. Ashley Burroughs, Pearson and I called him Ned Flanders because not only did he resemble him, he was perpetually cheery, never displayed any anger, agitation or frustration, and was a graduate of the same faith based University that Summer attended. "How-diddly-do-ya?" Ashley would announce as Bob came in to the Group Room. Bob's groups were extremely upbeat. For the last group of the day, he would open a locked closet and remove a chunk of plastic molded to look like logs. He would sit it on a table in the middle of the room with our chairs in a circle around it. When plugged in, it glowed like a campfire. He told us his "fireplace" had been with him since college when he would try to lure co-eds back to his room. I strongly suspect Bob is a real 40 year old virgin. He grew up in the same New Jersey town as Brooke Shields. He says she is very tall with large features, the largest of which are her hands. He called them "man hands." Instead of some sappy carey-sharey teary-eyed meeting, Bob liked to play "Scruples." Everybody would be given a stack of cards with questions such as, "You find a large sum of money. Nobody would ever know you had found it and it could never be traced back to you. Do you keep it?"
Summer had been very accommodating, almost maternal to me; showing me the ropes of the unit, even finding saline solution for my dry contacts. She knew I didn't have any friends in the area and asked me if I would like to have coffee with her after we got out. The first time I heard her running nude story, I laughed for the first time in what seemed like forever. Scruples would prove unkind to our fledging friendship. That's because Summer was another fundamentalist charismatic Bible thumpin' wackjob. Scruples revealed me to be the opinionated left-leaning centrist that I am.
"Summer!" Bob would say and pause dramatically. "Your teenage daughter comes to you and asks if she may start taking the birth control pill. What do you do?"
"Well, Bob, that's a hard one. I am a Christian. My faith tells me sex before marriage is a sin, so I would have to tell her that I could not condone that kind of relationship and encourage her very strongly to wait." Summer fidgeted alot when she talked. She jiggled her leg, shuffled her Scruples cards, pushed up her glasses, smoothed back her hair, etc. She was whip skinny and only ate the write in salads for lunch and the write in soup for dinner. Breakfast was the fruit plate. Every day of her stay, it was the same. She never wavered. One morning she approached me in the hallway, all worried and anxious. "Dr. Samia has added another medication for me. It's called Remeron. have you heard of it?"
"Yeah, I took it for a while. It's number one side effect is weight gain. I stopped it right away."
Her eyes bugged out behind her glasses and she jutted out her chin. She looked genuinely pissed. "I thought so! I am not taking it! If I so much as gain an ounce, that's it! Why do you think they would give me that?" She looked narrow-eyed and suspicious.
"Well...I think they probably wanted you to try an anti-depressant with a sleep benefit. Do you have problems sleeping?" She nodded. "That's probably it. Maybe they thought because you're a thin person, the weight gain wouldn't be an issue for you."
"Yeah, that's probably it. You're right. I'm still gonna watchit, though." She went back to her room.
Bob was looking at me. "Kathy, how do you feel about that?" He had a mischevious smile on his face. He was enjoying this discourse. Maybe he wasn't exactly like Ned Flanders.
"I feel Summer wants to be a young grandmother."

bathed in the blood of the lamb

"If I lost my husband tomorrow, I could go on. Because as much as I love my husband, Katherine, and I do, Lord knows how I love Robert, I love God more!" I was looking at this little twig of a girl. She was all earnestness and sincerity. I wondered how they were taught this stuff. Was it like a training seminar? Maybe they went to church on Sunday and sat at desks and took notes about how to seize any possible opportunity to push the agenda. Her features were prominent; chin, cheekbones, nose, forehead. Her head was large on her tiny twiggy body. She was Southern. I knew it before I ever heard her speak, or asked her where she was from. Her features were Southern. I know that sounds impossible to non-Southerners, but we can spot each other. There are certain chin and cheekbone combinations, certain nose shapes, hair textures and body types that tip off a Southern person. There are also style cues. A Southern person has a tendency to wear a little more jewelry than others. There are certain makeup palettes in combination with hairstyles and haircolors that will tip off a native Southerner. A native of Dixie wears a strange mix of designer labels, mall wear and Wal-mart. For example, Summer was wearing the latest Pumas, Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, a Tiffany's pendant, a Zale's platinum wedding set and an oversize t-shirt straight out of one of those plastic bag multi-packs from the men's "Fruit of the Loom" display. She looked all of 13 years old with her glasses, braces and scrubbed face. She was actually 29 and a mother of two little girls, Ashley and Caitlin. She had met her husband at church, of course. She was a graduate student at a local faith based university. She was on the unit for taking an overdose of infant tranquilizers(?), carving "SLUT" into her arm and running through her upper middle class neighborhood completely nude.
Summer told us she was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She had been raped repeatedly throughout her childhood by a mysterious person she wouldn't identify. She told us her parents didn't believe her. She claimed to have started to have flashbacks of the abuse when her oldest child turned five, the age Summer was when the alleged abuse began.
She was on the unit when I arrived. She was extremely extroverted and talkative. At that time, Dave was the only man on the unit. Summer was very affectionate to Dave. She would ask him if he'd like a hug, and then oblige full-on; the length of her body smack up against him with her head tucked under his chin, the side of her face semi-buried in his Hawaiian print polo shirt. She'd sit next to him on the couch with her leg firmly pressed against his, place her hand on his arm for emphasis as she spoke, etc. Now, in his day, I am sure Dave pulled quite a bit of tail. From the back, Dave still retained an outline of a once athletic physique. When he turned around he looked about 7 months pregnant. He had a modified graying mullet and a mustache that was probably hot in '84. The heroin and alcohol had ravaged his face. His nose was somewhat bulbous and inflamed and he had no teeth. None. He had been down for so long that his face was permanently droopy. His shoulders were covered in dandruff flakes. This is not a man one is eager to get all hugged up with.
She delighted in telling each new patient and any unit employee who hadn't heard about running nude through her neighborhood. She always concluded, "Don't you think if somebody was running nude through your neighborhood and was detained by police and firemen, that you or somebody would have the decency to cover them with a coat or blanket? Nobody covered me! Half the neighborhood came out of their houses to see what the commotion was about. Not one person thought to bring me a blanket, a robe, a towel...anything!"
Summer's mother came up during visiting hours to bring her a few necessities. Her mother was an aging pageant perfect platinum blonde with a deep tan. Her make-up was stage ready. Her hair was pure Texas anchorwoman. It could have withstood Katrina. Had only the New Orleans levees been fortified with as much fixative as that coif. She was wearing Escada Sport from head to ankle; all chocolate brown and skin tight. Her shoes were a moderately priced trouser boot with a high, but sturdy heel(southern style cue). Her stomach was as flat as a board and her breasts were closer to her chin than her navel. She wore yellow gold (another style tip-off) in abundance. The diamond in her engagement ring was at least two carats and flashed from across the room. The "few necessities" she brought filled an entire suitcase and a large shopping bag. They were mostly grooming products and hair styling implements; hairdryer, flat iron, curling iron, large round brush, all manner of hairsprays, mousses, gels, etc. There was a bottle of perfume, a large makeup case with a portable lighted mirror and expensive bath products. All of these items were in glass or contained glass (the makeup case's mirror), so they were strictly prohibited. Many of the implements were nixed due to their electrical cords. Some of the products were refused due to their contents. Anything containing alcohol or chemicals that could be huffed was not allowed. Of all the items brought in by Summer's beauty pageant veteran mother, very few passed inspection. Summer and her mother were very put out by the staff's refusal. Every time the unit nurse handed an item back to the mother and said, "No." Summer and her mother would protest. "You mean I can't have my hair dryer?... to dry my hair?... really?...Gosh!" Her mother would echo her, "...A hair dryer?...to dry her hair?...No?...My Goodness!" I think they thought if they stated the intended purpose of the item, the nurse would relent and let them have it, "Oh, you mean a hairdryer is for drying your hair? All this time the administration thought it was used solely for the purpose of committing suicide with the cord. Now that you've cleared that up for us, by all means, take it in. And the small firearm as well, it's alright. Everybody needs protection."

great fatigue

I am currently experiencing a level of exhaustion that renders me unable to think of anything to write.
I am certain I am neglecting my dog and he will suffer emotional trauma that will lead to behavioral problems.
My kitchen faucet is producing the weakest little trickle of water imaginable, so dish washing is out of the question. If the dishes can't be cleaned, nothing else should, right?
If I don't do laundry today, I will have to squeeze into real clothes tomorrow instead of sweats. I have worn sweats since November. I wear them in public, to the doctor's office...everywhere. I rarely put on makeup. I have a moment of embarassment about my appearance before leaving the house or getting out of my car, but then decide that I shouldn't care. Who the hell am I? Gwenyth Paltrow? Who the hell's gonna see me? Fellow residents of Palookaville. Who cares?
I am going back to bed.
This is how my thoughts go. In a loop tape. Still I can't seem to motivate to get anything done.
I am going back to bed.
Another year.