Ocdbloggergirl's Blog: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

Poetry Pot Luck: My Cat, Phillippe — November 29, 2010

Poetry Pot Luck: My Cat, Phillippe

A mother plays the guitar while her two daught...
Image via Wikipedia Ever use an image just 'cause you like it and it has no earthly reason to be there? Me neither! This is just me putting my poem to music and having a jamming session with a couple of my homegirls

I saw Jingle at http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com ask me to submit a poem for Potluck, and I was like, oh yes, it is Monday isn’t it? So this weeks theme is animals n’ nature.  So I turned my mind to my cat, Phillippe, that 15 lb. monster always demanding wet cat food.  So in the vein of My Cat Jeoffry, here is another lunatic waxing poetic about her cat.


Phillippe, Phillippe, you  most sable of cats,

Bringer of all things happy, murderer of rats,

What are you thinking, oh noble lord of ghetto fief?

A castrato at 5 months,  it must not be  about  obtaining a wife.
Phillippe, Phillippe, your  eyes do glow,

God’s palate of orange, green, and yellow

.Do those orbs  vaguely conceal a soul?

Of conscious thought beyond the scope of human control?

Do you give me  comfort when I weep?

Or has your  mistress  torn the fetters of sanity away in a single cat-like leap?


Phillippe, Phillippe, a Christmas gift for me,

Better than electronics and in the  end much more costly.

You were sick and dying, we did not know,

Thank God for modern medicine, my beloved friend, and  800 dollars or so.

Phillippe, Phillippe, named after a professor,

you must be more than  a little bit clever,

With a cat’s heart from a broken mold

and a personality  too precious to be sold,

Phillippe the great and the bold.

But tell me, Phillippe, tell me please,

where were you those two months you took leave ?

When we moved to the new neighborhood and I feared you were lost for good?

Until one evening, there you stood

.Did you love me so much that you made sure you would find me again?

Now never roaming far from home,

Phillippe, Phillippe, my most constant friend,

I love you forever, understood?

Well, at least Phil's comfortable.
Rumors of My Death: Episode III, Series Finale — November 18, 2010

Rumors of My Death: Episode III, Series Finale

 

The Doctor Will See You Shortly.

And then the swinging doors to the  ER open. Cue music similar to the theme of Tales from the Crypt -only similar though since The Network doesn’t want to be sued. A young blond nurse calls The Patient to her doom, but she must go by the man who collects the insurance info and gives out the bracelets first. I have Medicaid, ” states The Patient, the slightest tune of joyous angels singing hallelujah come  into the background. (As we at the network have said before, we commit to diversity, and what’s more diverse than seeing how the other half lives  in penury? One needs a ghettoish/trailerish patient every other episode to pull at the heart-strings). “OK,” he says, only giving a second’s glance at the envelope The Patient brandishes before him that contains her Medicaid card.  He affixes a paper bracelet with her name on it. Apparently they don’t use plastic ones anymore. They don’t make anything like they used to we suppose, but maybe that’s the fault of the props department. Well, whatever…Let us proceed.

The Patient and her mother are led into a small room where we see our protagonist subjected to her temperature taken; it’s 100 F. Her pulse is over 100 too, but the nurse says “Perhaps that’s because you’re nervous about being here.” (Quick! Someone call out ‘Bingo.’ American audiences really dig the stating of the obvious). The blood pressure is still pressuring, so we see some foreshadowing of The Patient living out the rest of this episode without flatlining, but  you never can really tell with these shows. Keep watching!

More dramatic music as the nurse begins a barrage of questions. Are you pregnant? Do you use drugs or alcohol? Are you sexually active? The questions are each answered in a droning tone, “No.” We now hear a voice-over of The Patient saying in her mind, If only my life were so interesting.

“Do you have any medical conditions?” the nurse questions.

The Patient feels ‘IT’ must be stated, her constant friend who is always with her, whether ‘IT ‘  hangs out in the background or screams to the point of drowning The Patient out. “Um I do have a problem.” The words rush forth. “I have OCD and I’m terrified of going to doctors in case they find something wrong with me and I’d rather not know. That’s why I haven’t been to the doctor before now.” During this startling revelation, one that would make the incestuous secrets revealed in V.C. Andrews novels pale in comparison, we hear soap opera-type of music. The nurse is kind and reassures The Patient that things will be just fine….and then The Cup is produced. A flourish of dramatic music as the nurse announces she needs a specimen and points The Patient to the restroom down the hall. The Patient goes towards this sanctuary but she finds herself thwarted. Organ music, the sort used in silent movies to denote villains and dastardly deeds plays at intervals. A young cleaning woman and her cart is blocking the entrance. She stares down The Patient, who granted isn’t sporting her most charming-about-to-meet-God-dying-swan-look. Her curly hair is sticking  straight up reminiscent of Einstein. The Patient, tall and plump, is the diminutive one, not quite sure how to handle this situation. She, unable to meet the eye of anyone for more than a couple of moments stared more towards the bathroom than directly at her obstacle. The camera pans out a bit and goes back and forth between nemesises, sounding  the organ at each point.

Finally our heroine speaks. “Is the bathroom closed?”

“You need in here?”

“Yes, please.”

The woman moves her cart out of the way, and The Patient thanks her. This is a public service message tucked into the script interpreted as, “Just because you’re among the walking dead doesn’t mean your manners should also be on their last  legs too.” We expect this idea to be so popular it will span generations, be woven into samplers, and sell many Blu-Ray discs.

The Patient heads towards the handicapped stall preferred by most portly women when not needed. At The Network, we want to get a reward for positive portrayals of mentally ill persons, but sometimes an artist must pursue the artistic muse, that fire of creativity, which results in a crude sketch of Howard Hughes incarnated into the mind of our heroine.

The patient unscrews the cap. “What is it that makes capturing your own urine in a container so fascinating?” says the voiceover of The Patient. We hear a tinkling of piano keys and cymbals to drown out the sound of The Patient voiding.  She fastens the lid on her handiwork, washes her hands and the bottle for good measure, then out into the frightening world of the hospital once again.

Conferring around the writers and producers of ER, we come to the conclusion that Emily Post never mentioned manners or propriety  in regards to brandishing urine specimens in front of a live studio audience. We decide to have The Patient conduct herself with discretion in the matter (after all, we’re hoping she’ll win an Emmy). The Patient hides her ‘prize’  with both hands holding it in a vise against her stomach. We infer her thoughts in the matter as thus: “If the golden hue of regular urine be offensive to the eye, perhaps this color will be twice as bad.” The secret liquid in her hands, at the risk of sounding vulgar, looks as though one has mixed Red Bull energy drink with tea. This is partly due to a urinary analgesic that she uses and the disease itself.

A small office is where The Patient is shown to give her contribution. A plump African-American woman accepts the gift by telling her to set the cup down in the sort of plastic tray they give hospital patients to spit.  (A little note from the writers and producers of the show: As we at The Network have stated before, we are committed to diversity, blah blah, etc., but the head writer feels that unless the person of color is speaking Swahili, has a Jamaican accent, or can mimic Flava Flav, to describe every person who isn’t WASPy  “seems kinda racist, kinda.” So we only offer up one token African-American to show our commitment to whatever we committed to, but there are actually three in this series. In other words, we are afraid we would sound racist when we didn’t mean to be).

Flava Flav of Public Enemy
He isn’t just a brother,
He is THE BROTHER!

Then the blond nurse leads her to her room. “Taps” is playing in the background now. The Patient sits down on her bed and the nurse brings her a gown.  “You need to take your shirt and bra off and put on this in case he needs am x-ray ….”

“WHAT?!” cries our heroine. We hear the  sound of a banging down of keys on a piano. “Is that routine?” The Patient’s voice shows an escalating panic, which makes one curious whether she will run away, collapse, or maybe even fight.

“It’s just in case,” the nurse reassures her and leaves. It appears this episode ER is quickly turning into Girls Gone Wild: Hospital Edition. But no, the actress who plays The Patient wishes to be seen as tasteful; therefore, she exudes to the audience the modesty of Botticeli’s Venus as she quickly dons the hospital gown.

Like this but with less fanfare and more stretch marks.


A male nurse comes in and introduces himself. Wow, he doesn’t even seem gay, thinks The Patient (Diversity strikes again! A male nurse AND not even gay. Take that, Stereotypes! Mind you if I had any say in character development, I’d have him so campy people would think he’s the incantation of Liberace or a character from La Cage Aux Follies…Just saying). He tells them that the doctor will be there shortly and that The Patient could watch TV until then.


The TV is flat screen and can be pulled up close by a patient waiting for the doctor to come and pronounce her dead. Voiceover says, “This wouldn’t be such a bad place to stay if a doctor isn’t around to mess with you.” The Patient has no interest in watching TV, but mindlessly flipping through the channels as her mind ponders deep thoughts is something to do. Oh Ellen is on. Flip, flip, flip. Wonder what Scott would do in such a situation as this, she thinks of a fellow blogger with OCD who doesn’t seem totally !@#$%^ by being afraid of everything unlike herself.  He wouldn’t have waited  long enough to be compelled to go to  the ER instead of a doctor, you dumbass. He wouldn’t think he had diabetes/kidney failure/ cancer/AIDS. Oh well, different strokes for different folks. Then her thoughts flip channel and she thinks of all the times she’s wished she was dead in passing. Oh. No. I DIDN’T MEAN IT GOD! What if it’s true that you have  to be careful what you wish for because you might just get it. What if I’m about to get what I deserve, and…..and……

….And the doctor comes in shutting off all irrational and rational thought. “I’m Dr. Boring,” he announces good-naturedly over dramatic musical chords.

Dr. Boring… Are you for real?

We at the Network feel we should interject here that once Clooney left the show, we had some trouble getting A List talent. But then we couldn’t even get C List writers after the show was cancelled, and yet we defiantly kept recording .  Hence we have characters named Dr. Boring and The Patient. Que sera, and if you don’t like it, change the channel. Some station somewhere must be playing Saved by the Bell. By the way, anyone have Screech’s porn effort? Anyone? No? Oh, well, my friend, The Rodrigo, has a super crush on  him, but never mind.

Dr. Boring has been informed that The Patient has OCD and a phobia of doctors that’s bigger than the state of California, but he seems like such a kind soul. The Patient says for fear of causing offense, “It’s not that I don’t like doctors. I’m afraid of  knowing I have some terrible disease…I’d rather just not know.” May the audience agree there’s nothing more silly than an avoidant personality, great material though perhaps?

“May I listen to your breathing?” Dr. Boring doesn’t want to freak out the nice mentally unstable patient. No sudden furious ‘doctoring,’ for which The Patient is extremely grateful. He listens to her lungs and seems not to be disturbed at his findings. And then…

The results are in! Cue drumroll! And the winner of America’s Got a Kidney Infection issssssssss The Patient!  Cue confetti falling. And the award is a generic antibiotic prescription! “You can have a follow-up in three days at Dr. Suchnsuch’s office. But,” says  Dr. Boring, seeing the fear in The Patient’s eyes. “But you don’t have to.”

Cool deal.

“If you aren’t better in a few days come back. The Cypro might not wipe out the infection completely or we may have to do some x-rays to rule out other problems like kidney stones.”

Cue yet another bout of dramatic music as The Patient asks dramatically, “Do you think there’s something terribly wrong with me?”

Dr. Boring is matter of fact. “I don’t think so.”

As the doctor is about to leave, he says to The Mother, “She’s tough staying away this long. Her urine was really dirty.” No doubt The Patient’s mother inwardly beamed with pride.

 

I'm strong like Chun Li!!!

For more diversity than you could possibly shake a stick at, this part of the show is dedicated with reverence to Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, jr., who said in his famous speech, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty I’m free at last!

“I’m free! I’m getting out of this without them finding something terribly wrong with me. Freeeeeeeee!” thinks The Patient, not believing she is going to walk out of those sliding glass doors with minimal trauma. Hallelujahs are sung in the background. The blond nurse’s parting words to The Patient’s thanks is “Remember doctors can help you get better if you do have a disease.”

Whatever! I want to go to McDonald’s drive-thru and get an Orange Lava Burst Hi-C drink and hope I don’t vomit it up.

After the illness

Two weeks later The Patient is telling of her ordeal, and though she now is recovered the memory remains so fresh  that she lets not a single droplet of urine pass without inspection for blood. She has also taken to sleeping with a Barbie doll, as though among Barbie’s lengthy resume over the years, warding off urogenital diseases and causing regression in 32 year-olds are new jobs. She omits this last tidbit, sleeping with a Barbie doll due to the general idea that her death is imminent  might be a little embarrassing.

“And so what did you learn from this?” ask the therapist

“Well, I learned that I ought to have a doctor…Yes, that I ought to.”

“You should have a doctor. You would feel better knowing you had a clean bill of health.”

“Duly noted,” The Patient replies. “But doubt I will anytime soon.” Cue wacky music that fades out as we enter our final scene.

It turns out that the hospital didn’t file her Medicaid, so they will have to sort it out with the hospital for her “Level 3 care” Level 3? We at The Network would hate to see what Level 1 care would be. A slap on the back and a, “You take care now and don’t die?”

When our heroine looks at the bill that thankfully will be paid for her, she is more than startled. “ $1033.00! MOTHER F-F…”The theme from Psycho plays as we fade to black.

 

Fin









Poetry Pot Luck: Great-Grandmother Perfection Game — November 16, 2010

Poetry Pot Luck: Great-Grandmother Perfection Game

Mohov Mihail. Grandmother and granddaughter
Image via Wikipedia

Here is my latest post for http:// jinglepoetry.blogspot.com. This week’s theme is emotions. So I began writing this poem, the emotion: frustration, and before I knew it I wrote an extremely depressing version of this poem, superbly self-loathing and terribly annoying. So I took my literary jujitsu knife and cut, cut. Even I hated the emo trash which had sprung forth from my brain’s  murky depths. Hope y’all like this version. My grandma and I didn’t get along so well the last 13 years of her life , which I feel guilty over 9 years later. I was never good enough, and great, I’ve started the violins playing again, but that’s the poem’s back story.

Oh and another thing, I have the final episode of Rumors of My Death finished and just editing and tweaking this masterpiece. Look for it really soon if you’re big into 2500 word tomes on kidney infections in soap opera/melodrama format. Good times!

Oh and one other thing, for those of you doing the honor of visiting me for Poetry Pot Luck, I did a poem last week too but sadly missed the deadline. If you want to read my ‘building’ poem, here’s a link if you’re bored: https://ocdbloggergirl.wordpress.com/2010/11/11/mediocre-poetry-the-apartment-complex/

 

I never knew my great-grandmother, dead at 91.

But I heard of her so many times from Grandma , I can’t think of a sum.

She was perfect, benevolent, and divine,

while I maintained the mien of a swine, laughing too loud for Grandma’s taste,

never sublime.

My great-grandmother was strong, a saint even in times of great duress,

while I go to pieces at the slightest stress.

I wanted to be perfect too, I wanted to be the best.

But my grandmother died before I could pass that damn perfection test.

It wasn’t that I didn’t try,  my urge for perfection will never die.

Mother cried and Jesus wept at my attempts to be perfect,

my anger and prayers co-mingle.

Uh oh, looks like I might remain single,

I’d drive anyone insane,

but it’s OK ’cause I can always pick my own brain,

failing myself at the great-grandmother perfection game.

 

Mediocre Poetry: The Apartment Complex — November 11, 2010

Mediocre Poetry: The Apartment Complex

Richard Milhous Nixon
Good Times! Image via Wikipedia

OK…So this was meant for http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com, but too late. So y’all can laud or pan it or whatever, dear readers.  Buildings was this weeks theme.

 

Once upon a time, before ever I was born,

you were erected a little after 1971.

Brick and morter, cement and wood,

until one day there you stood,

13 buildings are lucky if an architect is in a good mood.

 

200 apartments that were state of the art back in the days when Nixon was not a crook,

splash in a pool built in the days before diving boards were took.

Snack bar, volley ball, n’ tennis,

Sit on your terrace without  fearing a menace.

 

But that was in 1972,

now the owners don’t know what to do.

Buildings age, wood rots,

but the staff cares not a lot.

One lives here because the rent is cheap,

lucky you if you don’t meet up with one of your creeps.

 

A Mexican man who spills his beer can down from his balcony,

A drag queen who owes me money,

Wife beaters and folks who can’t read,

a friendly ‘ex-rapist,’

drug dealers who meet the people’s need.

Some people have killed themselves here instead,

Guess it’s cheaper than moving,

but you don’t fill me with that kind of dread.

Apartment  complex of mine, I love you and hate you at the same time.

 

When I first saw you I knew you were just right  for me.

Unlike the house we had owned, no rats in the attic roamed.

The terrace was enough outdoor space without a lawn to mow.

Finally a pool within 50 feet of me not made of plastic, you know?

and a  few nice neighbors to balance  the plethora of trash,

no one’s  too nosy, they let us do what we wish without being rash,

my hoarding* or Mom’s gardening,

letting our cats roam ,

this is the perfect place for eccentrics  to  have friends but be left sometimes alone.

Apartment Complex, intellectual purgatory, I call you home.

—————-
Now playing: Too Short – Ghetto ’cause you know, this be the ‘hood.
via FoxyTunes

 

Catz in da Hood

* No I’m not as bad as Hoarders, or that short story I wrote, or those two guys in Harlem in the 1940s.

Update and a My Bad — November 10, 2010

Update and a My Bad

Hi,

I posted my Playlist.com playlist 5 minutes ago, but deleted it ’cause it wanted to play on its own and I didn’t want to offend the sensibilities of my readers. If you still wish to hear music for an  OCD bloggergirl you can click the part that says “Popout Player” down my sidebar. You might find something you like, but it’s unlikely.

Another thing, if y’all are missing my posts on my life, still working on that. I will still be doing Jingle’s Poetry Potluck and stuff, but I’m working on the final thrilling episode about my kidneys too so if any ain’t digging my artistic offerings, please stay tuned and don’t get irked at me for writing poetry or fiction a lot.   I will keep writing for Jingle, but unless I can puke up my kidney episode I’ll sit out Magpie Tales until I can. It’s over 1k words now, but if it goes way over that, then I’ll break it up. Why don’t y’all try Poetry Potluck too? It’s fun! If Emily Dickenson were alive today she definitely would enter with me:

http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/

—————-
Now playing: Timbaland – Apologize You know, cause I’m apologizing?
via FoxyTunes

Emily Dickinson Sucks (via The Friggin Loon) — November 8, 2010

Emily Dickinson Sucks (via The Friggin Loon)

Look! I got mentioned and I pawned Emily Dickenson! Though I actually like Dickenson. That “I could not stop for death, yadda yadda” poem was pretty awesome. Please visit http//frigginloon.wordpress.com for your news of the weird needs.

Ever tried to plow through the compete works of Emily Dickinson? Hmm no? Probably a good thing. Here is a review from someone who tried. Psst Now why couldn't Dickinson be more like OCDBloggergirl?

Read More

via The Friggin Loon

One Trick-Or-Treater: Poetry Pot Luck — November 3, 2010

One Trick-Or-Treater: Poetry Pot Luck

I am sooo not going there this year!.....Oh hey, is that like Harry Potter?

My second offering for Poetry Pot Luck at http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com. It’s true too.

One trick-or-treater?

Just one?

One?

I mean there’s only one pervert down the hall;

You could have come here and he wouldn’t have bothered you at all.

My Milky Ways didn’t have razors, I know because I just ate the last one,

The soft mints didn’t have LSD I don’t think; I’ve  got through half of ’em.

Damn, I wish I had a blueberry pixie-stick and a couple of Kit Kats too.

One trick-or-treater?

Just one?

And I’ll be damned if she wasn’t 41!

With a cowardly lion chihuahua instead of a son.

Reaching into my bag I give her a goodly sum,

better give her a lot, she’ll be my only one.

Picture used w/o permission from imvu.com

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