wayward bats

"Something's in here." I said.
"I think you're right. I think it's a bat."
"Oh, my God! You have to get it out of here."
"Don't worry, I've done this before." he rolled off the side of bed onto his feet. "I need a broom, a trash bag and some rubber gloves."
"I'm not leaving this room."
"Tell me where they are again."
I explained the location of each item. My hero went about finding them in the dark. He emerged, all 6'4" of him, wearing boxers emblazoned with Chicago Cubs logos, my yellow dishwashing gloves, his red hair and freckles and brandishing a broom like a baseball bat.
"You stay in here." He closed the french doors behind him. I watched the bat fly crazily along my ceiling. My protector bent his knees slightly and swung the broom. Smack! Thud! The bat landed on my antique table. I screamed. My bat slayer picked him up and tossed him into the garbage bag.
"Do ya wanna see him?"
"No."
"Were you afraid he was going to attack you?"
"No. I was afraid he was gonna poo on my expensive stuff. Did he poo anywhere?"
"Naw, I don't see any bat poo."
"I am so glad you were here."

That was one of the best times of my life.

stolen from meegs

A Little About Me:
Favorite male hunk.....	John Gruden
Favorite female actress....	Julianne Moore
Favorite position....	reclined
Favorite sport....	tennis
Favorite restaurant....	KiKi's Bistro
Who do you love....	nobody and everybody
Favorite picture....
Favorite memory....	a moment when I was in love and convinced
Wedding song....	will never need to choose
Anniversary....
Babies....	none
Perspective boy names....	Kirkland, Ellis
Perspective girl names....	Winsett, Jane
favorite alcoholic drink(s)....	Grey Goose and tonic with lime
Red or White wine....	depends
Pets....	Pembroke Welsh Corgi
Current vehicle....	horrible gas guzzler
Favorite color(s)....	red, blue
Favorite movie(s)....	Sling Blade, Magnolia, Forrest Gump...
Favorite word....	sublime, persnickety, cacophony...
When I have time....	I have no money, When I have money, no time.
Phrase that discribes you....	an enigma in a riddle in pajamas
CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

no place like homeless

We came back to our unfurnished home in Palookaville. We were not supposed to be there. My parents had defaulted on the land contract, so it had reverted back to the previous owners. The elctricity had been turned off, so we kept food in a styrofoam cooler. We used flashlights to find our way to the bathroom at night. We basically lived out of the master bedroom because my parent's old bed was still in there. When my mother sold the bed, we set up lawn chairs; the kind that fold out like a chaise. If you put a blanket on them, they're pretty comfortable. We slept in our clothes. I went back to my old school. It was as if I never left. Nobody knew I was living in a house we had previously abandoned. Nobody knew I was eating from a cooler and sleeping on a lawn chair. The only difference was when the teacher called for the kids to come up and get an orange ticket emblazoned with the words,"FREE LUNCH", I had to join the line.
My mother tried to get her former job back. I don't know if they had already replaced her, were on a hiring freeze, or she had a bad work record, but they refused. I came home from school one day and a strange car was in the driveway. My mother drove a shiny new red car. This car was an old faded dirty red car with a hatchback. I was afraid to go in the house so I lingered outside. Finally mom called me in.
"Who's here?" I asked.
"Nobody" she said as if there wasn't an old faded dirty red car with a hatchback in our driveway.
"Who's car is that?"
"Well, it's ours."
"Where's your new car?"
"I sold it. We needed the money. This one will be fine for now."
I didn't know it at the time, but the car had been repossessed. The beat up car had been purchased for my mother by her friend's husband, with whom she had been having an affair even before we went to Tennessee.
She started to be gone alot. At first she enlisted a teenage girl from the neighborhood to watch me. Her name was Cheryl. She wore stoner chick clothes, like tight jeans and the cropped concert t-shirts of bands like AC/DC, Ted Nugent and Journey. She wore oversized flannel shirts for jackets. Her eyes were rimmmed in back eyeliner. Cheryl lived in a crazy house down the road. It was full of feral stoner children who had several different mothers and fathers. There was always some kind of activity going on. It usually involved screaming, heavy metal music and long haired teenage boys with no shirts on. Cheryl talked to me like I was an adult.
"You know, I was in love with Ted for so long. But all we ever did was get high and screw. I would go to his house and we'd smoke a joint and then we'd fuck and then we would smoke another joint and then I would go home." she giggled and threw her hands up, "It was like, Buzz, Bed, Buzz, Bye!"
I never knew any person other than parents who'd actually done it.
Soon, babysitting funds were not in the budget, so I came home alone to the empty house and sat there until I fell asleep.
One night the stoner boys broke in through the sliding glass door. I lay motionless and listened to them whisper.
"It's empty."
"I thought they were livin' here. Aren't they livin' here?"
"Yeah, the little sister comes here after school."
"What the fuck? Is this their food? In a cooler?"
"Where's their shit?"
"I don't know, man..."
They came around the corner and I'm sure were surprised to see me sleeping in a lawn chair in the middle of the living room. They surrounded the chair. I pretended to sleep.
"I say we fuck her."
"You're a sick bastard. That's a little kid."
"She's got some titties, man. I've seen 'em pokin' outta her shirt."
"No way, man. that's a little girl, man!"
"I'm fuckin' her! I didn't break in here for nothin'!"
"Leave her alone, man. C'mon, let's get the fuck out of here."
They left with our cooler.
When my mom got home and realized the sliding glass door was broken and the cooler was gone, she went to a pay phone and called the police. The police had received a complaint from the previous owners about our squatting, so they asked us to leave the house. We put our suitcases in the hatchback and slept the remainder of the night in the car in a parking lot. I didn't have to go to school the next day. I spent some nights at my Grandmother's house. We spent some nights on friend's couches. We spent some nights in the car. I started to spend weekends with my big sister at her boyfriend's house. My dad would call and we would talk about me coming to Houston for Christmas. I was going to fly on a plane all by myself. I only saw my mother when she drove me to school and in the afternoon when she picked me up and dropped me off at the place where I was to sleep. Most days she picked me up, she was already drunk.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Kath?"

"When I come to Houston, can I just stay with you?"

decide to pretend to forget

Before my father drove away for the last time of their marriage, he handed money to my mother.
"I gave your mother two hundred dollars. Half of it is for you."
And then he was gone.

Our house was empty. My mother had sold off our furniture piece by piece. It was odd to come home and find no dining table, just divots in the carpet where all the legs used to be. It was an hour before I realized the dog was gone.
"Where's Tuffy?" I looked at her bowl, still filled with water by the pantry.
"Ha!" said my mother proudly as she handed me a paper plate with some food from a box, bag or can on it. "You didn't even know she was gone!"
"What happened to her?" I felt that weird feeling in my sternum, the one that precedes strong emotion. Our dogs always ended up shot or run over.
"Don't cry! You never played with her and it took you a good hour before you even realized she was gone! Besides, she wouldn't quit shitting under the table!"
My parents never trained our dogs properly. They rarely took them to the vet. They were never leashed and ran loose. Inevitably, they would die as a result and our parents would be angry with us. As if we instinctively knew how to care for something and had income to purchase supplies and vet care. I think they thought an occasional "Didja let that dog out?" between cigarettes and arguments sufficed for a thorough explanation and demonstration.
"Did you sell her?" I made the face that usually precedes the tears. But after the initial facial contortion...nothing. I had been feeling numb around this time. So many things had happened that I had aquired a flat affect. I was nine.
"No, I gave her to Jeff's friend's family. You know, Jerry 'n 'em, out in the country with the big fenced in yard. She'll like it there."
I felt a little sick when she mentioned Jerry. He was the friend of my teenaged juvenile deliquent brother. One day while he was at our house, he came out of the bathroom and showed his flaccid penis to me. It was the most ugly disgusting thing I had ever seen. I screamed and ran out the back door. My brother and his friends laughed.
The only furniture left was my parent's big bed. We slept in it one last time and left it in the house. We were off to a small town in Tennessee. My mother's childhood boyfriend lived there. He was also recently divorced and he and mom had been talking on the phone for weeks. We drove for a few hours and pulled off at a truck stop.
"Can I have my money?" I asked
"What money?" Mom was looking in the rearview mirror, fluffing up her perm and putting on her lipstick.
"Dad said half the money he gave you was mine."
"Well, how do you think we are going to eat and buy gas?"
"That's your problem."
"You'll think that's my problem when we're starving on the side of the road."
She reach into her big brown purse and handed me a twenty. "That's all you're getting for now."
We went to the restroom and while Mom got coffee to go, I perused the gift shop. They had stuffed animals. Many of my toys had been sold at a garage sale. The remainder were boxed and stored at my grandmother's house. On the shelf was the sweetest buff colored teddy bear. He had an expensive toy maker's tag hanging from one paw. The price tag said $19.99. That was the most expensive bear I had ever seen.
"Mom, I need another dollar." I said as she tried on sunglasses by the register.
"Good Lord, child! What are you buying?"
I took her over to the bear display. "Him."
"Katherine! That is just too much to give for a bear!"
I took him from the shelf. "Look at him. Touch him." I held him up to her.
She took him and looked into his face. "Well, he's a pretty bear, isn't he? and so soft..Yes, I guess we have to take him, don't we?"
I nodded. As the cashier rang us, Mom made jokes. "Can we eat that bear if we run out of money in Memphis?"
I made up a story about my dad giving the bear to me before he left. I decided if I ever had a friend, and that friend saw the bear, I would tell them the made-up story.

We kept driving. I remember very little about the remainder of the drive. We got lost in Memphis. We saw the gates of Graceland. Somehow, we ended up at a rat infested trailer parked in a lot full of weeds in Elmville, Tennessee.
My mother had quit her job at a factory that was featured in a major magazine as one of the best places to work in the nation. We had no health insurance. She had very little money left because she had been drinking and gambling quite heavily that summer. We had the car and our suitcases. All for a man she had not seen in 24 years. I think about my obsession with Charlie Brown Shoes. Would I have carried it that far? With a nine year old child in tow?
Charles was a big guy with black hair and blue sad hound dog eyes. He was kind to me. They put me in school right away. For the first time, the kids and teachers were genuinely friendly to me. I didn't feel the least bit outcast. They fought over who sat by me at lunch. The teachers were very complimentary of my handwriting. I made a friend who lived down the street. I met Charles' sons and we got along great. We went to visit Charles' father in Mississippi. Mom and Charles went out to drink and we slept in the den. The boys were on the floor and I was on a sofa. I woke up in the middle of the night. Charles' father was sitting at the end of the sofa, smoking a cigarette with his left hand. His right hand was between my legs.
I didn't tell my mother until Monday morning. She was going to drive me to school.
"Mom, Charles' father touched me while you guys were out drinking."
"What do you mean he touched you?"
"He put his hand under the covers and put it...put it where my underwear is." That's the only way I could say it to her.
"No, honey. He was just looking for something...or putting your blanket on you."
I didn't say anything else. It was no use. They were adults. They did whatever they wanted whenever they wanted and they didn't ask you because you were a kid and you have no rights because you have no money. That was my logic. That's how my world operated. Sell my dog. Sell my furniture. Sell my toys. Move me every year. Drive away to Houston. Drive me to another state on a whim. Put your old hand between my legs. Don't ask me. Don't consider me.
The next week Charles' father came to visit. I cried and begged my mother to sleep with me.
"Katherine, what is going on? You've been sleeping in here for over a week now. What are you scared of?"
"I don't want him to come in here and touch me!" I was sobbing.
My mother looked as if she had been slapped in the face. She didn't realize what I had tried to say to her in the car. She slept with me that night. In the morning, she got up and made coffee and sat at the kitchen table smoking. I was still laying in bed when Charles' father shuffled in and lifted up the blanket. Suddenly, my mother was behind him. "Eugene, are you looking for your bag?"
"Uh...Uh..yeah." he dropped the blanket as soon as he heard her voice.
"I didn't put it in here. I left it in the other room."
"Oh! Thank you, dear. I usually stay in here." Charles' father left that day.
Over the course of the next few days, my mother received a call from a woman who claimed to be Charles' girlfriend. The girlfriend told my mother that when Charles left for his job, he would really be coming to meet her. She gave my mother the address of the bar. My mother went and sure enough, Charles was with this woman. He told Mom the truth. The woman had been his girlfriend for many years, even during his marriage. They had split up when he became involved with my mother. Now, Charles wanted to reconcile with the girlfriend. We had to clear out. Back to Palookaville. We had been in Elmville for three weeks.

that's what jesus would do

I am reeling from the number of people who have contacted members of our family to intrude upon the private family services. It was my mother's wish. For reasons personal to her, my mother wanted her funeral services attended exclusively by family members. As outgoing as she was, she didn't have many friends that came to her home or accompanied her to social events. In the last few years of her life, she attended a local church and "became a member." "Becoming a member" required attending classes with considerable fees for required texts penned by neo-fundamentalist Christian authors. I had always been under the impression that becoming a member of the Christian faith required accepting Jesus of Nazareth to be the son of God and one's own personal saviour(I seem to recall a story about Jesus cleansing the moneychangers out of the temple...?). Despite her limited resources, she would forego having disposable income from her tiny disability check to purchase the books and attend the classes. Approximately a year and a half ago, she confided to me that she didn't feel particularly close to the women of the church. She felt "snubbed" by them. I listened to her and sympathized. I didn't quite understand, given these women frequently called my mother to bring food, various supplies, monetary donations, and her own time and effort whenever they took on a project. Also, exclusion seems in marked contrast to the spirit of Christianity, which I thought was foremost a compassionate belief system. It was around this time my mother started to use credit cards to purchase shoes and clothing from the more expensive stores in our area. She had previously told me that she had come to a point in her life wherein she no longer coveted material things. I was concerned about her abrupt reversal and about the reckless spending. At this time she also started to buy expensive home goods; appliances, decor, bedding, etc. She also started driving 45 minutes to a posh department store to have her hair styled. Things began to make sense to me when I went to make arrangements for my mother's funeral. The Knifeler Funeral Home has been a staple of Palookaville County for three generations. There, while Mr. Knifeler made calls in the other room, Mrs. Knifeler came in and offered her condolences. She was wearing a pair of Gucci sandals with a bracelet-sleeved pastel boucle suit. Her glasses were designer. Her haircut was definitely expensive. She had movie star too-white veneered teeth and a deep tan. She told us she knew my mother from the Bible classes at the Church. I recalled a story mom told me. During a ladies group meeting, they asked for volunteers for an event. As a job was called out, different people would raise their hands and the person in charge would choose and write down the names next to the corresponding job. Despite raising her hand for every job, my mother's name was not chosen. The last available job of greeter was announced. My mother raised her hand and the person in charge looked pointedly over my mother and said, "Well, maybe we could ask the general church population for volunteers for greeters." and never acknowledged my mother or wrote down her name. My mother teared up as she told me this story. Soon after, my mother stopped attending the church altogether when her aunt by marriage, a Baptist icon of sorts in the Palookaville community known for her selfless contributions to the church, started to avoid her. All of this happened a short while after my ne'er-do-well brother was arrested for cocaine possession and my wayward teenage niece gave birth to an illegitimate interacial baby. My mother sought the counsel of the head pastor for solace during this time. Soon, the details of these events had spread to the entire church population.
Imagine my surprise when this same aunt called to inquire about bringing a group of non-family members from the church to my mother's services. I was flabbergasted by the request,given the obituary stated the services were private. I told her I was grateful for the support and touched by the request, but it was my mother's wish that her services be private and I didn't feel it was appropriate. I hoped she and the ladies understood it was important to me to make sure her wishes were carried out. Aunt Jesus assured me she understood and would pass it along to the ladies. Less than an hour later I get a call from my beleagured stepfather; a not especially bright accidental Christian, meaning he subscribes to Christianity when he can manipulate scripture to justify a point in an argument (example; he once justified procuring prostitutes by quoting a scripture).
"I wanted to tell you I made a retraction in the Palookaville Times. I have decided to open the service."

"Did Aunt Jesus and her disciples call you and work some fire and brimstone voodoo on you?"

"Nah," he lied. "I've gotten a lot of calls and your brother has already invited people, so I thought it would be better to open it up."

By people, my stepfather actually meant the scum of the earth. Prior to the wedding of my mother and stepfather, my mother was an alcoholic. In order to be where the beer was, she associated with the bar flys of Palookaville. When my mother got sober, none of these people ever associated with her again and if they did it was in an attempt to get her to drink. None of these so called friends attended the wedding nor sent congratulations. Now, surprisingly, they crawled from the woodwork to crash my mother's services via invitation of my opportunistic psychotic drunken brother who was probably drinking on their tab.

My mother had three requests for her funeral services.
One; no viewing. She felt it was in bad taste to have people looking at a dead corpse. She preferred a closed casket with a nice photo set atop it.

My stepfather insisted she be viewed "for closure."

Two; no cremation. She was opposed to cremation despite the practicality.

My stepfather insisted upon cremation for financial reasons.

Three; a private service for family only.

Now that was shot to hell. Not one of her wishes will be fulfilled. I am profoundly disturbed.

Trust no one. Get it in writing. Be wary of the Jesus people. Amen.

right now

Right now I feel better. I cleaned my apartment and walked Henry down to the corner to pick up a copy of the Palookaville Times. I read my mother's obituary. It sounds dignified. Yesterday, I picked out my mother's last outfit for her viewing. A cream silk blouse and black pants. She will be dignified in death. I have not slept much since Thursday. I slept for a couple of hours early this morning. When I woke up it occurred to me that there are things that I am free of now. There are things I was doing soley for my mother. Living in Palookaville, making nice with certain members of the family, etc. I no longer have those obligations. At least it's something.

tether

I am precarious at best. My last tether to this life is gone. What will obligate me to remain here now? A small dog with short legs, a possibility of a moment of nirvana, the promise of a different life without this ill mind? I have nothing. My few friends call and offer me help and I am grateful from the core of my being. My heart is filled momentarily, but what can they do for me? I am suddenly middle aged and I have nothing. I will lose my apartment soon, and then my car and very soon, even the ability to write on this site; something that has sustained me these many months after the hospital, the mind loss, the end of last of the reserves of my youthful ambition that allowed me to plod along and make a living for myself. And now, my poor mother, my poor miserable mother with her sad limited life; the only person who checked in with me on a regular basis, the only person I felt I had to try to function for, my last frayed thread of a link, is gone so suddenly and so shockingly and I have no last resort. How lucky are the masses with their faith and hope and fabricated alliances and caution to the wind offspring that anchor them to the earth. I have nothing. A small dog with short legs, non-committal relatives burdened with their own lives, friends with normal relationships and support systems who earnestly ask, "What can I do for you?" and I think, "Can you give me a reason to get through this next hour? and can you call me in an hour and give me another? Can you give me a new family; the one I dream about from New England? The one with boundaries and efficacy and resources? The one with manageable addictions, college educations, no genetic predispositions to mental illness, some appropriate sense of obligation, belief systems rooted in logic and reasonable demeanors? Can you give me that please? That's all I need." I have nothing. And I know I have more than some. That doesn't comfort me right now.

Goodbye Mom

If you notice that the sun shines just a bit dimmer, the wind blows just a little softer, it's because a force was taken from the world today. Goodbye, Mom.

isolation seed

My key is on a chain I keep around my neck. When I get off the bus, I walk up the driveway very slowly. I am supposed to stay inside once I am in the house. I watch the neighbor kids get off the bus and make their way to their front door. I see Matthew's head bob along the length of one of the many cars in the driveway. Matthew is lean and tall with perpetually tan skin and hair that is dust brown at the base and bright blonde at the tips. He almost died last summer when he siphoned gas out of the van to ride his three wheeler and accidentally drank some. He makes me feel funny when I look at him, like something building up inside that will burst out. I can't look at him for very long or I feel ashamed in front of God. If you are outside, you are not alone so I linger before opening the door. The phone starts to ring as I drop my book bag and run to get the avacado green rotary phone on the little built in desk by the window in the kitchen. It's my mother and I know this before I pick up. We have the same conversation we always have every day at 3:15. She tells me to stay inside and not to open the door to strangers. She will see me in a little while. I can hear the sounds of her factory in the background. I hang up. Then I do things I shouldn't. I look in my parent's drawers sometimes or eat ice cream. I wipe off the spoon with a paper towel and put it back in the drawer. I talk to myself. I look at all of my mother's make up in her drawer in the bathroom. I turn on the television, but decide to leave it off so I may hear if a demon or ghoul decides to appear in the house to kill me. Sometmes I play in the canisters that hold the flour and sugar and coffee. I make a big mess on the counter and my mother says, "What is this all over the counter? I don't know where this is coming from." Our house is very old and I am sure people have died here. Then I sit at my favorite spot between the coffee table and floral printed couch and open the drawer of the coffee table. All of my crayons and coloring books and sketch pads are kept here. I remember my book bag for a minute and then decide to pretend to forget to do my math after dinner. If I wait, I can stay up later than everybody else, because it takes me forever to do my homework. Sometimes my dad comes out to check on me. I ask him to sharpen my pencil and he takes out his knife and whittles the end of my pencil to a perfect sharp tip. Then he says, "It's gettin' late, Kath. You almost done?" My friend Justine says my dad looks just like the guy on Fish. I practice drawing all of my best things, like cartoon dogs, cats and monkeys. I practice my handwriting by re-doing assignments from school. It seems like forever until I hear my dad's green truck in the drive and then mom and dad come in and mom says, "Katherine, you left your bag right in the door!" and my dad looks around incredulously and asks,"Where's dinner?" and I am not sure if he is serious, even though he asks me every night.

dumbass

I am such a dumbass. I started using the phrase "donkeypunch" cause I thought it sounded hilarious. I had no idea what it really meant. I will not be using the phrase as liberally in the future. For those that do not know, it is a phrase used to describe a sex act in which the male punches the female in the head at the point of orgasm, causing the abrupt contraction of the vaginal muscles, whereby intensifying the experience.
Good Lord.
We are all going straight to hell.

appeal

Dear Ms. Katherine:

We are writing about your claim for Long Term Disability Benefits. We recently contacted Dr. Arnett on March 31, 2006 requesting additional information that we need to review your claim.
We sent a second request for this information on May 2, 2006. (See enclosed) We would appreciate it if you would call this doctor and request the information be sent to us as soon as possible so that we may determine your eligibility for benefits.
I have contacted Dr. Barden Arnett at least 3 times myself between March 31st and May 2nd. I have personally taken copies of these requests to his office and watched as the receptionist placed the copies in his incoming mailbox. I decided to go to Dr. Arnett’s office and sit in the waiting room until I could appeal to him personally to comply with the request.

“Hi, Monica.” I say to his receptionist through her plexi-glass window. She sees I have brought the requests again and smiles. “I’ve come again to see if I can do anything to get these requests taken care of.”
She grins at me. “Dr. Arnett is with a patient, but as soon as he is finished, I will make sure he takes a moment to speak with you.” She is enjoying this. I have personally appealed to her each time I have called to inquire. She is professional and diplomatic in her responses, but lets me know in her tone of voice and facial expressions that she finds Dr. Arnett’s negligence in responding just as frustrating.

Patients come, patients go. I read the dated magazines in the waiting room and watch CNN. Occasionally, I see Arnett peer through to make sure I am still there. I nod to him and raise my eyebrows in an expression I hope conveys, “Still here, motherfucker.”

I watch through the 2’x 2’ square as Arnett flips through a file and consults with Monica. Finally, he comes out to the waiting area.
“Katherine…” he says as a greeting of sorts.
“Dr. Arnett.” I respond. I start to speak and as is his habit, he sees my lips start to part and he immediately interrupts me.
“I just received this request on Friday. I will get this information together and send it to them in the next couple of days.”
“Actually, Dr. Arnett, this request was sent on March 31st. I brought another copy of the request approximately two weeks ago, and you were sent a third request on May 2nd.”

“I was on vacation.” He lied.
Oh my god! You weak ass bitch. You are a fucking Doctor of Psychiatry and you are lying. This is straight out of “SCRUBS.” I look around for Ashton Kutcher. I look around for Dilbert. No, this is reality. I came to this guy for help with getting my head together.

I do not respond. How does one respond to being blatantly lied to? By a so-called medical professional? Whom you are relying upon to provide much needed information to your benefits provider so you can possibly get some income and not lose your car, your apartment and your dog?

He continues. “I didn’t know you were not intending to continue treatment with me. I usually like to meet with my patients to go over the information being sent.”

“The request is for all of my health providers between January 2005 and March 2006. If you will please send the information along with a copy of the request, I would appreciate it. I would also like to know the name of your administrator.”

He clutched the file to his chest and his head snapped hard to the left. He peered at me through his glasses with his left eye.
“Eck…Eck-scuse me? The name of muh-mmy administrator?”

“Yes. The name of your administrator. The person you report to…the person who oversees your practice within the organization.” Professional throat punch to you, you lying pussy!

“Uh, we-we-well, that would be Mary Jane McIntosh. Katherine, I assure you that the information will be sent out in the next couple of days. There’s no need to involve administration…”

“Dr. Arnett, I have no income right now. I have received no income since March 22nd. I feel it is necessary to involve someone else. You have received 3 requests. I am in limbo waiting for the determination of these benefits. The undue stress of appealing to you repeatedly for compliance is not exactly conducive to my mental health.”

With that I spin and head toward the elevator. When I reach the first floor, Dr. Arnett is already there. He hovers around the information booth. I approach anyway and ask the attendant if there’s any way I can speak to Mary Jane McIntosh. She calls her secretary. I am connected while Dr. Arnett carefully studies the coffee pot and supplies on the counter directly behind the information attendant.

I explain the situation to Mrs. McIntosh and inform her that I am leaving a copy of the requests for her with the information attendant. She promises to make sure the requests are sent the next day. She asks me, “How many requests have been sent to Dr. Arnett?” When I tell her three and that he explained to me he was on vacation during the time of the first two requests, she asks, “On vacation?” and I say, “Yes, on vacation.” To this she replies, “Mmmm-hmm. Interesting.” And then promises again the matter will be resolved the next day.

Don’t fuck with the crazy girl.

something to ponder...

Consider; a carton of organic strawberries.
Consider; a box of cake mix.

The strawberries are grown with no chemicals.
The cake mix is full of chemicals.

The carton housing the strawberries is not remarkable in any way; just a clear plastic container with a sticker in the corner identifying the farm from whence they came.
The cake mix box is a full-color, photographed, graphic affair complete with cooking instructions. A design team, a graphic design company, a commercial photographer and an artist have had a hand in the creation of this box. Several mock-ups of the box were created for review by a committee of people. The winners had to be reviewed by the board of directors at the huge corporation that owns the cake mix company. the winning box had to require no telling how much money to be implemented in the box factory.

The strawberries are from a farm that does not have any marketing or advertising campaigns I have ever seen in national magazines or on televisions.
The cake mix company has full page ads in any home oriented magazine geared toward females. They also have television ads.

The strawberries are grown in dirt. They are plucked from the dirt, sorted, placed in their ordinary plastic containers and shipped.
The cake mix is produced by huge machines in huge facilities with hundreds of
employees. Fleets of trucks take gazillions of these boxes to their destinations each day.

The strawberries are damn near 5 bucks.
The cake mix is $1.00.

This kind of stuff makes me believe in conspiracy theories.

Am I mad or does this make sense?

not so much

Some more digging revealed Scrappy lied about his name, age, education, former police experience and pretty much everything else he told me. He has a rap sheet about a foot long. No more coffee for me. So discouraging.

suitor

"I really appreciate this." He was wrapping a cord around one of the massive pieces of iron. "Hey, I don't want to impose, but I would like to take you out sometime. For lunch or brunch or dinner or something...?"
His head is big. It's like a tan basketball. He's a large guy. Professional football large. His facial features are small. He looks Southern, like Elvis Presley-Southern. You know how Elvis had great facial features, but still managed to look slightly retarded? That's what I mean. He looks Native American to me. His skin is an even tan color. He's standing on the bed of a pick-up that looks like it was towed up from the seventh circle of hell. He just single handedly lifted three 18 feet long solid iron support beams onto a pick up truck. He is the neighborhood scrap metal guy. You know, the guy that drives around and looks for metal all day and then sells it at a salvage yard. I am being asked out by the scrap man. The first offer in well over a year, and it's from Basketball Head, the junk man.

Life is a series of humiliating moments dropped amidst spans of mind-numbing, soul-crushing, spirit-breaking tedium. I once had a friend who was a friend of an author and winner of an Iowa Award. He would often make an observation and punctuate it with these two questions, "Why do we go on? How do we go on?" I pondered those questions now...
"Oh, that's O.K., really...It's no big deal." I started up the stairs quickly. A day before I'd shown Ol' Scrappy the beams and asked my landlord if he could have them.
"Alright, I just thought I'd ask..." He turned and started to strap in the second beam. I just hurt the feelings of the scrap metal man. His life had to suck. He looks for garbage all day. I am such a bitch. Who the hell am I? I am unemployed and batshit crazy.
"So, Arthur, what's your last name?" I call down.
"Lee!" he calls up.
"Lee?"
"Yeah."
"Are you from here?"
"Yeah. I graduated from PalookaNorth in '88. Then I went to Midwestern I State for four years."
"Oh my God! I graduated from PalookaSouth in '88. Then I went to Midwestern I state for two years! Where did you live at State?"
"I lived off campus with my aunt and uncle. I didn't join a fraternity or anything."
"Wow! That's pretty crazy. We both graduated the same year and went to the same school."
"Huh! Yeah, that is!"
Arthur went on to tell me about majoring in Criminology, leaving State and becoming a Palookaville Police Officer. He sustained an injury while on duty and decided to quit law enforcement. He then went to work for a company that went under. He started a business of his own, but it didn't take off.
"Now, here I am...Out here like Sanford and Son!" he gestured to his truck.
"At least you don't have a boss!" I offered.
"Hey, why don't you consider going out with me sometime? Just for coffee or something?"
I shrugged as if to say maybe.
"Alright, the next time I'm in the neighborhood, if you're out with your dog, I'll stop and talk to ya."
Did I just consent to going out with the scrap guy?
I needed to confer. I called Siobhan. "I just got asked out...by the garbage man."
"Whaat? What garbage man?"
"You know, the guy I told you about, Basketball Head-the scrap guy."
"Oh, yeah! Wait, what's a scrap guy?"
"You know, one of those guys who drives around looking for scrap metal all day."
Siobahn cracked up. "Katherine! Ezra does that! Not on a small scale like those guys, but basically when he does a demo, or buys a lot of older work trucks at auction, he takes what he needs and scraps out the rest for thousands of dollars."
"That's different. Ezra has a legitimate business. These guys are digging through garbage."
I wanted to believe that the economy of this cesspool of a town has forced this former police officer into a life of scrap metal salvaging. I had to give him credit for working. I imagined remaking the scrap metal guy into a successful entrepeneur. With my encouragement, Scrappy could become a legit business owner. We could marry and be millionaires. People would say, "She met him when he was digging through the garbage, and look at them now!"
I consulted Ezra. "Do you know a guy who scraps with a big basketball head and a white truck that looks like it came from the Thunderdome? Name's Arthur?"
"White guy?" Ezra asked and spit the seeds from an apple over the stair rail. Ezra exists on a diet of mostly fruit. If you drive through our town and see an orange peel in the driveway of an historic home or a construction site, it was from Ezra. You can bet money on it. Siobhan can track his whereabouts by the fruit peels left behind.
"Yeah, kinda tan and big like a lumberjack."
"Yeah, I know him."
"Is he shady?"
"Well, we had a situation at one of our demo sites. Thousands of dollars worth of metal was removed from the site. We looked into it, checked around at all the salvage yards and found out it was him."
"Oh my God!" I was exasperated.
Ezra grinned. "Now, wait a minute...when we talked to him, he said our father had given him permission. We asked Dad and sure enough, he'd told him to take anything he wanted."
"So he's not shady?"
"Well, there was another thing that happened. He cut the (some mechanical sounding jargon followed that I can't even begin to recreate for you)out of the (more mechanical stuff I think was about industrial air conditioning units). That's illegal."
"So he is shady!"
Ezra grinned again. "Well, I wouldn't say that, but I will tell ya this...everybody I've ever dealt with who scraps, steals."
Siobhan got down to business. "Should katherine go out with him or not?"
Ezra gave us a pained expression and shrugged his shoulders. I suspect all hetero men are bound by some kind of honor code that states, Thou shall not cock block. I let Ezra off the hook. "I'm not going out with somebody who steals."
"But, Katherine! You don't know that! You don't have all the facts!" Siobhan was giving me her serious face. She reserves this face for making points in discussions. Her head is tilted and her brow is furrowed and her mouth takes on a different shape.
These people were of no help.
I set off to the Palookaville Library. I went to the referrence librarian. "Do you have High School Yearbooks?"
"Yes, we do. We used to keep them in the stacks, but they were being stolen. What year do you need?"
"1988."
"What school?"
"PalookaNorth."
She disapeared around the corner and returned with the white bound book.
I looked through the rows of names in the Seniors section; Lantz, Lark, Laughfrey, Legros, Lemons, Leonard...no Lee.

existentialism and loneliness

"Have you done anything social?" my little rodent-esque guinea pig owning psychologist asked.
"No." I lied.
Actually, I had been to a birthday party (the most social of any social occasion) just yesterday. It was for Amina,daughter of Siobhan and Ezra, who had turned the big 5. Amina's father is one one of about umpteen children. The party was populated by many of these siblings and their spouses and progeny. Siobhan and Ezra's smallish apartment was full of people with all manner of connections to one another. People married to people who were siblings of people who had created other people. It was quite a fascinating web. The most fascinating was the one around Siobhan's father. Now, if you didn't know him, you might think Siobhan's father was a wiseguy. He's the best dressed guy in the room; the most charismatic, the most charming, the one that the tipsy women and small children gravitate toward. He is married to Siobhan's mother, a very pretty blond who was most likely a knockout in her day. He had another daughter (with another woman while he was married to Siobhan's mother). Her name is Monelle. Siobhan's mother stayed with him and had a son, Seamus. It doesn't end here. Ezra, (recap: father of Amina and life-partner of Siobhan,) has a sister, Eve. Siobhan thinks her father may have something going on with Eve. The completely bizarre thing is, if you met Siobhan's dad, you may well understand why Siobhan's mother would stay with him (no joke. seriously). All of these people were in the same smallish apartment. Amazing.
Another amazing thing was how Ezra's umpteen siblings looked alike yet nothing alike. When I walked in, I was introduced to Ezekiel, a red-haired ruddy faced guy. His wife, Jamie was stick thin and very familiar. Then I was introduced to Effram, who looked remarkably like Ezekiel, except for the baby mullet and cop 'stache. Effram spoke like Eyeore (not another sibling; the Winnie the Pooh donkey character). Later, after a couple of vodka and tonics with lime, Siobhan and I called his answering machine in the other room and cracked up upon hearing the greeting, "If you wanna...Leave a message. Beep!"
The next sibling I met was the youngest male, Edward. How Edward got the most common name of his siblings is a mystery. Maybe the poor mother was just freakin' tired. Now, Ezra and Edward could be versions of one another. Similiar build; lankish and thin. Similiar noses; longish and prominent. They also resembled the gay brother, Esau. Esau is very mannerly and pleasant in a teacher sort of way. He's not flamboyant or queeny at all. In any other environment,the only hint of his orientation is in the vaguely neuter-ish feeling he gives off. In that room of alpha males, the gayness was palpable. These three; Ezra, Edward and Esau, resembled the other two, Effram and Ezekiel, not at all. As I said, Ezra, Ed and Esau were lankish and thin with longish noses and brown hair and fairish skin. Eff and Zeke were ruddy redheads with shortish stout builds. Enter Eve.
Eve is an escort(Is it me or is this sounding somewhat Seussical?). This has only recently come to the attention of her family. She tries to downplay her va-va-voomishness in front of them by wearing baggy clothing and putting her hair up. It doesn't quite work. If you saw Eve in the Wal-Mart, you would double-take her. She has a great body; tiny waist, fake boobs (not too big, no big gaping cavernous valley between them, no obnoxious ridges that make them look like two halves of a nerf ball stuck under her skin), and a cute butt in her very expensive looking jeans. She has a sort of manufactured star quality. I think she may have had some work done on her face; botox and some lip injections, nothing major. She resembles her mother only vaguely and her brothers not at all. (Oddest thing about Eve's appearance: she has scary man-hands that look like she has toiled for many lifetimes in some horribly difficult trade. While I suspect at times the escort trade is horribly difficult, I don't think it gives you man-hands.)The youngest of the entire family is Erin, who resembles none of these other people. She has a prominent nose, but of an entirely different shape than the others. Nothing in her facial structure suggests her siblings or mother. Very strange. That only accounts for 8 of the umpteen kids. I would love to see the father and the remaining siblings to see if there are missing links that would bring them all together. Currently, I am harboring a suspicion that Ezra's fundamentally religious mother had affairs with at least 4 different men.
Now, on to the spouses. Ezekiel's wife, Jaime, the rail thin vaguely familiar one, never left his side for more than 2 seconds and when she spoke the 4 words I witnessed her utter, they weren't audible. I think I may have went to high school with her. She has the same haircut(feathered) and was wearing something that could have been from that era; heather grey sweatshirt with tipped collar and sleeves and a logo with sand washed mom jeans. When Ezekiel made fun of Eve's children's names (boys, twins with very effeminate names; Allegra and Dante), she lightly smacked him on the arm and mouthed something that looked like, "Stop it." or "Stop that!"
Effram's wife was very outging and talkative. She also consumed two bottles of wine between 2 and 5. She kept checking in with me. "Here! Sit here!" she would say and pat the seat next to her. She and Effram seemed to communicate via teasing each other. She ended up planted next to Siobhan's father (imagine that!), chatting him up in an overtly flirty manner as red faced Effram sat watching her, grinning like a smitten fool and shaking his head.
I may have mentioned in previous posts that I am somewhat socially phobic. Having a dog has helped me, as everybody and their mama want to talk with me about him. I find the dynamics of any social event both fascinating and terrifying. When I see two people who are familiar with one another interact, I feel like I am seeing something I shouldn't. I should look away, but I'm too fascinated. What makes familiarity happen? What is the glue of these situations? I think it involves a gene or at least a skill set I don't have. I never feel entirely comfortable around any other person and it seems like at once a burden and a blessing.
Later that night, after I left the party, caught a film at the dollar theater in the next town, and while I was walking Henry, an ache seized my torso. It was so abrupt and so fierce that I nearly doubled over under the streetlight while grasping the leash. My knees bent slightly and I pressed my arms to my sides and tried to take deep breaths so I wouldn't burst into tears right there in the street. This happens only rarely. Most of the time I am quite content with my solitude. Occasionally the emptiness, longing, ache, and loss culminate into a psychic donkeypunch (Thanks, Barry) of physical pain. The only other person I knew that felt mental anguish in a physical way was an ex-boyfriend who told me he hurt so badly after his mother died that even his teeth ached.
"We're social beings." said the rodent shrinky dink. I agree. My need for socialization is not constant. It lays dormant until I experience some big beautiful mess like Amina's birthday party, then rears up and pounds me like a wave.

i am...

Barry didn't invite me to do this, but Ima doin' it anyways!

I AM: a 35 year old single person with a dog and very little else
I WANT: mental stability
I WISH: education was free
I HATE: the way things are
I MISS: something I’ve never had
I FEAR: the further decline of my appearance
I HEAR: no relevant advice
I WONDER: where I will end up
I REGRET: and yet, I don’t
I AM NOT: a lesbian...yet
I DANCE: to britney spears while cleaning my house
I SING: in the car like a doofus
I CRY: every month
I AM NOT ALWAYS: the best person I can be
I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: food, drawings
I WRITE: about things that stay in mind
I CONFUSE: existentialism and loneliness
I NEED: some love and a job
I SHOULD: exercise, mind my caloric intake, get up every day at the same time…
I START: too late
I FINISH: too little
I TAG: tag like “graffiti”? I don’t tag anything.