Went to Grocery Store, Ended Up in Cemetery

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You’d think after approximately two years of riding mass transit, I’d remember that the bus stops running at 6pm on Sundays, not 6:30.  Since the driver offered me a transfer, I thought maybe I still had the chance to get on another bus. Nah.

“Where you getting off at?” asked the driver as we neared the downtown transfer.

” Uh, I was hoping to get on the 202.”

“No, the bus stops at 6, so you going downtown?”

“Yes, I guess I am going downtown,” I said with affected cheer. Now, I could have got off earlier and went to a different grocery store location with more of a walk, but the dread of extra walking made me take my chances with a transfer. Fail. Well, I’m here, I thought.  Might as well enjoy myself a little while, then walk 10 blocks up to a Family Dollar and do my shopping there. All downtown were the signs of life being lived:  people drinking, eating, and sightseeing. I drowned my sorrows in frozen  yogurt, saving the colorful plastic spoon for my collection. Then I began my quest for the 10th Street Family Dollar. Passing by Ye Olde Church, a sight caught my eye. The gate to the oldest cemetery in town stood open. Before now, the gate was always locked. My mother and I always wanted to tour that cemetery, but Mom was a little ‘late’ to this Land of Dead Episcopalians. So it was just me and her ashes around my neck. And this is what I saw:

 

Dead people.

Dead people.

 

More dead people.

More dead people.

This guy.

This guy.  Can you see the eye?

This

Sacred to the Memory of Solomon Somebody

This fellow was a sea captain who gave up the ghost in 1787.

This fellow was a sea captain who gave up the ghost in 178?

I didn't do it.

I didn’t do it.

Sad.

Sad.

j

“27  Club” before it  was cool.

B

Polly

All sides are graves, including this 10 year-old boy.

All sides of this stone are graves, including this 10 year-old boy.

Whoops, nearly fell over someone.

Whoops, nearly fell over someone.

Redefining "Rapture Ready"

Redefining “Rapture Ready”

Even if you were beloved  when you died, one day you'll be forgotten and share your plot with an air conditioner. Lucky you.

Even if you were beloved in life, one day you’ll be forgotten and share your plot with an air conditioner. Lucky you.

 

Dead in

Location! Location! Location! Molder in comfort with central heat and A/C. Solid brick home. Lots of shade trees and QUIET NEIGHBORS!

Location! Location! Location! Molder in comfort with central heat and A/C. Solid brick home. Lots of shade trees and QUIET NEIGHBORS!

Oldest Grave in Cemetery -an 18 year-old

Oldest Grave in Cemetery -an 18 year-old

Lovely view on the way to the Family Dollar

Lovely view on the way to the Family Dollar

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Happy #mayday der kommisar Putin!

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Happy #mayday der kommisar Putin!

Fourth Blogoversary: March 25th

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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!

 

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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 http://scottoglesby.com 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

 

2013 in review

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The WordPress.com 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.

Happy New Year!

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At the beginning of each new year, at 12:00 AM sharp, I declare psychological warfare on myself. This will be the year of PERFECT ME. NO MISTAKES. NO PISSING OFF, ANNOYING, OR UPSETTING ANYONE IN GOD’S CREATION.

This lasted until January 3rd this time when I missed my appointment at the therapist. I  got winded on my new bike about five minutes from leaving my apartment, gave up, tried to  catch a ride while annoying my friend in the process due to how late I was, and ended up cancelling. My therapist wasn’t upset because she is part of  a place that caters to “special people,” and we miss from time to time. She tried to calm me down because I was in batshit crazy mode by the time I called, the first mistake of the year does that to me. Were my mother able to communicate from beyond, she’d tell you this part of me she doesn’t miss at all. She might even say, “See, sepsis has it’s good points.” Almost every fight my Mom and I had in later years was due to  my rage at my lacking perfection. Sigh.

On the 5th was the worst mistake yet of year 2014. An epic fail of motherhood. I’ve had a new kitten since October. My nurse gave her to me because she knew I’d take care of her for life, because my Oscar is still missing, and she needed to pawn the kitten off on someone.  Among my kitten’s many bad habits is jumping in the refrigerator every time I open it, and I always see her. I’ve even said to her, “Lil Mooky, I guess you never saw that episode of Punky Brewster when that girl got stuck in a refrigerator, huh?”

This time, though, I didn’t see Lil Mooky jump in the fridge with the salad dressing I put inside. I went to play video games when I heard a small meow that became frantic. “Mooky!” I screamed and opened the fridge and there she was crouching on the second shelf.  I tried to get her, but she jumped out herself. Not a second later, she was off chasing Dondee as usual. She seemed not a spec traumatized, unlike myself. 

This was taken when Mooky was a tiny baby staring at Dondee

This was taken when Mooky was a tiny baby staring at Dondee. Yes, my shades no longer “shade”

Lil Mooky’s real name is Mirielle,  but she’s more of a Lil Mooky than a Parisian miss. I got her Lil Mooky  ghetto name from this song:

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