December 8th Birthday Post Finished January 30th Part 2

When not keeping society with myself, I have one friend my age, the rest are people much older than myself. The one my age and I have been friends 17 years or so, and in those years our interests have taken divergent paths, but we remain firmly linked together in our own way. The older friends, however, were the ones with whom I had lunch.  One of them, I’ll call her Bess, wanted to do something nice for my 33rd and our friend, Bob’s 79th birthday who born on the 8th too…told you I hung out with an older crowd didn’t I? The oldest of our merry crowd is 87, Bob’s wife, Lily. I feel closest to Lily, though heaven knows we’re rather different. She has the personality of a lion while I’m a chicken, age not mellowing her temperament, which can be super hilarious.

Bob is about 8 years younger than Lily.  His family lived way up north, but I guess this is where the US deposited him when they discharged him from service. He contracted malaria in Korea and lived to tell about it, but got sent home.  A man like Bob is too tender-hearted to be Rambo anyway. He once said, “We fired but couldn’t see the targets. I hope I didn’t hit nobody.” Not everybody is so kind. I once heard a WWII veteran say “I killed me 500 Japs in the war and if I could, I’d kill 500 more,  but the government says we can’t now.”  Total WTF moment there, but he was a bit non compos mentes.

Anyway, back to Bob. While here, he met Lily. Once during their loving courtship, Bob kept joshing her about something, maybe an oddly fitting coat, while in a diner. In full Lily-rage, she picked up a bowl of soup and hurled it at a wall. Some 50 something years later, she still won’t go there to eat. Luckily, the rest of their relationship and marriage was less turbulent. I wish I could have seen that, though. Lily is a tiny woman,  not even 5.’  Too bad they didn’t  have jokers with camera phones and Youtube in the early 50s.  Bob just smiles now at his wife, calm as can be, and basically lets her have her way, a dynamic that seems to  work for them.

We all met Bess and her husband, Arnold, at Wendy’s. I opted for the dollar menu burger because I hate to spend other people’s money, you know? Bob and Lily live on a fixed income, so it’s always fun to see what they found as a re-gift for me. It was a cute figurine of 2 snowmen. I love Christmas stuff; it’s enduring if I don’t break it. We got Bob a raunchy Christmas card befitting an elderly man not enjoying the active Bob Dole lifestyle.  The card was of a fat, ugly middle age stripper whose titties vibrate when you open the card.

Bess, who is in her 50s, won’t go to a doctor to save her life, but I have a feeling the poor woman actually wants to die on some level.  She has neurological issues and refuses to get help. I can’t really say much considering what happened to me back in September:

Pissing blood  =  no doctor

Severe pain in my stomach = no doctor

Accidents = no doctor

High fever and dizziness = nope

Vomiting = Doctor, but only because I know next step to set in is blood poisoning thanks to Web MD, not so much my mom’s begging.

So yeah, not the best person to lecture someone about doctors, but still. She was in pain sitting with us, pain running up her leg. Earlier in her life she rode in a car that leaked monoxide inside,  plus her mother had Parkinson’s.

“I’m going to be so miserable going up to see the baby, but I have to go this weekend or we won’ get to see her for awhile…Oh I’m so miserable! “

It turns out that her family are coming to North Carolina, but her no count son and daughter-in-law can’t come here. She loves that baby so much and her sorry asshat of a son too. The son did an unthinkable thing, a slap to her and Arnold. Arnold had adopted Bess’s children, and though he’s always in a bad mood, he was good to those children. Anyway, Dipshit changed his name and his baby’s name too to his maternal grandfather’s name “to keep the name of his family going.” You know that had to hurt his poor mother. I recall one time I was at Bess’ house and she talked of running over one of her cats, and she said sadly, “My son loved that cat more than me.”

Bess is one of those unfortunate souls who was born with a “Kick me” sign on her forehead. While my “kick me” sign is  written in rose-pink, hers sign is fire engine red. I felt that rage I hate so much boiling up as Arnold said nasty things to his wife. If I could remove my emotion of anger, I would. I equate anger with being “bad.” My therapist is working with me on that one.  I generally don’t get mad if someone does something to me, I can rationalize that I deserve it, but it boils if I see someone being bullied. Bess asked Arnold to get some condiments and something else and he flared.   “You just sat by the wall so I’d have to do everything”

Bess’ eyes were tearing up again.  I said in a pretty hateful tone loud enough to be heard, “Don’t be upset, Bess. He’s just in a BAD MOOD.” Man, I was getting my dander up.

“He’s always like that,’ said Bess. It’s my party and she’ll cry if she wants to, cry if she wants to, cry if she wants to.

When someone needed something else, I said pointedly, “I’ll get it.”

Oh well, free burgers.

Afterward, Bess insisted on taking us for doughnuts, so we went to Dunkin’ and I had a chocolate one and one with rainbow sprinkles.  Sourpuss spent this part of our fine gathering staying in the car and calling his father. The funny thing is he isn’t a bad guy. He’s nice if one talks to him and would do anything for you despite his treatment of his wife. I think he’s anxiety ridden and that’s enough to get tad cross. Rubbing  his face like someone who can’t be still, my hands are always doing something too (could be boredom too. Who am I? Dr. Phil?).

Once we had left the joyous crew, my mom and I went looking around shops. First Best Buy but didn’t see anything that this fool would part with her money over. Then to Kmart, the ‘K’ in Kmart standing for “Klassy.” On our way inside, a Salvation Army woman began to ring her bell harder and tap it against her bucket,which to be truthful, made me somewhat annoyed. If I have a dollar on me, by golly, I give it to them. Which this season amounted to 2 dollars in my holiday travels about town, but today I didn’t have cash. On our way out, I didn’t  see  her of the persistent bell, so I said “Oh good the witch is gone” (witch being meant in the context of the Wicked Witch of the West, not as a slight to Pagans).

But whoops she was huddled against the building taking a break. No doubt she heard me. Damn. Damn. Damn and damnation. Sorry about that, Woman, wherever you are.

On to Toys ‘R Us where all the unlaid 30-somethings go on their birthdays. Oh hell yes, Strawberry Shortcake dolls, buy one get the second 50% off! You know, I’m all about value. Then, in the clearance section, I found one of the Sweet Secrets dolls from their unsuccessful relaunch. Cute? Yes! Anorexic? Um yeah.

Toys ‘R Us Strawberry Shortcake Exclusive Set
Magic Braid Strawberry Shortcake
New Anorexic Sweet Secrets Doll
A 1980s Sweet Secrets Doll Before Joining Weight Watchers

Next, went to Baskin Robbins and bought myself a birthday cake, which was featured in my firstvideolog. Good times! It was fairly cool out that evening, so we left the ice cream cake in the car and went to Pizza Hut.

The next day, my best friend called and she took me out for Chinese at a beautiful restaurant as her gift to me, and we went to a consignment shop, then a thrift shop. I bought my mom a snowman (the one in a picture before my second videolog, the one that was way too long like this post is) and a snowman napkin holder for her snowman collection.

Holy me, finally the end of this post, almost 2 months after my birthday, but who cares, right?

Poetry Pot Luck: “Everyday”

Amorous Anathema
Image via Wikipedia "Ooooh a book...Perhaps filled with gems of poesy...Eh, not really.

Quiet quelled by ringing in the ears,

a cat mews,

children’s voices outside play,

Next door a mother yells her dismay.

Upstairs the man has a partner

for amorous pursuits again.

Time ticks away,

the sun sets another day.

Just like everyday.

Every single day.

December 8th Birthday Post Finished January 30th Part 1

I’ve divided this huge post into 2 parts since it is over 2000 words.


If you’ve been following my blog of late, you might recall a couple posts back a post on being depressed. As always though, I can’t bear my blog turning into a total Festival of Self-Loathing, so I took to making fun of it. Amazingly, making fun of it made it feel less terrible and less real, the kind comments I got helped too! But yeah, depressed I have been and depressed I am over something silly. I tried and am trying not to show it too much to my mother, but I’ve been in one of those “No one will ever love me, life is hopeless, I’m about to cry” moods so popular with Emo-types. Boo the freaking hoo.

On my birthday, however, something magical seemed to happen and I actually woke up feeling good. The darkness that had engulfed me lifted. The day came and it didn’t seem to matter that I was a 33 year-old nothing. Life seemed good, almost like I had never found out that Ann Coulter and I shared the same birthday, puke and bletch (OK, I’m joking about minding that she and I have the same birthday, may blessings abound for her in the hopes whatever got stuck in her craw gets coughed up soon).

Happy Birthday, Fellow Bitch!!!

The day before my dear online friend who shares the same birthday as me instant messaged me a happy birthday one day early in case he didn’t see me on our birthday. He’s one of the most thoughtful chaps, and many people don’t like him due to his strange ideas and gentle ways, but I think the world of him because he always sort of looks after me.

I went to bed in that “Oh woe is me !”attitude, but something wonderful seemed to happen the next morning. I woke up not dreading facing another year of nothingness. Instead I was happy, like my life was going just as I had always hoped it would, like I wasn’t a 33 year-old virgin with little to look forward to but pining for unrequited loves and wondering how my life might have been different. I was happy, holy heck! The last several days I had been so lonely and miserable and now I was fine, like a wind had changed direction. I was grateful. I didn’t have to pretend to be joyous. I felt as though God had tossed me a gift and said, “Here, girl. Worry about being a loser tomorrow.”

And my answer to God was as if I said, “Well…OK!” (Insert maniacal laughter here).

I opened up my netbook, and what do you know, it was a love fest for me on Facebook. My bloggy friends were sending me birthday wishes and like the Grinch my heart grew big as I realized all the folks liked me enough to wish me a happy birthday. My chat room friends and old school friends too! I even received birthday wishes in a personal message from my best friend’s aunt. I was very impressed.

Now, there’s a great advantage in having a daughter like me. I can be pleased real cheap, which is a good thing if you have a $250.00 car payment added on to all the other bills. Mom brought me a little package wrapped in cheerful, flowery wrapping paper. “Where did you get that wrapping paper?” I asked, figuring I’d get the “December Baby Special,” i.e, Christmas wrap.

“Found it in the closet.”

“Oh cool!” Vague recollection of the pattern from a while back soon emerged.

I already knew what I had by the shape of the package: The set of 3 My Little Pony Ponyville miniature horses I had admired at that bastion of aesthetically  pleasing wares, The Family Dollar. I wouldn’t have turned down electronics, antiquarian books, or jewelry, mind you, but give me something I collect and I’m as happy as a pig in shit. I guess it returns me to the good times of my wasted youth. I was a big My Little Pony lover, as probably 75% of 1980s girls were. Compared to the ones that came out in the 80s, some of these regular sized modern ones with giant heads look like they were designed by someone sniffing glue, but I love them anyway.

In lieu of diamonds, send My Little Ponies.





Poetry Pot Luck: Three Lukewarm, Albeit Symbolic, Poems

Here is a helping of poems for this week’s Poetry Potluck. Tell me what you really think, will get around to changing “freaking’ on my last Potluck offering and answering everyone too!



An Ambidextrous Life


My interests are like my hands, ambidextrous;

And I have never met anyone else ambidextrous.

I take up my pen with my left hand,

but use my scissors with the right.

I think it’s day but secretly wonder  if it might be  night.

My thoughts make rain in the sunlight,

and stars that  glimmer in a tempest.


Sometimes   I’m an old woman,

sometimes I’m a little girl.

The piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle,

the flag that won’t unfurl.

I want to belong to being me,

to not care about the difference,

it will be less lonely,

peace in my mind’s resistance.




Do you ever wonder what happens to the wishes

pinned to pennies

tossed into a fountain?


The pennies settle

on the bottom,

do the wishes

settle there too?

Maybe the wishes

float to the top,

hope rising.

Maybe the wishes

turn envy-green,

A variety of low value coins, including a (his...
Image via Wikipedia

corroding like copper coins.


If the pennies are stolen,

are the wishes

snatched away too?

Maybe the wishes for love

never come true.

Wishes to restore a life distorted

never again will be whole?

But no.

A penny is just a penny,

you reassure me.

Wishes never really go away.


Rapture Not-So-Ready


Betty was rapture ready, but Veronica got left behind.



I  have a confession to make,

as  though my very soul is at stake.

I have to admit,

and hope I  don’t  roast  on a spit,

or, hell,  just throw me into a pit,

where for eternity I will sit;

But I really must admit,

This Rapture thing.

I’m not so ready for it.


The Fundies have their bets on 2012,

the Mayans did too,

Someone says this May without delay,



as birds drop from the sky,  FLOP!

I’m not so ready for the Rapture

or those raptors falling down, eww.


Blondie sang about the Rapture,

Dante put in his two cents on hell  too,

Will the  Left Behind authors  laugh

when I know not  what to do?

Rapture,  I’m not so ready,

mercy for me  I implore you.


Will I really have to watch

as others disappear in the clouds,

knowing that in heaven I’m not allowed?


I try to be good,  God.

But I am of the world that you put me in.

I don’t want to be left behind,

but I don’t want to leave yet either.

I want to love someone and be loved ,

I want to matter somehow in the world,

and maybe be an author (eh, why not?).

Alas, I’ve done neither.

I’m not so ready for the rapture yet,

can we postpone it  a bit?

Poetry Pot Luck: The Perfectionist


Yay! Another OCD poem!


Okay, I will try not to write more  ‘kill a buzz’ poetry next time, though y’all were awesome about the last one. It even got published on, a successful author’s mental health blog. Coolest. Thing. Ever. Y’all won’t hold it against me if I break out into a stirring rendition of “Fame! I’m gonna live forever!” Shoot, I even feel as though I’ve got “Bette Davis Eyes” and that “I’m Walking on Sunshine, baby, yeah.”

I’m feeling so magnanimous today that I’m going to share one of the things that OCD does to virtually everyone who has it:  Rabid perfectionism. Cujo-trying-to-attack-style. Just when my mind thinks I’ve figured out a way to do something, that I’ve planned it out perfectly, Nervous Nelly will interject, “Nah girl, you ain’t doing that right. Try harder, loserrr.” If it ain’t Nervous Nelly in my head saying such, my mother is apt to say something that I will misconstrue as a criticism, which will turn me all ‘Sybilish’ and my mom and I end up having words. I want to be perfect and as good as everyone else, but my standards for myself are wayyyyyyyy too high. The really fun part is therapy and antidepressants just dampen it a tad. I can’t seem to stop. Irksome! But anyway, here I drop a rhyme about it for this week’s Poetry Pot Luck at . Tell me the truth if you don’t like it , in a nice way, of course!


Some people ask me why do you do such a thing?

Can it really be a comfort, or are you just not listening?

Nah, it's you. Definitely you. Or maybe me.


Are you just being difficult?

Are you just trying to make us mad?


No, I’m not. Yes, I am.

No. Yes. Maybe.

I’m not sure? I hope not.

I don’t think so…


I am difficult  and I am crazy

in my own convoluted way.

Well, you should stop, they say.


I don’t think you understand.

All people are driven forward by their minds.

I move forward but I’m three steps behind.

You go your way, but I must stay and listen to my mind.


It started around the age of six.

Staring at a piece of paper,

I knew I was in a fix.

Your name. Write your name.

No, no, it has to feel just right.

Instead I just sat there,

and the teacher marveled at how

I could be so dumb.

I didn’t know how to explain,

not to anyone.


In religion, I made the decision

to be as perfect as Jesus.

No everlasting flames for me!

But if I prayed once,

soon I’d pray again.

Oh Jesus, too much is a sin!


But you know better now, right?

You know you can’t ever be

a freaking deity?


Do I?

Yes, but maybe no.

Maybe I always knew,

but I was just a kid.


Now I’m an adult.

I only want to be as good as everyone else,

Perfect that without  completely erasing me.

So to myself I say,

Today will be the day I do nothing wrong.

I’ll please everyone, even you.

I might see the forest,

but all those trees are blocking my view.


Then tears, screams, I must begin anew.

An Anxious Girlhood: A Poem of Irrational Fears

As a little girl, I had no idea I was mentally ill. I just thought I was of below average intelligence and different. My mother even saw a patient or two at Mental Health with OCD, never thinking I was one too. I think by at least 8, I knew on some level the frightening thoughts weren’t real, but then I would think, “but what if my fears are real?” Anyway, enjoy and please let me know what you think. I know it isn’t my best effort.



At the age of 3, I look longingly at the sea.

The wet sand is quicksand ready to swallow up me.


At age 6, the devil might come up when I flush.

I learn this truth from a teenager,

and teens are like adults,

they never lie.


At age 7, everything I eat will cause me to choke to death,

and if not that,

I will die of a heart attack.


At age 8, I just know the former owners of  our car were drug dealers

who left their stash hidden inside so we’d go to jail.

The other shoe will somehow drop without fail,

and I’ll be locked up, no bail.

And I am afraid my grandparents will die,

or maybe I’m already dead?

These notions just won’t leave my head.


At age 13, I’m afraid of everyone my own age,

so as a hermit I try to fade away.

I think in unwanted blasphemies and ask myself is red the color of the devil?


At age 14, I worry that thoughts can cause action,

s and if I’m not careful I will cause people and animals  to die.

I’m afraid of men.


At age 15, I think my mom is going to die.

The man she’s dating will kill her somehow I’m sure .

Maybe he’s a rapist, a murderer, or just a bad driver.

I will be left to my grandmother and nothing I ever do will be good enough.

I will be alone.

I’m finally driven into therapy.


At age 17, I’m diagnosed with OCD.

Mom had said I’d one day grow out of worrying,

but no, my worries grew with me.


Submitted to

My Mom’s Done Gone Made Me Worried

The reason I never say where I’m from, etc. on my blog is more so that I can say what I want without offending someone rather than being afraid of people. My fear of upsetting or angering folks I’ve known in the past has kept me in hiding in my writings, though everyone here basically knows it all. So what’s got me worried is this: I wanted to diss one of my neighbors, no names used or localities, but Mom’s like what if he or a friend of his saw it? I don’t think it would be possible, but if she’s right and he saw it would upset him. Though I’m right to be sore at him I think. Now I’m confused. What if I upset a bunch of people. I put a few posts to password protected when I shared my Jane Austen post on Facebook, but I yanked it off after 24 hours due to a lack of interest for which I was almost relieved. And what if as I write the story of my life and I piss people off with that too?