I blog. I'm tempted to get a hold of my ex-almost-daughter-in-law and tell her how to find the thing.
The last I heard, she was stripping up in Rhode Island, living with another of my ex-almost-daughter-in-laws. The one I liked very much, and truly wish Fox had been able to keep. But losing either of them was not his fault, the one I liked has MS, and didn't want to be a burden to Fox; the one I frankly try VERY hard not to hope will get hit by a bus full of nuns on pilgrimage is no loss to Fox. And he didn't have anything to do with loosing that scut either.
He has had three, the first one he fell in love with shortly after we returned from Guatemala. She hung in there until just after Crusty was caught.
Sadly, within a few months, her father was 'caught' too, and a nice family was torn apart. The only difference is that she had a nice family, and it was quite shocking to find out her father had been meeting women over the Internet for several years. Her poor mother, because she had truly been in love with the creep, was shattered.
Mercifully I never loved Crusty that way. For me the only bad thing about all of it was the way Crusty was so thorough about ensuring that Fox and I would suffer. He said he had to teach us to appreciate how good we had it while he was around. He actually asked me, sometime around December of '98, to stay married to him on paper so that he could continue to get the tax breaks. Fiancee #1's father at least provided financially for the family after he too decamped for greener (read younger and more sexually adventurous) pastures.
Fox and I sat in cheap plastic web beach chairs for months, I had to sell things to get money for food-when I ran out of things to sell, I got used to eating half meal a day instead of one full one. Fox and I went hungry, we were cold in what passes for winter in south east Alabama until I managed to squeeze out enough to buy us Goodwill clothes. I tried to get a job-what a joke! Crusty scotched that, too.
Crusty was not too good about paying the alimony on time, and flat refused to pay the child support until three months before he didn't have to pay it anymore. I'll only mention in passing that the only reason he paid that little bit was because a supervisor of his happened on me one afternoon while in town for a meeting, and was shocked at my appearance. He asked what the hell was going on, and I was so damn tired from the daily struggle that I told him.
But Crusty made up for it all, he cut the alimony.
And anyway, from Day One, he'd told me he would kill me if I complained. I'm not quite sure how the supervisor got him paying the little that he did pay. All I know is that I am still breathing, although I'll never quite lose the crick in my shoulder blades.
The second ex-fiancee is the one with MS, the third is the scut. Plus he has had the girlfriends.
I tried so hard, is it my fault that all of Fox's ex girlfriend/fiancees keep in touch with me except the scut? The first one is now a mother of two beautiful little girls, and emails me monthly reports. I feel like her fairy god-mother. What a lovely girl she was, what a lovely young woman she is now. Her husband is wonderful, too. She and Fox were doomed from the start; she is a Mormon, he is a Roman Catholic to the core.
The RC thing is not my fault, it is Crusty's. I came to the forced marriage an Anglican, but Crusty is a cradle Catholic and I tried to be a good wife. I told myself God doesn't care where you bend your knee as long as you do it somewhere.
Not that I am into that "Wrathful God in need of Glorification" thing. Far from it. I used to hear Jesus alternately laugh and weep during Mass, especially during the Holy Eucharist part.
Please, do your homework people. "Body and Blood" is so bloody (pun intended, I think) pagan! The guy spent his ministry using parables, why does everyone not get that?
I used to say that if the Archbishop of Canterbury knew how I felt about things, he would bring back excommunication. Now I really don't care, I think His Grace is going to have a few things to discuss with God when he gets there...
"Now Rowan, what were you thinking when you told openly homosexual priests that you would recognize their same sex 'marriages' but only if they promised not to have sex?"
Please, please, someone give me a break!! Can you imagine being in love enough with someone to risk everything by going public with the relationship, and then have to promise not to make love with your partner? Bloody hell, what a lot of claptrap; those poor people! How ridiculous is that??!!
"I did not leave the Church, the Church left me." Truer words...
I blog. How very wonderfully cathartic it is.
29 October 2005
Was it only six years ago? It feels longer. But I counted it up, and it has been only six years since I pulled myself together enough to go to the doctor and have an AIDS test.
I'd suspected for years, but when one has no proof, and a .41 mag in one's ear, one tries to find concrete proof before making any moves.
On 6 July 1998, Crusty finally gave himself away. He came straight from the field with prostitute on him and wanted to have sex. When I suggested he might want to shower first, he drunkenly informed me the hooker in Bogota had not been so picky...
Too late, the next morning he tried to say that he had dreamt he was with a hooker. Right.
I sat in the doctor's waiting room shaking, close to vomiting the entire time I was in the test areas.
I lost it when the P.A. told me that there were now STDs they "have no test for, but that will show up in about twenty years..." I think she thought about calling for a sedative, but I calmed myself, and tried to go numb.
St. Jude's Feast Day. I prayed the days and night following, too, begging the saint of the hopeless cause to intercede for me on behalf of my newly orphaned son.
I didn't deliberately schedule the test for that day, it just happened that way, the first available appointment was on 28th October, Sts Simon and Jude Day.
The woman who drew blood for the battery of STD tests couldn't help but notice how upset I was. (I think everyone in the doctor's office knew what was going on, I felt like a less pretty Julia Roberts in that movie with Dennis Quaid-everyone in three counties knew that Crusty had finally been caught red-handed.) She patted me on the shoulder and said she was praying for me, and asked if I knew what day it was. I told her Sts Simon and Jude, and she nodded, and patted my shoulder again, then pulled her rosary halfway from her pocket. I patted mine, and we shared a silent communion of sorts. (In the Deep South, being too obvious a Anglo-Catholic will get a cross burned on your lawn almost as fast as being Jewish or African-American. I guess it doesn't 'help' that I wear a Star of David in honour of my dad's third wife...A sort of double whammy there, ya know?)
I don't remember how long it took to get the results; I know they rushed them, and I was past the first of the recommended three.
Crusty's insurance refused to pay for the third one. But I am skipping ahead.
Six months later, I went in for #2. Which I don't remember much about beyond everyone looking carefully away as I went by them in the hallway. By that time, most of my so-called friends had slipped out of my life, I was no longer on the Altar Guild, and Fox's friends weren't inviting him to week-ends in the country any more. Too, by that time, I was on foot, Crusty having taken the car-that power of attorney thing again, he had the car title switched to his name. The sheriff was not too helpful, "I'm sorry ma'am, but the car/furniture/bank account... is in his name."
Any road, the second test results arrived in a letter, clear again, see you in six months. If you pass those, you're clear. Avoid risky...
Right. I wasn't having any sex, much less risky sex. I hadn't had sex since July, who were they kidding, did they think I was a slut?????
Finally, the third test. By that time, people were openly avoiding me in the grocery, the Wal-Mart, and I was afraid the doctor's office was going to be more of the same, so I scurried in early in the morning, to get out before the daily crush. But the staff was kind, and professional.
The day I got the results of the third and final test I recall very, very clearly. "Clean." I thought. "Oh thank-you God, I am clean."
I got a bill from them for $11.00, and an apologetic sounding note from the billing clerk that Crusty had canceled my insurance, too.
The insurance company agreed that at the time I had the third test I was still covered, but it was their opinion that the third test was a luxury despite then current recommendations to have three spaced at six month intervals depending on the type of exposure.
I guess my husband having regularly patronized South American prostitutes didn't qualify in Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Alabama's eyes as that risky a behaviour.
Right.
I paid the $11.00, I think.
But that was the last time I went to the doctor. I have started laughing somewhat bitterly when I hear or read the admonition to women my age about having regular check-ups. What a joke. I callled the doctor's office, just to see what those 'required' exams and tests would run me. $200 just to walk in the door.
Right.
I try very, very, very hard not to hate Crusty when I think of how completely he trashed Fox's and my life. Some days, that is easier than on other days.
I knew he didn't love me. I know he forced me to stay a gunpoint, to take my youth, and crush my family. He destroyed my son's respect for me, and he trapped me in a small and narrow town filled with small and narrow people, and he did it to hurt me, to take away my 'dancing years' and remove me from any hope of being loved by a decent man.
Too bad for Crusty, he reckoned without God.
God will send a great man into my life, and God will hold my son's heart safe until Fox is strong enough to let God help him heal, and Fox and I will have love and a family in this lifetime. Maybe even this year.
Like Barbra always said-"Next year in Jerusalem!" Well Barb, I am really hoping...
THIS YEAR IN JERUSALEM!!!!!
L'Chaim!
I'd suspected for years, but when one has no proof, and a .41 mag in one's ear, one tries to find concrete proof before making any moves.
On 6 July 1998, Crusty finally gave himself away. He came straight from the field with prostitute on him and wanted to have sex. When I suggested he might want to shower first, he drunkenly informed me the hooker in Bogota had not been so picky...
Too late, the next morning he tried to say that he had dreamt he was with a hooker. Right.
I sat in the doctor's waiting room shaking, close to vomiting the entire time I was in the test areas.
I lost it when the P.A. told me that there were now STDs they "have no test for, but that will show up in about twenty years..." I think she thought about calling for a sedative, but I calmed myself, and tried to go numb.
St. Jude's Feast Day. I prayed the days and night following, too, begging the saint of the hopeless cause to intercede for me on behalf of my newly orphaned son.
I didn't deliberately schedule the test for that day, it just happened that way, the first available appointment was on 28th October, Sts Simon and Jude Day.
The woman who drew blood for the battery of STD tests couldn't help but notice how upset I was. (I think everyone in the doctor's office knew what was going on, I felt like a less pretty Julia Roberts in that movie with Dennis Quaid-everyone in three counties knew that Crusty had finally been caught red-handed.) She patted me on the shoulder and said she was praying for me, and asked if I knew what day it was. I told her Sts Simon and Jude, and she nodded, and patted my shoulder again, then pulled her rosary halfway from her pocket. I patted mine, and we shared a silent communion of sorts. (In the Deep South, being too obvious a Anglo-Catholic will get a cross burned on your lawn almost as fast as being Jewish or African-American. I guess it doesn't 'help' that I wear a Star of David in honour of my dad's third wife...A sort of double whammy there, ya know?)
I don't remember how long it took to get the results; I know they rushed them, and I was past the first of the recommended three.
Crusty's insurance refused to pay for the third one. But I am skipping ahead.
Six months later, I went in for #2. Which I don't remember much about beyond everyone looking carefully away as I went by them in the hallway. By that time, most of my so-called friends had slipped out of my life, I was no longer on the Altar Guild, and Fox's friends weren't inviting him to week-ends in the country any more. Too, by that time, I was on foot, Crusty having taken the car-that power of attorney thing again, he had the car title switched to his name. The sheriff was not too helpful, "I'm sorry ma'am, but the car/furniture/bank account... is in his name."
Any road, the second test results arrived in a letter, clear again, see you in six months. If you pass those, you're clear. Avoid risky...
Right. I wasn't having any sex, much less risky sex. I hadn't had sex since July, who were they kidding, did they think I was a slut?????
Finally, the third test. By that time, people were openly avoiding me in the grocery, the Wal-Mart, and I was afraid the doctor's office was going to be more of the same, so I scurried in early in the morning, to get out before the daily crush. But the staff was kind, and professional.
The day I got the results of the third and final test I recall very, very clearly. "Clean." I thought. "Oh thank-you God, I am clean."
I got a bill from them for $11.00, and an apologetic sounding note from the billing clerk that Crusty had canceled my insurance, too.
The insurance company agreed that at the time I had the third test I was still covered, but it was their opinion that the third test was a luxury despite then current recommendations to have three spaced at six month intervals depending on the type of exposure.
I guess my husband having regularly patronized South American prostitutes didn't qualify in Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Alabama's eyes as that risky a behaviour.
Right.
I paid the $11.00, I think.
But that was the last time I went to the doctor. I have started laughing somewhat bitterly when I hear or read the admonition to women my age about having regular check-ups. What a joke. I callled the doctor's office, just to see what those 'required' exams and tests would run me. $200 just to walk in the door.
Right.
I try very, very, very hard not to hate Crusty when I think of how completely he trashed Fox's and my life. Some days, that is easier than on other days.
I knew he didn't love me. I know he forced me to stay a gunpoint, to take my youth, and crush my family. He destroyed my son's respect for me, and he trapped me in a small and narrow town filled with small and narrow people, and he did it to hurt me, to take away my 'dancing years' and remove me from any hope of being loved by a decent man.
Too bad for Crusty, he reckoned without God.
God will send a great man into my life, and God will hold my son's heart safe until Fox is strong enough to let God help him heal, and Fox and I will have love and a family in this lifetime. Maybe even this year.
Like Barbra always said-"Next year in Jerusalem!" Well Barb, I am really hoping...
THIS YEAR IN JERUSALEM!!!!!
L'Chaim!
28 October 2005
I remember Ivan. And now, a year later, here is Tropical Storm Beta. HUH??
Fox was supposed to stay with me during the storm, but of course he didn't. The last time Fox showed a moment's concern for me was the morning of the 9/11 attacks, and that lasted only a few hours.
My son blames me for everything, including the end of the known world.
Anyway, I huddled in the bathroom with Fox's dog, sure the next tornado would be the one with mine and the dog's names on it. What a ghastly night and day that was. The winds began the night before, and they were terrible, bringing tornado after tornado, and I told myself if I survived I would never go through another one alone. I was so frightened at one point, so very sure I was about to die, that I texted Fox a long "Be a good father" message.
The next hurricane to come through was Dennis, this year, and I scooped up the dog and fled to Akbar's apartment. After the storm, Entrare called to tell me that Mobile was gone. Nope, not yet, but Katrina sure made a good try.
Just after Katrina, I gave notice to Simon LeGree, and by the 1st of October, I was outta there.
It feels a little strange to be sitting in cozy Atlanta watching the horror of so many storms that the Greek alphabet is now being utilized.
If this isn't the end of the known world, what is?
I just hope my bullets are dry.
Entrare, God bless him, bought me a pack of cigarettes last night. I found them on the pass-through this morning on my way out to work.
Ahhhhhh...
Fox was supposed to stay with me during the storm, but of course he didn't. The last time Fox showed a moment's concern for me was the morning of the 9/11 attacks, and that lasted only a few hours.
My son blames me for everything, including the end of the known world.
Anyway, I huddled in the bathroom with Fox's dog, sure the next tornado would be the one with mine and the dog's names on it. What a ghastly night and day that was. The winds began the night before, and they were terrible, bringing tornado after tornado, and I told myself if I survived I would never go through another one alone. I was so frightened at one point, so very sure I was about to die, that I texted Fox a long "Be a good father" message.
The next hurricane to come through was Dennis, this year, and I scooped up the dog and fled to Akbar's apartment. After the storm, Entrare called to tell me that Mobile was gone. Nope, not yet, but Katrina sure made a good try.
Just after Katrina, I gave notice to Simon LeGree, and by the 1st of October, I was outta there.
It feels a little strange to be sitting in cozy Atlanta watching the horror of so many storms that the Greek alphabet is now being utilized.
If this isn't the end of the known world, what is?
I just hope my bullets are dry.
Entrare, God bless him, bought me a pack of cigarettes last night. I found them on the pass-through this morning on my way out to work.
Ahhhhhh...
27 October 2005
Fox'sMom's New Job: Day Three. So far, not too bad. I try to leave the house an hour before I have to be there because to go ten miles in Metro Atanta one needs to have at the very least thirty minutes to spare. So far, so good, I get there within ten minutes of time to start the day.
Hey, L.A. wasn't any better, and I have not had to fight the traffic there since '85, when my dad was dying out at Cigna Hospital. I'm sure it has only got worse. Here at least, when I signal that I need to make a lane change, the other driver lets me in. A very nice change from having a gun waved at me, or an obscene gesture. (What is it about Alabama that inspires drivers-especially women drivers, to gun violence? I'm not making this up, a woman from Huntsville or B'Ham is doing time for killing-KILLING!!- another nice suburban housewife who happened to cut the ex-nice suburban housewife now doing time at Julia Tutwiller Prison for Alabama Women off during a lane change.) I like it, obviously. Atlanta driving, I mean. So far. After all, this is only day three.
I work for four hours, take a thirty minute lunch, and work four more hours, then get back on the freeway for the ten mile/thirty plus minute drive back to the apartment.
I feel like I'm on vacation.
The work is not at all difficult, my co-workers are hilarious, the building nice, and I doubt deeply that any former employee will be showing up with an Uzi.
And a week from tomorrow, I will have a nice little check in my hand.
OK, I still wish I had a cigarette. I wish I had several. I wish I had a carton, and some meat, like ground chuck, or a pot roast maybe. And milk. I'm OK on veggies and fruit-I still have some left in the hurricane pak I accidently brought with me instead of clothes, money, my bread maker, slow cooker, and my sewing machine...Could I have got all that in a KIA RIO?
This is not the way I wanted to quit smoking.
I frankly have nothing but the appropriate contempt for those contemptible swine who smugly laugh at my smokeless discomfort.
Asses. I despise arrogant non-smokers. They, every pathetic last one of them, remind me of Sydney, the nasty little ick from Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer.
Control freaks, every wretched one of them.
GRRRR. Please, please, someone give these jerks a reality check!
Hey, L.A. wasn't any better, and I have not had to fight the traffic there since '85, when my dad was dying out at Cigna Hospital. I'm sure it has only got worse. Here at least, when I signal that I need to make a lane change, the other driver lets me in. A very nice change from having a gun waved at me, or an obscene gesture. (What is it about Alabama that inspires drivers-especially women drivers, to gun violence? I'm not making this up, a woman from Huntsville or B'Ham is doing time for killing-KILLING!!- another nice suburban housewife who happened to cut the ex-nice suburban housewife now doing time at Julia Tutwiller Prison for Alabama Women off during a lane change.) I like it, obviously. Atlanta driving, I mean. So far. After all, this is only day three.
I work for four hours, take a thirty minute lunch, and work four more hours, then get back on the freeway for the ten mile/thirty plus minute drive back to the apartment.
I feel like I'm on vacation.
The work is not at all difficult, my co-workers are hilarious, the building nice, and I doubt deeply that any former employee will be showing up with an Uzi.
And a week from tomorrow, I will have a nice little check in my hand.
OK, I still wish I had a cigarette. I wish I had several. I wish I had a carton, and some meat, like ground chuck, or a pot roast maybe. And milk. I'm OK on veggies and fruit-I still have some left in the hurricane pak I accidently brought with me instead of clothes, money, my bread maker, slow cooker, and my sewing machine...Could I have got all that in a KIA RIO?
This is not the way I wanted to quit smoking.
I frankly have nothing but the appropriate contempt for those contemptible swine who smugly laugh at my smokeless discomfort.
Asses. I despise arrogant non-smokers. They, every pathetic last one of them, remind me of Sydney, the nasty little ick from Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer.
Control freaks, every wretched one of them.
GRRRR. Please, please, someone give these jerks a reality check!
23 October 2005
That was then, this is now. I do remember that, it sometimes seems my personal mantra. I don't live in the past, but I am the sum of all my parts. It seems a bit TOO convenient to say "Don't live in the past." Because if one does not examine where one has been, how will one know how one arrived at the current point? So. I am not afraid of yesterday.
I feel official, and I said to myself "I live here." As if not having a job made me un-official, a guest whose welcome just might be about to wear out. Entrare has been lovely, no resentment vibes. Quite the contrary. However. Now I have a job, I live here. I feel it.
And so, after Matins, I will do the things people do on Sunday to prepare for the work week ahead. Gods, I absolutely love it.
I watched 'Hellboy' Friday night. Entrare got me hooked, then fell asleep and woke to stumble off to his room. I kept saying, here, I will stop the movie here, but ended up watching it straight through. I'm glad I did, it was a surprisingly good movie, rather well done, I thought. Last night, as Entrare was ferrying little brother of fiancee about, I watched 'The Bourne Identity' and quite thoroughly enjoyed it.
Oh cool, I just noticed this posting box has a spell checker. Now that is nice!
I feel official, and I said to myself "I live here." As if not having a job made me un-official, a guest whose welcome just might be about to wear out. Entrare has been lovely, no resentment vibes. Quite the contrary. However. Now I have a job, I live here. I feel it.
And so, after Matins, I will do the things people do on Sunday to prepare for the work week ahead. Gods, I absolutely love it.
I watched 'Hellboy' Friday night. Entrare got me hooked, then fell asleep and woke to stumble off to his room. I kept saying, here, I will stop the movie here, but ended up watching it straight through. I'm glad I did, it was a surprisingly good movie, rather well done, I thought. Last night, as Entrare was ferrying little brother of fiancee about, I watched 'The Bourne Identity' and quite thoroughly enjoyed it.
Oh cool, I just noticed this posting box has a spell checker. Now that is nice!
Fiancee is probably going to move in. I certainly hope she does. What a lovely young woman she is. I've warned Entrare that I will be baking now that I will have an income, they had best watch out for expanding waistlines. I am looking forward to going south in two weeks to reclaim my household goods from the storage bins, especially my slow cooker, deep fat fryer, and cook books. And my bed-my 49 year old back wants to know why we left the Sealy PosturePeadic in storage, hmmm?
Lest my gentle reader (sorry, couldn't resist) think me a victim of Southern cooking, I suppose now would be a good time to confess that I have a mild heart condition, more annoyance than anything-a mere bagatelle we used to say of such trifling matters. I use the deep fat fryer to make chips and donuts that are very nearly salt free. Chips being everything from potato and tortilla chips to frenched frys.
OK, about the mild heart condition. As a young child I suffered my father's benign neglect, and his second wife's utter hatred-bad combination, that. So, when a dental infection went untreated, the infection went to my pericardium, which in turn led to Pericarditis, which, of course undiagnosed, became chronic.
It was the cause of my flucuating weight, my fatigue, my aches, pains, and swelling ankles. The military didn't find it, scores of subsequent doctors didn't find it, but that's not their fault, I never told them the symptoms beyond aches, pains, cough...Not enough of the right information, and finally, in the fall of 1998, a dead guy told me what I had.
The dead guy, in life-although, ya know, define death really, since he is pretty lively to me...Ok, so the dead guy, when he had skin, worked as a pneumothoracic surgeon. I looked him up. I tried to Google him, but when one dies in 1978, one needs to have been a bit more prominent than he was in skin to deserve a spot in the Web able to be found by the Google search engine.
Any roads, he hit the nail, so to speak. But it took me five bloody years to believe him, five years.
Now, I keep the sodium intake down to less than 15K per day. I look fabulous, and I haven't had those pesky chest clutching and groaning episodes in ages. Mostly. Don't tell Dr. Dad-I call him that because he swears he is my father-in-law. Define 'late.'
I lost nearly fifty pounds. At first I was on what I came to call the 'grief diet.' That was brought on by the receipt of such horrific news that I literally could not eat, didn't want to eat, had to be practically held down and force fed to keep body and soul in one place-my skin.
But eventually Dr. Dad got through to me about the fact that while the grief diet, oddly enough, had saved my life-imagine if you will the gruesome nature of a dead and completely pissed off person for whom you have nothing but the highest respect despite your not believing him for years as to who and what he was, getting right up and repeatedly in your face at all the oddest moments and demonstrating the surety that he must have been terrifying to first year surgical residents who pissed him off-the point had probably only just been reached where I really should think about "GETTING ONE'S-SELF TOGETHER OR YOU WILL END UP ON THIS SIDE!!!" Talk about a grouch. But he was right, and so I did go about getting myself together enough to pay attention.
What a night that was. He dictated, I wrote. And wrote. And re-wrote, and read back until I was hoarse, and he was semi-satisfied that I would remember the important parts.
As I continued to survive, I spent money for books I would never have known to look for if Dr. Dad had not overcome his disdain for my driving skills. Excuse me, he's dead, how can I possibly scare him...
A year later, when I finally got a computer and went online for the first time, sure enough wasn't Dr. Dad right behind me telling me to go to the BBC and look it up, which I did, and then started to really learn.
I researched BBC Health, WebMD, American Heart, and Googled. And wrote, copied, pasted.
And lived.
22 October 2005
A spark, a little glowing ember, one I thought had gone extinct, but was only banked, I see now. Hope, that lovely spirit, re-enters, and I feel re-born while still in the same flesh I brought to this life.
Fall arrives. We called it autumn once, but no longer. A pity, that loss of the elegance of language.
Johnny, oh Johnny. We kicked and laughed, and smiled, red checked in the crisp Yorkshire air. So long ago, that kiss under a bronzed tree. That question, that promise, that "Oh yes, please, let's!" Old people dressed as children yet again, knowing with the knowledge of the old, yet hoping with the hearts of children, too, that this time, this time...
No need for precognition, we all knew that lovely spring day, that our dance would soon turn macabre, for did you and my brother, and your brother, and so many of our dear friends, not come home from Spain for that wedding in full knowledge of the coming storm?
Was that the night I went out on the terrace for a secret cigarette only to find dear, dearest Nigel there before me? What was I wearing, I remember it was cream coloured. Blonds should not wear cream, but it was the fashion, and so I rustled and startled him, and he put that brave smile back upon his face. He said something inconsequential, and went back into the house, leaving me to wonder what depths he'd been down to. How like me to have missed her, to have missed him, to have been impatient with both of them for their seemingly unconnected glooms. Was that the night he knew he would die never having held her?
Just before she died, not very many months before, she and I spoke, and for a moment we were two young women putting on a brave front for the troops, and I could see her in that splendid gown, a colour she and only she alone could have pulled off, surrounded by so many of our men. A sea of their wools and her the bright and beautiful bobbin in that ocean. Stupidly I asked her if she ever married her Lt., and she shook her head, and we were back in the horrid 21st century, her a paper thin and frail thing, dying, though I would not know it then. She whispered "Nigel," and I was alone again, with ghosts and shadows around me, as usual, as always.
Yours, too, Johnny my Johnny. I put my hand up to loosen the too tight collar you men always seem to favour, even now, and suddenly you were not in that lovely dinner jacket you wore so well, but a uniform.
And then you made it up from the beach, you and your men, but not through the field, and I saw you die, again, and not too very long after, I followed.
My heart, do you know what day this is? What day it really is, though they have changed the calendar, and tried to mark it last week?
We know the truth, or do you, anymore? She had to kill the music in your heart, for it was ours, to keep you locked with her in this place, this desolation, this loss she inflicted and tried to make you believe you chose for yourself.
So many lives, my heart/my soul/my everything, so very many, and this, the last one, our last one, she is quite content to see you live in utter mediocrity if it means she will die, in this life, as your so-called wife. What evil calls that 'love'? Hers, and hers alone.
And yet...
And yet hope for a contented, peaceful, productive life, albeit without you forever now, stirs in my soul with the true arrival of autumn, and a job. Memories of you and our friends-do you read the obits on the Telegraph? I do, oh Johnny, those who outlived us are now all dying. When they are all gone, will our memory dry up and blow away like the dust from a newly opened tomb? Poor Howard, would that he had listened. But you wouldn't why should he have?
The last time you listened to me was on Thara, and for five thousand years since, you have not. What a horrid, horrid waste.
It will be soon, now. I pray that you and yours will be somehow safe, yes, even her, that hateful witch. If it will make you happy. But I hoped for that before I found out-how you did try to keep that from me, and that the one nearly if not completely unforgivable sin-that you had married again-to some utter unworthy. Besides you and my equally unforgivable brother, who knew that you had taken to wife that mis-begotton abomination?
Richard. But he was prevented from telling me, and when he realized I still did not know the Christ'mass of 2002, he rushed out of doors to vomit into the stream. I have not seen him since. I was in such a shock I walked out of his mother's clutching a tea spoon. I am afraid I misplaced it, now, and cannot return it. I think I left it by the bridge. I think. If ever you go home Johnny, do see if you can find it, and return it for me, would you please?
And then in March of 2003, my son's fiancee found out, and kindly told me. She managed to get it through my head just who you'd married, for all that Richard had got out was that you'd "got on with his life." Before he had to step outside, you see.
St. Michel calls her "Consumate evil." After I'd got the complete story out of him, and others, I had to agree.
Yet, hope floats on the depths of all souls, in God's heart, does it not? And so I wish you all well. Mostly, and always.
So take care, try and prepare. You do remember how helpful it was that we were out of Thara before the destruction, and how well set we were to render aid to those who survived? Because that one time, you listened.
Fall arrives. We called it autumn once, but no longer. A pity, that loss of the elegance of language.
Johnny, oh Johnny. We kicked and laughed, and smiled, red checked in the crisp Yorkshire air. So long ago, that kiss under a bronzed tree. That question, that promise, that "Oh yes, please, let's!" Old people dressed as children yet again, knowing with the knowledge of the old, yet hoping with the hearts of children, too, that this time, this time...
No need for precognition, we all knew that lovely spring day, that our dance would soon turn macabre, for did you and my brother, and your brother, and so many of our dear friends, not come home from Spain for that wedding in full knowledge of the coming storm?
Was that the night I went out on the terrace for a secret cigarette only to find dear, dearest Nigel there before me? What was I wearing, I remember it was cream coloured. Blonds should not wear cream, but it was the fashion, and so I rustled and startled him, and he put that brave smile back upon his face. He said something inconsequential, and went back into the house, leaving me to wonder what depths he'd been down to. How like me to have missed her, to have missed him, to have been impatient with both of them for their seemingly unconnected glooms. Was that the night he knew he would die never having held her?
Just before she died, not very many months before, she and I spoke, and for a moment we were two young women putting on a brave front for the troops, and I could see her in that splendid gown, a colour she and only she alone could have pulled off, surrounded by so many of our men. A sea of their wools and her the bright and beautiful bobbin in that ocean. Stupidly I asked her if she ever married her Lt., and she shook her head, and we were back in the horrid 21st century, her a paper thin and frail thing, dying, though I would not know it then. She whispered "Nigel," and I was alone again, with ghosts and shadows around me, as usual, as always.
Yours, too, Johnny my Johnny. I put my hand up to loosen the too tight collar you men always seem to favour, even now, and suddenly you were not in that lovely dinner jacket you wore so well, but a uniform.
And then you made it up from the beach, you and your men, but not through the field, and I saw you die, again, and not too very long after, I followed.
My heart, do you know what day this is? What day it really is, though they have changed the calendar, and tried to mark it last week?
We know the truth, or do you, anymore? She had to kill the music in your heart, for it was ours, to keep you locked with her in this place, this desolation, this loss she inflicted and tried to make you believe you chose for yourself.
So many lives, my heart/my soul/my everything, so very many, and this, the last one, our last one, she is quite content to see you live in utter mediocrity if it means she will die, in this life, as your so-called wife. What evil calls that 'love'? Hers, and hers alone.
And yet...
And yet hope for a contented, peaceful, productive life, albeit without you forever now, stirs in my soul with the true arrival of autumn, and a job. Memories of you and our friends-do you read the obits on the Telegraph? I do, oh Johnny, those who outlived us are now all dying. When they are all gone, will our memory dry up and blow away like the dust from a newly opened tomb? Poor Howard, would that he had listened. But you wouldn't why should he have?
The last time you listened to me was on Thara, and for five thousand years since, you have not. What a horrid, horrid waste.
It will be soon, now. I pray that you and yours will be somehow safe, yes, even her, that hateful witch. If it will make you happy. But I hoped for that before I found out-how you did try to keep that from me, and that the one nearly if not completely unforgivable sin-that you had married again-to some utter unworthy. Besides you and my equally unforgivable brother, who knew that you had taken to wife that mis-begotton abomination?
Richard. But he was prevented from telling me, and when he realized I still did not know the Christ'mass of 2002, he rushed out of doors to vomit into the stream. I have not seen him since. I was in such a shock I walked out of his mother's clutching a tea spoon. I am afraid I misplaced it, now, and cannot return it. I think I left it by the bridge. I think. If ever you go home Johnny, do see if you can find it, and return it for me, would you please?
And then in March of 2003, my son's fiancee found out, and kindly told me. She managed to get it through my head just who you'd married, for all that Richard had got out was that you'd "got on with his life." Before he had to step outside, you see.
St. Michel calls her "Consumate evil." After I'd got the complete story out of him, and others, I had to agree.
Yet, hope floats on the depths of all souls, in God's heart, does it not? And so I wish you all well. Mostly, and always.
So take care, try and prepare. You do remember how helpful it was that we were out of Thara before the destruction, and how well set we were to render aid to those who survived? Because that one time, you listened.
21 October 2005
Late yesterday afternoon I was called to schedule an interview with a company I'd applied to online. I made it there this morning, and left thinking the chances are about 70% that I will get the job. It looks like a fun place to work.
I got back from the interview, and found a message that Ms. "What does nurture mean?" found me a job, and not at Burger King.
I start Monday at $11 hour, 40 hours a week, and the job is through January.
Now, gas to get me through until my first paycheck on the 3rd...
I got back from the interview, and found a message that Ms. "What does nurture mean?" found me a job, and not at Burger King.
I start Monday at $11 hour, 40 hours a week, and the job is through January.
Now, gas to get me through until my first paycheck on the 3rd...
My room mate has kept me up late-til at least 0100-the past couple of nights. The first night, he decided, at nearly 2300, that we needed to rearrange the living room. The second night, after I rearranged the furniture the next day after he went to work, to watch 'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban' in the newly cozy living room.
I am stopping with a young friend, we'll just call him Entrare-no real names, please. He is an unusual young man, nearly 29, a recent computer science grad after putting himself through college. I met him years ago at a blood drive I worked at his college. He behaved as though we had known each other forever. He was so down to earth about it that I thought perhaps we had met some where.
Now, years later, newly arrived in his new hometown of Atlanta, I realize, yes, perhaps indeed, somewhere in a previous life. Although, knowing Entrare, it is possible that he had a sense of the familar through pre-cognition, and I am confused because frankly I am at times bewildered by the 21st century.
It never fails to amuse me, this 21st century. Who the bloody hell wants I mean WANTS to live in a 'Matrix Re-Loaded' world??? Blade Runner, THX38, Logan's Run, you people are demented, crikeys, get over this! How do you think these stories end, anyway? Badly, of course, and bloodily-yours no doubt-trust me, it is never romantic.
Fast forward. I gathered all the change in the apartment and counted it, then rolled it. How demoralizing. Then I opened a packet of turkey gravey I found in my hurricane evac pak that I accidently packed into the car during my escape, made it, and poured it over some rice. I opened a can of cranberry sauce, too-what was I thinking, cranberry sauce in an evac pak?
We live on an edge brought on by Entrare's determination to not ask his mother for help, and my determination to thwart Crusty. Crusty's parting shot was that I would end up a bag lady-what a swell guy.
He left me with no money, no car, no food, an angry teen-ager, around 30K in bills he'd racked up while cleaning out the bank accounts, and a dog he said was Fox's. Well, actually two dogs, but one was mine, so Baer doesn't count. And he died in '99. For two years I tried to find a job within walking distance. I finally found one, and it lasted five miserable months. Too long a story. Permit me to gloss over my five months selling snacks and what to my horror turned out to be porn magazines, while fending off the morning clerk, for what amounted to $50.00 a week after paying cab fare.
I didn't find another job for two more years. I promise you that truly, "Who you know-not what you Know" is how one finds a job-ANYWHERE. Pretty much.
The job from hell. 365 Days a year, opening and closing the complex gates at 12-13 hour intervals depending on the season, running the business office Monday through Friday 9am to 5pm-NO LUNCH HOUR-"You live there. Eat between customers." So sayeth Mr. Boss. Plus opening the office on Saturday morning until 12 Noon. Did I mention that every single day of the week I was expected to open/close the gate at 12-13 hour intervals depending on the season? I did, didn't I. OK, did I mention that tenants thought since I lived there I was on duty 24/7? To tell them what unit the were in, or to show their cousin a 5x10 because he might want to rent one someday? That they had no problem stopping me on my way out, or banging on my door, or ringing the phone repeatedly until I finally answered because-"I knew you wuz in ther, I saw your car/light/shadow pass on the blinds..." "This will only take five minutes..."? Times 300, because that is how many units we had. I filled the damn things, and trained most of my tenants to not disturb sleeping dragons. Most of them, anyway.
And in between, Mr. and Mrs. Boss sent their granddaughters over to my on site apartment. Or they would come over, or call, and lean on the bell/pound on the kitchen door/call, then hang-up and redial-over and over and over and over and over....Their youngest daughter, a 35+ something who works for the government, came into my office shortly before I quit, and despite my telling her (for about the gajillionth time over the last nearly four years) I had just started to grab lunch, kept me standing for two hours while she droned on about her charity work, and how people just don't appreciate the charity efforts people try to extend.
Starving is better. I just wish I had a cigarette.
I am stopping with a young friend, we'll just call him Entrare-no real names, please. He is an unusual young man, nearly 29, a recent computer science grad after putting himself through college. I met him years ago at a blood drive I worked at his college. He behaved as though we had known each other forever. He was so down to earth about it that I thought perhaps we had met some where.
Now, years later, newly arrived in his new hometown of Atlanta, I realize, yes, perhaps indeed, somewhere in a previous life. Although, knowing Entrare, it is possible that he had a sense of the familar through pre-cognition, and I am confused because frankly I am at times bewildered by the 21st century.
It never fails to amuse me, this 21st century. Who the bloody hell wants I mean WANTS to live in a 'Matrix Re-Loaded' world??? Blade Runner, THX38, Logan's Run, you people are demented, crikeys, get over this! How do you think these stories end, anyway? Badly, of course, and bloodily-yours no doubt-trust me, it is never romantic.
Fast forward. I gathered all the change in the apartment and counted it, then rolled it. How demoralizing. Then I opened a packet of turkey gravey I found in my hurricane evac pak that I accidently packed into the car during my escape, made it, and poured it over some rice. I opened a can of cranberry sauce, too-what was I thinking, cranberry sauce in an evac pak?
We live on an edge brought on by Entrare's determination to not ask his mother for help, and my determination to thwart Crusty. Crusty's parting shot was that I would end up a bag lady-what a swell guy.
He left me with no money, no car, no food, an angry teen-ager, around 30K in bills he'd racked up while cleaning out the bank accounts, and a dog he said was Fox's. Well, actually two dogs, but one was mine, so Baer doesn't count. And he died in '99. For two years I tried to find a job within walking distance. I finally found one, and it lasted five miserable months. Too long a story. Permit me to gloss over my five months selling snacks and what to my horror turned out to be porn magazines, while fending off the morning clerk, for what amounted to $50.00 a week after paying cab fare.
I didn't find another job for two more years. I promise you that truly, "Who you know-not what you Know" is how one finds a job-ANYWHERE. Pretty much.
The job from hell. 365 Days a year, opening and closing the complex gates at 12-13 hour intervals depending on the season, running the business office Monday through Friday 9am to 5pm-NO LUNCH HOUR-"You live there. Eat between customers." So sayeth Mr. Boss. Plus opening the office on Saturday morning until 12 Noon. Did I mention that every single day of the week I was expected to open/close the gate at 12-13 hour intervals depending on the season? I did, didn't I. OK, did I mention that tenants thought since I lived there I was on duty 24/7? To tell them what unit the were in, or to show their cousin a 5x10 because he might want to rent one someday? That they had no problem stopping me on my way out, or banging on my door, or ringing the phone repeatedly until I finally answered because-"I knew you wuz in ther, I saw your car/light/shadow pass on the blinds..." "This will only take five minutes..."? Times 300, because that is how many units we had. I filled the damn things, and trained most of my tenants to not disturb sleeping dragons. Most of them, anyway.
And in between, Mr. and Mrs. Boss sent their granddaughters over to my on site apartment. Or they would come over, or call, and lean on the bell/pound on the kitchen door/call, then hang-up and redial-over and over and over and over and over....Their youngest daughter, a 35+ something who works for the government, came into my office shortly before I quit, and despite my telling her (for about the gajillionth time over the last nearly four years) I had just started to grab lunch, kept me standing for two hours while she droned on about her charity work, and how people just don't appreciate the charity efforts people try to extend.
Starving is better. I just wish I had a cigarette.
18 October 2005
Yikes, I got a comment on the blog yesterday. It made me think-whoa, gotta be more careful about grammer and spelling/who knew anyone was out there getting past the first few sentences/crikeys, now what do I say?
So I looked at the gentleman's websites, and then stumbled on his profile, and it made me think some more-um, the surf one is great seeing as I used to body surf off of Laguna Beach and Dana Point but the kissing one is probably a little too grown-up for me/HEY, does that say Seal Beach? Because I used to run an art gallery/custom stained glass house just off Main Street back in the late '70's, and the best part of my day was driving down to the jetty, walking back to the pier, and then jogging back to the car. The sunsets were outstanding. Then.
And yes, I would be OK with you mentioning my blog to your friend.
I got a cell phone bill today. Now, if I ever get a job, I can (I think) register my car in the great state of Georgia. And get a driver's license.
I also got a call-back from Ms. "What does 'nurture mean?" I tested for a data entry job-ooops, too slow, but wow, no errors. Now I'm waiting to hear from her about a different job with the same company for $2 less an hour. OK. At this point, OK, because I broke down last night and used my last quarters to buy a bag of rice and two loaves of store brand bread. I also applied for a job at the grocery store. Haven't heard from them...
When Crusty (AKA The Ex) put the first gun to my head back in '81, I had a good job, and was getting myself together fairly well, thank-you. I had a credit card that got paid in full every month. I had a good joint custody agreement with my daughter's father-another ex, I used to call him the maggot with legs until I got to know Crusty-I had friends, and I had a future.
I met Crusty through a guy I was dating. He was OK, or so I thought, and I tried to set him up with a few of my friends, who would come back from the first and only date and say "All he wanted to do was talk about you. Oh, and he is really weird." So after a while I stopped trying to set him up with anyone I knew.
In December of '80, I went back to California for a few months, hoping to find my step-mother had pulled herself together, found out I was wrong; and while I was 'home' my father's third wife-the great one, the one I wish he married after he and my mother divorced, (she went back to Britain, and left me and my two older siblings with Pop) instead of The Wicked Witch of the West-killed herself when her epilepsy could not be controlled. My father was shattered. The WWotW was telling everyone in Seal Beach that my dad really killed her, my sister was flipping out because my dad had her cremated (Barb was Jewish) and I could not wait to get on the next Greyhound back to Lafayette Louisiana.
Which I did, and by March of 1981, I was tending bar at a place out by the where the college was breaking ground on the Cajun Dome. I made enough to live on, and get a few things done, and I was just about to start back to school when a friend of mine told me Crusty was telling people he was my boyfriend.
Long story shorter, I disabused him of the notion only to find him in my apartment one night with a gun in his mouth, only I knew that if I walked out the door, he would shoot me-not himself. I got him out of my apartment, into a club for a drink, and then made the monumental error of going to the ladies room to call a friend for rescue.
I say that because when I got back to the bar, a new drink awaited me, and I foolishly drank some of it, and the next thing I recall is waking up next to Crusty. I wanted to jump in the bayou and let the gators have me for a breakfast appetizer. Or jump off the Baton Rouge Bridge, but the bayou was closer.
I was raised RC-my father's way of spitting in Mum's eye, I think, since she is Anglican-and so was Crusty, it wasn't hard for him to convince me that we should 'do the right thing' and get married. I dragged my feet-been there, done that-but when Fox was nine months old, Crusty and I went to Rev. JJ the notary public on Wilshire Blvd in L.A. and got married.
By the time Fox was two, I was trying to leave Crusty. But it is hard to argue with a .41 magnum. Especially when it is pressed against the head of your child. Or yours.
So I looked at the gentleman's websites, and then stumbled on his profile, and it made me think some more-um, the surf one is great seeing as I used to body surf off of Laguna Beach and Dana Point but the kissing one is probably a little too grown-up for me/HEY, does that say Seal Beach? Because I used to run an art gallery/custom stained glass house just off Main Street back in the late '70's, and the best part of my day was driving down to the jetty, walking back to the pier, and then jogging back to the car. The sunsets were outstanding. Then.
And yes, I would be OK with you mentioning my blog to your friend.
I got a cell phone bill today. Now, if I ever get a job, I can (I think) register my car in the great state of Georgia. And get a driver's license.
I also got a call-back from Ms. "What does 'nurture mean?" I tested for a data entry job-ooops, too slow, but wow, no errors. Now I'm waiting to hear from her about a different job with the same company for $2 less an hour. OK. At this point, OK, because I broke down last night and used my last quarters to buy a bag of rice and two loaves of store brand bread. I also applied for a job at the grocery store. Haven't heard from them...
When Crusty (AKA The Ex) put the first gun to my head back in '81, I had a good job, and was getting myself together fairly well, thank-you. I had a credit card that got paid in full every month. I had a good joint custody agreement with my daughter's father-another ex, I used to call him the maggot with legs until I got to know Crusty-I had friends, and I had a future.
I met Crusty through a guy I was dating. He was OK, or so I thought, and I tried to set him up with a few of my friends, who would come back from the first and only date and say "All he wanted to do was talk about you. Oh, and he is really weird." So after a while I stopped trying to set him up with anyone I knew.
In December of '80, I went back to California for a few months, hoping to find my step-mother had pulled herself together, found out I was wrong; and while I was 'home' my father's third wife-the great one, the one I wish he married after he and my mother divorced, (she went back to Britain, and left me and my two older siblings with Pop) instead of The Wicked Witch of the West-killed herself when her epilepsy could not be controlled. My father was shattered. The WWotW was telling everyone in Seal Beach that my dad really killed her, my sister was flipping out because my dad had her cremated (Barb was Jewish) and I could not wait to get on the next Greyhound back to Lafayette Louisiana.
Which I did, and by March of 1981, I was tending bar at a place out by the where the college was breaking ground on the Cajun Dome. I made enough to live on, and get a few things done, and I was just about to start back to school when a friend of mine told me Crusty was telling people he was my boyfriend.
Long story shorter, I disabused him of the notion only to find him in my apartment one night with a gun in his mouth, only I knew that if I walked out the door, he would shoot me-not himself. I got him out of my apartment, into a club for a drink, and then made the monumental error of going to the ladies room to call a friend for rescue.
I say that because when I got back to the bar, a new drink awaited me, and I foolishly drank some of it, and the next thing I recall is waking up next to Crusty. I wanted to jump in the bayou and let the gators have me for a breakfast appetizer. Or jump off the Baton Rouge Bridge, but the bayou was closer.
I was raised RC-my father's way of spitting in Mum's eye, I think, since she is Anglican-and so was Crusty, it wasn't hard for him to convince me that we should 'do the right thing' and get married. I dragged my feet-been there, done that-but when Fox was nine months old, Crusty and I went to Rev. JJ the notary public on Wilshire Blvd in L.A. and got married.
By the time Fox was two, I was trying to leave Crusty. But it is hard to argue with a .41 magnum. Especially when it is pressed against the head of your child. Or yours.
16 October 2005
Another day. I got into to bed at around 2230, didn't get to sleep until near midnight, and then only after I cried myself to sleep. It all sort of hit me last night, the hurt, the uncertainty. The devasating scope of the deliberate destruction of my family Crusty delivered. No need to ask why-he did it to hurt Fox, to hurt me.
Maybe this is explains Fox's anger toward me, that I strive not to let my hurt devolve into bitterness from which issues the drive for revenge. I don't want revenge, I want my son, my grandson. I don't want my life back so much as I want the hope that Crusty smashed, on purpose, to punish me for daring to have it. That is what I want for my son, and for his son. That is what mothers do, they pray for hope to be a constant in their child's life.
Is this the end? The end of the world as we know it? Is the rush to embrace vulgarity ever going to end, or is Rome-bastard child of Greece though it was-going to burn out amid the revelries of the hedonists as it did two thousand years ago-unmourned, and blamed by the very citizens who cried "Down with it, down with it, to the very core, raze it to the very ground."
What if. We used to play What If.
What if I was there, and can recall it with the same dim clarity we have for our first day of school, or the birth of our sister's child, or a cousin's funeral?
What if I tried to sound the warning, and not only was the cry discounted, but my tongue cut out to silence me, to keep me from reaching even a few; my hands cut off to keep me from writing it out, and finally, that dreadful three days on the floor, writhing and begging that bastard centurion to finish the job-begging with my eyes since my tongue was gone and my throat smashed to prolong my death? What if?
What if it was not the first time I watched a 'civilization' turn and feed upon it's self until there was nothing left to consume, not even runes to mark it's existance at all?
Ah, the Pax Romana, what if I was there, too, when it died the slow death cancer of that kind brings?
What if?
Maybe this is explains Fox's anger toward me, that I strive not to let my hurt devolve into bitterness from which issues the drive for revenge. I don't want revenge, I want my son, my grandson. I don't want my life back so much as I want the hope that Crusty smashed, on purpose, to punish me for daring to have it. That is what I want for my son, and for his son. That is what mothers do, they pray for hope to be a constant in their child's life.
Is this the end? The end of the world as we know it? Is the rush to embrace vulgarity ever going to end, or is Rome-bastard child of Greece though it was-going to burn out amid the revelries of the hedonists as it did two thousand years ago-unmourned, and blamed by the very citizens who cried "Down with it, down with it, to the very core, raze it to the very ground."
What if. We used to play What If.
What if I was there, and can recall it with the same dim clarity we have for our first day of school, or the birth of our sister's child, or a cousin's funeral?
What if I tried to sound the warning, and not only was the cry discounted, but my tongue cut out to silence me, to keep me from reaching even a few; my hands cut off to keep me from writing it out, and finally, that dreadful three days on the floor, writhing and begging that bastard centurion to finish the job-begging with my eyes since my tongue was gone and my throat smashed to prolong my death? What if?
What if it was not the first time I watched a 'civilization' turn and feed upon it's self until there was nothing left to consume, not even runes to mark it's existance at all?
Ah, the Pax Romana, what if I was there, too, when it died the slow death cancer of that kind brings?
What if?
15 October 2005
I am Fox's mom. I believe I signed up for that job. I am Celt and Pict-we believe in re-unification of souls from a family unit in new lives after death in another. I am not a pagan, actually I believe Jesus bar Joseph was the Promised One. But I am sure Jesus believed in re-incarnation, too. "...but Elijah has returned and you would not know him..."
So, I signed up for this. But I damn sure did not sign up to be treated like the village idiot by my son, his father, or anyone else. And since when does making the very common sensical decision to stay alive when Crusty would put a loaded (58 grain jacket hollow points in a .41 mag) gun to mine or Fox's head make ME the bad guy?
Here's another ? to ponder...how am I a professional victim if I never once in all those horrific years tried to "get help", but instead tried to get away on my own? Did I ever once throw myself on the dubious mercy of "community services" or the police? No.
(Last night I went to websites for 'displaced homemakers'-what a sad pathetic joke, a subtle twist of the knife by those who swear they have compassion. Really nice to be lumped in with winos and welfare cheats. It kind of reminded me, in a strange way, of the typing test I took at the temp agency yesterday-how awful and demeaning was it to have to touch type under such pressure from text going on and on about how older workers in particular have nothing to offer in today's society and so had best put themselves into the temp market? When did the meaning of compassion morph to 'blame the victim'?)
Who knew Fox was going to cherish his anger over his mother? Who knew that little wretch was going to embrace chaos as a lifestyle yet at the same time expect me to fund it and it's consequences, wait until I was out of money, and then move on? And who in all the hells man devises in his spare time knew that Fox would dine out on it? Gods, my son the grifter.
He hates me. He hates me because...because why, I would like to know. Is it because once people he has whined to meet me, they figure out he is full of steer droppings? Is it because I refuse to lie down and be a doormat? That I am a abjurer of b_llsh__ers? That I refuse to play games, and shun jerks who are so cowardily the only way they can get by is to play games 24/7?
Chaos begets more chaos, like homelessness, and unpaid bills. Chaos opens the front and back door for facists and goblins, who strip your soul and find debased pleasure when you cry out.
There is no freedom in chaos, only slavery-why do you think it is so encouraged? Look at who encourages it? Bush, and his ilk.
Think about it. If your life is in chaos, you can be controlled. Take it from a 'survivor' of domestic violence. Crusty (AKA The Ex) deliberately courted chaos in order to control, it is the MO of all bullies. He made sure I would be in the most vunerable of positions, and then he trebled it's horror, and decamped.
Bushies saw the successes of small time players like Crusty, and enlarged upon it. Why? Well, duh, to enslave. To render helpless. Quickest way to set people on the path to institutionalized slavery. Cheap and helpless labour source-why am I stupid if I am the one who has to spell it out to you? (Think FEMA.)
Jesu, I am so bloody tired of the willfully ignorant thinking they will prevail. You lie to yourselves. Why should anyone save you when you choose this not only for yourselves, but every one around you?
And while I'm asking you questions, where, you snot nosed brats who are no more than overgrown two-year olds-"I'll do it myself! But wipe my nose first, bitch." -get off having children yourselves if the world is so hideous thanks to your parents? I am so very tired of watching you little pissants reproduce only to dump your children on your parents. They're not puppies. BTW, I've got the care and feeding of Fo's now 11 year old puppy, too. But I don't get to see my grandson, his mother dumped him on her mother when she ran off to Rhode Island to be a stripper. All I got was the dog. Grrrr.
You feed on yourselves. You think you are wiping out the good, the graceful, and the heroic, but you are really wiping out yourselves. What asses.
Damn, I am pissed.
If I had the money, I would place an ad:
Genius Nurturer Wants Administrative Management Position. For 35K+ and honest respect I've got your back and will keep you organized AND productive. Serious inquiries only-ASSES NEED NOT REPLY. Ironclad contract required. Contact...
So, I signed up for this. But I damn sure did not sign up to be treated like the village idiot by my son, his father, or anyone else. And since when does making the very common sensical decision to stay alive when Crusty would put a loaded (58 grain jacket hollow points in a .41 mag) gun to mine or Fox's head make ME the bad guy?
Here's another ? to ponder...how am I a professional victim if I never once in all those horrific years tried to "get help", but instead tried to get away on my own? Did I ever once throw myself on the dubious mercy of "community services" or the police? No.
(Last night I went to websites for 'displaced homemakers'-what a sad pathetic joke, a subtle twist of the knife by those who swear they have compassion. Really nice to be lumped in with winos and welfare cheats. It kind of reminded me, in a strange way, of the typing test I took at the temp agency yesterday-how awful and demeaning was it to have to touch type under such pressure from text going on and on about how older workers in particular have nothing to offer in today's society and so had best put themselves into the temp market? When did the meaning of compassion morph to 'blame the victim'?)
Who knew Fox was going to cherish his anger over his mother? Who knew that little wretch was going to embrace chaos as a lifestyle yet at the same time expect me to fund it and it's consequences, wait until I was out of money, and then move on? And who in all the hells man devises in his spare time knew that Fox would dine out on it? Gods, my son the grifter.
He hates me. He hates me because...because why, I would like to know. Is it because once people he has whined to meet me, they figure out he is full of steer droppings? Is it because I refuse to lie down and be a doormat? That I am a abjurer of b_llsh__ers? That I refuse to play games, and shun jerks who are so cowardily the only way they can get by is to play games 24/7?
Chaos begets more chaos, like homelessness, and unpaid bills. Chaos opens the front and back door for facists and goblins, who strip your soul and find debased pleasure when you cry out.
There is no freedom in chaos, only slavery-why do you think it is so encouraged? Look at who encourages it? Bush, and his ilk.
Think about it. If your life is in chaos, you can be controlled. Take it from a 'survivor' of domestic violence. Crusty (AKA The Ex) deliberately courted chaos in order to control, it is the MO of all bullies. He made sure I would be in the most vunerable of positions, and then he trebled it's horror, and decamped.
Bushies saw the successes of small time players like Crusty, and enlarged upon it. Why? Well, duh, to enslave. To render helpless. Quickest way to set people on the path to institutionalized slavery. Cheap and helpless labour source-why am I stupid if I am the one who has to spell it out to you? (Think FEMA.)
Jesu, I am so bloody tired of the willfully ignorant thinking they will prevail. You lie to yourselves. Why should anyone save you when you choose this not only for yourselves, but every one around you?
And while I'm asking you questions, where, you snot nosed brats who are no more than overgrown two-year olds-"I'll do it myself! But wipe my nose first, bitch." -get off having children yourselves if the world is so hideous thanks to your parents? I am so very tired of watching you little pissants reproduce only to dump your children on your parents. They're not puppies. BTW, I've got the care and feeding of Fo's now 11 year old puppy, too. But I don't get to see my grandson, his mother dumped him on her mother when she ran off to Rhode Island to be a stripper. All I got was the dog. Grrrr.
You feed on yourselves. You think you are wiping out the good, the graceful, and the heroic, but you are really wiping out yourselves. What asses.
Damn, I am pissed.
If I had the money, I would place an ad:
Genius Nurturer Wants Administrative Management Position. For 35K+ and honest respect I've got your back and will keep you organized AND productive. Serious inquiries only-ASSES NEED NOT REPLY. Ironclad contract required. Contact...
I just got here, how could things be so wretched??
I keep trying to tell myself I am not outdated, out of place, and not worthless as a contributing member of society, but frankly, the fine young woman I met this afternoon is making that positive self-talk rather hard to keep on with!
I never had the dreaded 'Cinderella Syndrome', however, I never had the equally dreaded "Burn Those Bras, Sisters!!" mentality, either (thank-you God in your glorious Heaven). I thought the '60's were about freedom of choice, not "My way or the hi-way", I mean, please!
Since when did being a good, loving, and nurturing person become so outre? About the same time common decency became quite politically incorrect, I suspect.
You see, today I was lured into yet another temp agency pretending to be a real job, and it was not pretty. Down right ugly, as they say back in Alabama, where, since I know there is a God, Who is in charge (miss ya Jim), I will never have to go back to save to retrieve my things from the storage units hastily loaded as I made my escape.
She was pleasantly rude as she patronized my administrative assistant skills-especially after she goaded me into saying that I like to nurture genius-and focused completely on MS Office 2000 test results (that I personally am sure she rigged, since I know 2000 almost as well as 2003 and that damned computer kept scoring me as 'incorrect' when I knew I was right); she condescended horribly when I told her I could test alot better on a less abused computer running WXP/Office 2003. Ya know, I don't think I have the energy to work for a company that doesn't have the latest software yet expects ME to cover their needs while being condescended to. What an ass the young woman was; she dared to tell me that she was not interested in the fact that I mentioned in my cover letter that I'd raised a family to adulthood. She said, "I don't need to know about your sons." Funny, I only I have one son, not that I mentioned anything beyond having raised a family to adulthood-meaning I wouldn't have those pesky child care issues... (Is here where I need to assert that working outside the home Moms are A1 in my book, and they deserve every bit of accommodation possible in the modern workplace?)
In fact, now that I think about it, she snorted when I used the word 'nurture', and asked what the word meant.
I made my escape from a job I took in desperation (after - 1-my husband of 18 years stranded me after using a durable power of attorney I'd frankly forgot about to strip me of bank and savings account, trustworthy car, etc., and dimped his dog on me; and 2 -our darling then 16 year old son (AKA Fox) preceded to trash the rental house, cost me what little alimony I was able to get in food-housing-rehab-bail. And then tell everyone what an absolute bitch I am, and that I spent the child support on parties. HA. First of all, Crusty (AKA The Ex) never paid the child support and threatened to kill me if I went after him. I believed him, you know, I'd lived in terror for over 17 years, I'd seen what Crusty could do. "Just behave and you and the kid can live." The sad part is that Crusty was from a 'good home', had graduated with honours, and had always kept a job. Second of all, telling me that I am "too nice" does not in any way excuse pulling my wings off. And third-I don't party.
The job was great-not. Suffice it to say, I had to quit to get a day off, and that is no joke. I worked as a resident property manager for three years and ten months every single day of the year, no break, no zip. I would petition for a holiday, be told, "Oh, yeah, great, sure." I would watch my boss put the requested dates in the date book. Later they would come up with reasons as to why my holiday would not be possible after all. One year they had the nerve to ask me to cancel mine so that they could go where I had been hoping to go. That was the same year I increased the company net profits so greatly they were able to purchase a motor coach. As they handed me the $20.00 bonus, they said, "Sorry, this is the best we can do." I think they knoew I was planning that holiday to get away and find another job. I was trapped-they had the keys to my apartment, and I worked 45 hours a week in the office-no lunch hour permitted, because I "live there and can eat anytime between customers." Monday through Saturday-when was I going to interview?
They knew my son was a weasel who had spent every penny I had and that he was threatening me the same way Crusty had, they knew my son is the only living person I am related to, and they knew that between Crusty and Fox, I'd been so isolated that I had no friends or support network to turn to. (Hey, how do you join a church community when your son sits in the sanctuary next to you one Sunday and just before the processional, says loudly, "F__K God.")
So, where did I sign-up to be an anachronism?
I keep trying to tell myself I am not outdated, out of place, and not worthless as a contributing member of society, but frankly, the fine young woman I met this afternoon is making that positive self-talk rather hard to keep on with!
I never had the dreaded 'Cinderella Syndrome', however, I never had the equally dreaded "Burn Those Bras, Sisters!!" mentality, either (thank-you God in your glorious Heaven). I thought the '60's were about freedom of choice, not "My way or the hi-way", I mean, please!
Since when did being a good, loving, and nurturing person become so outre? About the same time common decency became quite politically incorrect, I suspect.
You see, today I was lured into yet another temp agency pretending to be a real job, and it was not pretty. Down right ugly, as they say back in Alabama, where, since I know there is a God, Who is in charge (miss ya Jim), I will never have to go back to save to retrieve my things from the storage units hastily loaded as I made my escape.
She was pleasantly rude as she patronized my administrative assistant skills-especially after she goaded me into saying that I like to nurture genius-and focused completely on MS Office 2000 test results (that I personally am sure she rigged, since I know 2000 almost as well as 2003 and that damned computer kept scoring me as 'incorrect' when I knew I was right); she condescended horribly when I told her I could test alot better on a less abused computer running WXP/Office 2003. Ya know, I don't think I have the energy to work for a company that doesn't have the latest software yet expects ME to cover their needs while being condescended to. What an ass the young woman was; she dared to tell me that she was not interested in the fact that I mentioned in my cover letter that I'd raised a family to adulthood. She said, "I don't need to know about your sons." Funny, I only I have one son, not that I mentioned anything beyond having raised a family to adulthood-meaning I wouldn't have those pesky child care issues... (Is here where I need to assert that working outside the home Moms are A1 in my book, and they deserve every bit of accommodation possible in the modern workplace?)
In fact, now that I think about it, she snorted when I used the word 'nurture', and asked what the word meant.
I made my escape from a job I took in desperation (after - 1-my husband of 18 years stranded me after using a durable power of attorney I'd frankly forgot about to strip me of bank and savings account, trustworthy car, etc., and dimped his dog on me; and 2 -our darling then 16 year old son (AKA Fox) preceded to trash the rental house, cost me what little alimony I was able to get in food-housing-rehab-bail. And then tell everyone what an absolute bitch I am, and that I spent the child support on parties. HA. First of all, Crusty (AKA The Ex) never paid the child support and threatened to kill me if I went after him. I believed him, you know, I'd lived in terror for over 17 years, I'd seen what Crusty could do. "Just behave and you and the kid can live." The sad part is that Crusty was from a 'good home', had graduated with honours, and had always kept a job. Second of all, telling me that I am "too nice" does not in any way excuse pulling my wings off. And third-I don't party.
The job was great-not. Suffice it to say, I had to quit to get a day off, and that is no joke. I worked as a resident property manager for three years and ten months every single day of the year, no break, no zip. I would petition for a holiday, be told, "Oh, yeah, great, sure." I would watch my boss put the requested dates in the date book. Later they would come up with reasons as to why my holiday would not be possible after all. One year they had the nerve to ask me to cancel mine so that they could go where I had been hoping to go. That was the same year I increased the company net profits so greatly they were able to purchase a motor coach. As they handed me the $20.00 bonus, they said, "Sorry, this is the best we can do." I think they knoew I was planning that holiday to get away and find another job. I was trapped-they had the keys to my apartment, and I worked 45 hours a week in the office-no lunch hour permitted, because I "live there and can eat anytime between customers." Monday through Saturday-when was I going to interview?
They knew my son was a weasel who had spent every penny I had and that he was threatening me the same way Crusty had, they knew my son is the only living person I am related to, and they knew that between Crusty and Fox, I'd been so isolated that I had no friends or support network to turn to. (Hey, how do you join a church community when your son sits in the sanctuary next to you one Sunday and just before the processional, says loudly, "F__K God.")
So, where did I sign-up to be an anachronism?
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