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.

Taboo Subject #1 Faithfully Submitted

I respect everyone’s beliefs.  I truly do.  I figure if there is a God, then all the different kinds of religion are just different roads to the same place.  My problem lies in that little phrase which has already pissed off probably half of the people reading this:  “if there is.”

See, what you don’t understand is that while you have chosen your road—applied for your mapquest route so to speak, I’m good with that.  I just don’t understand why I have to go the same way.

Some people want to take the expressway.  Some people want to take the toll roads.  Some want the scenic route.  Others want to get there fast and wait in their car for the doors to open up.  And others—let’s face it, you know it’s true—are on the wrong road, but they want to convince you they’re on the same road as you, when really, they’re on some bypass that was never really finished.

I’m good with what you believe.  I really feel no urgency to convince you that you’re wrong.  Hell (probably a poor choice of words), I agree that you may be right.  I’m ecstatic that you’re happy and all that jazz.  But really, what if I don’t particularly want a blessed day after I pay my credit card off—what if I want a hell of a party instead?

Religion has always fascinated me.  Because of a lot of things, I suppose.  Mostly because everyone says you shouldn’t talk about it—naturally that makes me want to talk about it.  But also because historically religion has been bent to make people do horrible things.  There’s not a single religion that I know of which doesn’t speak about harmony and peace.  Whether you worship God or the Sun or the trees or Mother Earth, it’s all supposed to be about creating a quiet place in your soul.  However, religion has dedicated itself to destruction throughout history:  the crusades, the holocaust, the 9/11 attacks—they all had a religious component.

I’m thinking about this today because it’s Sunday and because the Jehovah’s Witnesses just came to my door.  Honestly, I thought I scared them away last year and figured they’d put a big black X over my address and never return.  But they were there, smiling vacantly as my Rottweiler barked and growled and considered having them for lunch.  I answered the door eating a leftover piece of my birthday cake.  I see that as irony because from what I understand, the JWs don’t believe in celebrating birthdays.  Okay, right there is a reason I’m never going to join their ranks.  I mean, you can give up your birthday if you want, but I’m keeping mine.  I like being the center of attention for one day a year and if I could have more birthdays and guaranteed gifts I’d take them too.

Anyway, I shushed the hellhound and tried to be polite to them.  There was one guy and three women.  All in their late fifties, early sixties.  Dressed like the Amish; breaking it down like the Mormons.  They said they noticed my doors were open and I was home on a Sunday morning.  I thought about telling them I was an Orthodox Jew and therefore had to be home and not using any kind of power item, but the television was on and I knew they could see it.  I think it was a rerun of Rosemary’s Baby, but I can’t be sure.

I should also warn you—since I didn’t warn them—that I have a history of arguing about religion.  Mostly because it interests me intellectually.  I’m sure it probably contributed to the end of my marriage.  I really wasn’t prepared for my ex to come home one day and suddenly be “born again” and he wasn’t prepared to come home to find someone who could argue what he thought should be taken as faith.  I’m of the opinion that if someone tells you the lake is fluorescent pink today, you might want to check it out for yourself before you agree—and my ex was like that punk who’s standing there going “What?  You’re going to check?  You don’t believe me?  You need to believe me or you’re a bad person.”  He came home from church with some real opportunities for me to question his sanity.

I’ve missed those discussions.  (Insert evil laughter here, totally inappropriate, I know, but it’s there and I’m not going to deny it)

The Jehovah’s Witnesses stood in my breezeway, the wind tossing their hair around leaves dancing across the driveway behind them.  Their flyers clutched in their hands.  Benign, blank looks in their eyes.  “Sister, we’d like to give you our flyer.”  He held it out to me.

“You ever think about changing the name of it?” I asked.

He frowned.  The women behind him (yeah, that’s another thing I found kind of annoying) exchanged confused looks.

“Well, it’s called Watchtower,” I said.

He gave me a blank look.

“Charles Whitman?”

Still nothing.

“University of Texas?  The guy shot up a campus from a watchtower.  In fact, watchtowers are traditionally military fortifications.  You know, places to put gunners and snipers to pick off people before they can invade your fortress.”

“Well, that’s something you could learn more about if you joined—“

“But you believe that it was Satan’s arrogance and self-importance that got him thrown out of heaven and yet at the same time you believe that your religion is the only one that’s real and everyone else has fake religions.  It’s practically a perfect analogy; you’ve become what you claim to have overcome.  I’m not sure I can fully absorb that kind of hypocrisy.”

“Did you just call us hypocrats?” one of the women said.

I shook my head.  “No.  I’m just saying I’m having a hard time reconciling your words with your actions.  How will I ever be able to join you when I can’t understand your doctrine?”

“I don’t even understand what you’re saying,” another of the women said, copping an attitude.

I nodded at her.  “That might be a huge part of the problem.  Don’t you think you should understand what you’re preaching before you start preaching it?”

“I have my faith,” the woman said indignantly.

“But you can’t believe what you have faith in.  And if that’s the case, then you’re really no better than the brainwashed cult which people have claimed you were since your creation in the late 1800s.”

They were moving out of my breezeway into my driveway as I spoke.  That blank benign look was changing over to something close to panic.

“Perhaps you only escaped the political persecution because you’re a large cult rather than some small cult which can be bullied around easier.”

The third woman who’d been silent until now, pulled herself up, jutted her chest out and threw her shoulders back.  “The devil quotes scripture for his purpose.”

I rolled my eyes at her.  It was early in the morning otherwise I might have stopped myself from this.  “You do realize you aren’t quoting scripture to me, you’re quoting William Shakespeare, right?  I mean, I was an English major.”

“Let’s go,” the man said, turning away from me and ushering the woman away.  Before he left he grabbed his flyer back from me.

“I guess sheep come in all forms,” I said, loud enough for the compliant women to hear.  “Thanks for stopping by.  Please refrain from doing it again next year; there’s no guarantee I’ll be awake this early in the morning.”

They heard, because they made sure they had the last word.

Yeah, I know, this whole thing is pretty insulting if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness and I admit it was wrong of me.  I’ve really become rather sensitive about people telling me what I should do and how I should act when they don’t even come close to being the people they think they are.  Delusions are rampant among human beings who claim sanity.

For the last 30 years, I’ve listened to religious people tell me why they deserve to borrow money when they’ve never paid anyone back in their entire lives.  I’ve watched my ex get religious and spout about the “Book” while running up my credit cards with gambling debt, refusing to work, and smoking a joint.  I’ve watched people fly planes into skyscrapers, killing thousands while yelling “God is great!”   I’ve watched people kick other’s out of homes they’ve had for generations because they are unworthy of being close to the Holy Land; and then wonder why those now homeless people harbor a grudge.  I’ve seen the graves of those who were slaughtered like cattle just because they held one set of beliefs.

In the end the most religious people are those who never tell me about it; who understand that religion is a personal thing to take you where you want to go, not a  battering ram to get yourself what you want and to get people to look at you like you’re a good person.  So, drive your roads, people.  Be sure you pick one that makes you happy and gives you confidence, strength and support.  But, leave me alone; I’m still studying mapquests and I’m not even sure I want to meet up with a lot of the people who say they’re going to the end.  I’m certainly not all that keen about hanging out with a bunch of people who judge me and others and refuse to consider other options.  If there’s a God, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care what road anyone takes as long as it’s a good road without too many exit ramps.

I’m also pretty sure that if there is a God, he’s got a sense of humor.  I’m sure he’s laughing at the Jehovah’s Witnesses who ran off my driveway after cussing me out this morning.  And he’s looking around at his peeps and he’s saying, “Well, they’re not on my flippin’ list. DANG!”

THOSE PANCAKES WILL KILL YOU

So, it’s been an interesting few weeks here.  Victories and defeats.  Which is kind of what life is about; isn’t it?  It’s funny how people seem to focus so much on the defeats, but in reality it’s the defeats and the challenges that make us better people.  And let’s face it, I need all the help I can get because I’m not a good person.

First the victory.  I finally paid off the debt I ended up with after the divorce.  Two years, thousands of dollars of debt gone.  I’m back to where I started “almost.”  House and car.  When I got married, I didn’t have a car payment.  If I’d been thinking clearly two years ago, I would have bought a used car and try to have it paid off by now as well instead of buying a new car—I thought I was going to get the A-plan for one last time, didn’t know I was going to have to pay the doofus for that.  But whatever, the debt is gone.

So, what do I do to celebrate?  Well, run up my own debt of course…lol. Actually, my house needed carpet from the day I moved in.  I thought about carpeting the entire house, but changed my mind when I looked at the number of books I’d have to move and the huge desk in my writing room.  So, I just settled for replacing the worst of the carpet.  It does look awesome and better yet, the strange musty smell that I couldn’t get rid of in the house has disappeared.  When that carpet is paid off, I’ll move on to the bedrooms.  I figure, I’m more inclined to get different colors for the carpets in there anyway.

But overall, I consider being out of debt and getting new carpet a win.  I think Charlie Sheen would as well. 

But the old Karma hag still has her eye on me.  Can’t let Jo be all that happy, can we.  Oh no.  Can’t have that.  It would upset the balance of the universe.

With the recent elimination of my staggering debt, I decide I need to relieve myself of my mother’s constant nagging and get myself checked out.  I did the doctor thing when I started training for the 5k thing, but that was just for the heart that beats too fast.  This time I got the whole blood work thing.  This is kind of how I got the results.

Doctor:  You know no one has ever checked your sugar before.

Jo:  Well, aren’t you supposed to?  I mean, I’m fat.  I have diabetes in my family.

Doctor:  Yeah, you would think that would be a normal thing to check, but no one has.  I looked at all your records.  Got nothing.  But I checked it.

Jo: This isn’t going to be good; is it?

Doctor:  Your glucose levels were really high.

Jo:  You do realize today is Halloween right?  You realize I have a huge tub of candy sitting at my house right now, filled with good stuff, not the crappy Whoppers or Almond Joy or that black and orange wrapped “no name” candy. 

Doctor:  Would you like to reschedule your appointment for tomorrow?

Jo:  Well, you’ve kind of already ruined it just by inference at this point.  And my birthday is in 10 days, along with carb heaven Thanksgiving.  You’ve effectively tainted those as well.  So, you might as well spell it out.

Doctor:  Well, you don’t have any of the other symptoms.

Jo:  Actually, I probably do, but I also excel at denial.

Doctor:  I can see that.  Well, I’m going to give you a tester.  You’re going to test for a month and fax the results back to me.

Jo:  What about—

Doctor:  Whoa there.  I know about you and your question asking.  I’m setting you an appointment with a dietician so you can spend three hours of her time asking questions about food and combinations and times to eat.  She’s got a cheaper hourly rate.

Jo:  I appreciate that.

Doctor:  I’m really not doing it for you, to be honest.

Jo: Still.

Doctor:  Okay, I’ll check out your fax and call you in a month.  Have a good Halloween.

Jo gives doctor a dirty look.

Doctor laughs and sends Jo to billing.

Yeah, so that’s what happened.  I now have to be a grown up and do what I need to instead of what I want to.  Pretty crappy if you ask me.  But, you know, the alternative is dying a horrible death.  If I go out, I would prefer that it be fast.  I don’t want to be losing legs and feet and toes or taking injections every day or whatever.

So, I met with the dietician.  I really don’t need her to tell me what she wants to tell me.  I know the deal.  Most fat people know the deal, we know what we’re supposed to eat and how we’re supposed to eat.  Check out my friend Nancy’s blog if you don’t believe me.  She tells it like it is.  We obsess about it; we feel guilty about it.  We figure everytime we open our mouths people are saying, “Look at the fat girl, she’s eating!”  We’re self conscious about what we buy in the grocery store.  But I ask my questions and the lady is actually quite good about deviating from her program and answering me; I actually learn some stuff.

Of course, what I learned sucks.  I’m addicted to carbs.  Carbs are bad.  My favorite foods in the world are carbs:  rice (there goes the Chinese addiction), dressing at Thanksgiving, homemade bread, potatoes.   Yeah, Thanksgiving is gonna suck for me.  Pass the fickin’ green bean casserole.

Could have gotten an iPad for my birthday, instead I get a flippin’ treadmill.

This is how my day went today:  Wake up. Stab myself in the finger until I bleed.  Write down a pathetically high number. Have oatmeal with skim milk and some nuts for breakfast.  Go out and work in the yard.  Stop for lunch which consists of a hard-boiled egg and popcorn.  Clean the gutters.  Come in for a bottle of water.  Stuff myself into a sports bra that severely restricts my breathing.  Get on the treadmill.  It’s great to get some use out of these running shoes again; isn’t it?  Run/walk 15 minutes.  Simultaneoulsy with the run/walk:  yell at dog to stay away from the treadmill, yell at the cat to stay away from the tread mill, yell at the dog to stay away from the cat (I can see them chasing each other back and forth down the hallway on my new flippin’ carpet).  Let the dog out.  Yell at the dog for chasing a squirrel.

They say high blood sugar makes a person irritable….

Take a long bath.  Read on the back of my bubble bath that baths are not recommended for diabetics.  Say “fuck em” I’m not giving up my bleeping bubble bath.  Talk to friend on phone.  Talk to mom on phone.  Eat dinner:  baked salmon, brown rice, and a small salad with Italian dressing.  Go in to type my blog so I can bitch.  Try not to think about how much I hurt right now.

How my day should have gone:  Wake up.  Pancakes.  Check Facebook.  Play on my new iPad.  Rake the yard.  Come in.  Have a boloney sandwich while watching Ghost Adventures on the DVR, maybe a few episodes of Seinfield on DVD (up to season 3!).  Talk on the phone.  Facebook.  Write.  Oooh, look, I have a new iPad.  Dinner:  Salmon with a honey teriyaki glaze, mashed potatoes and dinner rolls.  Write.  Watch some TV.  Play tug of war with the dog—using the cat.  Bubble bath without caring about the annoying blurb on the bottle.  Eat some leftover 3 musketeers.  Bed.

Yes, life would be so much easier if the pancakes weren’t trying to kill me and if adulthood hadn’t come crashing in.

Observations from the Center of the Universe: One of these things does not Belong

Observations from the Center of the Universe: One of these things does not Belong: I’ve been some places this weekend. Places that I don’t belong. You know, it’s a free country; but not everyone fits in everywhere and that’...