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

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

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 (?...

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 (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”).

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.”


I, Pollyanna — August 4, 2010

I, Pollyanna

[tweetmeme source=”lisaexclaimed”]

Pollyanna lacks common sense, she was told this more than once. Her therapist…Yes, Pollyanna has a therapist. It’s 2010, not 1913 anymore, and now no one seems  able to play “The Glad Game” without therapists, shrinks, and  selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors….Her therapist says it isn’t so much that Pollyanna lacks common sense. “It’s just you’re a bit naïve, Pol.”

Joy! It’s been 97 years since her first book, and Pollyanna hasn’t learned anything of import. She aged gracefully, she doesn’t look her old age (she only looks in her 30s. Way to go!), but she gained a lot of weight since the days of petticoats.  She no longer lives with her Aunt Polly in a mansion in Vermont, but now lives with her resurrected Mother in a semi-run down apartment somewhere in the south……Yes, Pollyanna’s momma is alive again. It’s fiction  so she can drop dead and come back to life as often as she likes if it helps the plot, you know?  She did smell a bit from moldering in the ground for some 100+ years, but Pollyanna, in her magnanimity, loaned her some of her cheap perfume, so now she just smells of  ‘vanilla fields’ and cigarette smoke (in this new lease on life, Pollyanna’s momma set down her sewing needle and picked up a pack of Pall Mall’s, needlework being so 1902).

Pollyanna is so sunshine, lollipops, and pansies in her eternal state of naiveté, that her mother prays for strength in handling her glad ass. “Lord, ‘GIVE me strength!” Pollyanna and her mother seemed to take divergent paths during their 100+ years apart. While waiting for her ever procrastinating daughter to perform that most filial of duties -picking up a shovel and digging her dear mother up -Pollyanna’s Momma saw the world as it is. Pollyanna’s Momma knew the secrets of the world, watching life going on without her so many years. She had to warn her daughter of the Shape Shifters; it seemed as though Pollyanna knew nothing of these beings and they were everywhere!

Everywhere?

Yes, everywhere!

And her daughter seemed oblivious.

All Shape Shifters are Deceivers and range from fairly benign mischief-makers and thieves to The Evil Ones, the soul suckers of the world…..these are the ones Pollyanna’s Momma is most afraid of her silly daughter encountering. The Evil Ones can steal your entire essence so that you are dead.  Pollyanna wouldn’t have to worry about that being a forever state since she is a fictitious character and can get back up eventually, but whomever The Evil Ones encounter, fictional or no, they will take a part of you, an essence you will never get back. Pollyanna’s Momma has to warn her daughter of them all, from thieves to The Evil Ones.

But Pollyanna is aware of the Shape Shifters, the mild to The Evil Ones. She’s seen the mild ones often, but their disguises made it hard to see them at first. Pollyanna is asked favors, to let people have money, possessions. They say they will give the money, the things back, or that they need the money and can’t return it. What if you turned someone down and they really needed help? It is better to give in, just in case, Pollyanna thinks and will think that for time immemorial. What can ya do with someone like that? She believes it’s what makes her a ‘good’ person, makes God be in His Heaven and all right with the world.  Her philosophy involves being ‘glad’ to give over and maybe someone will help her one day too. Shape Shifter thieves just love her. Pollyanna’s momma didn’t raise no fool if you asked her, but secretly she thinks in the years she’s been separated from her daughter, the dust accumulated into the folds of Pollyanna’s aged brain. Is there a way to dust out a brain full of dust bunnies? Guess not, since this story isn’t ending right now with Pollyanna’s Momma pinning her flailing daughter down on the ground and trying to shove a feather duster through one ear and out the other. Shame really, but oh well.

A Visual of Pollyanna with Duster Through the Brain

Pollyanna is even aware of The Evil Ones around her. She knows that the smiles and insistent waves of some people attempt to cover up the fact that they are Evil Ones, even if it’s been years since  they last sucked the essence from someone. Perhaps they used the same smiles and waves, and then…..gulp, gulp, gulp. They used a straw and broke the law. It is better, Pollyanna thinks, to not think of someone drinking the essence out of someone with the ease of a mosquito drinking the blood out of her plump thigh. No, it just won’t do to think of soul milkshakes consumed by Shape Shifters of the worst sort.  Perhaps they changed, maybe not, but they know essence sucking is frowned upon in polite society, and if  they succumb to whatever hatred that causes someone to drink an essence like a Burger King Icee,  they will once again be put into exile. Yes, don’t think, Pollyanna, wave back….they are human Shape Shifters, after all. and every person deserves common decency, a home, and life. Don’t think how it would feel if an Evil One stuck a straw through your skin and start drinking your personal chicken soup for the soul. Everything is wonderful. You will be fine. Life is fine. Neighbors are never Evil Ones. No one is ever evil to the core.

Yes they are. You know they can be evil.

No, won’t think of it. La la la la. I’m glad, glad, glad I can forget about it.

Imagine, Pollyanna, the straw coming out of the darkness, pierces your jugular. You can’t scream, blood is everywhere, you’re drowning in it, but blood isn’t what he’s after. Your soul…

Gulp.

Gulp.

Gulp.

You’ve seen these people before. Neighbors can be the biggest hypocrites. The Evil Ones lurk among us, you see the news, hear the stories of survivors, and you’ve even known an Evil One or two in your life.

“I won’t live my life waiting an attack by an Evil One. I won’t!” And with that, Pollyanna stomped her foot.

The great point of contention between Pollyanna’s Momma and herself involved the local ‘swimming hole,’ a small pool. Since 1913, things have changed in the methods common to bathers besides the length of swimming apparel. Ponds and rivers are oft replaced with chlorinated bathing lest one get some weird bacterial infection, or become a Mutant Ninja Turtle, or some other equally dreaded malady. Pollyanna loves being in the water, makes her feel so ‘glad’ to be alive and to have found such a peaceful place….well, peaceful apart from the screams of “Marco!” “POLO!” every three seconds and parents cussing out their wayward children. It is being out there after 8 pm that puts the bee in Pollyanna’s Momma’s bonnet. No, really, her Momma wears a bonnet, Little House on the Prairie-style and everything. Pollyanna’s Momma comes to check if  her daughter met with an unfortunate end, an apparition of the Blue Bonnet Margarine Woman.

“Momma,” Pollyanna says one evening, “I’m perfectly safe being out there with other people around. I leave once everyone else does.”

“An Evil One may get you on your way back home. You can be safe doing it a hundred times with nothing ever happening to you, but one time you may not be so lucky.”

Pollyanna is troubled by this. Is her mother overreacting or is she really in danger? There are Evil Ones of  almost every sort here. It is no longer 1913. The world now is a decidedly more evil place, no place for Pollyannas or even Care Bears. It worries her that she thought herself safe at the swimming hole when she might not be. It depresses her that shapeshifters are everywhere and that she must not let down her guard.

She is so brought down. Little Miss Sunshine-Glad-Lollipops feels the sun obstructed by looming,dark clouds.

“She’s probably right isn’t she?” Pollyanna asks her therapist.

“Yes, it probably isn’t safe.”

Shape Shifters have ruined the earth.

So Pollyanna comes up with a plan. No, not to pick off Evil Ones with a shotgun or use dark arts….the author of this story may “write like Stephen King,” according to that writing styles website, but, alas and woe, she isn’t Stephen King, so this is what our heroine does instead:

“On days, the pool is open late because the matron is too busy gallivanting to lock the pool up, if I’m not back between 8:15 and 8:30, you will come out and wait for me?”

“Fine,” said Pollyanna’s Momma.

Based on a true story (kinda).

I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No Revisited; or, The Bitches and Pollyanna — July 6, 2010

I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No Revisited; or, The Bitches and Pollyanna

images

Have I told you before that I’m a bit slow on the uptake? Perhaps I’ve just implied it, but yeah,  sometimes  I’m such a retard that I surprise even myself. So today I did the most retarded of mentally challenged things, and adding insult to injury, I was 75%  sure I was being taken the whole time. In my total ‘tard fashion, I watched myself being screwed sans word of protest. The 25% percent of me, the ‘what if they are telling the truth?’ part of me, kept my mouth shut; that and being timid as hell. But instead of  this long preamble, let me tell you about my day and you’ll see.

I spent the night at my best friend’s house, she feeling as though she needed more company than her cats last night. Returning home, it puts me in a good mood to see neither  the apartment building burned to the ground nor my mother  murdered while I was gone.  My mind always conjures up the worst case scenarios and it’s a relief every time nothing happens. Later I go for my afternoon swim.  A few people  greet me and I say hello in my timid way. I’m glad that I am a visible person one would want to say hello to instead of a ghost of some dead apartment dweller, but at the exact same time I wish I couldn’t be seen.

One of my more bizarre obsessions when I was a little girl, around age 8 or 9,  I imagined I was dead and a ghost, but no one bothered to inform me of my demise. What if it’s true, I thought. What if I AM dead  and invisible and no one can hear me and God hasn’t told me I’m dead yet? I felt so anxious I wanted to say something to prove to myself I’m alive and can be heard.  Ah, but the fun thing about being obsessive-compulsive is somewhere in the jangled nuts and bolts of my brain I was sane and not delusional. I knew I wasn’t dead, but the thought of being dead and unable to be seen or heard sent me into a little panic. I didn’t want to get into trouble by saying something out loud, so I knew to shut up until we were allowed to talk. You can tell how popular a kid is in daycare if she starts believing she is invisible  and not quite real.

Funny how things change. 23 years later and now my fear is that I’m altogether too viewable and I’m being sized up by everyone. I’m living proof you can like people very much and at the same time wish they would leave you alone, because if they aren’t judging me I’m going to mull over what I say and do enough for both of us.

I am at the edge of the pool about  to jump when a couple of girls, probably about 14 or so, talk to me.  “Come on in, the water is warm,” says one.

When I pop up from that peaceful place at the bottom  I say, “It’s as warm as bath water.”  It’s warm as pee-water, I think, but refrain from saying this.  Club Ghetto-Trailer Fabulous: Only 25% percent urine content per gallon of water! Guaranteed.

“I haven’t taken a bath in 2 years, says one girl. I take showers.”

Ok great. So I start swimming my laps, doing my best to  avoid bumping into the passel of kids in the pool. About my third lap,  the girls get  friendly again.

“What’s your name?”

“Lisa,” I answer. They don’t introduce themselves back, but being shy, I don’t ask. I probably should have asked, but one can counter that by pointing out they didn’t have the manners to tell either, so there!

“How old is you?”

“32.” I don’t care, though I do feel this one-sided Inquisition is pretty rude, but that it’s ruder to show that I feel it’s rude.

“Do you live with someone?” I take this to mean, “So who takes care of you, ‘Tard?”

“I live with my mother,” I answer. Girl Scout Nelly here feels it would be unconsciable to lie, but I feel totally embarrassed now.  (Would you like my social security number and my blood type, too?)

“Why don’t your mother come out here,?”

“She doesn’t know how to swim and doesn’t care for the water.” Sigh.

“That bathing suit…..It’s phenomenal. Where did you get it?”

Ok, so  the 75% percent of me is now calling bullshit. I think I detect that subtle “We’re-fucking-with-you” lilt in their voices. Remember, I told you about this bathing suit before? Has a hole in the back like it’s trying to become a two-piece. Motley. The straps stretched so much  that I have to tie them together to keep my breasts from popping out. Looks so worn out that you’d think it was employed everyday  since Esther Williams stopped making  movies. Remember?

But 25% percent of me, Pollyanna on steroids, says that they might still think the floral pattern is pretty.

“Oh this old thing is so worn out and I need to get a new one, but I may have got it at Wal-Mart.” Groan.

“Can you swim?”

“Yes.” No, I’ve been practicing to be a manatee.

“We can’t swim. Can you teach us?”  I call bullshit again.Y’a’ll are in the deep end.

“Um….well….I guess.”

“You can teach us EVERY day.” What the fuck?

“Um ok, I guess.” Just the thing I wanted to do when I’m trying to just come out here and swim and evade being jumped on, oh the fun. Now, Lisa, said 25% Pollyanna. You should be glad people want to talk to you and that if they need help, you should help. Yeah, but they’re fucking with me and I just want to swim my fucking laps! whined 75% me.

At a bit of a loss, I try to decide what I should show the girls first. Treading water seems most important since they aren’t good n’ fat n’ buoyant like me. I show them. They don’t laugh, but I know they’re getting guffaws in their heads as  I humiliate myself. Their voices retain a saccharine, full of shit quality as they say they’re too scared  to do it in the deep end and they’re going in the shallow to practice, thank God! Now I might be able to continue my laps in peace.

Sometime during my swim, however, they stop me to say the shallow end is too shallow. I think ‘tough,’ but say, “Ok, well sorry.”

I finish my laps, exit the pool thinking “I’m free!”

I’m finishing up reading Prozac Nation when I hear, “Hey, you got any chips you can share with us?”

“No, sorry,” I reply, returning to my book. But they are persistent beggars. “I know you got some snack you could give us,” says one in an indignant tone. The other says woefully, “Please, we haven’t eaten anything in 2 days.”

Once again, bullshit alert! Now what the hell are they doing outside swimming, looking healthy? If one hasn’t ate anything in 2 days wouldn’t you be a tad too weak to want to go swimming? I can remember having bouts of  depression where I barely ate anything for a week and I doubt I felt much like swimming at all. Unless they’re looking for nutrients in the pool water (I liked the taste of pool water as a little kid, that  blissfully clean scent of chlorine), I marvel at them.

St. Pollyanna 25% begins to chastise 75% me. What if it’s true and they really are hungry? You know that family who left that note in the laundry room last year asking for food was really hungry! Besides, Bitch, if someone asks you for something and you can give it, isn’t it wrong to deny  her? Even if she doesn’t need it? Well? Would Jesus like someone who didn’t give when asked? No, Bitch, he wouldn’t, and you’re a bad person for even hesitating.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to the girls and go back to my apartment to fulfill my compulsion. Hurray! My mother is outside messing with her plants so at least I won’t have to explain  why I’m being an idiot yet. So into the fridge goes my hand.  All that’s there of a remotely snackable quality are little plastic cups of peaches and pears. So I get each of them a can of peaches, then a can of pears. All the while fuming, I grab a couple cans of orange soda. I look for plastic spoons, but seeing none I decide the girls aren’t so starved that they cant take their asses home to eat the fruit.

Back I go. Talk about your cheerful giver, but as I’ve said before I’m just a girl who can’t say no. “Oh, you don’t know how much this means to us,” spoken saccharine-sweet.

“No problem,” I mutter. As I watch them perusing their booty, there’s a taste in my mouth that sure isn’t peaches or pears.

Finally, it came time for the girls to leave with their family: A couple women carrying a large thermos and I think a small cooler, a man, and the trifecta…..a toddler  holding a bag of chips about the size of her.

I’m pissed. I knew they were full of shit, but to be so blatantly full of shit?!


Now, before I end this chronicle, started  June 26, I will tell you why I begrudged those bitches so much. It was a week before payday, and due to the whole cat/vet debacle, we had no money left and if my friend hadn’t bought us some groceries we wouldn’t have had any food left. I usually am not so hesitant to give, give, give, but I hated to give those liars my hard gotten food. I’m not a mean person, I just play one on this blog.

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

Through the windows of my soul ...

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

Fantasy, SciFi and Young adult book reviews

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 fandom.

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!

Gaurav Tiwari

The Old WordPress.com Blog!

The Voice Of The Prophetic Report By Dr. Jordan Wells

4 out of 5 dentists recommend this WordPress.com site

aislingbannon

Compassion. Learning. Peace

LindyJordan

Healthy & Financially Independent

Delight in Disorder

Faith & Mental Illness, Prayer & Psychology, God & Therapy

pruner4cause

A great WordPress.com site

neuroatypical

Just your average blogger, well, sorta

BOOK HEAVEN

Great Books, Great Reviews, Great Legendary Blog~ Thoughts to think, Dreams to weave, and Seeds to Sow

Home Tips

Home tips and many more

%d bloggers like this: