Fourth Blogoversary: March 25th



Strange fate. Why God, or the universe, or a great nothingness conspires or throws events at random to some and misses others. The Wheel of Fortune keeps spinning. Some folks buy a vowel while others go bankrupt.

There was a blurb on the news yesterday: A fire at my old apartment complex. Then it announced the address. My building. I asked my friend to drive me ‘round the hood. I wanted to see if it was their apartment since their apartment was in the same building as the apartment I shared with my mother. Ye Old Shitville Ghetto Apartment Complex looked the same as ever: dilapidated, half-assed put together, just all that charm of a coastal town sunk into hell. Home sweet home. Roachy, bedbuggy, home. Mom and I lived 9 relatively happy years here. Four Years ago yesterday, March 25, 2010 I started my blog there. In 2011 my mother was taken to the hospital from there never to return again.

It wasn’t their apartment that caught fire, that is, my ex-roommates. Not the man who I miss to this day. My mother’s cook book is still on their shelf, and whatever else I gave them or they kept as theirs did not catch alight in some Waiting to Exhale diva style fashion. I’m glad they’re safe, and I hear they’re moving far away in about a week. 

No, there was the apartment my mother and I shared gutted by fire. So far they say “cause undetermined,” but I’d bet the house (pun intended) that it was shitty wiring. First that wiring was older than I am, I’m pretty certain, secondly if I remember correctly, sometimes it did act funky.
If it was a malfunction in the wiring or appliances, and had my mother lived, I’m certain we would still live there and it would be us left with nothing. Did God deliberately spare us that fate? Why?

In my more philosophical mode, I think, “Did my mother die at 68 to be spared going downhill physically, possibly ending up an oxygen-bound invalid like her mother or near blind from macular degeneration like her father? Did God cut my mother a break, or was he being cruel? My mother’s illness was two weeks total, only one day of which was  in the hospital. Also God knew that as long as my mom lived, my OCD would’ve been at her side trying to keep her alive. I’d never have lived alone were she still alive. I’d be too afraid she’d die. And now our apartment is charred. My mother’s essence burned out of the walls it feels like to me. Would we have died in the fire? Did God kill my mother to protect us from a worse fate? Why didn’t He just stop the fire in the first place and spared whoever lived there.? Ugh, I just don’t get it. Maybe my not being there was just the luck of the draw, and numerous calamities are about to befall me. Stay tuned!



Lost in Spain: A Collection of Humorous EssaysLost in Spain: A Collection of Humorous Essays by Scott Oglesby

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

When Scott Oglesby graced me with a review copy of his Lost in Spain: A Collection of Humorous Essays, I was honored and thrilled being a fan of his writing from back when he kept a hilarious blog.
This book of essays are the memoirs of a man able to observe the comedy in his life and surroundings no matter how high or low the situation. We see snapshots of a socially awkward, yet charming man making his way through through strange family members and even stranger strangers.

When we first meet Scott, we are in Ibiza, Spain with his wife and her wealthy, eccentric brother. One begins to feel as though Scott is the narrator of The Great Gatsby: Espana Ediccion. He is the outsider looking into an opulant world, the ultimate non-stop party…until we see the actual home he and his wife are to spend the next three years. The apartment the uncle has given them is in the rural village of Javaron, a place unlike Ibiza or anywhere else he could imagine.

While in Javaron, the Oglesbies live among a unique cast of villagers, Gypsies, and European ex-pats of varying moral fortitude. The fact that Scott has a severe case of OCD, struggles with alcohol and drug abuse, and doesn’t quite fit in anywhere is explored with great candor and humor.

If you have OCD, and I do, you may find yourself relating to the the book in that you will be saying to yourself, “There’s someone else that does that. Wow!” The fear of mimicking someone’s accent, to going to insane lengths not to offend someone, to being on the extreme side of socially awkward are all things I have dealt with too. Scott also has the abillity to not sweat the big stuff and fall apart at little things, something I find happens to me too.

In short, this is a rauciously funny book, a different travel memoir, and a portrait of someone struggling to survive mental illness and addiction. It has something that will resound with most readers.

View all my reviews

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My nurse ain’t mad. Life is good!!!! 

And I’ll get over the temper tantrum yesterday with my friend. 

And maybe they’re just busy at the hospital.

And maybe I can force myself to be amusing on 300 mg.

And maybe one day I’ll let go of the fact that the love of my life was a user.

And maybe I can let go of all the guilt I feel half the time.

And maybe they’ll find that plane.

And maybe more people will visit He wrote a book, you know.

And maybe Tupac isn’t dead and Biggie is hiding.

And maybe I can be as cool as I was in 2010. 4 years  people since I started this crap.

Maybe I can immerse myself in bloggery again and not neglect everyone, because I’m always interested in what y’all write


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Urg, I have that not so pleasant feeling that the world hates me. I just asked my ex-nurse if she wanted to get something to eat, haven’t heard back. A couple days ago,  I asked her if she was mad at me and  she texted “cant talk now.  At work. Later.” My friend put it in my head that she might be mad at me, since she hadn’t texted me in two weeks when she said she would. Maybe she is mad at me for only texting when I wanted something.

And I keep feeling angry at what my friend did yesterday to me. That was so disrespectful. I may have deserved it, but still… I’m back on 300 mg  of Luvox because I’m too nervous on 200 mg and she doesn’t know how to ‘handle me’ when I’m nervous. Which is hilarious because she’s always freaking out about something or another that  I have to help her with.  God forbid that I might melt down myself once in awhile.

Several days ago I put in an application to the hospital to volunteer. I haven’t heard  back. Maybe they don’t want me. No one fucking wants me.


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Oh yay, I’m in the rages of melancholy once again. I’m worthless ad nauseum et al. Per usual, I screw up, am  incapable of doing anything meaningful, am dislikeable.  As my cross dressing ex-roommate once put so eloquently, I’m a boil on the ass that just can’t be lanced.
Trying hard to go down to 200 mg of luvox instead of 300. It’s increasing my creativity, but is making me a big fat nervous bitch too.  My friend and I got into an argument due to my nerves, which is kinda funny since she’s nervous 50 percent of the time and I always try to be understanding. I threw my Hershey Bars in the car because she was upset I put the trash bags on her wheel chair. I didn’t rectify fast enough and that’s when I threw my candy in and she yelled at me to calm down, Then she made a point  to throw all my candy on the ground. This made me enraged.  Really mature.

Lady Lue Hullabaloo


I am by nature timid and go to crazy lengths to avoid confrontation.  A week ago was no exception. Marinating in the words of a woman made a jalapeño  stew  that my brain soaked in and began to boil .  In other words,  I was peeved.


Bestie asked me to act as a buffer between her and her worker. This woman is supposed to help her cook,  clean, take her shopping, and junk. I keep trying to recall the name of this job or even the acronym, so I just call the woman Bestie’s RSVP Worker.  Wait, I remember now. She’s my friend’s PCA: Personal Care Assistant. Why is that so hard to remember? Could be my advanced years or all the pot I smoked with my ex-roommate, or I’m just  lousy at remembering anything.


So this woman,  Lady Lue is a PCA, which  must mean Personal Complaints Assistant. The fine art of complaining was something in which she excelled. Whether it was her family, other clients of hers, or how miserable her life was in general, Lady  Lue wanted Bestie to know in detail. Everyone loves martyrs, right?




Perhaps if it remained only a matter  of complaining, Bestie might have handled it. There were other things though, such as her temper, her nagging, and hurrying my friend. Plus there was the issue of a quilt  that only materialized after my friend mentioned it to one of Lady Lue’s superiors.


The final straw however came the day she took Bestie to the laundromat, hurried her along, resented when my friend spoke to people she knew as Lady Lue hustled my friend’s stuff out of the machine.


“Come on, let’s go, I’ve got to get to my hair appointment!” Lady Lue demanded. When they got back to my friend’s house, and Bestie asked her to make her bed as she is physically disabled, Lady Lue’s reply was “ I don’t have time now. I’ll come back later today if I can.” Lady Lue didn’t return, and while leaving she called her hair dresser.  “I’m running late, can you just dye it, and I’ll wash it out at home?”


My friend, disturbed by all of this, ended up going back to the laundromat to retrieve things left behind. This all made her tell someone about Lady Lue’s conduct. Then Tuesday she was supposed to come see Bestie again, and my friend was so afraid of a confrontation that I stayed all day for a Lady Lue who never showed in the first place. Lady Lue’s supervisor assured my friend she would do what’s expected until she could be replaced. Not exactly.


Friday came. I rolled out of bed, half asleep, too tired to really give a damn what I looked like. I dreaded meeting Lady Lue. The tales I’d heard of her superior bitchitude made me wary, plus I had seen her lackluster job at stuff too: dishes with food debris still on them and a dirty cat litter box scooper thrown in the kitchen sink. Look, I’m probably the nastiest person in this complex, but the cat scooper in the kitchen sink? Seriously?


I answered the door at my friend’s house and there she stood.  Lady Lue: A woman dressed in a leopard print coat, her page-boy hair dyed shoe polish black. I introduced myself in the friendliest manner of which I am capable, a saccharin sweet voice that secretly means ‘go to hell’ in Southern.


“How nice to meet you! I just woke up this morning and decided I’d pop in and see what my friend was up to today like I sometimes do, “ I said to deter Lady Lue  from thinking I was strategically placed there. It was as though I’d been snorting Pixie Sticks in preparation for this meeting.


 “What a nice jacket!” exclaimed Lady Lue, which secretly means ‘go to hell’ in New Yorkese.  Now when I first found that jacket at a dumpster circa 1996, yes I’d have agreed with her, “Nice jacket. Someone fat musta lost weight or died. Oh well, my gain!”  Eighteen years later, the denim is fraying at the edges in a grungy tribute to a bygone era. As Kurt Cobain used to sing, Come as You Are.


She set my jacket aside, sat down and became all business.  “Did you do your laundry this week?” My friend hadn’t  and it was that broad’s DUTY TO DO IT. “But,” said Bestie pointedly, Lisa helped me make my beds.” Oh snap. I am useful as well as decorative.




Lady Lue asked something in New Yorkese.  Are you brafjfa answpa lipt?”


“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what that is?”


“Lent is something some Christians do that they give up   40 days until Easter,” Lady Lue announced in a tone I didn’t like, though it might have been my imagination. Are you saying I ain’t a good Christian, bitch?


“ Ohhh Lent, yes I know what Lent is. I misunderstood you. Unfortunately I either forget or am not good enough at keeping it.” Bestie remained silent due to the fact that she’s Apostolic Pentecostal and they aren’t so keen on rituals. Besides, that question is kind of tacky, like if I hauled out  and asked, “Surely you must be hitting menopause by now?”


The next thing Lady Lue did I’m 99% percent sure was to put me in my place for being there. It was insulting no matter how you slice it, and shows this woman doesn’t believe all people deserve dignity just as much as her stuck up ass does.


You must be one of Lena’s friends.”


I’m sorry, I don’t think I know a Lena,” I said confused.


“Oh you don’t get services?”


“No.” You c___t, I’m thinking to myself. You f’ing bitch. She’s saying you’re retarded, Lisa. That you’re a mental case and ride the short bus just like every other freaking person thinks of you. It was like every single slight I ever received by the many people who thought I was below average intellectually came and punched me. The guy who tried to sic the mentally challenged guy on me romantically just to be funny. People talking about me, but not addressing me. The man who told me, “Everyone thinks you’re kinda slow, but not me.” The woman who came up to me after my mother died and asked if I needed a nurse. Being in that home for two months. I filled with anger, I didn’t trust  myself not to tell her she was an f’ing bitch. I wanted to die of mortification.


“No, she gets services, but not through your company,” said Bestie Oh well, another attempt at pretending to be normal thwarted, but at least it shut that B up.




Now that she had  wiped the floor with my delicate little psyche, Lady Lue proceeded to sweep the floor in the kitchen, and not bother mopping it though Bestie had asked her to.




“My supervisor will call you next week ,” she said, and with that left my friend shaking and my brain boiling in


Margaret Hamilton as the Witch in the 1939 fil...

“I’ll get you, my pretty, and your mentally ill friend too.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


jalapeño stew.

PS< Happy St. Patrick’s Day


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2013 in review


The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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