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

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

September Update — September 24, 2017

September Update

Bleeping September, but I’m still here, and as charming as ever. Today is the 5th anniversary of me moving in here. Just me, my mom’s ashes in a plastic box, and a laundry basket with what the fellows allowed me to have. The rest was either confiscated or in my storage unit. Oh how exciting it was to me that at 34 I was finally on my own. No one to threaten and lord over me anymore. When you had been through all I had in the expanse of one year being alone completely lost its sting. I missed my ex-roommate for a long time, but he and his drag queen boyfriend had become menacing monsters to me.

As of the 13th, it’s been six years since my mom died of sepsis. There’s so much I want to tell her, but  I am happy to be on my own as much as I loved her. I really want to tell her about Donald Trump, about everything that’s happened. She wouldn’t believe me.

This December, I will be turning 40. One of the things I regret most in the world, besides being an asshole, is not jumping at the opportunity to land on the dick of my former elementary school crush. At least I wouldn’t be the dreaded 40 year-old virgin then. The only other people who’ve asked for some were pervs that one couldn’t be sure wouldn’t kill me. Thus is my fate for being ugly and shy. It’s truly a shame, because I think given the opportunity, I could’ve been adventurous, and I’ll leave it at that.

My therapist gave me the news that her entire office will  be shutting down, and that they don’t even know why. I’m going to hold out for a while before I look for replacements for my therapist and shrink in the hopes that they will  find another situation. It has nearly taken 3 years for me truly to start trusting Pepper. I am not big on change and I know it will be hard to set up a rapport with someone new.

It didn’t take any act of congress this year to get my new lease signed.  This is really a funny thing because my neighbor across the street had me convinced that management was conspiring to get me. People allegedly think I have 16 cats and that either the cats or me had to go. I feed several strays in my neighborhood, so that is likely how it all started. But , I surely believed my neighbor, especially since the kids of the ‘hood kept picking on “Cat Lady.” I suppose I should have found her suspect when she postulated that someone swimming in the ocean had caused the mold stains on the pool, that it was actually salt water algae. First of all, can salt water algae live in freshwater, let alone chlorinated water? Truly rumors suck, and I must remember not to believe that dotard across the way (thanks, Kim Jong Un). My mind always conjures up scenes of being homeless or in a home. People don’t get how obsessed I am with that, and they can’t understand unless they have been through something similar.

IMG_20170824_210021

Advertisements
Summertime and the Living is Sleazy — July 28, 2017

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!

Things I’ve Done in 2011 — December 19, 2011

Things I’ve Done in 2011

1. Decide to have a self-hosted blog in addition to my regular blog. Get money!

2. Decide self-hosting ain’t worth the trouble after my mom gives up the ghost (look out for posts coming here that were written there. You may not have seen ’em.

3. Watch my mother go from having a simple cold to being cold dead in the morgue in three weeks. I don’t recommend it.

4. Come to the fabulous conclusion that I am an orphan in every way, as my family  tells me in a nice way to F off. Thanks Mom  for alienating us, but whatever. I don’t recommend not having blood relations though, I really don’t.

5. Find that my “soul brother,” the kindred spirit  that I always yearned for lived just down the hall.

6. Having my life possibly saved by being invited to live in his apartment with my three cats. If I had to give up my mom AND my cats that would have been the knot in my noose. My mother loved those cats so much that I got my reason to live in caring for them. ( Talk about needing to get a life.)

7. I got to go to Washington, DC!

8. I got buzzed on a glass of semi-sangria.

9. I tried pot, tried pot, tried, tried…I try it every time I can. It numbs the sense of being in limbo that is my constant companion… My mom wouldn’t approve, but pretty sure my dad would.

10. I had a date, a genuine adult date for the first time in my life. 

11. I didn’t know it was a date until the guy walked me to my door, reached out for a hug but planted his lips on mine. Then,  what do you know, but I felt his tongue trying to get in. I gave it a thought, thought “Ah, what the hell” and opened my mouth. I let my tongue stay where the good Lord put it, because I was shy and stunned. Still counts as my first experience in the French tongue, non? A lady never tells, but I’m a blogger, so…

I’m sorry to everyone I haven’t responded to. Life has been hectic. It’s been bad, good, and definitely different. Stay tuned!

Bluebell Books Short Story Slam: The Wheat Field — August 21, 2011

Bluebell Books Short Story Slam: The Wheat Field

I got an invite to Bluebell Books’ Short Story Slam and all I  could come up with looking at this picture  was a description of a field and a girl. I figured if worst came to worst, I’d write this description and see where it took me, then slap it with the label of “flash fiction” if I run out of air. Short story writing is not my strong suit and I fear being all melodramatic, and as my writing teacher in college said, “archetypal.”

I wrote this in one sitting, yay! It does draw some from my

Standing in a field? Melodrama Time!

grandmother’s childhood, but I use it loosely. Anyway, tell me what you think and I decided to put it on this blog because my last few posts on the other blog were all creative writing. Tell me what you think for real, OK?

At a certain point mid-field, you can’t see anything anymore, just the wheat and the sky. In this endless sameness, you begin to believe you are the only person on earth. The dilapidated house and its occupants are gone, Your overworked mother, your teasing brothers, and your crying little sister are nowhere. Your father isn’t dying anymore of consumption, he just no longer exists. 

The preacher man shouts about being raptured  most Sundays. Being left behind, the person beside you literally goes to meet his maker and you’re about to be meted out eternal judgement by Jesus Christ on a white pony.  You don’t know about the hell-fire, a fire made from a lake, or when Jesus Christ will come along and make you jump in, but you do wonder about being left. Here you are standing in the endless wheat field and you do feel as though the world’s been raptured and you’re still here. Left behind. Forgotten.  And it feels like paradise to be alone, your personal heaven.

You aren’t in heaven or left behind. You have to go back home before dark.

 Your father dies a few days later. Around 3am you wake up to a scream. It’s your mother in the room you aren’t allowed in, the sick room. You can’t remember a time when he wasn’t sick. You can’t remember a time you were allowed to be near him.

It’s odd your father used to be married before, but indeed he was, and divorced! Everyone knew, but it wasn’t to be talked about, until the first Mrs. Harnett and her two grown daughters come for a visit. 

The house and property are sold and divided between the two Mrs. Harnetts. Your family’s possessions are loaded onto the back of a truck. Before you leave for the last time, an old lady of the neighborhood takes you and your sister aside.

“Y’all girls got to be good for your Mama, you hear? If y’all don’t, she won’t be able to take care of you and’ll have to put y’all in the orphanage.” You’re 12 years-old, but you, like your 7 year-old sister, believe her because old ladies you’ve known your entire life don’t lie.

You leave the home you and your siblings were born in and the wheat field. No matter where you go or how long you live you’ll never quite have the peace you found in that field surrounded by the unencumbered sky.

A Summer at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park: Big Pimpin’ Edition — May 19, 2011

A Summer at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park: Big Pimpin’ Edition

Cover scan of volume 1 of Cardcaptor Sakura (カ...

Yesterday was an action packed adventure, so much of a one I’m inclined to share it all.

First thing’s first. I checked the internet for a symptom I’m having to see whether it’s a sign of cancer. Research inconclusive.

I tried to list some things on eBay for that much needed extra penny  towards the end of the month, but my penchant for being easily distracted and my cats getting in the way on my desk and lap, as well as the slowness of my desktop computer made productivity minimal.

Later I walked by Club Ghetto/Trailer Park’s pool, and lo, 73 degrees and a family, including a couple beating me in the pleasantly plump category, were in the water. That’s wanting to swim. Perhaps they were afraid that they wouldn’t have time between now and The Rapture to get in a good splash? I decided to take my chances and wait until it’s supposed to get into 80 and up in a few days. A woman and her small daughter walked by me on the sidewalk and I let out a slight “hello” for fear of being rude. No answer. I began wondering why she didn’t reply. My hair probably went in several directions. I didn’t look her in the eye, so perhaps she thought I was crazy or “challenged,” or, eh what the heck, both. The possibilities are endless!

Much later, after washing my ‘fro and doing violence upon it with my comb, also conceding defeat to my cats lounging on the desk and chair of my computer, I decided to go to Club Ghetto/Trailer Park Pool to catch up on my reading. This would be my first time on the deck of our hallowed pool since last year, a rite of passage from spring to summer.

Hey!” cried a voice, that distinct accent of southern gay man. I knew who he was before he introduced himself, the gentleman who helped my mother with the groceries the other day. I was inside putting frozen and refrigerated stuff away, so I had not made his acquaintance, but had heard his praises. He asked me if he knew who he was.

Yes, my mom told me how nice you were helping her the other day,” I replied. She also had said he greatly admired me for always having a book with me. Well, that’s nice, though the day of the grocery incident, I was into the adventures of Cardcaptor Sakura (I’ve discovered the joys of Japanese shoujo (for girls) manga about 18 years late). I was pleased anyway since “admired” in reference to me is a rare bird indeed.

sakura_and_tomoyo-12848

Cardcaptor Sakura

So here he was, The Gentleman, the same fellow who had the delicacy to leave the groceries by our door lest my mother confuse him for a rapist. A large man, rather stout, perhaps around 40, three necklaces including a large cross against his sunburned flesh, blondish ponytail, this was The Gentleman who had given me praise. Here he was again, waxing upon my literary prowess, quizzing me on this awful book I’m reading about Obama, one of those “Hey, it was free for a review” wonders, but far less interesting than the Girl Finds Jesus Under a Train book.

What chapter are you on?” he asked as he looked at the table of contents.

Two or three.” The book is kind of interesting, but like I said it also has the distinction of being “awful.”

Hey wait a moment, I want to talk to you about the book,” he said in a kinda gay, kinda kind sort of voice, as though he recognized me as just shy, not a retard. “What do you think so far?”

Not used to on the spot quizzes, I could only garble out about how I thought the author disliked Obama for being black, his funny Muslim name, and that he blamed Obama for everything.

Yes, you see it was a very unique time, Never before has there been an African-American president, even though his mother was white, so many people aren’t going to like him.”

Yes, true,” I replied.

At another point in the conversation, he said, “I love to read too! What kind of books do you read mostly?”

A bit of everything.” It was though I had become the most interesting person around, just a regular intellectual in her Paris salon. The alcohol on his breath, not quite tempered by his cigar, no doubt helped add to my allure.

salonShootin’ the Bull on Books Old World Style

Another man was with him who said nary a word, the opposite of Mr. Sunshine. Thin, dark, and older, with a full head of gray hair that would make Donald Trump jealous, this fellow was just there. Since he didn’t speak to me, I didn’t cast my  next “hello” before another unresponsive swine. I should have, mind, since when he’s drunk he gives stuff away, and one day I had a lovely piece of Ruby Red Glass from 1905 on our terrace from it, but I am horribly shy. One spurt of being uber friendly a day is all I’m worth. I wonder if he’s “The Cousin.”

Yes, The Cousin. As in my cousin, probably 20 times removed if at all. My father’s surname is rather uncommon, at least in these parts, so it makes me wonder. Though he grew up in a different part of Appalachia than my dearly departed papa, maybe there is a smidge of consanguinity. He certainly fits the bill of a relation on my father’s side, i.e., drunk. To be a male on that side of a family is to have alcohol running through the veins I understand –which would be great if they got a cut, but not so great for breeding.

I want you to discuss this book with me when you’re done,” said The Gentleman.

I’ll let you have it once I’m done with it,” I replied.

Oh great, I’ll even pay you for it.”

Oh no, that’s not necessary. I got it for free myself for a review.” (Note I said nothing about my blog, but if he ever does find this, perhaps it’s forgivable).

Finally, I went to a lounge to sit and read. “Oh! Don’t you want a chair?” my new friend exclaimed.

No, I prefer this kind of seat actually, thanks.”

Why don’t you sit in the sun?” I moved in deference, though the late afternoon light tried to get into my eyes. I began reading the book I brought with the “awful” Obama book –a fascinating graphic novel about none other than Ronald Reagan. Well researched, it’s a fascinating read. You begin it thinking it will be an ass-kissing homage to the former president, but then it goes into the douchey things ol’ Dutch did, including the part about how Reagan made sure the Iranian hostages weren’t released until he was elected.

Suddenly I heard, “Adios!” I figured it was someone saying bye to the people in the pool then, but no, it was The Gentleman, carrying a sort of Moses-style cane for fashion’s sake. And the winner of the Best Gay Pimp Award goes to…

As the sun went further down, I began to feel chilled. It was barely 70 with no sun shining on the pool and yet a family continued swimming as I was WTF-ing. I’d have thought they were Canadian ex-pats had they not been both dark-skinned and speaking fluent Spanish to each other. Far braver souls than I.

As I wobbled home, I spotted The Gentleman far off. Feeling shy with anyone I haven’t known some 15 years or so, I walked on until he began waving. “Hi, Lisaaaaa! I live here!”

And so the first day at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park ended and I already made a friend. It’s true I’ve been very lonely, wishing I had my blog friends here, someone who “got me.” Maybe this is in part what I wished for (though the Nervous Nelly in me says, “Personal space, too, please”).

A Summer at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park: Big Pimpin’ Edition —

A Summer at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park: Big Pimpin’ Edition

Cover scan of volume 1 of Cardcaptor Sakura (?...

Yesterday was an action packed adventure, so much of a one I’m inclined to share it all.

First thing’s first. I checked the internet for a symptom I’m having to see whether it’s a sign of cancer. Research inconclusive.

I tried to list some things on eBay for that much needed extra penny  towards the end of the month, but my penchant for being easily distracted and my cats getting in the way on my desk and lap, as well as the slowness of my desktop computer made productivity minimal.

Later I walked by Club Ghetto/Trailer Park’s pool, and lo, 73 degrees and a family, including a couple beating me in the pleasantly plump category, were in the water. That’s wanting to swim. Perhaps they were afraid that they wouldn’t have time between now and The Rapture to get in a good splash? I decided to take my chances and wait until it’s supposed to get into 80 and up in a few days. A woman and her small daughter walked by me on the sidewalk and I let out a slight “hello” for fear of being rude. No answer. I began wondering why she didn’t reply. My hair probably went in several directions. I didn’t look her in the eye, so perhaps she thought I was crazy or “challenged,” or, eh what the heck, both. The possibilities are endless!

Much later, after washing my ‘fro and doing violence upon it with my comb, also conceding defeat to my cats lounging on the desk and chair of my computer, I decided to go to Club Ghetto/Trailer Park Pool to catch up on my reading. This would be my first time on the deck of our hallowed pool since last year, a rite of passage from spring to summer.

Hey!” cried a voice, that distinct accent of southern gay man. I knew who he was before he introduced himself, the gentleman who helped my mother with the groceries the other day. I was inside putting frozen and refrigerated stuff away, so I had not made his acquaintance, but had heard his praises. He asked me if he knew who he was.

Yes, my mom told me how nice you were helping her the other day,” I replied. She also had said he greatly admired me for always having a book with me. Well, that’s nice, though the day of the grocery incident, I was into the adventures of Cardcaptor Sakura (I’ve discovered the joys of Japanese shoujo (for girls) manga about 18 years late). I was pleased anyway since “admired” in reference to me is a rare bird indeed.

sakura_and_tomoyo-12848

Cardcaptor Sakura

So here he was, The Gentleman, the same fellow who had the delicacy to leave the groceries by our door lest my mother confuse him for a rapist. A large man, rather stout, perhaps around 40, three necklaces including a large cross against his sunburned flesh, blondish ponytail, this was The Gentleman who had given me praise. Here he was again, waxing upon my literary prowess, quizzing me on this awful book I’m reading about Obama, one of those “Hey, it was free for a review” wonders, but far less interesting than the Girl Finds Jesus Under a Train book.

What chapter are you on?” he asked as he looked at the table of contents.

Two or three.” The book is kind of interesting, but like I said it also has the distinction of being “awful.”

Hey wait a moment, I want to talk to you about the book,” he said in a kinda gay, kinda kind sort of voice, as though he recognized me as just shy, not a retard. “What do you think so far?”

Not used to on the spot quizzes, I could only garble out about how I thought the author disliked Obama for being black, his funny Muslim name, and that he blamed Obama for everything.

Yes, you see it was a very unique time, Never before has there been an African-American president, even though his mother was white, so many people aren’t going to like him.”

Yes, true,” I replied.

At another point in the conversation, he said, “I love to read too! What kind of books do you read mostly?”

A bit of everything.” It was though I had become the most interesting person around, just a regular intellectual in her Paris salon. The alcohol on his breath, not quite tempered by his cigar, no doubt helped add to my allure.

salonShootin’ the Bull on Books Old World Style

Another man was with him who said nary a word, the opposite of Mr. Sunshine. Thin, dark, and older, with a full head of gray hair that would make Donald Trump jealous, this fellow was just there. Since he didn’t speak to me, I didn’t cast my  next “hello” before another unresponsive swine. I should have, mind, since when he’s drunk he gives stuff away, and one day I had a lovely piece of Ruby Red Glass from 1905 on our terrace from it, but I am horribly shy. One spurt of being uber friendly a day is all I’m worth. I wonder if he’s “The Cousin.”

Yes, The Cousin. As in my cousin, probably 20 times removed if at all. My father’s surname is rather uncommon, at least in these parts, so it makes me wonder. Though he grew up in a different part of Appalachia than my dearly departed papa, maybe there is a smidge of consanguinity. He certainly fits the bill of a relation on my father’s side, i.e., drunk. To be a male on that side of a family is to have alcohol running through the veins I understand –which would be great if they got a cut, but not so great for breeding.

I want you to discuss this book with me when you’re done,” said The Gentleman.

I’ll let you have it once I’m done with it,” I replied.

Oh great, I’ll even pay you for it.”

Oh no, that’s not necessary. I got it for free myself for a review.” (Note I said nothing about my blog, but if he ever does find this, perhaps it’s forgivable).

Finally, I went to a lounge to sit and read. “Oh! Don’t you want a chair?” my new friend exclaimed.

No, I prefer this kind of seat actually, thanks.”

Why don’t you sit in the sun?” I moved in deference, though the late afternoon light tried to get into my eyes. I began reading the book I brought with the “awful” Obama book –a fascinating graphic novel about none other than Ronald Reagan. Well researched, it’s a fascinating read. You begin it thinking it will be an ass-kissing homage to the former president, but then it goes into the douchey things ol’ Dutch did, including the part about how Reagan made sure the Iranian hostages weren’t released until he was elected.

Suddenly I heard, “Adios!” I figured it was someone saying bye to the people in the pool then, but no, it was The Gentleman, carrying a sort of Moses-style cane for fashion’s sake. And the winner of the Best Gay Pimp Award goes to…

As the sun went further down, I began to feel chilled. It was barely 70 with no sun shining on the pool and yet a family continued swimming as I was WTF-ing. I’d have thought they were Canadian ex-pats had they not been both dark-skinned and speaking fluent Spanish to each other. Far braver souls than I.

As I wobbled home, I spotted The Gentleman far off. Feeling shy with anyone I haven’t known some 15 years or so, I walked on until he began waving. “Hi, Lisaaaaa! I live here!”

And so the first day at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park ended and I already made a friend. It’s true I’ve been very lonely, wishing I had my blog friends here, someone who “got me.” Maybe this is in part what I wished for (though the Nervous Nelly in me says, “Personal space, too, please”).

Poetry Pot Luck: “Everyday” — January 31, 2011

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.

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.

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

Magpie Tales: Crazy Is As Crazy Does — October 26, 2010

Magpie Tales: Crazy Is As Crazy Does

http://magpietales.blogspot.com

It’s a perfectly good frame, thought the old woman, and I can still see my reflection through it. Gently she lifted the frame.  It’s too heavy to carry home.

Lucretia McDonald, age 79, sat by her window and watched  the goings on at the trash can in front of her house. “It’s that Smith woman  again,” she said to her cat. General Lee sat in Lucretia’s lap, a chubby white house cat with gray patches.  General Lee seemed not to care, his eyes almost shut as she stroked behind his ears. Lucretia rocked in her chair and continued to watch. “Seems like she could leave folks’  trash alone, crazy old thing….Oh look she’s giving up maybe.”

But no, Tessie Smith didn’t give up, for within 10 minutes she returned, rusted out wheelbarrow bumping down the sidewalk in front of her. Once again, the woman lifted up her  treasure, sitting it in the wheelbarrow with the carefulness one would show an infant being placed in a carriage. There. There now, it will do nicely on the wall somewhere. It only has a couple cracks and if I’m careful the glass won’t shatter.

“General Lee, will you look at that? She’s doing it again! That talking to nobody. Tsk. Back when I was a gal they locked you up in the sanitarium for such as that.” General Lee twitched his ear in his sleep in acknowledgement. “Wish I could hear what she was  a’ saying.”

“You didn’t forget our anniversary, did you, Harry? I knew you wouldn’t! You wanted me to find this, didn’t you? My present…eh, sitting by a garbage pail, but romantic none the less and no less appreciated to be sure!” And with that, Tessie and her present set off for home.

Tessie Smith looked the part of a bag lady in her faded floral dress with small tears, oddly marched tube socks, and worn out shoes. Her gray hair was a mess of tangles and split ends, which cradled a careworn face in thick glasses that slipped down her nose at frequent intervals. Bag lady, however, she was not. Her husband left a sizeable fortune when he died two years ago. Tessie just saw no reason to spend it much.

“We aren’t in as good a shape as we used to be, are we, Harry?” Tessie puffed as she opened the iron gate and pushed the wheelbarrow through it. The yard was immaculately cut, a neighborhood boy being paid handsomely to keep it so lest she be given trouble by the historic association.  The Victorian mansion, the biggest in the district. was also kept up outside. Not a chip of paint was off a shutter, but no one knew what the inside looked like since her husband died in his sleep and the ambulance came to collect his body

Tessie brought the wheelbarrow up to the porch steps.  She eased herself down on the middle step and began to pull the mirror upward as she sat until she was able to place the yard long mirror on the porch. Resting a few minutes before attempting to reach the porch herself, she finally was able to get up and take the mirror inside. When Harry was alive,  Tessie had kept her ‘collecting’ to a minimal, one spare room utilized for putting everything she collected. It had been enough in those days. But then Harry died and she tried to fill in the great chasm in her heart with things. Books, lots of them, stacked high as a man. Newspapers and magazines people had thrown out in case something important  was inside for future reference. A doll with a missing leg because you wouldn’t throw a real baby away for only having one leg.

Tessie now lived downstairs exclusively, the upstairs preserved from Tessie’s collections. She made her way through the hall to a sitting room she made into her bedroom and laid the mirror on her bed. Looking through the cracked mirror , she saw her husband behind her, but as he was many years ago. She fancied she saw herself  through the cracked mirror too as she was in the 1940s, a young wife.

She carries this image of herself in her mind and becomes her as she make the anniversary  dinner. During dinner she looked up from her steak  over at young Harry.  Sometimes she believed Harry was really there, not just the elaborate fantasy she made herself after he died. If not physically, maybe in spirit. Tessie looked over at the place setting and said, “Harry, when we went to go get my present, I think I saw the curtain move at old Lucretia McDonald’s place. You know her, remember? Talks about her cat like its  her child.? I think she’s a bit off.”


HASTYWORDS

Turning Tears & Laughter into Words

The Boeskool

Jesus, Politics, and Bathroom Humor...

Skinny and Single

Single and Over 40 and Not Suicidal About It

Robert Scoble's Augment Your Life

Helping get ready for the 2020's: when self-driving cars, AI, cryptocurrencies, digital assistants, and XR (Augmented Reality AR / VR) will disrupt us.

Blues Legend

Blues Legend Film

The Charlottesville 29

If there were just 29 restaurants in Charlottesville, what would be the ideal 29?

A Buick in the Land of Lexus

fresh hell trumps stale heaven

The Prince Blog

Idle Hands Are The Devil's Playthings.

emma reads

books + nefarious plots

Step Into The Nightmare

... because a problem shared is your problem now

lynz real cooking

lynz real life

William Chasterson

Examination of the makeup of the human ego and its predictable results.

Elliesofia

In my mind's eye ...

All Mouth, No Spoons

The life and times of a married, foul-mouthed borderline twenty-something. Like my disorder, posts will always vary!

thesixfootbonsai

A Soul Lost in the Land of the Rising Sun

promisesunshine

Just another WordPress.com site

Read at Midnight

where words light up the night

Bipolar Bandit

If you want to know more about bipolar disorder, other mental illnesses and/or mental health advocacy, you are in the right place.

Perfect Isn't Easy

Life Is A Daily Struggle For Perfection

Ted's Adventures in WiFi

Life, reality, and the pursuit of fun

The Macabre Author

Scaring the world, one story at a time.

My Daily Struggles

I am going to make my way in this blog on a metaphorical bridge of thoughts and perceptions from day to day to try to connect the known with the yet unknown. My bridge is like a single plank which will require the supplement of others.

Words and Notion

Words Whipping up Whimsical Waves of Notion

Rational Thinking Web

Live A Life You Will Remember

Blogging Astrid

A Dutch Woman Blogs in English

Knowing the Narcissist

Read and understand all about narcissists from the best source possible. A narcissist himself.

Autistic Alex

Blogging about neurodiversity, psychology and autism research.

busy mockingbird

a messy collection of art projects, crafts, and various random things...

deconstructingdoctor.com

a peek behind the curtain

SERENDIPITY

Searching for intelligent life on earth

MuslimGirl.net

Just another WordPress.com site

THE LONDON PRESS

"Information is the negotiator's greatest weapon"....get informed..

Logical Quotes

Logical and Inspirational Quotes

Ethan Michael Carter

Live More Than You Exist ®

polysyllabic profundities

Random thoughts with sporadically profound meaning

Dances With Fat

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness are Not Size Dependent

Spencer Photos

Smile. Shoot. Print!

%d bloggers like this: