Summertime and the Living is Sleazy

Everything is going along awesomely adequate. I’m avoiding the elementary school bastards who keep calling me “Cat Lady” by going to my apartment pool earlier in the day. I’m swimming everyday, and while I doubt I’m losing much weight, maybe it will tack on a week or two to my life. I’ve gone to the beach a couple of times and the impressive community pool when our pool wasn’t open. I finally got a reduced bus pass, so that I can go more places and live more life in our redneck paradise. I dread autumn, but hopefully I will get a membership at the YWCA for the winter. I cooked out for the second time in my life and didn’t burn down the joint, so  I’d say that was a win too.

On a sadder note, I lost my Dondee. His health began to go downhill around March and July 5th his heart just stopped. He didn’t even have time to hide and he had been acting as normal as his “new normal” was. He was the closest to my mother and the sweetest cat I ever knew or will ever know. He is buried next to his brother, Phillippe who I lost in May of last year. Both were around age 15.

1977373_10202658239954644_1352549077_n
Dondee is the smaller black cat The other black cat is Phillippe. The calico is Lil Mookie. Ca. 2014

 

 

I still wonder if all my neighbors and management have it out for me. They might, or they might not, but then again they might. That is my number one obsession now. My second major obsession if you don’t count fear of angering everyone, is what is happening in Washington, DC. I’m afraid the other shoe will drop faster than you can say, “McCain is a douchebag.” I imagine block granted Medicaid, cuts to disability, being homeless and unprepared for life without the dole. I’m being honest. I don’t know if I could hold down a job with my problems, or if I’ll crash and burn.

Speaking of problems and buses, waiting for the bus one day downtown, I met a man with schizophrenia. He asked me when his bus would come and proceeded to tell me he’d just got out of prison after 22 years  for killing a man and that Jesus killed people all the time. I wasn’t really scared of him, though I bet he could have been telling the truth about being locked up. Who knows. I was glad when we went our separate ways.

Hope you’re having a great summer or winter wherever you are!

Help Bearman Feed the Poor and Help the Japanese for FREE

Flag of the Red Cross
Image via Wikipedia

I think most of y’all are familiar with Bearman over at Beartoons, right? The fellow with the green hair that looks like he had it styled at Donald Trump’s salon?  Yeah him. Well, besides being a super artist of  political/pop culture cartoons and commentary, he’s socially conscious too. 

Bearman will give the first $500.00 he gives away to a Cincinnati, OH food bank .  If  he  does more than $500.00, the rest will go to the Red Cross to aid Japanese earthquake victims up to $ 1000.oo. This is his 3rd year sponsoring charities All without you donating a blood red cent or giving personal info. BEARMAN DOES THE DONATING!!! 

I will let Bearman himself explain his terms on his site. For instance, this post I am writing will make him donate $10.00.

http://beartoons.com/2011/05/01/bearman-cartoons-charity-challenge-2011/

I Come to Bury Lisa, Not to Praise Her; or My Therapist Made Me Write This to Boost My Self-Esteem

The Three Little Kittens
"Where are those damned mittens and the friggin' pie?" Image by Monkeyscrews via Flickr

 

OK, so this was my therapist’s assignment to me a few weeks ago when I was feeling particularly bad. It was written out in the original and transcribed here almost exactly as it appeared before my therapist. She likes how I write, even though I pay her my 3.00 co-pay with Medicaid for her to like it. I think she sincerely likes me, because she wasn’t going to take anymore Medicaid patients, but she recognized my name. Bless her, she’s trying her best to make me up my self-esteem. For almost my entire life I’ve believed I would never amount to shit, so she’s working on fixing it. I have got a lot of boost me upping from writing and the kind reception it receives from y’all, my dear friends.

My therapist listened to me read a bunch of my junk and she laughed a lot, which made me feel very nice. I read to her the stuff that got published on other sites and a tiny bit from my memoir. She found this amusing too when I read it to her. Hopefully you will too.
Yes, ahem, my attributes. Picture this delightful scene: My therapist’s office two weeks ago. A moderately depressed patient complaining of how her life has no meaning and she will never have someone love her back. You know, crap like that.
How original. Wonder how many others told her that today? How many others hold this sort of thing in a bubble until pop, “I’ll unburden my sorrows on my therapist.”
It isn’t always that way with me, though something does indeed pop, and my mouth starts spewing chunks of trivialities so fast it isn’t even funny. Chattering like a chipmunk. Why? Maybe because I feel comfortable with her since I knew her since I was a callow youth, or maybe because she compliments me and thinks I’m funny. Maybe, though, it also helps to know she had renumeration in some kind for listening to me talk about my trivial life and phrase things in my just ever so witty and charming way. Once I gave her a dissertation on the contrasts of regular orange Vitamin Water and orange Vitamin Water Zero, how both versions have a deliciously different taste…when I suddenly stopped and said, “Wow, talk about talking about trivial stuff!”
My therapist, however, doesn’t  object me saying what I want to say. Maybe, because I’m anxious with people in general, she believes letting me air out my lungs will help me become a brilliant conversationalist, or maybe adequate. I believe her method is that she asks me questions and I talk, so that when I talk, the things that bother me will ooze out, then we hit that around for a bit. She isn’t aggressive and I truly appreciate it. Before I came to my current therapist, another one got me for one session. This other woman tried to plunge a scalpel inside me, dig around in my innards for trauma, and take an inventory of everything wrong with me on the side. Just way too much for me to swallow, way too much.
My therapist is aware of how hypersensitive I am for one thing and that my self-esteem is pretty low. Listening to the day’s diatribe of all that I lack, she suggests that I make a list of all I have that I can build upon in my life, my attributes. Mom says I shouldn’t be modest about it, tell it like it is. It seems to me a vain thing to acknowledge anything that I do could be good enough, but whatever.

Here goes:
1.) I am fairly well read. I love books and have since I was a tiny child being read to by my mother. Fun random flashback: The Three Little Kittens was one of my favorites all the way back to age 4, and as I had difficulty hunting me down a pumpkin pie today at the store, a part of that story came to my mind. “What?! Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie.” (or it went something like that).

But back to books. I’ll read just about anything from modern day grocery store literature to the classics. I also love reading out-of-print books from the 1800s and beyond, the oldest one I got hold of was called Sermons on Several Subjects from 1747. Reading the tiny type with its bizarre “s’s” that looked like “f’s” and how convention had it that  the first word of the next page at the bottom of each preceding page made for fun reading indeed. My only guess at why they did that was in case you skipped a page when reading or cutting the pages. But I digress as always.
Yes, yes books. I love books. I even love smelling books, from newly pressed paper to very old paper, if no one is looking, I’ll stick my nose up close and get a good whiff. I wonder if I ever got pregnant would I
start munching on books like a human silverfish?
Not only do I read what I read, overall my ability to comprehend whatever it is new, old, or indifferent is better than average. Looking back to my early CAT tests, it seems I was always lucky that way.  I just want to say thanks to my mom for reading to me The Three Little Kittens, Richard Scarry, and Felix the Cat.   I also want to say thanks to that hateful teacher who taught  me to read using phonics.  Bitch, you may have hated me and thought I was stupid, but at least your crazy ass taught me to read well, thanks tons! Now if all this matters in the real world I’ll leave it up to you.
2.) I have a pretty decent vocabulary in  two different languages. Reading Spanish is pretty easy…Speaking Spanish, um no. Rico suave. I’m good at English, anyway, though I try not to drag it out to people who don’t have as good a vocabulary, which, no offense, includes almost everyone in my apartment complex. Vocabulary doesn’t necessarily mean one is bright, so much as that they are educated fools.
3.) This thing I do, the writing, I’m better than a lot of people. Not nearly as good as many, many people, but better than average. Too bad my mind is too hyper and only lets me do it in tiny increments. If I could just tidy my writing style a bit I could write something worthy of printing  (it wouldn’t hurt to actually have an idea to  write about!).
4.) I have a sense of humor which has served me somewhat well. It sort of just sort of happens, and I never know if people will find what I write funny, but it often works. I worry about one day finding I have nothing funny to write. What if I run out of anything to write?  I write as though I will be dead serious at first, then something happens and the funny comes. Go figure. Free the creativity!
The first time I remember writing a story down that made people laugh I was in second grade, and it was a wonderful feeling, just the best. I remember the gist of the story, a talking baby being interviewed by a reporter right after her was born. Comedy gold! Too bad I don’t still  have it somewhere. What’s the point of being a sort-of-hoarder if you can’t hang on to obscure childhood papers?
5.) I am almost overly mannerly, barring a few bad habits.
6.) I aim not to hurt or slight someone. In a way this is good, but lots of times it’s bad because almost everyday I’m worried that someone is cross and about to stop being my friend or that I’ve unintentionally upset somebody.
7.) I like people, but like being left to entertain myself too. I’ve been that way since I was a small child. I had a gigantic imagination that invented  stories and characters that I could imagine myself a part of and play alone for hours. I enjoyed playing with other children, mind you, but being different, this kept me from being lonely when no one would play. I like people now too, and I often get considerably lonely, but if I ever struck out on my own or  had a beloved that reciprocated in kind, I don’t think I’d want to set up housekeeping straight away. Being quirky makes one only too happy to be left to your own devices.
8.) I’m told I still have a youthful enthusiasm that most people lose. This could be good I suppose and bad too. My voice makes people think I’m “slow.” Yes, someone even told me sometime that some people think so (mind you, he was on hard drugs, but that’s beside the point).
9.) My tastes are various. Case in point: I love subtitled foreign films, but I love a stupid comedy too. The problem with being kinda well-rounded is you don’t really fit in anywhere.
10.) I’m perfectly content to be friends with people much older than me.
11.) If someone is being hurt I will come to that person’s defense, not my own defense, but Charleston wasn’t built in a day.
12.) I’m all kind and charitable and junk. I almost always give whatever is asked of me. Saintly sucker!
I reckon that’s a wrap.
P.S., If you don’t like this font please let me know. I’m trying out ScribeFire, and I heart me some comic sans MS, but if it’s hard to read I will do something else.

Red Letter Days a la Norman Rockwell

Divine providence mandates that every year my mother’s birthday falls the same week as Thanksgiving, so that is where I begin this heartwarming tale.

I think this 400 mg of Luvox, 100 mg over the maximum dose for elephants, is helping me  in my excesses. I think. I know it can’t be I’m more sensible now, shit no.  Common sense and I have never been bedfellows, so I must believe this gigantic dose is keeping me from my usual holiday rituals of spending every damn spare penny on my mother. I love buying gifts: Birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, Kwanza gifts, Rosh Hashonah gifts  – I’m down for it. But by miracle or pharmaceutical, this year I decided I’d wait until the day before my mother’s birthday to buy for my mom in the idea of seeing what my budget will allow. Way too sensible for me.  Definitely the drugs or Jesus is about to gallop through on his white steed, take your pick. I’m more inclined to believe the former because I know me and my compulsive generosity, a good thing and a bad thing. Anyhow, my newfound austerity might have worked for our good if we didn’t need a damn car battery! Yes, our car battery decided to give up the ghost. We always end up at the pawn shop twice each month, three times if you count bailing my stuff out at the beginning of the month. Part of the money I got on a loan from my netbook went to pay for the car battery, around 90 bucks, plus we now contend with a $250.00 car payment since we had to get rid of the transmission failing ghetto van in September, around the time of the great kidney debacle. Anyway, poor mouthing over for a second or two, all I could afford my mom this year for her birthday was a $5.98 chocolate fudge cake from Wal-Mart.

“Could you put a rose on it, please?” I ask.

“What color?’

My mother is with me and she picks yellow. Later she says, “I wasn’t really thinking what color would be prettiest on the cake, just that I like yellow flowers.” Well, whatever works, and it looked pretty nice. Not Prince William/ Kate Middleton cake fit for royal weddings nice, but nice all the same.

Would you like something written on it?” asks the young woman running the bakery.

Eh, what the hell. ” Um, ‘Happy Birthday, Mom,’ please.”

When we get home, we hunt down leftover candles from the ghosts of birthdays past. ” One will be fine,” says Mom.

Oh helllll no. “No, one of each color,” I, Queen of Evening and Fairness Rituals, have spoken. Yes, it seems unfair to use only one, when there are other colors too.  But sparing the feelings of birthday candles is normal. Extra added bonus: Mom didn’t even burn herself when lighting the candles on the microscopic cake. I’m sure her wish will come true now!

Look closely and you might see my mom's birthday cake.

“Is that edible?” asks Mom, picking up a little square that has “fudge” written on it, or is it just advertising that the cake is made of something akin to fudge? I take the paper-thin square from mom and pop it into my mouth. Uh oh, it is a little piece of fudge and I feel a tiny pang of guilt go down with the tiny piece of chocolate,  Oh well, she gets the piece of cake with the rose on it.

And it’s a fine cake, extremely tasty, the best non-ice cream cake I’ve about ever had and officially I lost “The World’s Worst Daughter” award….until I woke up in the middle of the night with a craving and finished the cake for her. I’m the sort of person who will give the last of anything to my mom without batting an eye….BUT. But if it’s the middle of the night and I’m alone, buh-bye chocolate, hello gluttony.

Now for Thanksgiving. The day before, the kind woman directly across from us in the next building  asks my mother if she likes sweet potato pie, and Mom, without thinking, told her the truth.

“Oh,” replied the woman. As Mama continues her gardening, it suddenly strikes her that the woman wanted to make her a sweet potato pie. Uh oh, what now? So off she goes to the woman’s apartment and knocks on the sliding glass door. “Did you say sweet potato pie or sweet potato vines? I was thinking you said sweet potato vines and it occurred to me you might have said sweet potato pie.” Elegant save, Mom. Wonder if the woman believed her?

“I thought you might have misunderstood me,” said the woman.  Faux pas averted, though I was mortified by my mom’s mishap even more than she was. We came home from my therapist and it was time to collect the pie. I went over too. The therapist wants me to try to be more sociable, so this is a great opportunity to carpe diem or whatever.

I’m certain the woman thought, There’s that weird girl, but we made a quick and polite acquaintance, Mama only managing to embarrass me once. I recently noticed the woman and her husband’s friendship with a squirrel, which filled me with apprehension for both the squirrel and Phillippe, my cat. I wasn’t concerned for my other two cats, Oscar and Dondee are both a bit too small to catch more than a lizard or tiny bird if  they’re lucky, but Phil Jr. is an ardent squirrel eater, alas. I can’t blame him, but murdering beasties is his instinct, not mine. For instance, several days ago, Babee Dondee got out into the hall, went into the laundry room, and knocked over a water bug onto it’s back. Flailing and miserable, it couldn’t right itself and Dondee left it alone. No one to see me around, I gently tap it with my shoe until it’s turned over again. I hate those things but it wasn’t in my apartment and it can’t help it’s a water bug, can it? Blame Kafka or karma, but really, it’s one of my OCD quirks and I have no desire to lose that one.

My mother mentions the squirrel, whom the couple  named Charlie, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t start talking about Phillippe’s love of squirrels and eventually  ended the conversation with an “If Phillippe ever does get him please don’t kill our cat!” Basically, she said since Charlie was an older squirrel she doubted Phil could get him and how he refuses to be a house cat (Mom didn’t mention he vengefully pisses in her bed should he not be at liberty to come and go as he pleases 24/7), giving her request at the end to not murder the kitty.

Embarrass me! But it was promised the woman wouldn’t, because she’s afraid of cats. A cat chased her when she was a child and somehow her sister fell down the stairs we later find out. She isn’t the first person I’ve known scared of cats either. Ain’t phobias grand?

Who'd be afraid of this cat? "Take me to your leader, humanoid."

 

So, we have some sweet potato pie and it isn’t so bad at all. To me, however, sweet potato pie will remain pumpkin pie’s sinewy bastard cousin…but it is extremely appreciated all the same.

The next day is Thanksgiving, and it is decided we will have a picnic at the arboretum since we can’t go to The Golden Corral for Thanksgiving, which is a buffet.With what money we have left from having to get a damn car battery for the damn car, we get Swanson’s Hungry Man Turkey and Dressing  dinners. Lucky they were buy one, get one or we’d have to split one. We also got some cranberry sauce and a salad which was basically lettuce, cheese,  and salad dressing, hee.

A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving

A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving Slightly modified

We nuke ’em and pack ’em back into their paper boxes to keep ’em warm and over the river and through the woods to the arboretum we go (incidentally my grandparents are buried in a cemetery in walking distance  behind the arboretum). The weather was cloudy with a couple drops of rain here and there, but warm and we found a  small picnic table. As we ate two couples passed by our scene of Rockwellesque domestic tranquillity. I’m sure it warmed their hearts and I’m always glad to to be a help to  humankind. Soon we were reenacting the First Thanksgiving too and our Indian came to the table to share our repast.  Our Indian was a a little orange and white cat whose tag said “Monkey.” we were glad he came to visit, just like being home. He hopped onto the bench next to me and I petted him. I had done ate all my turkey, so my mom gave him a bit, to which he turned up his feline nose.  Afterward,  we walked the arboretum and their lovely rose garden, which is always blooming no matter what time of year, and past the Japanese-themed garden, whose miniature tea house a local mystery writer used as the murder scene in one of her novels (it was a good book too).

Then off home we returned, me driving, and I didn’t even run over anyone, go figure.

 

This is my favorite song to begin the holidays:



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









Scenes from a Lifetime Movie -Just reblogging a couple comments I made

Ok, so my last post was semi-depressing, so moment of brevity before I do Part II of my most exciting, depressing memoir.

Did y’all read Vodka’s story of  the Motrin Baby? Here’s a link, really funny stuff: http://vodkaandgroundbeef.wordpress.com/2010/08/12/the-pain-of-giving-up-an-unattractive-child/

So on that blog, I wrote this in the comment section after some chap said the post was “juvenile and appalling.” Some folks ain’t got no sense of humor I guess:

Juvenile and Appalling: A Memoir of Shame, Addiction, and Healing by Vodka G. Beef
Vodka G. Beef reveals the shocking truth of the downward spiral of Motrin addiction, a drug as addictive as heroin and Red Bull combined. With a brave voice, Beef tells how a good girl with a headache is led astray into Los Angeles’ underbelly of crime, prostitution, and over-the-counter analgesic abuse. You will feel the raw emotions of dealing with an unwanted pregnancy while feeding a drug habit and her fight for survival. This leads to the most important decision of young Vodka’s life as she decides to selflessly gives up her ugly orange baby to the L.A. River, setting the stage for a baby who would grow up to be one of the most influential comedians America has ever known.
Soon to be a Lifetime Television Movie Event starring Markie Post!


So today I wrote a reply to Vodka’s very kind comment on my Family Dollar Post, but I decided to share it with y’all while giving her a promo. :


Maybe we could combine it with the Motrin Abuse story, for a powerful film. Marki Post could make it work, Sort of like the lamest tv movie ever Chasing the Dragon w. Markie as a heroin addict. Chasing the Motrin at the Family Dollar

Something happens when you’re walking home in 90 degree weather with a big bag of groceries and a 12 pack of coke balanced in your arm. A feeling of dread. A feeling of longing, like a lost soul without Mapquest. You see the man by the bus stop. He looks, nods, and waves you over.
What does he want?
“Hey baby, you look kinda tired. Got something to help you feel better. Come back to my place.”
“Ok!” you say. He looks like such a nice man, 7 feet tall and a gold tooth glittering against the sun. Besides this is a TV movie and it’s what one does. Lucky for us this story is only about drugs, tune in at 7pm for She Said OK: The Dixie Smith Story for the next Violence Against Women flick, followed by Golden Girls.
The apartment looks like an opium den for dramatic effect, people sitting against walls smoking and shooting up.
“You can sit your groceries on top of that passed out guy on the table.”
“OK!”
He leads you to the bathroom , where someone is vomiting into the toilet. He closes the door and pays the vomiter no mind once they’re inside with him. “I’m doing you a favor, baby. Giving you some of my secret stash.”
“OK!”
He opens the medicine cabinet and takes out the Motrin bottle, a small mirror, and a razor blade. He pulls a rolled dollar from his pocket. He uses the razorblade to chop up an orange pill. “Do a a line with me?”

“OOOOOOOOOOKKKKKKKKKKKK” Your voice is in slow motion as you make the defining moment of your life. Slow mo’ is great for dramatic effect. The screen fades to black as you and Mr. Nice Gold Tooth take turns snorting Motrin with the dollar bill, dramatic music playing

DISCLAIMER: No aspersions to Motrin. No, you can’t get high on it (I don’t reckon). Just a PARODY, dearest Motrin.

Comment by Lisa — August 26, 2010 @ 10:16 pm |

Phillipe the Cat and Dennis the Vizsla Dog

[tweetmeme source=”OCDbloggergirl”]

Please visit http://dennisthevizsla.wordpress.com/2010/08/01/its-the-sunday-awards-and-meem-show-frendliest-ketch-edishun/#comment-21757 . Dennis the Vizsla accepted the animal relations of his readers for a reality show. Phillipe got accepted into the competition along with a white cat so as not to discriminate against felines. Phil is the black cat peeping out near the bottom of the first picture -I think he is afraid Lindsay Lohan will  either puke on him or mistake him for a bong in a drunken stupor, so it’s better to hide out with the little dogs.

I Done Got Me Retweeted by Famous Psychologist, Peter Brown! Support a Nutter! Yippee!!!

[tweetmeme source=”OCDbloggergirl”] Look it! Look it! Look it! Show and Tell time! Shameless plug for myself! This famous psychologist from Australia retweeted me! Me of all people.  MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, hee hee! I’m the ‘shiznit’ now as Snoop Dogg would say! I know it’s crass to be bragging and junk, but you know how it is and all. Just once. Besides, if you can’t say how super mega nifty you are on your own blog, where else can you say it? It was the one on ‘How to be a Twit on Twitter ‘post!

The Most Idiotic Thing an Obsessive-Compulsive Could Ever Obsess Over; or, How to be a Twit on Twitter 101

[tweetmeme source=”OCDbloggergirl”]
 

 

It is seldom I ever check to see if anyone addressed me on Twitter, but I did a few nights ago and a full state of panic ensued. You see, I’m about as popular on Twitter as the Bubonic Plague was in Europe, so once in a while will do to see if anyone ‘atted’ @lisaexclaimed. Truthfully, I’m generally too shy to initiate a conversation myself anyway. But that night I found a couple ‘ats’ at me from a couple of days ago. Uh oh.Basically folks were mildly miffed at the automated updates this stupid site updated my account

 

 

 

 

with every 4 hours. The site is free if you agree to let them post their ” Get more followers” advertisements and add certain followers. I wanted people to follow my blog, so thought what a great idea! Um no. Besides, most of the new followers I gained were people trying to sell me something, probably not blog readers. I tweeted back to the complainers my apology and vowed I would remove myself from the site  posthaste . 

 

But it didn’t feel good enough.

So I direct messaged one my contrition.  I’d hate to upset this fellow because he does the funniest tweets, though I seldom say anything, just read.

I tried to direct message the other dude, but he unfollowed me.  :0(

Still not good enough.

So I tweet to the world:

To everyone sorry about that  followers site, it was way out of hand…retweeting like every 4 hrs their damn site. Once again pardon about 2 hours ago via web

And yet, still that awful all is not well with the world feeling. Back to tweeting:

Ok, I know this is dumb, but still really feeling awful about that site. I didn’t think about them retweeting their stupid promo evry 4 hrs

Nope….Still feel bad:

I know I’m obsessing here, but upset about that stupid site, said it would get me more followers.i wanted more readers 4 my lame ass blog about 2 hours ago via web

Ackkkkkkkkkkkkkk!

Ok, gonna stop worrying about it, I just don’t want everyone mad at me. It’s my friggin’ OCD eating my brain about 2 hours ago via web

And then…

Fuck an A. It’s still tweeting about getting more followers. Changing my password. Maybe that’ll stop it 3 minutes ago via web

And Firefox flagged the site as a phishing sight, though it could be a  false  report I guess. Joy. To be fair I read that it would update every 4 hours , but it didn’t register just how old that would get, especially since I don’t update my every move, though I totally think people would be interested in me going outside to get the mail or sitting in my living room.

Every now and then, however, I miss good fodder for the Twitter, little vignettes of what weird-ass people my mom and I are. For instance, the other day my mom came into my room holding a styrofoam cup with her hand on top of the rim. She had been walking down the hall of our apartment building. “Look what I found clinging to the wall out in the hall! I hope he hasn’t got into some poison. “

I looked and gushed my appreciation. “Awwwwwww! I love those!” Now, a normal person when asked which insect is her favorite would say butterfly, ladybug, or dragonfly…..All wonderful critters, mind you, but my favorite is the praying mantis.  Look at those big, endearing extraterrestrial eyes,  how she sways her giant legs. She’s a real character, but she just might bite off your head if she’s hungry (like Sarah Palin or a televangelist). Yum!

What?

Then my mom took the mantis outside and tried to find her a decent spot somewhere the cats wouldn’t get her. Tweeted, all that condensed would sound like ” Mom found a praying mantis, showed me in a styrofoam cup, then let it go.” Interesting stuff!

The day after my Twitter meltdown, the twitterer I direct messaged , told me “Nothing to be sorry about, my dear. You’re awesome!” He is so cool. My online friend, Sandra,  also sent me kind words of comfort, before I heard back from Direct Message Guy, which eased my nerves quite a bit. 🙂

(Mantis photo taken from bestpicuregallery.com w/o permission!)