Left Behind

This is going to be one of THOSE posts. What could you possibly mean, Lisa? You’re always so damn entertaining.

One of those posts.

Oh, one of those emo posts where you bitch and moan about the world, Lisa. Yeah, I’m out; or, at least I would be if I weren’t you.

I’m noticing something of late. I must not be a particularly fun person to be around, as no one in my circle of 1.5 friends wants to actually hang out with me. Friend 1 never feels it’s worth her time to go 5 minutes out of her way to pick me up to go somewhere with her. She must not enjoy my society much at all, and I keep wondering if it wasn’t for the fact we both feed the strays by a doctor”s office if she’d extract herself completely. She threatens to leave me with no friends occasionally when she gets exasperated.

Friend .5 only contacts me when she wants something. And she’s given to telling small lies, but it makes me a little nervous, because in my past liars have caused me problems. She even goes by a different name to her inner sanctum. I’m sure it’s because of a painful past, but I’m still wary. I know she wouldn’t intentionally hurt me, and has helped me a few times.

Friend 0 and I haven’t talked in months, but even if we did talk it would be a one-sided convo. If she really needed something, I’d help her out since we’ve known each other since we were 15. She did something to me it would be hard to forgive. I think and hope she knows I’d never do what she accused me of doing. If I had to guess who did it, my guess would be one of the people she unintentionally made enemies with during the hurricane. Someday she may contact me out of necessity or loneliness.

I just felt the need to vent. Thanks for listening.

The Time I Stood Up for Child

Looking back upon the 41 years I’ve been on this planet, I generally see it as devoid of much useful to humanity. I imagine Clarence from It’s a Wonderful Life searching hard to find something redemptive about my life and sighing in the end, “Dammit, Georgina, go ahead and jump. I got nothing.”

But not as of last Friday. Last Friday, maybe, I could say I actually did something for someone that really helped her.

I was at my therapist’s office in the waiting room. There was a woman with a child and I get the feeling she isn’t the little girl’s mother. Two women come out into the waiting area and tells the child’s guardian that they want to interview them separately.

“Oh, yes, that’s definitely a good idea,” says the guardian, leaving the little girl without a look back. Flashback: Me. Seven years-old. Knowing when adults are talking negatively about me. I know this little girl knee that she is talked about. It must feel terrible.

The little girl sat on the floor playing with Legos as the other woman of the two who came out, sat down. She didn’t introduce herself, I noticed. Do children not need common courtesy?

“I’m going to ask you some questions, the 50ish woman said.

“OK,” replied the little girl.

I began to feel a certain sense of watching this unfold on a different plain from reality. This can’t really be happening in front of me.

“Does anyone yell or call people names in your household?”

“Yes,” said the little girl.

“Does anyone hit or beat you in your house?”

“Um no.”

“Has anyone ever touched you inappropriately, like your private parts?”

“Um no.”

“Has either of your parents gone to jail or been in prison?”

“Not that I know of. ”

Then my therapist came out to get me and the spell, my stupor of pure disbelief, was broken. As I walked back to my therapist’s office, the weight of what I heard hit me. I told my therapist everything I witnessed angrily. My therapist jumped up, and asked if I’d be OK if she went and put a stop to it right now.

“Yes, please do!”

There was a bit of apprehension within me knowing that the woman doing that child’s intake would know it was me totally narcing her out. But what could I do? No child would answer those questions with an audience there. What if she was being abused in some way? What if I had been someone with PTSD listening? ‘Triggered’ has become something laughable in our society, but there are people who truly would fall apart if they were unfortunate enough to hear what I did. I had to do something. There’s been times I should have said something to someone and I have to live with that. Luckily, I trusted my therapist, and could tell her what I witnessed.

It turns out that the woman didn’t work for the therapist’s office, but my therapist is going to follow up on her. Someone above that woman is going to hear how she violated that child’s rights. I hope she doesn’t lose her job, though she deserves to.

So, yeah. Maybe I made a difference to a vulnerable child. Maybe I of all people, actually helped someone.

In other news, March 24th was my ninth blogoversary. I’m a different human being than that person who started this blog. Anyway, thanks anyone reading this.

I, being a garden variety headcase, go to my therapist every two weeks to vetch and regale her with my eternal optimism. This time was different, however, as it was my yearly review. The review, A.K.A. “Are You Less Fucked Up Than a Year Ago,” is always fun. Especially opening up about my compulsions. They’re so drawn out, so just plain bizarre, I genuinely feel embarrassed about them. And I have them for about 90% of everything I do.

So I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be top tier entertainment to show you in words and a few pics, how I eat fajitas. I’m warning you, though. She’s a tad tedious.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day and I want to celebrate, so I go for Mexican food. Mexican. Irish. It’s all the same thing, and no line at the Mexican joint. Top of the mañana to you!

First comes the required chips and salsa. Nothing too ritualized here, unless you count trying to eat all the chips before the meal comes.

Then the Carolina Blue Margarita. If you squint really hard or close your eyes, you can pretend the drink is as green as the Irish Isles. Nothing too compulsive here either, though I think this drink is massively watered down.

And then the fajitas. Look at all that delicious chaos. Sigh, I will try to tell you the whole thing along with the reasoning behind some steps.

First, gringa, take your fork and and get a bite, making sure you have a slice of steak. Eat it.

Second, pick up some vegetables from the main plate and eat them. You have to make sure you get your vegetables, after all.

Third, we’re back to the steak, but now we must address the salad. Take the slice of steak speared with your fork and spear some salad with sour cream and a tiny amount of guacamole. Avoid the beans because you have a severe aversion to beans.

Fourth, repeat all the above steps, but dipping everything in salsa.

Fifth, we add a tortilla to the mix. I prefer to break the tortilla up into bite size pieces and put it in with the fajitas. This act of barbarism will not likely be seen by anyone as I’m celebrating St. Pat alone in a booth. You repeat all of the above steps, but with bits of tortillas on your fork until you’ve eaten all of the first tortilla.