My Jury Duty Experience: Slow-Talkers, Stoners and Breaking a Hip

Oh my God, he’s a slow talker.  I hate slow talkers.  I can recite an entire scene from Star Trek The Wrath of Kahn between his carefully-chosen, finely-dictioned words.

I’m sitting in the jury box.  How in the HELL did I get here?  I mean, it’s been a joke for weeks that I’d never end up on a jury.  I’m “Too” apparently:  too opinionated, too smart, too outspoken, too analytical, too sarcastic, too prone to outbursts of dry humor.  I am “Too.”

They called 75 numbers and ordered us to show up at noon on Tuesday.  They really did order us to show up, it’s a subpoena—which means if you don’t show up you can get hauled off to jail and fined.  Even if they don’t keep you in jail, they have to book you in, which means the old squat and cough thing has to happen.  Showing up at noon on Tuesday is an order and the threat makes it happen.  Yeah, yeah, there’s a voice in the back of my head that says it’s a civic duty and that if I were on trial I’d rather be judged by a group of people rather than an egomaniac who wants to be a judge who also has to be a politician half the time to run for the right to be a megalomaniac.  Not that all judges have over-sized egos, but let’s just say that gavel should be used to pound some of them back into manageable sizes—at least in my experience.

I check in with about 25 people.  There are about three people my same age, the rest are older, retired.  It’s an interesting mix of people.  We all exchange looks that say “God, we really don’t want to be here.”  Because you are supposed to not want to be on a jury, and it’s also my experience that people tend to behave in ways that society expects them to behave (SEE?!!  How can any sane, rational attorney want someone who thinks that way to be on their jury?).

Some of the people in the group stand out.

There’s one woman who is probably five feet tall and looks like a little grandmother who should be home making cookies for all her grandchildren—if you ignore the scowl that sits on her face and is so engrained there that the rest of her face has molded around it like basset hound cheeks.  She’s already complaining.  “This is bullshit.  I can’t believe they aren’t getting this over with.  I’m not going to fucking stand around and wait for them all day,” she mumbles to no one in particular.  Wow, my grandmother never talked like that!  There’s the woman who might be my age or she might be 80; it’s hard to tell.  She’s got brown hair that needs to be re-dyed…the color is flat and dead and her gray roots are two inches long.  She’s hunched over slightly and leaning against the wall, eyes half lidded like she’s going to go to sleep. There’s a big guy who takes the only chair in the small waiting area where we’re all gathering.

The clerk of courts is checking us off, he’s taking us up.  He has to make sure the elevators and the stairs are clear so no one contaminates us.  He yells “Jury Walking!” before leading us up the steps.  “I’m reminded of the movie The Green Mile when they yell “Dead man walking” or was it that movie with Susan Sarandon?

Who cares?  Oh my god, why is this guy still talking?  He’s setting up the story of the case.

Before they pick a jury, they make us watch a movie about jury duty and the procedure and what happens.  In the corner of the movie is a small little item that says “Fourth Grade Level.”  Great, I’m being educated on a fourth grade level, and I swear to God that if I get stuck in a small room with the cursing-like-a-sailor grandmother who thinks she knows everything this courtroom is going to have to worry about a lot more than this civil case because I can’t really be expected to listen to Mr. Slow-Talker Monotone for hours and then be trapped in close quarters with that.

After the movie, they explain that the computer picks the first eight jurors and then the attorneys can each throw off three for no reason.  Others can be thrown off for other reasons like a connection to the case, knowing the parties involved, or whatever.  I’m expecting to know everyone.  I know a lot of people.  I know the judge.  One of my best friends on the planet is the public defender.  I used to be a reporter who dealt with the courts and the police.

But this is a civil case, a malpractice lawsuit.  The attorneys who walk in are both from the Toledo area.  The lady suing is an 88 year old woman from Pennsylvania who was staying with her daughter in Oak Harbor three years ago when she fell.  They’re suing the doctor---ooh, he’s local.  Oh crap, he’s the only specialist in the northern half of Ohio who hasn’t seen my ex-husband.  For a second there I thought I might have a way out.

Still, there are about 25 people here.

But apparently the computer likes me.  For the first time in my life I’m chosen first, I win the lottery, I get lucky. 

Now, this is serious.  No more joking about someone getting the chair or about the thrill of sending someone to prison for the rest of their life.  I have not planned to be off the rest of the week from my real job.  You know, the one that pays more than $30/day.  Slave wages!!!  I thought slavery was illegal, your Honor.  Oh, wait, no one is allowed to talk to me because now I’m “on the jury”.

I start to plot. I have to get off.

Mr. Excitement is questioning the first eight people.  He’s asking if anyone has a medical issue that keeps them from serving.  Three people raise their hands.  WHAT THE FUCK!?  They’ve been sitting for an hour, then they watched this hour long film which was so boring I considered gouging out my eyeballs, and they all seemed fine and now they suddenly have back problems that keep them from sitting more than a couple hours at a time?  I call BS!

I’ve got a great idea.  We actually have a doctor in the courtroom.  How about we ask him to check these people out? 

The three are replaced from the gallery.  People who roll their eyes as they step up to the jury box.

It’s become very apparent that my family has been entirely too healthy. My parents aren’t debilitated and I’ve never had to care for them.  In fact, my ex-husband is the only trump card I have and after 3.5 years of not working because he was sick, he went back to work the minute my paycheck stopped supporting his lazy ass.  Oh, for the love of God, why couldn’t this case be about some guy who didn’t want to work or was making some workers’ comp claim?  I could never put aside my preconceived notions about a situation like that.

One guy comes on and says, “I think all these people suing doctors is ridiculous; it’s making all of our costs higher.”  Holy Crap!  These people are professionals!  And the number of backups in the gallery is getting smaller and smaller.  I’m in big time trouble here.

They call up the woman who looked like she was sleeping earlier.  She walks by me and I get a whiff.  Honestly, I have not smelled pot so strongly on someone since college.  I’m surprised the sheriff’s deputies let her in the building.  If I’d leaned closer and gotten a contact high, maybe this slow-talker wouldn’t be so flipping irritating.

He likes to play with his perfectly folded handkerchief in his pocket.  Honestly, I think it’s one of those fake handkerchiefs; you know like those turtlenecks you put under a sweater that don’t have a shirt with them.  He’s short.  He’s standing behind a podium, but he’s short.  I wonder if he’s wearing platform shoes.  He’s asking the new juror if she’s taking medications for her bad back—everyone’s suddenly got a bad back.  He will like her.  She talks just as slow as he does.  She says she’s taking homeopathic medications.

I sit on my hands so I don’t make air quotes and mouth the word “homeopathic.”  It’s a struggle.

The homeopathic lady is excused quickly.

The grandmother who used to be a sailor gets the seat next.  She was a nurse before she retired.  I wonder if her last name is Ratched.  She’s clearly one of those old style nurses.  The ones who made you want to get better because you were certain if you didn’t, they would kill you.  They get of her.

They’re done.  CRAP!  CRAP!  CRAP!!  I’m on the jury. 

Part of me wants to say to all those naysayers:  “HA!  See, they will put me on a jury!  You said it would never happen.”

 A medical malpractice suit.  An old lady was asked to walk in a hospital room.  She fell.  She broke a hip.  They say the doctor should never have asked her to walk since the nurses had been assisting her to get up out of bed and standing by when she walked to the restroom. Why did they not ask the right questions?

I kept an open mind.  I did.  I listened to the experts who they flew in from all over the country.  I tried not to be pissed off when they brought the old lady up in her wheelchair and asked her questions that only proved that she not only did not remember what happened but she couldn’t remember her name without prompting.  I will say that if I’m ever accused of medical malpractice (granted the chances of that are very slim considering that I’m a writer, but you never know, people are getting crazy out there) I will hire the attorney that the doctor hired.  She chewed up Shorty Slow-talker, spit him out, and stuck him under the table to dry.

Three days of my life, concentrating on every word, taking all emotion out of it and doing what in reality for all my talk is a pretty important thing.  I mean, three years of the lives of these people were involved, countless hours, and most likely tons of money.  Three days of testimony.

I try not to think about what I've heard.  I think only of the little step at the end of the jury box and how if I trip (which I'm prone to do due to my lovely coordination) I can't jump up and say what I normally would which is:  "Don't worry, I didn't break a hip."

Finally, closing arguments.  Oh, shit, it's slow-talker dissertation time.

We’re allowed to talk about it after a few hours of listening to the drone.

While the baliff is copying the jury instructions, we start analyzing each witness.  And we’re all agreeing.  It’s really strange.  I really had a couple of these eight pegged for people who wanted to make the doctor pay for the little old lady breaking a hip.  But we agree.  He didn’t push her; he isn’t subject to the same rules as the hospital staff, he didn’t make her run or walk a 5k.  And he didn’t stand back and just let her wobble and fall.  If he could have, he would have stopped it.  All the experts have said they’ve done the same thing on a regular basis for years and years and no one has ever fallen.

End conclusion.  Old ladies fall.  When they fall, they break their hips.  It wouldn’t be a joke if it didn’t happen all the time.  If she’d wobbled, the doctor would have been warned and grabbed her to steady her.  And there was no way in hell the angry daughter and son-in-law who spent their time glaring at the jury (to be fair the rest of the jury said they hadn’t noticed, but we only talked about this after we already had a verdict) were going to get that doctor to pay for 5 and a half more years of nursing home care.

Actually, the daughter said she fully expected her 85 year old mother to come back home and do all kinds of things with them.  The woman never went back home. But this broken hip prevented that, she said.  Yep, lady, your mother was going to come home and be all fixed up from the hospital so she could do somersaults in the front yard.

The slow-talker turned his back on us when we walked out.  Of course, they knew how we’d decided before we went in.  We did a blind vote on pieces of paper after 15 minutes of discussion.  We were all on the same page.  We agreed to sit around for another 30 minutes just out of respect for all of the work and time everyone had spent on this case.

In retrospect, I think I’d take back that 30 minutes.  I mean, this never should have been brought to court or been allowed to go on.  Turns out the guy who got dismissed from the jury early on was right.  This kind of crap is why our medical bills are so high, this is why the doctors have to carry crazy expensive malpractice insurance.

A fortune was spent; and in my opinion it was spent because when their mother broke her hip, these people thought they’d won the lottery.  Like me getting picked for the jury.  Some lotteries you aren’t meant to win and others you are.

On a bright note, I didn’t jump out of the jury box and shake the short guy demanding he speak quicker or pull his little handkerchief out of his pocket and mess it all up.  My only regret is he doesn’t know that he really came out a winner in this.  Of course, if I had jumped out, I probably would have tripped and broken a hip.

This should be funny, but it's not

Not to belabor my stupid divorce, but I remember the idiot on the couch (HA, and where else would he have been?) complaining that he didn’t really have any friends.  “You have friends,” he’d say.  “Who do I have?”  Of course, then I’d feel sorry for him and choose to stay with him instead of with my friends.  While I was at it, I’d chisel off some of my self esteem and toss it in the trash where he’d stomp it down later and then let me take it out to the curb because in the 10 yrs I was married, he never once took out the trash.  Of course, in the end I threw out the real trash.

Let’s forget how stupid I was and let me say that my friends old and new and renewed are some of the most awesome people I have ever met.  I am constantly amazed that they even want to be friends with me.  That’s residual effect of the mentally beat woman I was and probably from a lifetime of being told that I’m not a good person, that the people who are supposed to love me wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t related to them.  Hell, I even hated my brother because he was liked and adored when I was merely tolerated.  It was jealousy, pure and simple fostered by people who almost said things like: “He has an easy personality.”  “No one dislikes him.”  “He needs to be loved more than you do.”  “You can survive without anyone; so we can’t be bothered with you because our attention needs to be elsewhere.”  At school functions other parents would “adopt me” because mine were never there.  Everyone in school thought I was living on my own because I was on my own, always.

Don’t get me wrong, these are just statements of fact, not complaints.  I was spoiled with a car, with a nice house, with all my needs, with all the things that I “should” want.  Just no one listening to me and asking what I wanted which was often at odds with what I was told I “should want.”    I never wanted for material things.  

Some would say I’m lucky.

But really, I never felt lucky or happy until I let go of all the things I should want and accepted the things that were there in front of me.

My friends being some of the most important parts of my life. 

I spent this Saturday with friends.

Nothing special.   But at the same time a friend drove two hours to see me.  We met at the park.  Me, her daughter, and her grandson.  I took the dog and we did nothing other than talk.  Some times deep stuff.  Some times shallower stuff.  Her grandson hugged the dog, played on the swings; her daughter met with a cousin.  My friend and I talked.  We’ve been friends for nearly 20 years.

While I don’t know about her, just this comfortable talk with someone who I know will roll her eyes at me if I do something stupid but will still pick up the phone if I need her is something I appreciate more than I can say.  The 15 year old jokes are still funny, the inside jokes are funnier and the advice is priceless.  Sure, I don’t always take the advice, but I know she’s going to be there to say “I told you so.”  She’s going to shake her head, but she’s going to stick out her hand and offer to help me up.  We went to dinner after the park.  It wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t do anything other than talk.  Hell, I can’t even tell you what we did talk about. 

When I got home, I let the dog out, changed into my sweats and was just getting settled in when another friend mentioned going to the mall to walk.  Five minutes later, I was back in jeans and at the mall.  She needed to talk; but, she also needed to laugh.  We did the catty remarks things, we made fun of the clothing other women wore.  We begged for size appropriate clothing for some of these women.  We went into a store called Charming Charlies, a place that sells accessories.

We went in to the store because I’ve never been in it.  She has a daughter.  “It’s all arranged by color,” she explained.

“Even I could see that,” I said.  Yes, I’m notoriously not interested in fashion or color coordination or accessorizing.

She laughed.  “Good to know,” she said.  I am pretty sure she muttered "bitch" under her breath, but there's no doubt that she means that in a good way.

We just were walking through.  The saleswoman followed us trying to sell us something.   I don’t know about my friend, but I didn’t have any cash with me.  I forgot to go to the bank because it closes right around the time I’m waking up on Saturdays.  We get to these necklaces…or collars…or what in the hell, who would wear something like this.

My friend held one up to her throat and checked herself out in the mirror.  Mostly because it was so incredibly hideous.

“That’s made for someone without boobs,” I told her.  “It’s not working for you.”

She laughed.

We found these wonderful bracelets that looked like Wonder Woman accessories.  She modeled them for photos.  The sales woman stood behind me apparently.

“She’s right there,” my friend said.

“Yeah, I said, we’re probably going to get thrown out.  I’ll just say we’re recently divorced and trying to accessorize our way out of our depression.”  I know it’s not that funny; you had to be there. 

I found a lovely pink gel purse that I’m totally going back for.  When the saleswoman asked me to leave, I really wanted to give her that sob story, I really did.  But instead something else came out of my mouth:  “Stay back you infidel or I will smite you with the fireball spell and your body will be so crisp that not even a starving kobold will feast upon your corpse.”  I think all the shiny bling reminded me of the jewels in a Dungeons & Dragons computer game I used to play, by myself, in high school, when I was sure that no one liked me and rather than attend anything as a “pity guest” I stayed at home and studied like I should.  That’s really the only explanation I have for those words.

My friend and I walked some more.  There was a woman in white stretchy pants which were three sizes too small and stretched so much that they were translucent; a large woman with her gut hanging out; a woman with a short, short skirt and a low, low top walking in spiked heels with this skuzzy looking unshaven guy in dirty clothes but we were pretty sure he has money.  We talked some more.  We spent an hour in the mall, spent nothing, and had a really good time doing nothing.  That’s what friends do.

It’s not just today either.  I said I was going to do this 5k thing.  People are really so encouraging.  To the point that I really feel like of guilty about dropping the ball.  It really confounds me that these people I admire and look up to would be so nice about encouraging such a loser.  I guess I’ve got to climb back on that bandwagon.  And if I accomplish this goal, my friends are so awesome that they will be as happy for me and as proud as I will be of myself.  I should say "when" I accomplish this.

I’ve made some great new friends since I took out the trash too.  Friends who can make me laugh when I’m depressed. Friends who will do something for me without expecting anything in return.  I had a friend come over after work at 10 pm and fix my cable.  I had a friend plow my driveway when I was coming home from Florida.  I have friends who will take my dog out when I’m running late or when I need to be at a meeting.

And they do all of this without telling me that I need to be a different person.  Without expecting me to do what I “should” do.

So, tonight I don’t have a funny blog.  I have one that says thanks to all of those people.  And I will try to be as good a friend to all of you as you have been to me.  In the meantime, I will try to brighten all of your days with a laugh, it’s what I do well.  It’s not much.  It’s not nearly as much as you all have given me.  But it’s what I got.

Oh, and one more thing: 

Charming Charlies sells necklaces that can be formed into battle armor for the rough days when I can’t be there.  I’d get it for you but there’s something about a “lifelong ban” that plagues me; but if you find the smithy in the next village he will craft said armor for you.  But beware, the path there is filled with monsters who have attacked many a party.  If they attack your party, you must fight them.  However, once you get to the smithy and put on the armor, you will take less damage during an attack.

I know because that’s how it happened for me.

Whores your dignity?

I want to be Jeff Foxworthy.

Only a twisted kind of Jeff Foxworthy.  Instead of the tag line “If…..then you might be a redneck.”  I want to have “If…..then you might be a whore.”  In fact, I’m a woman and we’re supposed to be a little more decisive, so let’s change it.  “If….then you’re probably a whore.”

So let’s go:

If you celebrate weekly anniversaries, then you’re probably a whore.

If you assume a date means sex, then you’re probably a whore.

If you sleep with someone and they then make your car payment, then you’re probably a whore.

If you change your relationship status on facebook for real so often that you’ve become the butt of jokes, then you’re probably a whore.

If you have sex with three different men within a seven day period, then you’re probably a whore.

If your friends can’t remember the name of the guy you’re currently madly in love with because there have been so many names for them to remember, then you’re probably a whore.

If you’ve gone back and re-dated every boyfriend you had from kindergarten through your thirties, you’re probably a whore.

If you have dated the ex-significant others of your ex’s current significant other, then you’re probably a whore who’s not afraid to mix up that primordial soup of bodily fluids.

If your friends take you aside and tell you that you’re acting like a whore, then you’ve probably been a whore for a long time but it’s gotten so bad they’re now just embarrassed for you.

It is said that women can be cruel to other women, and the above is certainly cruel.  But honestly, it just needs to be said.  I’ll probably think about not posting this blog more than once before I’m done, but in the end I’m going to do it.  Why are women so cruel to whores?  Well, let’s not forget that men like whores by sheer definition of the term “whore.”  So, a guy certainly isn’t going to point out that throwing yourself on your back like a turtle on a first date is undignified.

A guy’s reaction to a whore usually goes something like this.  A: “You know that girl?” B: “Yeah?” A: “She’s a whore.” B: “Hell, I’ll ask her out.” A: “Just wear a condom dude.”   And for this Guy B is totally grateful for Guy A for the head’s up to get laid.  Or they look at the girl and say, “Well, if I got desperate, I know where to go.” 

Now thinking, this there’s going to be some women who say “Well, you’re just jealous.”  Let’s examine this remark.  I’ll do this by asking myself some questions.  1] Would I sleep with the men that these women are choosing?  2] would I even date (without the sex) any of these men?  3] would I want the pressure of trying to remember all those names?  4] would I want to change the locks/wash the sheets that many times?  So let’s answer them in reverse order.  #4 No. In fact, I’m a bit of a neat freak when it comes to mixing biological fluid so this just would not work for me.  I simply don’t have time to change the sheets more than once a week and I can’t afford rekeying the house with that kind of turn around.  # 3  Holy crap, between the names I’m making up, I don’t even know if I can.  Still, it’s kind of nice knowing that I cared enough for every man I actually did the deed with that I can remember their names and that the list doesn’t take two days to recite.  #2 half the men on any whore’s conquest list are so far off my “acceptable” list that…well, let’s put it this way, it’s cheaper to buy batteries than it is to support some deadbeat who doesn’t work, whines, spends money you don’t want to spend, and complains.  Granted, I understand it’s possible to find a man who works, doesn’t whine, saves money for a rainy day, and is just happy to do fun things in your company; but these men don’t need whores.  Just like they aren’t buying over-used cars; they aren’t buying over-used women.  #1 I’m not a beauty queen by any stretch of the imagination, but I have my self respect and I have my standards and even if I forget about the trust issue, the personal hygiene issues, and the general lack of cerebral function I would not sleep with these men.  Of course, where the trail has been blazed before, I’d want a full spectrum of antibiotics to precede things anyway.

Most of the time the woman who says a woman calling another a whore (a real whore, not just a woman they don’t like, let’s remember that the name can be thrown around frivolously) are the women who are trying to make themselves feel better or trying to convince themselves that somehow all this sex makes them wanted, makes them worthy.

And that’s the sad thing about whores, really.  They’re like sad clowns hiding behind makeup…only in the case of whores they’re laying on their backs with their feet up in the air, searching for truth on ceilings everywhere.  Sometimes, they try searching for truth on their knees.  But try to convince me that being on your knees with your mouth full of something you just met is dignified.

Then there’s this new trend of announcing to the world on Facebook every detail of your life.  Honestly, I don’t get how someone can be announcing that they’ve found their true love every week, then making it complicated, then being single again for a day.  And if this is you, just because you don’t change your status, doesn’t mean when you’re taking pictures of your kids with a new guy every week and posting about how in love you are, we don’t know you’re going through the cycle.

What do you say to someone who has changed their status so many times you can’t even keep track any longer?  When they go into a relationship, do you say 1] how long is this one gonna last? (God, and I know the answer would be “Forever” which translates from the whorespeak into English as “Maybe 3 weeks this time.”)  2] this one have a name?  3] where did this one come from? 4] Again? 5] Really?  What happened to the last one again?  6] Oh, have we moved on to guys who have first names that start with the letter “B?”   When they go from in a relationship to single what’s the appropriate response:  1] Better luck next time 2] Wow, I thought this was going to be the One 3] SHOCKED! 4] Sorry, but it’s not like you haven’t been there before…recently  5] Someone else lined up?  6] Have you tried dating sites? 7] when you fall off one horse, you have to get back  -- no, I can’t even go there….

I say these things to the whores and the women who don’t like that label but are sleeping around with anything that will say yes – and newsflash almost all of them are going to say yes, not because they like you but because guys are preprogrammed to say yes for the most part---they just don’t think of you as the black hole that could bring them the disease that will make their most prized body part swell up to the size of an elephant trunk, turn gangrenous and fall off.  When you give the green light, this isn’t crossing their minds. 

Whores, I really wish you wouldn’t bring down women this way.  Every guy you flip over for without requiring some respect is a moment when you are personally chiseling away at the fabric of all that we as women are, you make us no better than the chattel we were once considered.  It’s already sad that we as women starve ourselves, that female Olympic athletes are discussing their hair and their uniforms rather than their skills, and we wear heels that ruin our feet and makeup that ruins our skin.  Don’t we want to be respected and cherished rather than used and tossed aside?  Don’t we want to be considered special rather than just another hole to stick a dick into?

I do not hate you, whores, I am not jealous of you; don’t you see that you’re training your children and the men you “date” to think it is acceptable to treat women like trash.  How can men treat you like anything other than trash, when you yourself are showing them that you are nothing more than that?  Don’t turn yourself out like a rutting dog.  Show your sons that a woman should be treated like a treasure.  Show your daughters that they have the right to demand to be treated like a treasure.  Don’t chase the boys.  Don’t give anything away for free. You are worth an investment.  Why don’t you think so?  Why don’t you see that it’s impossible to hold your head high when you’re on your knees with some stranger’s phallus shoved down your throat?

ASIDE:

You don’t know where that thing has been if you haven’t gotten to know it first, for God’s sake!  Even if you aren’t concerned about the germs, -- okay, how can you not be concerned about the germs, diseases, and whatever else is lurking …there, I repeat, if you haven’t gotten to know it, you don’t know where it’s been.  Hell, sometimes even when you do know it, it’s visiting other whores who are visiting other phalli….it’s a giant soup of goo…do you really want to be part of that?

BACK TO ORIGINAL PROFOUND THOUGHT

Get some counseling.  Learn to like yourself.  Respect yourself and you’ll get respect.  If you don’t respect yourself, why should anyone else?

Oh, and one more thing…have those calluses on your knees looked at, that just ain’t right.

Reproductive Rights Compound Exponentially

I buy a house with the money I've salvaged from my divorce.  It’s a quiet neighborhood.  It’s the kind of neighborhood where a woman feels safe walking at night.  It’s the kind of neighborhood where you can get up in the morning and have your orange juice on your front porch or on your back patio and listen to the birds sing while squirrels chase each other around the thick trunks of 60 foot high trees.  Rabbits romp around the yard.  The dog sleeps in the soft grass.  The cat curls up in the window sill.  Yes, all is right with the world.

I finally won the passive aggressive war with the Non-Scooping Poodle-Pooping guy.  It took a sign, some words, and a couple of intimidating visits from the dog warden and the police, but it looks like the idiot finally got the hint.  Ahhhh…life is good.

Like in any neighborhood, there are some houses for sale.  And really, won’t someone really appreciate a place like this?  Who wouldn’t really pay top dollar for this life?

I had a 3000 square foot house, an acre and a half lot, and a man I loved.  Everything a girl is supposed to want, right?

Only the lot was close to the highway and noisy, the man laid on the couch all day watching the military history channel with the TV turned up so loud that you could hear it outside when the windows were closed.  And the windows were always closed and the blinds pulled because the noise of the traffic gave him a headache and the light of the sun made him sick.  He didn’t work in the yard, didn’t work at all.  He didn’t want the dog on the furniture, didn’t want the dog going in the yard because he didn’t like dog poop in the yard – not that he ever mowed or had to see the yard.  If I made a big elaborate dinner – and I can cook – he’d take a look at it and have Hot Pocket’s instead.  He didn’t want the cat in the window because the cat hair was impossible to get out of the screen –not that he ever cleaned the windows.  He was a constant on that couch with that television, normally with a bong on the table next to him.  When I sold the house, I actually wasn’t sure if the new owners inherited him as a fixture on the property or not. 

No, I’ve discovered that this sanctuary is what every girl should want.  Life with a good book, a glass of wine, a good meal made fresh from one’s own garden with no one to tell you it looks like shit and they’d prefer shit in a pocket, a happy dog, a lazy cat, and the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees.  So, when the house across the street sold, I thought someone appreciated this place, this utopia of sorts.

It was about 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday when the house started to shake.  The dog jumped awake and ran to the front door barking.  The cat jumped out of the window and hurtled herself to some hiding spot.  I jump up and look out the window.

There’s a U-Haul backing into the driveway across the street.  A woman is standing behind it.  She’s wearing gray sweatpants and a pastel blue spaghetti strap tank top; she’s a big woman…BIG and that’s coming from someone who ain’t exactly dainty.  The tank doesn’t pull all the way down to cover her gut which is striped with stretch marks.  She’s holding an infant in one arm; the baby hangs over her forearm like a sack of potatoes.  With her other arm, she’s waving the truck back.  The driver is hanging out of the window looking at her.  He wears a wife-beater shirt and a doo-rag.

I watch in fascination as it takes them about 45 minutes to get the truck up that driveway and for the music to stop.  The driver jumps out of the truck and talks loudly as if he’s on stage for the entire neighborhood.  To be fair, he probably is.  I can imagine the older folks who’ve lived on this quiet street for 40-some years staring out their windows in horror at the ass crack of the driver who can barely walk from jeans hanging down practically to his ankles—and we all know he’s not wearing underwear, not something you want to know about new neighbors right out of the gate, so to speak.  He says “You did a great job getting me in there, Baby.”

She shouts back.  “Thank you, Baby.”

He pulls out a cigarette and starts smoking…apparently, it’s smoke break time.

She walks to the Expedition parked on the street and opens the back door.

Diapers and blankets fall out onto the street.  And then I watch in fascination.  It’s like the clowns in the circus.  The kids start piling out.  In diapers and barefeet.  It’s like some kind of alien pod has opened up and the spores are being released.

By 5 PM, they’re gone.  The strangest moving schedule I ever saw, but I suppose he took the week off of work to move and all those kids, well, they have to be neighbor kids or something.

It’s 6 am the next morning.  I hear children laughing and screaming.  In my half asleep mind, I wonder if the school bus broke down outside my window or something.

I get up and bleary-eyed for a Monday, I look out the kitchen window.  For the record, I spend a lot of time at my kitchen window, looking out.  I think it’s a prerequisite of all single people to eat breakfast at the kitchen sink.

The Expedition has returned.  The kids are running around the yard in barefeet and diapers.  They’re going through the trash left by the former owners who stacked it all on the curb on Friday when they moved out.  Mom’s standing by the garage watching them go through two garbage cans and several boxes.  There’s a baby carrier on the hood of her Expedition.  Dad’s standing by the front door, smoking a cigarette.

By the time I leave for work at 8:30 am, they’re gone again.

When I come home from work, there’s the head board and a footboard for a big bed leaning against the garage door.

Tuesday, apparently, they spent the night, arriving sometime after I went to bed at midnight.  This is just an assumption, I don’t know for sure.  I’m assuming because Dad is standing by the front door smoking a cigarette in his wife-beater and boxer shorts that hang down low enough to keep the air flow around his ass crack.  Maybe he has some kind of medical condition that requires a free air exposure to his ass crack.  He’s very skinny too, by the way.  Imagine Jack Sprat and his wife.

When I’m home Tuesday night, I’m putting down mulch in my flower beds – it’s spring.  And I hear some glass being shoved around.  I glance behind me and Dad—he’s wearing baggy shorts again, thank God—is going through the garbage.  I watch in fascination as he collects it and tosses what he doesn’t want into the front yard.  He carries the stuff he does want inside.  This stuff has been out on the curb since Friday, this is Tuesday, it rained and stormed on Friday, this is Tuesday.  He’s scavenging garbage after it’s been in the weather for 5 days, with stray cats around, squirrels, rabbits, skunks, mice, spiders, worms...you can’t make stuff like this up.

The rest of the week is fairly quiet.  I’m sure they’re getting ready to go back to work this week.  But no.  Well, maybe they took two weeks off.  Let’s hope, I’m pretty tired of getting woken up in the morning by people yelling “Get in the fucking car!!”

I start to get curious.  I used to be a reporter and I was good at it then.  I’m better at it now, I have a computer and I’m older so I know more about where to look.  I find out the owner.  I find out they bought the house specifically to rent to these people because they had an extra kid and needed a bigger house.  I find out the tenant’s name.  Technically, this is the only part of the search which should have been difficult, but it turns out you mention to cops, teachers, school officials, and charities that your neighbors came from their district and have 7 kids, they are surprisingly well known.  And no wonder, because when I check their names under the court house records, they have just under 100 charges between the two of them.  Everything ranging from speeding to theft to child endangering to domestic violence.  They don’t have time to work, there are WAY too many court dates to make.

They “make” the police blotter in the paper for trying to steal a swimming pool.  Three days later, a swimming pool shows up crumpled up on their driveway, not in a box.  It actually looks like someone had a pool, emptied the water out and delivered it to them without bothering to roll it up or fold it.  I’m sure that’s what happened.

It’s a quiet evening, about 11:30 pm.  I’m sitting outside with the dog.  I hear a voice ring out through the darkness:  “Stop running down the fucking sidewalk, you got shit running down your leg.  Your mom should change your diaper sometime.” This is not cute.  Crap filled diapers are not cute.  They’re not cute to people who have kids.  They’re even less cute to people who have no children.  Trust me on this. Ew.  Of course, the dumb dog is barking now—apparently dogs aren’t fond of announcements like that either.

The neighbors are complaining about things being stolen.  This has never happened here before.  No one has reported a missing pool that I know of.

By now, I’m used to the swearing, the yelling, the loud stage talking that interrupts my solitude.  I’m used to the lights of the cops filling the night.  I’m even used to the Expedition with the expired tags sitting on the street while their brand new minivan drives around with the plates that should be on the other vehicle.  I know I’m a snob when I ask how people with no jobs and 7 children manage to afford a brand new vehicle; actually forget I asked.  I’m sure someone bought it for them, some charity who felt sorry for this clan of 9 with 7 children who range in age from 7 to newborn.  I know I’m a bitch when I suggest that instead of a minivan someone should have bought some birth control and stopped this madness.  Normal people don’t have children they can’t afford and irresponsible people shouldn’t be allowed to have children period.

I admit that much of this problem is mine.  I mean, they’re playing in the street at 11:30pm, but Dad is standing right there smoking his cigarette watching them.  Mom throws them in the house while she traipses around in her camisole top and flannel short shorts.  I’m really trying not to be offended by the fact that they’ve been irresponsible their entire lives and yet have ended up in the same place that I worked to get to.  Plus, I’ve managed not to punch someone who calls me insensitive about people who put more importance on family than on work and feel that society should support these people.  Frankly, I think we should take these kids away and put them in some kind of home where they’ll be taught the value of hard work, personal responsibility, and rules.  But, that’s really wrong of me to say—how dare I suggest a child be taught these things anyway, who do I think I am??

Last week, I’m standing at my kitchen sink cleaning spinach for dinner and the lights flicker.  I glance at the light bulb I’ve just changed and curse because I just changed that bulb and it can’t be going out again—after all, thanks to the government helping us, light bulbs have gone from 25 cents to 16 dollars a piece, but that’s another blog.  Then the clock on the stove goes out.  I look out front and I see smoke coming from the sidewalk under the electric transformer on the pole across the street.  There are sparks coming off it.

Six kids jump out of their new pool and run towards the smoke and sparks.  They’re wet and barefoot and looking at the smoke and up at the sparks.  Mom is on the porch and the baby carrier is on the driveway on the opposite of the minivan, out of her sight.  I hear her say, “Do you see anything?” to the kids.

I say, “Yeah, I see seven dead kids,” I say.  She can’t hear me because I reserve my stage voice for noisy bars and standing in front of classrooms when I teach.

The dog hears.  She tilts her head and gives a soft little “ruff” as if she’s agreeing—and using her inside voice as she was taught by her responsible mother.

I roll my eyes at the dog.  “Oh, who cares,” I say.  “They’ll just make more.”

Dambit Gumby, I'm supposed to be the bad neighbor...wait, I am

I have become “that neighbor”.  You know the one:  always yelling at people to get off her lawn, yelling at the other neighbors to turn their music down, complaining about everything everyone around her does.  This really dismays me because, frankly, I should be the one everyone else is complaining about.

I mean, think about it.  I have a zombie statue in my flower bed, I mow my lawn in clothes that are now way too big because of some weight loss (Yeah, I’ll go into that in a bit), I have a big mean (looking) dog who barks like a flipping jacked-up guard dog when she sees or hears something other than me, I have a badass tattoo which should be freaking out all the older neighbors, I return home late at night from various disreputable places (the corner bar is a dive filled with the dregs of society, but you know, it’s MY corner bar), I burn incense in my sunroom while I drink wine before five and write about killing people, and when I do raise my voice people who hear me probably think I’m ordering someone not to steal pasta (“Leave the cat-a-lone-ee!”).  That’s just the things that are possibly open to the public.  Let’s not forget the stuff they can’t see:  medieval weapons collection, voodoo dolls, skulls, tarot card collection, guillotine, suit of armor, and the books with subjects like torture, Wicca, serial killer psychopathology, and fiction ranging from classical 19^th century erotica to a complete collection of Shakespeare to Cormic McCarthy and Maya Angelou.

But yet, somehow, I have become the normal one around here.  And I’ve been complaining about it.  Of course, I’m not the normal grumpy old person living here.  No.  I’m much much worse.  I’m a plotter.  I’m evil.  I am actively trying to think of ways to mess up lives.  Worse, I feel justified in doing it.  I’m quite convinced that I’m only trying to force people to do what is right.  After all, I’m a taxpayer.  I’m paying people to enforce these laws and I’m working for what I have.  In addition, I try to be respectful of other people.  In short, I am aware that I do not own the universe.  As such, I feel like making these others aware as well.

First, there’s the poodle guy.  His stupid poodles started going in my yard ago.  I was home on vacation a day in March, eating cereal for breakfast at the kitchen sink, and I look out and see him standing out there and his stupid little dog sniffing around for a place up near my flower beds, where shortly I intended to go out and kneel and start planting some stuff.   So, I put my bowl down and I ran outside and scared the dog into a clench and run.  I asked the guy “What do you think you’re doing?  We’re not going to start this again; are we?”  And his reply:  “I didn’t know you were home.”

This threw me into a blind rage and he’s lucky I didn’t go inside for my halberd and take off his head.  I’m not sure what me being at work constitutes open bathroom privileges for this guy who’s trying to look all tough standing there with a little midget dog on the end of a leash.  Frankly, it’s hard to be intimidating with a miniature poodle at the end of the leash.  I do a much better job with the Rottweiler.  Anyway, I got a sign which lies about me owning a digital camera set for monitoring my yard and two days after I put up the sign, I informed the dog warden who made note that the poodle guy only has tags for one of the two said dogs – yeah, here’s your fine, idiot.  Also have the Perkins police looking out for him and they’ve been stopping him asking him if he has a baggie with him. 

End result…it’s been a month since the sign and the visit and I have not stepped in any poodle poop since.  Could this have worked??  Could I once again have found peace and harmony in my humble abode?

Well, not since the house across the street sold and was rented out to some lady with 7 kids under the age of 7.  First impression:  6 am.  The windows are closed, the a/c is running, and I’m asleep.  I hear children laughing and screaming and their high pitched talking.  It goes on for a while.  In my half-dazed still asleep mind I think “Did a school bus break down in front of the house?”  So I get up, because it keeps going and now the dog is kind of growling.  I look outside and see:  a very heavy woman holding a very newborn infant like a sack of potatoes in one arm while she rummages through an Expedition that’s filled with junk, three children in diapers only and three more in cotton pajama shorts running around in the front yard of the house across the street.  Two of them aren’t running, they’re going through the trash left behind on the curb by the former owner.  There a really skinny Jack-Sprat kind of guy in a wife beater shirt standing by the front door smoking a cigarette. 

I think to myself that perhaps they’re all just excited about a new house.  But in the days that follow I discover that they have 7 kids and no jobs and that this landlord bought the house specifically for them because the rental of hers they were in before got too small when they had another child.  Seriously?  No jobs and they have a SEVENTH child?  I dig some more.  Yeah, I was a reporter once.  I was a very good reporter too, I could find out stuff and I could combine sources to come up with accurate information.  I find out between mom and dad they have just under 100 misdemeanor charges filed at the municipal court (online records are the shit!).  They apparently have a serious aversion to their fenced in backyard because these kids are constantly out in the front.  Maybe mom and dad are hoping they lose one in traffic so they can make another without having to find an even bigger house.  Worse, I saved and scraped and sacrificed to get a house in this neighborhood and now these fiscally and reproductively irresponsible people have managed to find someone dumb enough to actually BUY them a house.  And of course there’s sure to be some bleeding heart at the county who is saying “Oh, we can’t just let all these children be homeless, they NEED to be in a home.”  Yeah a home…like an orphanage...or perhaps we can put some people with jobs who pay their bills in that house with those kids and just let the parents live on the street.  Guaranteed they wouldn’t be thinking about making more kids if they were working 15 hours a day to pay to feed those kids.  Good thing I’m here working those 15 hours to feed those kids so they have good lungs and can scream over the top of Marilyn Manson screaming about The Beautiful People.

But this is where I realized that I discovered that I have become “that” neighbor.  Kids make noise.  I don’t have any so it probably irritates me more than most.  But I’ve started to plan.  I know how these things work, you see.  I can almost guarantee that mom says dad doesn’t live in the house…which is technically welfare fraud.  I can also guarantee that dad doesn’t pay child support to any of these offspring.  I also know they’ve been cited for not having a legal child restraint (one of those many charges) and I’ve seen those kids jumping around in the minivan without car seats – yeah I know they had an Expedition at first, but now they seem to have gained a brand new minivan which sits in their driveway with temporary tags.  I bet some church raised some money to buy it for them.  I can only think of my brother who had to squeeze his children into a car with car seats for the first year of the twins’ lives until he could scrape up enough money to get a used minivan so his three kids fit.  These people don’t work!!!  ARGH!!!

I’m plotting.  And I hate myself for it.  I mean, right now those kids are young enough to be relatively harmless but eventually they’re going to grow up and become little non-working juvenile delinquents proudly following in their parents’ footsteps.  I want to believe this won’t be the case; but when it’s 55 degrees out at 7 am and you’re three and running down the middle of the street while your father stands at the door smoking and screaming “Get your ass back here so someone can change your diaper, there’s shit running down your legs!”  

What chance do you really have?  Besides, why work when you’ve got a great house in a wonderful suburban neighborhood and a brand new vehicle to race through the neighborhood in.

If this seems like I’m rambling, please forgive me, my attention is being distracted by the fact that the parents have apparently locked the 7, 6, and 5 year old out of the house at 10 pm on a school night and they’re slamming the screen door…it sounds like gunfire….my dog is barking wildly.  I’m plotting to report them to welfare investigations, but what good would it do?  I mean, there aren’t enough foster homes for these kids and where would they all go?  Obviously the kids will starve before the mama bear does, she’s not lacking sustenance.  Besides, I’m sure the police will be frequent visitors around here.  You can take the bums out of the inner city, but you can’t take the inner city out of the bums. 

Which brings me to the topic of fat people, namely myself.  I have not been running on my treadmill.  I have not been running the streets.  I have not.  But I have been trying to eat breakfast, which is something I never have done in my entire life as in the half-asleep state that I call my morning I would end up with scrambled eggs on my face or something.  But breakfast has helped.  I have been losing weight slowly by eating three meals a day and not snacking…and not being so hungry by the end of the day that I eat a lot at night.  The weight has come off slowly.

The other day I put on my jean shorts for the first time this year so I could go out and mow and clean the gutters—and the shorts fell right off.  I couldn’t do anything to make them hang on.  It’s a slow, steady loss thought.  Nothing dramatic.  It’ll probably get better when I start smoking to deal with the stress of my rapidly declining neighborhood--I'll join Mr. Wife-Beater shirt.

I mean the house next to me is for sale.  One of the houses that abuts my backyard has renters in it that like hip-hop music really loud and then they have to scream at each other to be heard over it.  The house directly behind me has an elderly couple who spy at me from behind their curtains (I can see them moving the curtains or when I go out with the dog, the curtains suddenly shut); at about 100 years old, I figure they’ll sell soon.  The other house that abuts mine has a guy who just informed me his job will be eliminated and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do about paying his mortgage.  Two doors down, the old guy there lets his grass grow four feet high rather than pay someone to mow it and he’s too old to mow it himself.

If you can't beat 'em join 'em.  I can light up a Camel and look at him and say, "Hey, is that shit running down the back of your kids legs? I can't believe you're going to have to change that diaper twice in one day."

A Quiet Riot in My Head at the Old Sanitarium

Neighbors.  You really can’t beat them for entertainment.  I don’t want to be a voyeur, but frankly, these people are making it near impossible for that to happen.  I spent last week at home trying to relax.  It was strange weather all week.  In the 80s.  Yes, it’s March.  Yes, the ENTIRE week was warm and summer weather.  So all the windows were open and people were coming out of their winter cocoons.  And because I was home, I was a witness to all these things.

First there was the old guy in the house directly behind mine.  First thing in the morning—okay, I’d like to have slept in, but there is this 100 pound Rottweiler to think of.  Not that she would let me forget.  Nothing like waking up to see a big wet, cold nose inches from your own and behind it a wiggling butt (there is the cropped tail which has only let her to wag her entire body); groaning at the early hour only brings on whining and more violent body wagging.

So on Monday morning it started.  I got up, crawled out of bed, rubbed sleep out of my eyes and followed 100 pounds of wiggling exuberance down the hall to the sunroom.  From the sunroom, I opened the door to the back yard and was pelted by heat.  On Monday, it was probably 20 degrees warmer outside than it was inside my house.  I heard yelling.  Squinting against the horrible sun on that early morning, I leaned out to look.

The 85 year old neighbor guy behind me was running (well, old guy running) with a broom up in the air. Every once in a while, he’d bat at his gutters with the broom.  He moved back and forth along the back of his house with the “WHAP” of the broom against the gutters echoing through the quiet neighborhood.  My dog ran to the fence and watched, fascinated, ears perked.  Sometimes I wish I could be so guileless in my fascination; but, instead I slunk back in the house, moved to the living room and cracked open the window so I could peak through the slits in the blind and listen.  As he’d whap, he’d shout:  “Damn Japs!  Damn you! I had friends at Pearl Harbor.”  WHAP.  Then the dog decided to add in her two cents with a half-bark, half-yip…kind of the WTF of the dog world.  I think the dog and I saw the squirrel at the same time; it peeked its head up out of the gutter and squeaked at the old man, then ran to the other side of the house.  The man followed it.  This time the dog followed them both along the fence line.  WHAP!  “Damn Japanese!” Yip!  Squeaking laughter.  Back to the other end.  How long it went on, I can’t tell you.  Long enough for me to get bored and get a bowl of cereal.  After breakfast, I went out and found the dog laying in the sun chewing on her Nylabone.  She got up and came inside when I called, got some water and sighed as if to say “Wow, wasn’t expecting a morning run.”

I opened up all the windows in the house and the sunroom.  There are 23 in all.  I know because I’ve counted them when sudden freak rainstorms hit, hurling rain from every direction.  It felt good to have fresh air in the house.  Everyone was happy and relaxed.  The birds were chirping, the dog was snoring in a patch of sun, and the cat was stretched out in another patch.  I decided to paint the ceiling in the sunroom, the replaced wall and ceiling from when there was water damage…and I also had two doors to paint, the one from the garage to outside and the one from the laundry room to the sunroom.

In the quiet warmth as I move furniture to the center of the room and cover the floor and the furniture with tarps, it’s almost like I’m the only person on the planet along with Mother Nature.  It’s everything I needed in a vacation—more like one of those old time trips to a sanitarium for me because I really needed a break from humanity.  I got on my painting clothes, which are an essential part of any painting job, because I normally end up with a 1:1 ratio of paint on me vs. paint on wall; and, this was going to be a ceiling which meant total coverage of both the ceiling and possibly myself, maybe make the Rottweiler into a Dalmatian.

So I get the stuff all set up and I’m about to put my first coat of primer on the wall when I hear a voice.  Not a soft, quiet voice.  Frankly if it had been soft and quiet, I still would have heard it because the day was just that quiet.  The voice is loud, sharp, grizzled from years of cigarette smoke and it’s yelling.  Not “WOW, what a great morning!”  It’s yelling at its grandkids.  “You goddamned piece of shit, motherfucker, dumbass, I told you not to let the dog into that fucking mud.  Dammit!  You stupid asshole.”  There’s a kid’s response, but it was softer and I couldn’t make out the words; apparently they weren’t the words the habitual smoker woman who sounded like she’d been “ridden hard and put away wet” as they say.  “Goddammit, now look at that fucking dog!  We’re going to have to give him fucking back.  I fucking told you not to let the fucking dog out.  Mother fucker!”

By this time my dog is standing at one of the sunroom windows looking out cocking her head to one side and my peaceful moment of communing with primer has been destroyed.  However, let’s not leave it at that, because from the other side of my house, also a person far enough away to be hidden from my view comes a guy’s voice:  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Bitch.”

“Mind your own fucking business, jackass!”  screamed the woman on the other side of the neighborhood.

“You’re making this shit my fucking business,” the guy on the opposite side of the neighborhood yelled back.

“You better hope I never find out which bastard you are!”

Ahh…the peaceful midday bliss of a workday in a working class neighborhood.  You’d think I lived in the projects or something.    Anyway, Black Sabbath serves well to drown them out…if you can’t have quiet and birds chirping for your meditative activity, then do it with Ozzie.

So, that was Monday.

Tuesday I woke up, let the dog out, still had all the windows open.  Took in a deep breath of the fresh air and went into the kitchen in mind of making a good breakfast.  I’m standing there at my sink looking outside and I see him.  The Poodle Man.  With his two little poodles on their extendable leashes.  Who were both squatting on my grass.  It’s been all winter, my nemesis and I see you haven’t learned your lesson.

I go running outside.  “HEY!” I yell at him.  “What the hell?  What are you doing?”

“Well, I’m walking my dogs,” he says.

“You’re letting them poop in my yard.  Do I have to haul out the Rottweiler poop again?”

“I didn’t know you were home.”

I believe I started seeing red at this point.  “WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!!”  I told him to scoop it up with his hands, I didn’t care.  But he was going to scoop it up or he’d be calling the cops on me ALL summer long until he stopped.   Plus I would be sending him bills for my shoes.  Will he learn?  No.  Can I do anything about it?  Apparently not.  I’ve talked to the police.  Rudeness is not a crime.

So, on my second day of vacation, the passive aggressive dog poop war games of 2012 were opened.  I played “Who Let the Dogs Out?”  by the Baja Men on my stereo over and over again.

On Wednesday, the neighbors all decided to mow their lawns without picking up the sticks in the yard…so lawn mowing was loud and filled with strange metallic clangs and bangs that echoed off the houses.  And off the walls of my house.  My dog ran back and forth from window to window trying to figure out what to bark at.  The cat hid under the bed.  I made homemade enchiladas and played salsa music loudly.

On Thursday morning, it was peaceful once again.  The birds were chirping, there was a warm breeze that smelled like the open lake.  Those of you who live around Lake Erie know the smell of the lake in early spring it still smells kind of cold, like a late March snow…oh wait, it IS late March.  Nevermind, for a minute I thought it was July.  I sit down at my computer, deciding that today is the day I’m going to spend writing.  I have a big glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

While I was sipping that orange juice, I heard it.  A woodpecker.  Fascinating creatures, the woodpeckers.  They hang on to the side of trees and pound their heads against the bark making loud continuous banging noises, similar to the relationship between mortgage loan officers and walls and/or computer screens.

People walking down the sidewalk would stop and look around and be fascinated by the damn bird.  I asked them to take the damn thing with them.  Oh sure, cute, but you know you get to understand why people in the cartoons really hated Woody Woodpecker.  He was an annoying, crappy bird and it would have served everyone well if one of those bad guys had gotten ole’ Woody and thrown him in crockpot with some potatoes, carrots and onions. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJChh7ghGnE

Friday, I had errands.  I found a compendium for The Walking Dead comics.  I found a pocket English to Thai phrase book.  It got colder.  I didn’t feel so bad closing the windows.  It was quiet inside.  And the Walking Dead brought a nice change of pace to my sanitarium.

Taboo Subject #2 Sex

Honestly, why is this a taboo subject?  I mean as a repressed country we sure spend a hell of a lot of time not discussing it. 

Sex is the focus of songs, poems, books, and lifestyles.  Religions focus on reasons why you should or shouldn’t do it, and how you should or shouldn’t do it.  Advertisers use it to sell things as mundane as M&Ms.  It can be exploited, taken, and sold.

Oh, and it’s full of wonderful contradictions.  Women can use it to get what they want, but apparently men aren’t allowed to.  If you’re a woman using it to get what you want, some men are happy to be used while others are afraid of it and other women try to demean you.  Sex is used to judge people, to rate people, to destroy people, and to uplift people.

Religions condemn sex, but keep asking for more followers to join their flock.  How in the hell is that supposed to happen?

Same sex relationships are condemned but some of them are so much more healthy than some relationships between men and women.  I can point to a lot of examples on this one.  Frankly some of the most healthy relationships around me are those with alternative lifestyles.

Which is a comment that leads nicely into my thoughts on sex.  I have a friend who says:  “Sex is like pizza, you never get a bad slice.”  Well, you know, sometimes there’re things on that pizza that you have to pick off.  

And I’ve had bad pizza.

The world is full of assumptions about sex about what men should want and what women should want.  Who should be saying yes and who should be saying no.  What’s acceptable and what’s kinky and what’s WAY too kinky.

Here are some facts:  1]  for some people sex takes on an emotional string  2] some people have such low self esteem that they will do anything to be loved and they think that if someone will have sex with them that they are loved  3] sex can have consequences that you need to be aware of like disease and pregnancy  -- if you don’t want them, then neither of them are any fun.  4] once you’ve had sex with a person, you can’t take it back so you shouldn’t take the decision lightly…which actually means it’s probably better to wait until you know a person for a while before doing the deed.  People are on their best behavior in the beginning of a relationship.  If it gets bad or you don’t like things at that point, it’s never ever going to get better and three weeks from that first date you’re going to know a hell of a lot more than you are on that first date.

I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps some sex is “good” but you really don’t know what mind-blowing, eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head, losing track of time and space sex is until you’ve had it with someone who matches you.  Opposites attract, but they aren’t good.  I mean, really if you’re with someone who doesn’t like sex and you’re a person who does; someone’s going to spend their time frustrated and the other person is going to be annoyed.  Which is why homosexual people are sometimes in better relationships…because they’re two people who’ve figured out what they like.  Heterosexual people are mixed up with all these do’s and don’t’s .  What’s right and wrong.  Blah Blah Blah.

And let’s go a step further and say that you should not stereotype.  There are really guys out there who don’t like sex.  Try this link out  http://shine.yahoo.com/love-sex/when-men-dont-want-sex-americas-best-kept-secret-1150099.html 

I’ve talked with other women about guys who don’t like sex…the guys who hear this conversation normally scoff in disbelief.  But then they would because they believe the stereotypes just as much as everyone else.  In any case, if it’s the man or the woman who doesn’t like sex, and their partner does…it causes all kinds of horrible things:  self esteem issues, confidence issues…everything.  A woman who gets turned down by a man with whom she is in a relationship feels worthless and it batters her self esteem; it effects a man who’s turned down the same way but he’s probably expected to “take it.” 

In the end, I think we’d all be happier just talking about it rather than avoiding talking about it.  I think we’d be happier if we didn’t look at sex as a proclamation of love but rather something that comes from a deep caring for another human being.  If we did, then perhaps we’d match up closer or at least talk about it or maybe even move on to someone who matches someone better.  Hear me when I say that what you say to someone about sex can affect them in ways you never expect—you can damage a person’s psyche with just a word or an expression when dealing with sex.  And people will use it as a weapon against you if you let it.

Sex is a healthy and important off-shoot of emotion.  It’s not a way to find emotion.  And it’s way better if you find someone who shares the same expectations as you do.  If you’re a little bit kinky, then don’t be in a relationship with a person who’s going to be horrified by the smallest suggestion of anything other than straight, sex for the sole purpose of having a baby:  “Hey, baby, let’s dress up like pirates and swing from the rafters.  Well, yeah, I know you aren’t ovulating and that your hips have to be at a 60 degree angle to improve the chances of you getting pregnant and yeah, uhm, we don’t want pirate babies.”

 If you like to play don’t marry someone who thinks that sex is something you only do when you’re courting someone and when you marry you don’t have to do it any longer and than only does it as a marital duty that you have to be grateful for:  “Excuse me, but I don’t know why you want sex again, we did it three months ago.  Gosh, that’s all you ever think about, there’s clearly something wrong with you.”  (Yeah, this one sounds more real than the other ones because I actually heard it.)

If you want to tie your lover to your bed posts and drive him or her insane with your tongue, don’t choose a partner who isn’t going to like that:  “RAPE!”

Try to talk about it.  If your partner says no to something you want to try, then find out why and try to explain why it’s important to you.  If you aren’t comfortable talking about it, then you shouldn’t be considering this person a partner anyway.   Oh, and don’t sleep around with people…this is a small town, it’s a festering pool of discarded liquids and gelatinous goop, don’t share the goop and don’t spread it around.  Rolling around in goop that’s not had time to dry or spreading your goop around…well, gosh, have some respect for yourself.  

Tired of your Bitchin'

I was sitting here tonight feeling bad for someone who is struggling to make ends meet.  I was feeling guilty about all the good things that I have in my life:  a house, a car, some spare cash to play with if I want.  Oh, yeah, I felt bad and guilty-- with none of the behavior that makes you feel good before you start to feel bad and guilty.

However, I started to analyze this situation more closely and I started to get angry.  It seems there are a lot of people who bitch about these things and their horrible problems on Facebook.  A couple of weeks ago it really started to become apparent.  Mostly because I saw this post which can only be described as an “oh woe is me” post and I was just not in the mood to read about it, to have it bring me down.  I was going to “unfriend” this person who really isn’t a friend anyway because I never see them anywhere other than on facebook, bitching.  I stopped myself from hitting the “unfriend” button because –and yeah this was my actual thought – I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.  I’ve recently been called mean for unfriending people and cold-hearted for totally writing them off my life.  But really, what obligation do I have to sit around and listen to them bitch and moan?

Am I mean because I fixed my own fucked up life and continue to work through my own demons and don’t want to spend my time reading the complaints of others who I know aren’t doing anything to fix their issues?   I’m not going to pick on anyone one person, but let me tell you that I work three jobs to pay off debt that I had which really shouldn’t have been mine.  If I were a single mother who wasn’t getting child support, I would work three jobs to make sure my kid had whatever he/she needed.  I would not be having my nails done, driving a gas guzzling car, choosing to purchase big screen televisions over paying the rent, or going out for drinks with the girls rather than feeding my kids.    So really, I have to sit there and read this drivel, knowing what I know about these people, and being “nice” means I have to pretend it doesn’t piss me off?  Do I have to diminish my accomplishments because someone is playing the victim card?  And if I don’t am I being mean?

I cry BULLSHIT!!

I believe now is where we cue the whining:  “I’ve been through some horrible stuff.”

Hey news flash, so has everyone else.  Other people though don’t dwell on it.  Other people keep moving on.  Other people don’t piss and moan; other people pick themselves up and keep moving without raining on the parades of others.  If some of these people would stop thinking about themselves long enough to look around they’d realize that their “stuff” isn’t half as bad as other people’s “stuff.”  And when you look at the things that other people have survived you really have to secretly admit that you are thanking whatever diety you believe in that that person wasn’t you. Actually, perhaps these people truly believe no one suffers something bad unless it’s plastered all over the internet.

There’s the 5 year old Iraqi boy who was grabbed by masked men on the streets of Baghdad, doused in gasoline, and set on fire.   But here they are on facebook bitching (via their $400 phone by the way) about the food stamps being a day late and HOW DARE the government allow that to happen?

Think about the US Representative Gabby Giffords who was meeting people and shaking hands only to get shot in the head by a crazy man and had to learn to talk again and still faces years of therapy to recover.  Or James Brady who was standing next to Ronald Reagon when he was shot in the head, paralyzed and left on the sidewalk while secret service agents rushed the President to the hospital.  These two people will never be the same.

Yet, they continue to bitch.  They have their health, their relatives and loved ones aren’t dying around them, and they survived every day that came before.  Other people suffer with sickness and chronic pain, they bury people they love, or they get driven over by a truck—just today a man died while working on the Ohio Turnpike because a tractor trailer carrying caustic materials hit him and two others.  Hey, but thank goodness you people are still alive and breathing able to bitch on Facebook about how horrible your lives are via your computer or your phone.  How dare people question YOUR pain or your decision to have your nails done or your hair done or go out for a drink with the girls/guys?

Here’s a newsflash—most of us who have the money to do something special for ourselves have it because we work 40 hours a week and more than one job.  We don’t have the things you have because we have to pay for them.  So you watch your big screen while we watch our 20 inch –I suppose you need the nicer TV because you’re home on your ass watching more than we are.  So sad you can’t join me at the fancy restaurant for some upscale dining because you got your nails done and your hair done while I washed the gray right out of my hair for $4.95 and used a coupon on top of that – sure, I understand that you can’t do that because your hair is “sensitive.”

The world owes you NOTHING, people.  You want something, do what my Daddy told me when I was a kid – go out and work for what you want and take it.  If you stand on the porch waiting for FEMA to bring you a bottle of water instead of walking down to the Walmart at the end of the block, you’re going to die of thirst.  You’re not going to die because of who you are; you’re going to die because you didn’t get off the frickin’ porch!

Oh yes, and now I’m mean again.  Because how dare I say something like this?  Don’t I understand the suffering?  You know what?  I actually do.  I’ve had some serious shit happen to me in my 40+ years.  I just don’t think bitching about it is going to somehow create a vortex in time and take it all away.  It’s there.  I watched my best friend get hit by a car when I was five years old and I’m haunted by the image of her shoe rolling across the pavement and by me laughing because I thought she lost her shoe and a car ran over it—then the woman jumps out of her car screaming and I see the body.  I had some bad men do some bad stuff to me when I was just a wee little thing.  I’ve been emotionally and mentally abused to the point where I thought I’d be better off just killing myself.  I tried.  Of course, when I tried, it wasn’t just to get attention, I meant it.  I wasn’t going to leave a note or stupid shit like that; thank goodness there was part of me that saw another way out.  I fell in love with the wrong man.  I forgot who I was.  I ended up in a financial gutter.  I’ve had my heart broken.  I’ve worked 16 hour days and had to get up the next morning and do it again when I would have preferred to collect a government check and sit at home to play Wii and order pizza.

So, I’m not going to read your crap on Facebook.  Call me mean.  Screw you.  I’m happy.  And if someone else is happy, I hope that they don’t let you rain on their parade because if they’re happy they earned it, they sought it out and they can own it.  There’s no shame in happy or money or freedom.   I got mine.  I’m tired of people who think they deserve the same things I worked for without putting in the work….not only the same things, but the best of things.  Not just a phone, but a smart phone.  Not just a TV, but a big TV.  And it’s time people stopped being nice and let some of these people know—there’s real suffering, there’s real poor, and there’s real pain.  There’s people who can’t escape these things and yet there still out there, crawling down the road for the pride of getting their own frigging bottle of water while you stand there and cry about not having one brought to you and cry louder because people who tell you to do something for yourself are just being mean. 

Some people actually do have it rough.  This is about the people who want to be victims, who live to be victims, who never make any effort to do more because they don’t want to do anything they don’t like.  Guess what, in the grown up world, we’d all like to be sitting on the porch drinking Pina Coladas mixed up by our own personal government bartenders.  Be a grown up.  Stop calling me mean because I refuse to help anyone who doesn’t help themselves.  And to all those people who I “unfriended” recently in life and Facebook:  I don’t hate you, I am just tired of your wallowing in self pity and tired of you using bad things as an excuse to not do anything.  Life is about sacrifices.  Those of us who make them; get stuff you don’t.