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My building is next to a large house. The owner of the house is one Mr. Snarkey. He is so old, he can no longer drive. He was one of the first people in Palookaville to own a hybrid car. Within a month, it was dented. Within three months, duct tape was holding the side of the bumper together. Mr. Snarkey's house has an upstairs apartment which is rented by Lois. She is the owner of a bug eyed Pomerian/Chihuahua mix. "ZsaZsa" wears a cat collar with bells and a tiara. Lois refuses to put her on a leash, even though ZsaZsa gets away from her a couple of times a week. Daily, I can hear Lois yelling, "ZsaZsa! Come here! ZsaZsa! No! ZsaZsa come back here! Right now!"
This morning I took Henry out and we were met by Zsa Zsa and Lois. Lois had a men's clip-on tie in her hand. She held it out to me. "Here!" she thrust it at me. "Somebody lost this!" I stepped back and said, "I don't want it!"
"But somebody lost it!" she looked at me like I was crazy.
"I didn't lose it!" I stepped back from her again. Henry stopped smelling ZsaZsa's ass and looked at the tie. Then at me. Then at Lois. Then at the tie. Then he smelled ZsaZsa's ass again.
"Well, it had to be somebody in your building!" she was dead serious.
"Why would it have to be somebody in my building? There are thousands of people residing in Palookaville. There are hundreds of residents of Rogers Grove. How did you come to that conclusion?"
I was not being very nice to her. I don't like her very much. When Henry was only 3 months old, she accused him of trying to hump ZsaZsa. Henry has never humped anything. He was just jumping around, trying to get ZsaZsa to play with him. There was no humping. THERE WAS NO HUMPING! Henry is not an acquaintance-humper!
Then, she told me the owners of the house next to hers had accused me of allowing Henry to poo in their yard. Henry had never pooed in their yard. I saw the lady out one day and went over to introduce myself. I let her know that Lois had told me about the poo and it wasn't Henry. The woman laughed and said, "That crazy old bat! I told her to not allow ZsaZsa to use our yard!"
Lois also unnerves me because she doesn't greet. Upon sight, she asks a question. For example, She will appear around a corner of our building with ZsaZsa jingling in tow, and instead of saying, "Good Morning, How are you?" She will just bust out with, "Do you work?"
Who does that?
Lois kind of sputtered and stammered and really couldn't come up with a logical reason why it had to belong to a resident of our building. "Well, I'll just put it here." She placed it near the entry keypads outside the door of the building. She scurried away with ZsaZsa at her heels.

Henry and I went out about an hour ago. Our neighbor William was coming in. "Can you believe that?" He was beaming. "I lost my tie yesterday, and here it is waiting by the door for me! How "bout that?"
I didn't respond.

manipulate

"Don't." I whispered. I pushed his hand away from the drawstring of my pink Champion sweatpants.
"Why?" his forehead was pressed against the top of my head. His eyes were so watery blue. I had to look away or I would have let him do anything.
"Just don't." I tried to entwine my fingers with his, but he pulled his hand away and went for the drawstring again.
I grabbed his hand. "Don't."
"Is it your period?" He had propped himself up on his elbow.
"NO! just... don't."

I thought I was supposed to put up some kind of resistance. I also knew that last year in eighth grade, girls who let guys go down their pants were called sluts and had secret names like Carrie Tuna Fish Bradhomme. There was a rumor Tuna Fish was bowlegged because she let so many boys "finger" her. The sound of "finger" as a verb held nasty dirty filthy cheap dismissive connotations. I also thought my vagina was gross and perpetually dirty and smelly no matter how much I washed in the shower. It was always betraying me by oozing blood and clear stuff. What if I had some weird smell? What if he never spoke to me again and told all the seniors and then I would have no friends like the C list girls at school.
There was Natalie Wagner, who was rumored to have slept with not only Tony Pantaglione but Key Largo Brown and some more of the foosball guys. There was Tammy Whitehead who was rumored to have peed on Bob Fortiss while he fucked her. There was Virginia Biggerstaff who was rumored to have allowed the senior class valedictorian, Mitch Biggs to fuck her in the library audio visual equipment room. The only girls who were given stigma-clearance were those in long term relationships of a year or more.
Charliebrownshoes and I were not in a relationship. We had never even been on an official date. We went bowling once in a group. We ended up at some of the same house parties. That was it. I asked him about all of this on the phone a week prior to the drawstring struggle.
"What are we doing?" I posed out of the blue.
"Whatta ya mean?" He asked back. The Castle Greyskull theme was playing in the background.
"I mean, like...you call me every day, you come over, we make out for a thousand hours, so...like, what is this? What are we doing?" I was pretty impressed with myself. I had never been so direct with him about anything.
"We're 'talking'." He enunciated 'talking' as if I were a toddler. I had heard guys say this phrase before. It was the lowest rung on the commitment ladder. There was talking, dating, going out and the big one; serious. As in, "George and Julie? Yeah, they're (insert verb from aforementioned list here). "
My heart sank. I was hoping for at least dating. No dice. I retaliated, "We certainly aren't dating because that would require. Going. On. A. Date."
He expelled an irritated sigh. "That costs money!"
I rolled my eyes. "Uh, yeah..."
"Are you gonna pay?" He demanded.
Silence from my end.
"HA! That's what I thought! I have college to save for!" I thought he was lying or making excuses to avoid taking me out. Looking back, I think there may have been some truth to it. He didn't wear name brand clothes, except for Levi's. He didn't have very many clothes. Sometimes he repeated shirts in the same week. He didn't go out every weekend, like the other guys. Many times he would come to my house after working all day at one of the Poppalopagus's restaurants. He didn't play football his senior year. When I asked him why he said so he could work for college.
"How many girls are you 'talking' to?"

"Not many."

"How many?"

"I don't know...a few."

"A FEW? You mean, you have other girls that you go to their house and you make out with them and then you come to my house and make out with me? That is so gross! I have a right to know who they are in case I don't want to get their germs!"

He was laughing on the other end.

"It's not funny! I'm serious!"

"What do you want?" He sounded serious.

"I don't know...to be like normal people."

"What's normal?" He still sounded sort of serious. I think he actually cared somewhat about what I was saying.

"Well, you could speak to me in public."

"WHAT!?! YOU don't speak to ME in public! Every day you walk by me in the morning and you never say Hi. Those guys bust me on it every day! Steve asks me every day,'Aren't you talkin' to that girl?' and then they laugh at me!"

CBS hung out in the same corner every day where the cool senior guys congregated before school. The route to my friends' lockers took me directly in front of this spot. I usually passed by and didn't even glance in their direction. On a few occasions, he called out to me. I would look over and wave but keep walking. I would hear the other guys laugh and I thought they were laughing at me. I would actually flush and look stricken to the point where my friends would ask me what was wrong.

"I wave at you if you say something to me."

"You could come over and speak to me!"

"I'm not going over there!"

"Why? What's the big deal?"

"Nuh-uh! No way! I am not approaching you. You are supposed to approach me!" I was serious.

"Says who?"
I didn't know until many years later that CBS's mother held an important state job, managed a large staff and brought home the bigger income in his household. I thought he was either retarded or was avoiding treating me appropriately by feigning ignorance. I realize now he was probably not that sophisticated. I assumed that everybody adhered to unspoken policies that I had compiled through observation and assumption and had no basis in reality.

"Says I don't know who...just that's how it's supposed to be! You're the guy and you're older!"

"What's that got to do with anything? Haven't you heard of women's lib? You need to get with it! I see girls approach guys all the time. Debbie comes over and talks to Steve every morning!"

"Debbie and Steve are practically married, plus she is a senior."

"They are not! They're just going out! What does her grade have to do with it?"

All this logic was very clear to me. I had very definite systems and classifications in my head. I thought it was common knowledge.
"Plus, you never take me anywhere."

He couldn't reply. I had him there.
The next day in school he approached me in the hallway and asked where my next class was. He took my books from me and walked me to my next class. I could have died of embarassment. Not only because so many people looked at us, but because he chose on this day of all days to wear bright gold sweatpants. He looked like a complete doofus. I talked about it with my best friend, Vanessa.
"Oh, my God. He looks like Big Bird. He could be so cute if he just had some style!" At the mention of Big Bird, Vanessa covered her face. She thought she looked ugly when she laughed and her face crinkled up. The truth was Vanessa was beautiful. She had black hair and green eyes and huge boobs. The two most popular guys in the senior class called her every night. When she was composed, she asked, "What's up with those 'brogans'?" and we busted out laughing again because I immediately knew what she meant. Ocassionally, CBS would break out a pair of suede lace-ups that looked like a cross between bucks and wingtips. They didn't make sense with his outfits. For example, he would pair a white oxford shirt and Levi's with the brogans one week and repeat the same outfit the next week with his tennis shoes. We tried to come up with a pattern to his brogan appearances, but there were none. And there was the issue with the hair. Atop his exceptional facial features, he insisted on keeping a dated "feathered" style with bangs. All of the cool senior guys had short styles and used mousse or gel. We ripped on his hair for a while before I finally said, "And this is the guy I want to be my boyfriend....and he WON"T!" We collapsed with laughter again.

We struggled a bit more for the drawstring. I finally grabbed it in my fist and squeezed so tight he couldn't pry my fingers away.
"Then I'm leaving!" he raised his voice. I was shocked. That was so unfair...just because I didn't want him to touch my...
"Then LEAVE!" I screamed at him and then I started crying. "You are so mean! I hate you!"

I regretted it as soon as I said it. That week he had approached me in the hall, carried my books to my class, took me to help him pick out his senior class ring, called me every night, and paid extra attention to me at Kelly's house party. He told me, "You look nice." in front of my friends and a few of his, and never strayed more than a few feet away from me. I had gained status with my friends. Tracey said, "Wow, you and CBS seem to be getting serious."

He pulled me to him and put his mouth by my ear. "Don't say that." he whispered. He kissed my hair and my forehead and my eyelids and he took my face in both of his hands and kissed me very softly. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry." He whispered. "Say we're okay. Look at me. Say we're okay." I had stopped crying and I nodded. I kissed him again and this time, when he went for the drawstring, I didn't stop him.

fyi

The owners of the building where I reside have acted swiftly in evicting the tenants upstairs. Rob, the approachable owner, informed me today that they should be packing. I asked him, "How long does it take to put a crack pipe into a filthy pillowcase?"

fences make good neighbors

"Give me my coat! I am not staying here!" She was screaming, pleading.
There were loud stomping footsteps. My ceiling fan shook, the chain pulls clinky-clinky-clinking against the glass light fixture. Scraaaape, crash, stomp, stomp.
"Just give me my coat so I can leave!" Shuffle shuffle stomp stomp crash thud.
"Just give it to me! I don't want to stay here!" She was crying. Not so tough now, huh Jersey City?
The clock says 10:23. On a Sunday night. Dwayne worked at a restaurant. They were closed on Mondays. Sunday night was his Saturday night. Party as a verb, Dwayne!

Trying to establish a sleep pattern is difficult when one has a history of insomnia and seasonal phases of depression and mania. My brain chemistry is difficult enough to negotiate. I don't need Impromptu Hillbilly Theatre to help me stay awake. There is something about this kind of intrusion that enrages me. It must have something to do with how my parents fought.
Have you ever seen Mary J. Blige perform? Have you ever seen the film 'Boogie Nights'? The scene where Mark Wahlberg is fighting with his mother and he's crying and screaming and spit is coming out of his mouth? How about the scene where Heather Graham is stomping the dog shit out of the guy at the end? You know how they just lost their fucking minds in the midst of those scenes? You know how Mary J. starts jumping up and down and tugging at her clothes and making those anguished faces and just singing/screaming out from her depths, from her fucking toenails? She's lost her mind. That's how my parents fought.
I remember the last fight I witnessed. It was September 1981. My mother had become consumed with the DIY ceramics wave of the late seventies. Our kitchen was yellow and green and decorated with frogs. We had every kind of ceramic frog accessory imaginable; canisters, napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, cream and sugar dispensers, a clock, a bud vase, a frog to hold our sponge by the sink, a spoonrest, just everything ceramic and frogs. The fight had probably started in the living room. It ended in the garden. Every ceramic frog accessory was smashed in the floor of the kitchen. Every last one of them. She had even walked around our kitchen table and stood on tip toes to get the clock. It looked like a ceramic shop had been blown up. The grayish-whitish dust covered the counters and hung in the sunlight and bits and pieces of benevolent frog faces were all over the floor, mostly lining the counters with a path to the sliding glass door that led out back to our garden where Dad and I planted cucumbers, tomatoes and hot peppers.
My mother stood in the garden with her arms raised, struggling to free them from the grip of my father who was covered in scratches from her long nails. She was screaming in his face, "I hope you have other women here! I hope you bring them in to MY house! AND I HOPE YOU EAT THEIR PUSSIES! I HOPE YOU EAT THEIR PUSSIES ON MY NEW COUCH THAT I WORKED AND PAID FOR, YOU SORRY SON OF A BITCH!"
I remember looking over to the neighbor's yard. The old busy body lady was next door. She was standing in her back yard, watching my parents struggle in the garden. She was not peeking from behind the shed or from her screened in little gazebo dwelling. She was standing in the middle of her yard, hands on hips, blatantly staring at the scene, like a NASCAR spectator.
My father finally got my mother into a hold that looked like a very tight uncomfortable hug and carried/dragged her back through the house, to the front door, where he shoved her out and slammed the door. Some of the nail marks on his bare torso were bleeding. Some of them were imbedded with my mother's broken nail tips. I then had to get into a car with this screaming violent mess of a woman. I regarded it all with a numbed detached feeling. That must be a child's survival mechanism.
Often during my years of psychotherapy, in the hospital or out, I have been asked about my mood. "How is your mood?" And I honestly have no idea. I don't really know what I am feeling in the present moment. It takes months to finally articulate what I think I may have been feeling during a certain point in my life, and then it's just speculation; based on what one should feel during a certain event. I am sure that's a factor in my many diagnoses, and why I seem to make little progress in managing my illness.

"GET OFF OF ME! I DON"T LIKE YOU! GET OFF OF ME!" Jersey City was bawling now. This was seriously fucked up. If they thought I was going to listen to this wacked shit for another minute...I dialed the Palookaville Police. The police showed up as the couple had decided to leave. Dwayne stopped on his way down the stairs and knocked on my door. I thought he was the police so I opened it without asking, "Who is it?" The doors in my building are antique and have no peepholes. Dwayne weaved and bobbed in my doorway. "I am sorry she's so problem...problematic. I am so sorry."
I looked at him incredulously.
"Dude!" was all I could manage before he stumbled down the stairs. Sorry she's so problematic? You're drunk, holding her against her will, trying to rape her and she's the problem? Interesting.
I followed Dwayne down the stairs to see if the police had questions. When a short round little black officer saw him, he exclaimed, "Dwayne Lemmings! You've been missing for a little while now. Where ya been hidin'?"
"I been livin' in New York."
"Well, you know I'm gonna have to run ya, right?" The little butterscotch-hued officer asked. Butterscotch Head talked into his radio. Some squawking noises came back in reply. Dwayne had prior warrants. He was arrested. I went upstairs and crawled into bed. 11:42.
12:13. "You're a dead bitch!" I heard Jersey City say as she descended the stairs. Outside I heard her yell, "I'm gonna kill that bitch on the second floah! Her ass is mine!"
I awoke every half hour or so to the Jersey City tranny-thing yelling threats outside my door. I was getting more and more angry every time.
01:48. Knock at my door. That's it. I flew out of bed and opened it. "Do not knock on my door. Stay the fuck away from my door." It's dust colored hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. It looked 60, at least.
"I want to know why you called the police." It said. "I think you called the police cuz you won't fight me." It set it's Budweiser glass bottle down by the stairs. Noted. Stupid.
"You are ridiculous." It was ridiculous. This mannish thing wearing little girl jeans. What kind of person would say such a thing? What kind of person would live in this way? "Get the fuck away from my door." I went to close the door and the tranny lodged her foot in the jam.
Everything went from real time to some kind of fast motion. I came at her. Her eyes widened in surprise. I connected with her face and upper torso several times. She grabbed a hunk of my hair. I kept punching her. She didn't let go of my hair. I grabbed her face with my left hand, her neck with my right. My left ring finger was in her eyeball. She weighed nothing. As she careened down the stairs, my hair ripped out of my head. It sounded like velcro. The whole time I yelled, "Get out of my apartment! Get out of my apartment!" Henry howled and barked and pushed at his crate until it was crooked.
She landed with her ass on the floor of the landing and her legs going up the stairs. She was saying something I couldn't hear from the roaring noise in my ears. I slammed my door and called the police.
"My neighbor just came into my apartment and tried to assault me."

dearest barry and rosebud

Thank you for being the only two people on the face of the earth to read my stupid blog. If you didn't leave comments, I wouldn't even write anymore. Who are the other 99 people who have looked at my profile? Do you guys keep signing in under different names or something?