Talked to my sister and niece today.  Quite a slow learner, I was dumb-founded to discover Mom decided to ask the newly paroled 22-year old to drive her car on the trip from Illinois to Kentucky.  It wouldn’t be a big deal

IF SHE HAD A F*CKING DRIVER’S LICENSE!

Yeah, they’d just left

the Parole Office

and gotten the papers necessary to transfer out of state when Mom had one of her genius moments.  Of course, you’d think the girl who actually

SPENT TWO YEARS IN A CAGE

away from her children, living with stinky, ugly, sometimes large & horny women, would consider saying, “Grandma, I don’t think I should start breaking the law just yet, maybe it could wait till we cross state lines?”  But NO, of course not! 

I don’t think she even said, “Grandma, do you dream of seeing my face behind a dirty plastic visitor’s window again?”  Or “Grandma, do you miss having cup-a-soup from a fancy machine with me in the waiting room?” 

As I think about it again, though, Mom most certainly went right for the candy machine.  She no doubt would scarf down a Reese’s so quickly it would get caught in her esophagus because of the balloon surgery she had for weight loss and then had to give herself the fisting Heimlich in an attempt to get the swallowed whole tasty treat to go up or down.

My sister was the first one to tell me about the parole violation.  She gave no evidence of upset, just said, “Yeah, Mom thinks she should practice since she needs to get her license soon.”  Other grandmothers teach their granddaughters to make chicken soup or sew curtains, mine incites her beloved granddaughter to go for broke against the Illinois State Police.  

I said, “Oh, well I guess she waited to get out of Illinois?”  (Kentucky officials seem to be amazingly more lax about minor rule violations like tax evasion, shooting neighbor’s dogs and such. When my nephew was given a DWI in Illinois he was ordered into months of counseling.  Then he moved to Kentucky.  The woman he was directed to see there told him to “go to church” and “get a good woman.”  That was it, concise direction in a single session.  Kind of admirable, really.  A “no bullshit” therapeutic experience.)

It wasn’t until I spoke with my niece that she came out with the details: she began driving IN THE SAME CITY AS THE PAROLE OFFICE. 

 Who knows, maybe she drove right out of the parking lot?

Might as well ask the parole officer if he’s got a bottle opener you could borrow for the drive.

This is mother’s specialty, her equivalent to brain surgery, trying to GET OVER ON THE MAN.  I can just imagine the words in her head, “Nobody’s going to fucking tell me what I can do with my own goddam granddaughter!  If I want her to drive my fucking car she’ll drive my fucking car!”  Her beady little eyes narrow and her lip turns up in a sneer, highlighting the scar from when she put her face through the back door just before leaving with the police for the mental hospital 40 freaking years ago. 

Meanwhile, if they’d been stopped and a jail visit followed, it would have been the ticketing police officer’s fault, the State of Illinois’ fault, my sister’s ex-husband’s fault, and quite possibly the black man driving along side of them who clearly should have been stopped instead of some innocent looking white women.

She’s the same woman who assisted her son in hiding stolen merchandise.  He (1) stole his grandfather’s pick-up truck to (2) steal a soda machine from in front of a grocery store.  He hoisted the full machine by himself. 

In later years she peed in bottles so he could pass urine tests for over-the-road truck drivers since he was still doing drugs while driving a semi, something that clearly wasn’t in his best interest as a heart patient.

Considering the fact that he’s dead now and all that didn’t work out so well you’d think she might evaluate her attitude, but that would be like admitting she’s ever been wrong.  I can promise you that is not a possibility.

All of these jackassian nincompoops think nothing of driving without seat belts as well.  One report detailed 4 adults and 3 children in a crew cab pick-up truck (the kind with a backseat) for two hours with my drunken ex-step-father at the wheel.  The kids rode unbelted & my mother and sister screamed about (1) getting lost in the dark and (2) wrong turns and (3) dangerous maneuvers by a mad man who occasionally likes to tell a long twisted story about killing his ex-wife’s lover and (regretfully) the dude’s wife. 

I considered screaming like a banshee that I’d call the police myself if I hear any more of that kind of shit (you’d think I’m talking about the murders, but I’m back to seatbelts).  However, knowing the way children’s protective services handled everything down the line, I no longer trust them either. 

It starts to feel like I’m living in an alternate universe where people actually want to do well by children, escape spending time in a pen and avoid living with shit in their nostrils because their head’s so far up their own ass.

Don’t get me wrong, I can be a total fucking asshole!  But usually when it’s happening I REALIZE it, I can acknowledge it and call myself a moron.  I might even STILL choose to do whatever idiotic nonsense has taken root in my mind.  I mean I am biologically tied to this clan of fools, so what can really be expected?  Certainly not perfection.

* * * * *

We’re starting to think that my sister’s boyfriend, Mike, is the brains of the whole Kentucky operation.  (That would be the dude who’s still married for the fourth time, somehow can’t get the last divorce to go through and make sis #5.  Incidentally, he’s on federal probation for overdue child support in 3 states.  Plus one of the ex-wives went on welfare when he didn’t make payments and so now he must pay the state back for the cost of that PLUS interest.)

He recently sent me a dirty joke by text.  We managed to convince him that since he sent it on my daughter’s birthday I thought it was a greeting intended for the 12-year old, so handed her the phone without reading it.  Then we told him she dropped the phone, began to cry and ran away sobbing. 

He’s apologized several times since and we just don’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

Since I’m back to blogging I’m determined to post regularly.  Wish I could do it every day, but I’m a big fat loser and have permanent brain freeze when it comes to any kind of expectations.

I’m trying to quit my addiction to Mafia Wars but knowing my Cuban businesses are making money and that eventually the coffers will be full and unwilling to accept more if it’s not banked gnaws at me like a teething child at mommy’s boo-boo (or a grown man of a certain type).

So I’m going to make a list of things I could do instead of clicking that magical button that takes me to a comatose state similar to a quaalude (which I did ask my doctor for a prescription for but he refused).

1.) Bathe

2.) Clean the house.

3.) Take action toward earning money in the near future.

See?  I’m bored already.

4.) Send another text message.

5.) M*sturbate

We’re talking short-term here.  Neither of these take long at all.

6.) Wake up my daughter and make her day delightful.

7.) Send my son an e-mail that makes our lives sound like they are perky and wonderful and so much better than reality, in an effort to make him miss us desperately and realize that California is not that great if he can’t be near his adoring mother.

8.) Try and call my niece, who should be on her way to Kentucky right now in a car with my mother, the most hellish thing I can imagine!

9.) Read some blogs and comment so everyone knows I still love them dearly even though I seemingly dropped off the face of the earth.

10.) Call Roxanne & see if she’s going to laser tag tonight. 

Yeah, that’s what I’ll probably do. 

I really wasn’t meant to be unemployed. 

I need direction at all times, like an ADD-riddled child standing on the beach holding sand in one hand and a dirty cigarette butt in the other, wondering if he should eat the cigarette or throw sand in his sister’s eyes, therefore scratching her cornea and damaging her vision for the rest of her life.

* * * * *

Just so you know that I didn’t spend all my time on Mafia Wars just clicking buttons, there was an actual incident that occurred in which my assistance was helpful and I received a ‘Thank You” note regarding same yesterday.  Last week at 3 or 4 am, I forget which, I noticed someone leaving comments that sounded like “Help me,” “I can’t take this any more,” “I just can’t do this.”

Nosy bitch that I am, it was necessary to intervene mostly for my own mental health.  So I told the guy he was scaring me and asked what he meant by those apocalyptic messages.  After no response I instant messaged him and sent another request to his in-box, determined busy-body that I am. 

When he wrote back it was to ”Pamele.”  This was the first indication of his drunken state, such poor spelling.  Fortunately, since he was suicidal, I did not deride and mock him as I might have otherwise.  I did not tell him that my son won the whole school spelling bee in 6th grade & his current successes more than likely hinged on that fact.

BACK TO THE STORY AT HAND, MAINTAIN FOCUS PAMELE!

After half an hour of back and forth in the instant message box and repeated statements that he had to go because he needed to end it all, I finally looked up his profile page and called the police department located halfway across the country.  It took close to 30 minutes to explain the story, find his address & get an emergency unit to his house.  In the mean time I eventually had him on my house phone and a dispatcher on my cell phone asking if there were weapons in the house.  It was like an egomaniacal dream come true being in the middle of such chaos, a two-fisted chatterboxing life link.

He was quite soft-spoken and thanked me several times for talking to him, even though he continued saying he had to go.  I kept asking questions.  He told me I was such a kind person (clearly hallucinating at that point).  Then I heard male voices in the background.  They entered his home without even knocking, which seemed rather aggressive.   Then he REALLY had to go.  Afterwards I was instructed by a fireman who called my house that I needed to call the Emergency Room and give them any information I had. 

How do you explain at 4:30 AM that you live in NJ and you have never met this man from Illinois before, but you’re “friends on Mafia Wars“?  I felt like a certified lunatic.  Fortunately the game is so huge that the psych tech knew exactly what I was talking about.  Unfortunately she had a voice that made me think she could convince ME to commit suicide if I had to listen to her drone on for long. 

She instructed me to send copies of everything I could find regarding the things he’d written, then she gave me an invalid e-mail address to send them to.  It did not instill a feeling in me that my unskilled and off the wall crisis intervention would be followed up on properly.  Naturally I began thinking that maybe I should drive the 14 hours and give the only appropriate counsel available in North America, my own.  Because, you know, I am a fixer freak.  I’ve never truly fixed anything in my life, but in the back of my mind I KNOW that I’m PRACTICALLY the BEST at doing EVERYTHING.  That is because I am a GENIUS and all around me are IDIOTS.

Yeah, I tell myself that as I sit home contemplating whether to twiddle myself or brush my teeth.

So, anyway, Chris sent me a note yesterday saying that he was sorry he dumped his problems on me but was glad I was there.  I was tempted to write back and tell him it was the most important I’d felt all summer and could he recommend me to other suicidal peeps or would he prefer a cash remuneration? 

Instead I wrote something nice about how I would really freaking hate it if he was dead, all the while wondering if we panic at the suggestion of suicide because, hey, if we gotta stay here you do too!  Like, what if death is actually nirvana?  You just don’t freaking know!  I mean, he said he was in physical pain from an accident.  I really freaking hate pain.  I am a huge pussy, like f*ck that!  I would totally off myself if I was painfully miserable!

Yeah, not the kind of philosophizing you want to do with a dude who’s already questioning his commitment to breathing and blinking. 

I also stopped myself from saying “Call me any time you want to talk about your problems,” because I really wouldn’t like it if this was an ongoing thing and I couldn’t feel like I fixed him in 90 minutes or less.  That would just piss me off and eventually I would say something stupid like,”Stop with the f*cking depression bullshit!  I already told you, just go to sleep!” 

Pretty much the way I act as a mother when my children are unhappy.  Like, “DON’T FUCKING CRY, IT MAKES ME SAD & I HATE THAT!”

* * * * *

Growing up in constant crazy, my brain was permanently conditioned so that NOTHING makes me feel more content than contending with a crisis, as long as there’s nothing REAL I have to do, like cope with a dead body or clean up puke or see anyone completely losing their shit from injury or loss.  I don’t like illness or icky stuff or real human emotion. 

Who knew crises of a virtual nature would fit my criteria so well?  Good God, like I needed another reason to remain behind my computer screen, tucked safely within the folds of my superhero sweatshirt.

Tomorrow the pool will be closed.  My summer was spent mostly on Mafia Wars, not poolside, but I like looking out the window and seeing the attractive blue color.  The husband spent an inordinate amount of time keeping it that way.  Fortunately he likes that kind of mundane task, the sort that make my eyes roll to the back of my head.  There were people actually in the water less than 12 hours total.  Personally, I did not spend an hour, not half an hour.

Except for a week on the road I sat with my laptop and cell phone in front of a big screen.  I learned to text message this summer, sending hundreds of them.  It would not have been a really big deal if I’d had no use of my legs.  (As it would happen, my favorite story this season was that of a man who met a woman on Match.com, then found out she was in a wheelchair only when he had to carry her to the car on their dinner date.) 

I thought living in a big house with all the associated accoutrements would make me happy.  Well, if finding out interesting things about yourself brings joy then I’m a gleeful mofo.  My mid-life revelations have all been surprising.  There are so many things I previously observed other people do and judged harshly,  insisted “NO WAY.”  Then I did them.  Pretty sure I would have eventually made the same revelations in a studio apartment. 

I am like my mother in so many ways that if I was really, really consistent and true to myself I’d commit suicide.  I am also unlike my mother in so many ways that it just saves me.

In August I drove to Kentucky (again) and took stops along the way in Pennsylvania and Illinois.  My daughter stayed in Pittsburgh with her paternal aunt and hated it.  It was her very first time being away from either parent.  She told me she believes I am “like a queen” now after “living in anorexia.”  We all live these private lives & have different ways of doing things that we don’t even share with our closest relatives.  They’re as foreign as if we were born in different countries. 

A single tiny chicken cutlet served with applesauce and canned carrots might as well have been a serving of pig’s feet in my daughter’s experience.  Her aunt actually told the rest of the family, “R is ALWAYS hungry.”  R no longer wants to call her “Aunt” Bev and insists I change our will so that she is not ever left in her care again.  For crying out loud, the girl grew 6 inches in the last year and is nearly 5′8″.

I drove on to Illinois and visited with a cast of characters.  My aunt and uncle, as always, were a happy highlight of the trip, reminding me that there are close family members who have never (1) spent time in jail OR prison or (2) resembled something off a “Po’ White Trash” calendar or (3) played pornography on the television during daylight hours with young children in the vicinity.

It was interesting meeting my brother Jim’s girlfriend’s new lover, a guy that’s both living in his house and doing his chick.  It would take approximately four of the new guy to even come close to Jim’s size.  He was utterly lovely and answered every single one of my very nosy questions without batting an eye, including being quizzed about how soon they got together and at what point he moved into the house.  No one could ever take Jim’s place, not even with Julie.  I was surprised to discover that her oldest daughter still calls Jim’s cell phone every single day to hear his voice.  Of course then I had to do the same thing, not knowing previously that the account still exists.

Burt, who I found on Facebook after years of searching, went along for the ride and provided moral support.  It was the first time we’d seen each other since 1983.  (Holy f*ck.)  We could have passed on the street without recognition.  I am now blonde, but had dark hair then: 

He was pre-Marine Corps and obviously now post:

I’d describe him then as a combination soulmate/hand-picked family member/favorite person in the world.  True to form, I ran away in search of depravity & self-destruction.  He still hates me for oh so many reasons.  My regrets are huge & he has replied to that statement with “Too fucking bad.  Live with it.”  No namby-pamby bullshit with him.

Even amidst the complications of his torturously photographic memory and my maniacally selfish behavior, he was still willing to take me to Steak ‘n Shake and travel through darkened corn fields to reach my hometown.  I’m pretty lucky he didn’t strangle me in the dark and toss my body between the rows.  After all, he is now a member of the United States Martial Arts Hall of Fame.

* * * * *

It was my delight to be the person who picked up my niece from prison and took her home after nearly two years.  The end of that story has not been written, as she will be heading to Kentucky on Wednesday into the snake pit that consists of my mother, her mother (my sister) and a multitude of f*ckery.

Yep, this is the face of the prisoner.  WTF?!

When we arrived at my nephew’s house, where S would be staying until court, we were met by his beautiful 2-year old amidst the 20 or so broken down vehicles parked in the yard.  Hailee had used an electric razor to shave a 2-inch swath down the middle of her head, making a reverse mohawk.  According to my sister’s ex-husband, who also lives there, it probably happened when her mama was posing naked in front of the living room webcam.  He’d caught her entertaining someone that way a few days before our visit.

That would be my nephew’s fiancee, the girl whose parents were both on death row before her mother died in prison last year.  She’s both beautiful and crazier ‘n hell.  I’m sure that’s how she found our family, with dysfunctional sonar.

* * * * *

Kentucky was the last stop before saving R from Anorexia.  It was my sister’s birthday and the anniversary of my brother’s death two days later.  Our plan was to get matching tattoos, but the day to day details of taking care of three children ages 1, 2 and 3 made that impossible.  However, I’m still getting the freaking tattoo.   

Since this was my third trip in less than six months I was able to see a little clearer picture and experience more of the anger my sister barely contains.  She is miserable without her friends nearby, stuck in a house with either my mother or the kids at all times.  Her boyfriend is such an idiot that he’s jealous if the man next door stops by to play horseshoes, as if she would blow him on the kid’s trampoline.  (If she did it might at least take away a bit of her isolation and hatred for life in general.)

By the time I’d stayed just two nights I had both sister and mother in stereophonic sound stating that I wanted the kids to like me too much, acting as if I was being a show-off for trying to keep them happy even during things like clothing changes and bedtime.  Always a fan of the underdog, the boy is my favorite and it rubs everyone the wrong way when I make it clear I think he’s perfect in every way, when I insist he does not have ADD or anything of the sort.  However, arguing with my sister does not make it better for him when I eventually get in my car and drive nearly 1,000 miles to the east.

* * * * *

My niece has been out of prison for almost a month now and last weekend was her first time to Kentucky, her first time to see her kids.  She, too, was accused of being “too nice,” told she needed to “toughen up.”  When she took the baby to my mother’s house the toddler stepped in dog pee the moment she walked in the door.  My mother was angered by the ridiculous idea that her feet needed to be washed off thoroughly, what was the big deal?

Mom then offered S, a 22-year old, her old bras and underwear.  S gained weight during her prison stay, but she is still under 200 pounds.  My mother is over 250 & a filthy pig.  Mom advised her that her jeans were inappropriately tight.  This is the same c*nt who used to insist that I should buy my clothing in the men’s department. 

End result, my niece is no longer excited about going to Kentucky.

Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that she got drunk with her mother the last night she was there.  According to her reports she “only drank four beers” but then “threw up all over” her own shirt.  Yes, my 48-year old sister got drunk with her daughter the paroled crackhead.  Did she think it would be a bonding experience or was she just in the mood to tell her how completely she’s f*cked up both of their lives?  Either way, her motivational efforts had the opposite effect.

Although S has signed away rights to the children, assigning them directly to my sister, the idiotic familial expectation is that she will step right back in and begin taking care of them.  My sister and mother both feel so strongly about this subject that I could not speak up against it, could only stand there waiting for flies to occupy my mouth and throat.  In reality, after all the craziness, it might even be the best plan.

I did make a discovery that made it all worthwhile, the stash of photo albums hidden in my mother’s sunroom.  The scanning will take me weeks or months, but some of the pictures are priceless.  Here’s a sample:

This is at my mother’s wedding to her second husband in 1967, all six of us.

Penny (6), Scott (6), Jodi (8), Pam (7), Jimmy (3) and Shannon (3).

* * * * *

In the meantime, my son graduated with his Master’s degree and moved to San Diego.  He’s doing really well and seems happy, which is pretty much the best I could ask for.  He lives on the beach and tells me the people are “ridiculously beautiful,” then laughs.  Here’s a before and after of that, too:

* * * * *

Driving back to New Jersey late at night on the anniversary of my brother’s death, I decided to call Jim’s cell phone again.  As I listened to his voice the car lights lit up a big green exit sign that said “Pewee Valley.”  Our father’s nickname was PeeWee.  Dad died when Jim was only six years old and the sadness of that loss permeated his life.  It was the perfect wrap-up to my memorial tour, acknowledgment that Jim is with Dad and happy at last.

* * * * *

So how was your summer?

Life is unpredictable and it’s necessary to roll with the changes.

God only knows, it couldn’t have been easy for this guy!

My son is apparently moving across the country within weeks.  My daughter has hit puberty with the speed of a gazelle and sometimes the charisma of a rattlesnake.  My husband is either at work, on a lawn mower, or snoring in his recliner (some things ARE predictable).

In August my little brother died a full year ago.  I kept wondering when this reality would hit me & suddenly it did.

I turned 49 in June and believe it was the beginning of a disgustingly trite & overdone mid-life crisis. 

I hate being predictable.  

As I sit here at 3:00 a.m. with my 11-year old watching “Slither” (one of the greatest & most bizarrely insane movies I have ever seen – www.slithermovie.net) I’ll agreeably acknowledge we’re living an experimental lifestyle.  We stay up all night on computers, watching recorded movies & playing games.  We rarely see the sun, except through a window. 

If we keep staying up later we’ll eventually be on a farm schedule, like that of my grandparents.  The real issue is I can find no reason to change the situation.  Does it really matter? 

I have no idea.

* * * * *

Facebook has brought many interesting people back into my life, one of whom is Linda, my old girlfriend.  She will be visiting soon and you will absolutely love her.  Finding people I adored years ago is like discovering a piece of my heart long abandoned, left to rot like green meat or black lettuce.  WTF?  How did I lose them?

No doubt it’s because I slept with most, cheated and abandoned them before they could do it to me.  Never mind that I did not choose people as cruel as myself, but instead eviscerated those with huge hearts.  I could not handle being loved.  I ran cross country both to escape my mother AND so I wouldn’t have to face my own behavior, in the hopes that no one would beat my ass like I deserved.

The people I didn’t particularly enjoy knowing before?  I clicked off 3 of those annoying bitches just yesterday.

The first full day I actually spent as a person at 50% of age 98, I found someone I’ve looked for off and on for 25 years.  I knew him before I moved to San Francisco, childless & barely out of college.  How strange that he appears when I again have little purpose, as I slowly but surely lose my chosen role.   After half a lifetime I’m back at square one.  He is able to fill in blanks that confirm how lost I was at age 23, how determined I was to self-destruct.  His memory is exacting, mine nearly non-existent. 

Anyone who attached themselves to me might as well have strapped C-4 on their chest with duct tape.  The question today is whether that statement still holds true.

* * * * *

Rather than complete annihilation, I began numbing myself.  As a result, in some ways I feel I’ve wasted half my life.

In an effort to live my final days (you think I’m joking?) with joyful abandon, I went out with my girlfriend to a popular bar catering specifically to gay men.  (There are also straight couples & lesbians, so we don’t look like total freaks, never fear.)  I walked in and immediately knew one of the bartenders, then saw an old neighbor on the dance floor.  Kiss, kiss!  It was like I was channeling Nathan Lane and screaming, “I’m home!”

We’ve gone twice and I’m thinking of applying for a job so I never have to leave.  It’s in a hotel and there are bars out by the pool, with lounge chairs and an upstairs deck.  Perfection, indeed.  Dudes humping dudes humping chicks.  It’s a free for all and I love it.

Dancing for a good portion of the five hours we spend there (Saturdays from 10 pm-3 am), surrounded by adorable boys who are alternatively (1) dancing shirtless or (2) dancing in thong only or (3) making out like they haven’t eaten in a year and their boyfriend is holding a hidden cheeseburger under his tongue, it’s the most fun I’ve had in forever.

The first time we actually stayed and closed the place down, eating breakfast in the adjoining restaurant.  A gay bar that also serves french toast dipped in Captain Crunch?  Is this heaven? 

Leaving the place at 3:30 we were approached by a young man on a bicycle peddling some type of “powder.”  It’s impossible to describe how grateful I was to discover I looked cool enough to be a crackhead.  I mean, honest to God, I should have tipped him for the compliment!

This past Saturday night we did not go to the bar.  I also did not make it to the video store, my husband did.  The only thing more depressing than watching movies where people get fingers chopped off and bleed incessantly, then spread the blood all about their bodies, is knowing I could have been dancing & laughing & jumping in time to great music along side men with what look like cucumbers in their panties. 

They’re just so sweet!  Last week a man bowed in our direction and called the two of us “Queens.”  Personally, I appreciate being considered royalty

even if it’s because I bear some resemblance to Prince Charles.

Most people go ga-ga over two chicks together.  I must disagree vehemently.  I am a devoted & incorrigible fag hag.  Those boys want nothing at all from me and I LOVE that about them.  They are welcoming, they look me in the eye and smile.  What more could I want?  

Fortunately Roxanne let me in on the fact that I have an unfortunate habit of opening my mouth and letting my tongue hang out while I dance.  I’m working on it. 

Do you think it could be the tequila shots?

* * * *

When I haven’t been bar hopping I’ve spent approximately 18 hours a day with my laptop, first in a virtual word called Yoville, decorating my apartment and my virtual self in bright colors, playing with penguins and robots. 

Really, though, how often can you redecorate?

So I opened an account in Farmville and added crops, cows, rabbits and pigs to my menagerie.  It’s a game that perhaps uses 64 of my IQ points.

When my new/old friend invited me to play Mafia Wars it was instant addiction.  Sometimes I’m only sleeping 4 hours in every 24 hour period.  Problems with insomnia?  I have the answer.

* * * * *

Things have to change soon.  My son graduates with his master’s degree on August 8th and I’ll make the trip south. 

In the mean time, you can find me on Facebook. 

Even better, Sunday mornings around 4 AM I’m playing Mafia Wars under the influence of tequila after spending the night at the bar.  Come join me.

Summer is supposed to be down time, but it hasn’t worked out that way.  It complicates my blogging cause there’s stuff to write about but my ass is kicked before I can put it into words.  I LOVE my blog and I’m not into the idea of slamming something out just to get it on-line.  However, my electrician is starting to complain . . . (look on the blog roll under “Naked On The Roof.”)

Just in the last week we’ve been to two concerts (Raven at Great Adventure & The Jonas Brothers at The Izod Center), Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum & Ruby Foo’s restaurant in NYC, and a show called Drumline at the Mann Center then lunch at Reading Terminal Market today in Philadelphia.  Each activity was worth the effort & worthy of its’ own blog entry.

* * * * *

In the mean time, my husband met President Obama this afternoon, shook his hand and had his picture taken.  I wasn’t invited.  Probably just as well cause he had to wait behind a stage in the heat for over an hour before his 15 seconds came along.  I would have been like “HELLO!  I’M HOT!  WTF?!”

Last October he was in the unusual position of meeting President Bush, which means we will now have two outrageously incredible photos to hang on the wall.  Fortunately, he has very little hair and so there is no issue in that regard, he always looks fab.  Forget the president, my hair would have been the focus of the day, that and my chiclet tooth.  North Korea could bomb us to smithereens and I would still be commisserating the fact that my bangs separated in the middle and my chiclet looks weird with a flash.

My husband voted for Nixon in 1968, that was it, before he met me.  (Nixon brought him back from Vietnam, a super-duper reason to throw him a vote.)  His relatively objective opinion is that Bush’s handshake and demeanor were more manly (firmer) and charismatic.  But then all around him people were passing out in the heat and being taken by ambulance to the hospital.  Perhaps Obama was wilting, too. 

  * * * * * 

This morning my worst nightmare happened, people showed up at my door while I was still sound asleep.  Yes, they were invited!  I even set the time.  These are my favorite peeps, not like those OTHER peeps, the ones I might want to purposely annoy.

I am notoriously late for everything, partially due to my insane sleep patterns but mostly just because it’s a character flaw.  In addition to the usual issues my alarm clock was meeting with Secret Service and SWAT teams this morning & so he forgot to call and wake me up.  Eventually the ringing phone or the door bell or the screaming people in my driveway woke me from my dreams!

After a 2-minute shower & a lackluster attempt with the blow-dryer we were slamming down the highway.  It took 90 minutes to make it to a free show that lasted less than an hour (30 minutes less than advertised)!  By 12 p.m. we were left wondering what we could possibly do to make up for hauling three pubescent teen-type people on an extremely hot wild goose chase.  (Did I mention the air stopped working once we were 50 miles from home?)

What would you do?

We did the sensible thing & drove into downtown Philadelphia in search of fireworks.  We parked in Chinatown and then found out that such things are illegal within city limits.  So instead we went to Reading Terminal Market and bought various and sundry food items like Philly cheesesteaks and a beautiful pink sprinkled cupcake and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in an extra-special cone and cherry butter and fudge and Whoopee Pies and iced coffee and one tiny little bag of sugar-free red candies for moi.  (F*ck me!)  I will be returning to the Reading Terminal Market.

On the way home we made just one more wrong turn & then followed signs for the single fireworks store advertised along the I-95 corridor.  We found it and made a 16-year old boy bounce with glee, which was worth it all as he so adorably said, “What a great day!” and then mocked the hideous show we forced him to attend just one more time. 

We also stopped at a 7-11 to get a Monster Energy Drink (against his mother’s best judgment) for the 14-year old, hopping him up on caffeine instead of the other posed option (a Wendy’s Bacon-ator.)  Do you burn out the brain or clog the arteries of a teen-aged boy first?  Which is preferable?  The quarter-pound of fudge he’d already eaten seemed to be the deciding factor.

 * * * * *

My daughter’s recompense for being pulled from bed at such an early hour? 

After her father met the President of the United States (known as POTUS or Leader of the Free World) he went back to life as usual: side trip to Taco Bell on his way home for the #6, two chicken chalupa supremes, no tomato, hard shell taco and a Cherry Pepsi.

As mentioned in tonight’s prior post, we went to see Raven Symone in concert at Great Adventure with the “new friends” I’ve named “Control Freak and DD.”  Well, sometimes it’s so much more ridiculous than you even expect. 

The mother seemed entirely sane this evening, in comparison with her daughter.  The first thing her girl said to mine upon arrival was, “I didn’t think your house would be this big.”  The mother noticed the Christmas tree, still up in July, and didn’t blink an eye.  The woman impresses me in unusual ways.

Then I made the fatal error and got in her car to drive to Great Adventure.  It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, and when she pulled out her handicapped placard in the crowded parking lot my face broke into a grin.

We went inside.  They rode the Teacups.  The other girl begged and wheedled to do the log flume.  (We have season passes and they do not.)  Her life was going to be over if she didn’t do the log flume.  The sign at the back of the line said “120 MINUTES FROM HERE.”  My daughter and I acquiesced because I am a jackass.  I find myself regularly doing things for other people’s children in situations where I would laugh at my own.  Her mother sat comfortably on a bench talking with another woman, a stranger, while we stood in line with 500 other people waiting to spend 90 seconds in a plastic log.  The girl had the nerve to ask me several times, “Can’t we cut the line?”  I told her we would either be thrown out of the park or punched in the face and she finally shut up.

I hadn’t been in a crowd like this in a while.  It’s an art to avoid such large groups of people and I’ve become a master.  People are dirty, nasty, disgusting.  They sneeze, they cough, they sweat.  Their arms display gang tattoos.  But none of those individuals even came close to being as disgusting as the woman in front of us.  She didn’t expose her piggy side until we were about halfway through the 75 minutes.  Then she proceeded to hold her 4-year old daughter between her legs & finger her way through the braids at scalp level.  There is only ONE REASON I am aware of that causes a human woman to pick at her child’s scalp like a monkey.  When she began picking things OUT of the hair and flicking them to the floor my meltdown was in full swing.

I began testing the wind velocity and direction.  Ten feet became the minimum I could bear between my group and these disgusting menaces to society.  We had another 30 minutes to go.  As other patrons stood shoulder to shoulder, the lepers stood out.  Suddenly it didn’t matter that another child was with us, as the words “PIG” and “SCUMBAG” and “I HATE PEOPLE SO, SO MUCH” began flying out of my mouth.  It’s really not great for my daughter when I get that crazy look in my eyes.  She might believe that I can shoot people with my finger or electrocute them with my steely eyed stare, that’s how tense she gets while waiting for me to take one more step toward insanity.  The other girl LOVED it.  Really, it was the happiest I think she was all evening.  And I must say that when she’s happy she’s delightful!

We survived but not before the little buggy girl also SPIT ON THE FLOOR.  Seriously, what in the hell is the world coming to?  I was truly shocked at the level of hatred I could work up for a pre-schooler.

Finally someone showed up with a Fast Pass and cut the line.  The bug people were no longer directly in front of us.  Those folks aside, if I get any kind of disease in the next 72-hours I know where it came from.

The girls enjoyed the ride, they screamed, they got wet, they said it was worth it.  Whatever!  We headed for the concert.  The 12-year old we were with is a very unhappy child.  I didn’t notice it so much previously, but tonight she was a monster.  Nothing made her happy.  She pouted and complained for hours.  Her mother is either a saint or a monster-maker, perhaps both. 

We bought 3 VIP tags for $10 each and headed for the front of the stadium.  It was great until she wanted to use my daughter’s camera, then my phone to take photos.  When the answer was “No,” the girl ended up sitting back with her mother in the stands as my daughter and I had a blast.  At one point she said, “I want to go now.”   I told them “Go ahead!  My husband will come and get us!”  I guess they didn’t think we had any other options and suddenly the girl was trapped in her own web.  So she proceeded to sulk for the next 90 minutes. 

Fortunately the VIP tags came with bags of Starburst, which they ate while we danced.  They both have metabolic problems that are the reason for their weight gain, unrelated to Starbursts in any way, also unrelated to the french fries purchased on the way into the concert.

Did I mention that my daughter told me this girl asked her, “Why don’t you straighten your hair?”  Did I mention that?  Because nothing could piss me off more than someone trying to convince my kid to make her beautiful curls disappear.  No doubt it was out of jealousy, but I don’t care.  This lanky-haired little bitch was trying to mess with my kids head in more ways than one.

The worst was after the concert ended.  First it seemed okay, the girls rode three different rides, one rollercoaster twice.  They were laughing and running and getting red-faced with excitement as I sat talking with the other mother on a bench.  As you may remember, she recently had a TIA, which has now been upgraded to a full-blown stroke (no surprise there).  She cannot ride rides and her doctor actually has recommended she should use a scooter.  She does not because her daughter told her it would be “too embarrassing.”  I don’t know what to believe.

The aunt who died last week?  She was 91!  She was the daughter’s great-great aunt!  This is worthy of histrionics on Facebook in an effort to obtain sympathy?  It came up that she also cried about something entirely different during the funeral event, actually I believe she said, “I just sobbed.”  I was looking at her, trying to imagine her face melting, trying to imagine my discomfort if she should ever do such a thing in my presence.  I might run.

The highlight of our conversation was mind-boggling.  I asked how her daughter’s appointment with the endocrinologist went.  She told me she hated the doctor.  The reason she hated the doctor is because she “had no personality” and at one point in their time together the doctor began “squeezing her n*pples.”  As she said that statement I felt a buzz of electrical shock flood me, no different than if I tried to pet a horse across an electrified fence.  I remember thinking, “Oh my.”  I said, “What?” with a dumbfounded spacy sounding voice.

She said, “Oh, she was trying to see if she was lactating!  She was trying to see if she could express milk, to find out if they were making milk!  Endocrine problems can typically make such things happen!  But she just began twisting her n*pples with no warning!  I was like, ‘Don’t you think you could have told her in advance you were going to do that?’”  She doesn’t plan on returning to that doctor again.  It was at that point she mentioned for the 7th or 8th time that her feet were now “covered in blisters.”  We had barely walked the length of the park.

But that’s not the bad part.  The bad part was that at 10:00 at night this girl became insistent that we go to THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY, three words she repeated a minimum of 27 times as her mother nearly drove off the road in frustration while yelling at her daughter to stop saying “THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY!”  This is after I had heard about her desire for MEXICAN FOOD over and over throughout the evening, across the park, in every venue we visited.

When the Mexican food was mentioned at 10:00 at night I said, “I suppose Taco Bell is not your idea of Mexican food?”  She went on a tirade regarding fast food restaurants.  She, this 12-year old girl, said, “I just want to sit down at a table AND HAVE A NICE MEAL!  I HAVEN’T EATEN ALL DAY!”  It was as if she were channeling a 60-year old woman.  The girl would not stop.

This is where I don’t understand my own behavior.  I should have just said, “Take us home.”  But there is a part of me who never wants to disappoint.  I want people to be happy.  This girl had been happy for maybe 30 minutes of the 6 hours we’d been together.  We finally found a Ruby Tuesdays open until 11 p.m.  She was not satisfied with TGIF, absolutely threw a shit fit, she would not eat there.  She would not consider Sonic, which both she and her mother thought would somehow damage their car!  I mean I’m making suggestions and the girl is acting like I’m an assistant to the devil.  She’s acting as if her palate and taste buds are worthy off an exquisite French vineyard.

So we go into the restaurant and her mother refuses to purchase her first choice, A SIRLOIN at 10:00 on a Thursday night.  So what do you think she orders?  What does her mother proceed to tell me she orders everywhere they go?  You guessed it.  MOTHERF*CKING CHICKEN FINGERS. 

For the 437th time in 6 hours the girl spoke to me and I said, “WHAT?”  She is a mutterer.  She talks fast AND she mutters with braces on.  I can’t understand a word she says.  The other mother asked MY daughter if she was ”in a bad mood.”  I think I may have heard her swallow the words, “No, your daughter is just an obnoxious idiot and my mom won’t let me speak!”

At that point I began texting my husband, “Please come pick us up.”  I had a horrible fear that when they drove us home they would somehow come into our house and never leave.  They would sleep over and the girl would ask me to cook up some quail eggs and escargot for breakfast.  She would cut my daughter’s hair off in her sleep, then suggest she’d done her a favor. 

My husband tried to call but I wouldn’t answer the phone as it would blow my covert operation.  He texted, “Call me.”  I text, “NO!  PLEASE!  I’M BEGGING!”

So my husband, who paid for this magical trip to Great Adventure, took off his slippers and pajama pants.  He threw on a pair of sweats and made his way to the car.  He did not complain, he did not get angry.

As we sat at the table the waiter asked ”Is that your car out there with the lights on?”  We both said, “No.”  Meanwhile, I was thinking “Superman has arrived & I’m f*cking Lois Lane.”  I didn’t tell her until we were out the door, “Oh, that’s my husband over there!  This will be so much more convenient for you.”  She couldn’t believe I would do such a thing.

I left actually feeling bad for the woman.  We’re supposed to see them again in 76 hours.  I’m flabbergasted by that fact.  Clearly, part of me feels good when I’m in a situation where I appear all together in comparison.  There’s gotta be a better way.

Once again I would like to thank my mother for pummeling my self-esteem into something that resembles a kernel of corn, a dull jelly bean that’s spent some time on the floor.

My daughter is perfectly happy sitting in her room 12 hours a day on the computer (she sleeps the other 12, mostly during daylight hours.)  She is a content little carbon copy of moi.  I’m not saying that’s a good thing, believe me, but it works.

She’s become such a book reader that she hit me and called me a bitch when I took her book off her bed last weekend when she wouldn’t get up.  I was quite impressed with her ethusiasm and commitment, considering the girl wouldn’t read a single page a year ago without sighing and twirling her hair and rolling her eyes.  My relief is palpable.  It just would not do for me to have a child who didn’t love books, completely unacceptable.  I don’t care that she’s reading the “Clique” series and the “It Girl” collection instead of “Little House on the Prairie” or Nancy Drew. 

A book store salesgirl attempted to steer us in a direction of something where “these girls really care about ISSUES and not just SHOES and PURSES.”  Rachel rolled her eyes and I dropped the book by the wayside somewhere in the non-fiction area.  I couldn’t care less if she was reading Enquirer magazine as long as there are words on the page.  I mean, she’s an emotional wreck over whether one of the characters is going to be suspended from school, ready to burst into tears.  YES! 

Yesterday I did convince her to leave the house for a Disney beach party and a hip-hop class.  It started at 8 p.m.  How perfect for our schedules.  Who ever decided that the early ours of 6, 7, 8 a.m. are when the day should begin . . . well, I don’t like those people.  We sit up and laugh at 2 and 3 a.m. and that doesn’t happen when pulled from bed at an early hour, doing fine imitations of fire breathing dragons.  Would I like to see a sunrise on the beach this summer?  Yes.  I plan to make it happen by staying up all night.

So our new “friends,” the control freak and her daughter, are coming to our house today for the first time.  Purposely, I have not cleaned it.  There are dishes in the sink.  However, the yard looks great!  They are obsessive-compulsive about cleaning and organizing. 

I am doing my best to disgust them in the hope that phone calls will cease.  (The ringing of the phone is like an air raid siren for me.  I just hate it.  Recently I left a message on my phone not to leave voice mails, either, because I don’t listen to them.  I had such fun creating this crazy recording about how you might want to send me a text or an e-mail instead.) 

We will be headed off to Great Adventure to see Raven Symone in concert.  They want to stand in line for an hour and a half before hand to get great seats.  I want to walk in at the end and take the left overs.  We’re leaving the house and I guess that’s a good thing, so I have to remember that fact.  Even though Big Brother starts tonight and I am an obsessed fan extraordinaire.  DVR has improved my life beyond belief.

Monday is the wax museum in NYC.  This chick canceled an MRI so she could go on a day we were free.  I’m not happy about that.  It seems utterly ridiculous.  On top of that, NYC can be difficult with the best of people.  We shall see how it goes.  We’re taking the train in.  No doubt, I’ll have a story for you.

37 minutes to go and I haven’t showered yet.  Yes, this is how I roll.

Today I was home all day.  The Jackson funeral was on.  I couldn’t help myself.  Similar to the OJ trials, it was a “thing.”  I hate to miss out.

I watched it on Fox.  Does that matter?  Geraldo was quite riled up from the beginning and it was interesting cause it didn’t sound like he believed the reports of Michael Jackson’s various and sundry misdeeds.  Believe it or not, I kind of like Geraldo.  He’s got a short fuse and seems relatively honest, as least as far as reporters go.

It started and I was IM’ing with an old boyfriend I found on Facebook and haven’t seen in 25 years (DANGEROUS & BIZARRELY WEIRD EMOTIONAL TERRITORY).  So as it began I started watching without realizing what I was doing.

Mariah Carey came out and blew me away.  No matter how unusual she is, the girl can sing.  The song was “I’ll Be There.”  She’s just spectacular in every way.

When I saw Brooke Shields I thought she looked good in a very natural blotchy sobbing kind of way.  In recent years I’ve kind of come to think of her as a tight-ass and this made me expect very little from her time at the lectern.  Well, she kicked my ass.  She spoke sincerely and clearly and from the heart. 

It was then that I noticed tears streaming down my face and immediately thought, “Motherf*cker, now I have to admit this on the blog!”  It’s really not a surprise that death and sadness and the people left behind in abject misery are heartbreaking to watch.  We can all identify with that shit.

John Mayer came on and played what I think was a bass guitar.  Absolutely beautiful.  Magical.  I don’t think he spoke at all.  Magic Johnson told a story about eating KFC with Michael Jackson that was so, so funny.

Usher had a hard time making it through his song.  Smokey Robinson made me laugh.  He was great. 

Stevie Wonder, well, he’s like a god.  Same with Lionel Richie, who has one of my favorite voices on the planet.

The brothers all had sequined gloves on, which was kind of over the top.  Al Sharpton looks like he’s had weight loss surgery.  He’s lost at least 100 pounds and looks pretty bad. 

Queen Latifah started to choke back tears and even that was touching.

But when the little girl spoke of her father at the end, my heart broke for her.  The tears began all over again.

More than anything it was clear that everyone there really loved MJ and had nothing bad to say about him.  The commentator at the end actually mentioned something about how maybe we should take it easy on people who seem a little different and not judge them so harshly.  I couldn’t disagree.

* * * * * 

So I’m glad I watched it.  I don’t take back anything I said before, cause that would be renouncing my schizophrenia and it’s not going anywhere.  Michael Jackson did not define my life or my generation, but he was too young to die.  I’m not sure any age is acceptable, but especially not when young children are involved.

I still hate the news people who make millions off of saturating our lives with the story.

My husband’s statement when I told him about the tears was to be expected:

 “When does your period start?”

He knows me too well.

My TV tells me BEYONCE is partnering with HAMBURGER HELPER

to solve hunger in America.

Life just gets better & better as people keep doing stupid shit.

* * * * *

We attempted to make new friends recently.  I belong to a few Yahoo groups for homeschoolers and a woman with a 12-year old put out several messages that she was looking for friends for her daughter, who at varying times was either (1) shy or (2) outgoing or (3) lonely or (4) wonderful beyond belief.  I should have known better, oh it was so clear right from the get go. 

Finally we met, against my daughter’s best judgment.  She’s got plenty of friends and doesn’t care to run humanitarian aid missions at her own expense.  However, I always think there’s something wonderful out there waiting for me, just around the bend.  To make it less painful for Rachel, we went to the Cheesecake Factory.  Her arm can always be bent if enough sugary goodness is heaped upon her.

First of all, the woman had posted pictures of her daughter with various famous people, one of whom I mistakenly thought was who I would be meeting.  I was a little intimidated cause the woman was really, really petite and attractive.  (This mother has connections from working PR in NYC.  The photographed chick was actually a woman who plays in a televised soap opera.)  So instead of a beautifully tiny woman I meet a large chick I would have assumed was a transvestite if her daughter wasn’t calling her “Mommy” every few minutes. 

To be fair, the lady has all kinds of health problems and has recently been taken by ambulance to the hospital no less than 3 times in the last 6 weeks.  This may be why her eyesight misses the make-up line which makes it appear she attaches her head to her body every morning with snap-on tools.

Also, her hair.  I mean there are issues.  But it’s not all her fault, I mean I hate my hair, too.  Yet I find it amazing that she would post on Facebook that she’d used a new hair dye which caused her to be “Staying in bed with my head oozing and bleeding” after an allergic reaction.  My gag reflex was activated by that statement and we didn’t see them for a while.

Juxtapose this information with the fact that she supposedly used to be Jon Bon Jovi’s assistant and was engaged to a dude in a famous band that included Brett Michaels, whom she took to the hospital on more than one occasion because he let his diabetes get out of wack. 

So how could I help myself?  We met a couple more times because, in all honesty, the woman is fascinating.  She tells me every detail, which is really what I love.  Our girls worked out at a gym together while we sat in the waiting area.  During conversation she revealed more than I have ever known about a single human being in my life.  It was ALL interesting in a freakish carnival kind of way.  (Yes, I realize I am a cruel bitch.  I’ve accepted it and moved on.)

(I mean, I am in no way saying that I am normal or beautiful or sane.  When we went to the mall together I talked my daughter into having her eyebrows shaped in the middle of the mall by an Indian woman with a string.  As she cried and turned red I got in her face and said, “COME ON!  YOU CAN DO THIS!  YOUR FATHER SERVED IN VIET NAM, FER HEAVEN’S SAKES!”)

This woman’s husband had a work accident and has been in chronic pain for 10 years.  His depression was getting on her nerves, so she checked him into a psychiatric clinic, where they gave him an overdose of electric shock treatments (10 in 20 days).  He now has no memory and shakes with a kind of palsy.  While we were waiting for the girls, he called.  This is what I hear from her end of the conversation with this man who caters to her every whim and cleans up her puke and dog shit:

“You fell?  Do you think it’s broken?  Can you walk on it?  Do you think you need to go to the hospital?  Do you think you could drive yourself?  You’re bleeding?  DON’T TELL ME LATER THAT YOU WANT TO GO TO THE ER WHEN I NEED TO GET MY SLEEP!  Okay, just go lie down.  I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”  (She did not choose to go home and check on him, did not call for an update, and then forgot to get him a take-out meal at dinner.  As soon as we did finally arrive, he came out of the garage to show her his bloody hand.)

Her daughter is 12 and growing out of her DD bras.  She is also growing hair on her back.  They’re going for some type of adrenal work-up to see if she might have congenital issues passed down from Mom.  Although she refuses to meet up in groups with other children, so she might make from friends, she was willing to dress up in a hoochie outfit at Hot Topic and stand in the doorway waving at boys.  She was able to stand up in the middle of a restaurant and walk up to the manager, saying “We’ve been here 30 minutes and don’t have our appetizers yet!”

She’s a relatively attractive little girl who makes me laugh because she is so incredibly inappropriate in ways that tickle me.  Like when we went out to eat at this really cool restaurant where people cook the food at the table for you and others sit really close.  She had just learned the word c*cks*cker and kept repeating, louder and louder each time.  She got a spot on her shirt and mom tried to clean it up at the table, proceeding to put a hole in her shirt right over the girl’s n*pple area.  I mean, you can’t make this sh*t up.  They were cackling with laughter and people were staring at us, I’m sure trying to decide why this transvestite was traveling with a 12-year old.

Mom was admitted to the hospital after her sister upset her on Mother’s Day by saying, over and over, “YOU’RE THE BIGGEST MOTHERFUCKER I’VE EVER KNOWN!”  It was so upsetting to my new friend that she passed out on the floor.  Her sister stepped over her to obtain some items she’d left behind in the kitchen, then went home.  My new friend somehow drove 30 minutes home, lay in bed “vomiting profusely everywhere!  Charlie had to clean it up, cause I don’t touch that stuff!”  Then they called an ambulance.

They have 3 tiny dogs they dote over, but neither female cleans up dog poop, only Daddy.  She convinced her mother-in-law to buy her a $3,500 new washer/dryer combo by guilting her over the recent hospitalization.  They just bought a new JAGUAR and the daughter posted pics on Facebook.

Here’s the glitch!  We were going to go to a mall with them today, then NYC to the wax museum on Monday.  I thought it would be a kick.  But then she increased her stalking behavior.  The woman and her daughter call us over and over and over again.  We do not answer.  It seems to entice them to call more.  Then they read our info on Facebook, see that we’re doing other things, and leave crazy messages like “RACHEL, I HAVE TRIED CALLING YOUR MOM BUT GET NO ANSWER!  PLEASE HAVE HER CALL ME!”

I have oppositional defiance disorder, undiagnosed other than by my extremely intelligent friend Roxanne.  It has answered many questions for me about my own behavior.  If you push me to a wall, I will spit on you.  I will climb between your legs to get away, breaking your kneecaps with a hammer in the process.  I do NOT like being told what I have to do.  Five days before the trip to NYC was going to happen she began leaving me messages about how we HAD to order specific tickets ON-LINE, how we HAD to talk about what train we would take from what station.

People, I do not plan ahead.  When I plan ahead I have a quirk in my head that immediately goes, “Oops, changed my mind.  Fuck that.  What was I thinking?  I don’t want to!”  I must trick myself into doing things by not thinking about them before I jump up from my recliner and run to the car, revving the engine and flying down the driveway!  I cannot have a transvestite mom calling me, writing me, messaging me, bossing me around.  I cannot have her crazy freaking daughter — who twice now has gotten us to her home under the pretense of going to see a movie, then upon arrival said, “I don’t really want to see a movie!” in a whiny voice — who has extremely bad chunky highlights — running my life.  I don’t CARE that the girl has met both the Jonas Brothers AND the Cheetah Girls.  She’s not the boss of me!

So do I (A) Leave them hanging and just disappear or (B) Tell them someone died or (C) Mention my exposure to Swine Flu and express concern that their lives will be jeopardized if in my presence?

Cause, you know, doing things in a mature and civilized manner is kind of out of my realm of possible behavior.

I apologize profusely to those fellow bloggers who are grieving over recent deaths in the news.  You may wish to move on to a happier, less evil blog than this one today . . .

(Let me know if I say anything that offends you.  I might want to offend you again later.)

If only I wasn’t a balless wonder and that was really my attitude!

* * * * *

Was Michael Jackson’s life a sad one?  Yes, desperately tragic.  He was a psychotic egomaniac who apologized to carrots before he ate them, then (allegedly) had little boys for dessert.  

He had 50 long years to deal with whatever made him hate himself so intensely that he chose to disfigure his own face and skin.  FIFTY YEARS!  That’s way more than a lot of people get, children with cancer or soldiers on the front line in Viet Nam or Iraq.

The man died with almost 500 million dollars worth of debt, which is utterly sickening, selfish, hideous.  Self-hatred aside, he lived as if he were God, clearly believing he deserved everything created under the sun.  He even believed he could buy people, as evidenced by his adventures in that arena.  He bought his own children.

His voice, his dancing ability, those were GIFTS.  He was not thankful. 

Did he join in with Jimmy Carter & build housing for the homeless?  No, he built Neverland and took rides on ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds with an ape.  Fer Christ’s sake, are ya f*cking kidding me here people?  He no doubt treated his monkey so much better than the abused children of the world.

How is it we as a society have come to adore these morons who drive half-million dollar cars and wear shoes that cost more than a year’s salary in a third-world country?  Even as they scream their Democratic beliefs from the rooftops and insist they are humanitarians!  It’s such bullsh*t!

* * * * *

How many women would choose to have ass cancer if their entire lives they could look like Farrah Fawcett?  A helluva lot of them, I would bet.  I understand wanting to offer a bit of humanity to any other living being, but this woman had a freaking exceptional life.  Heap your pity on the cleaning lady or the garbage man.  Throw out an extra $20 in tips this week.

* * * * *

Do I give a rat flying f*ck about a TV pitch man I never heard of, who made his fortune selling shit in infomercials on television, compared with children making trips to Disney through the Make-A-Wish Foundation, their parents dazed & confused as they try to figure out how to have FUN?! 

Or the children whose fathers will never come back from Iraq?

F*CK NO!

* * * * *

I have become obsessed with Facebook and so I read many, many comments a day, a good deal of them made by people I don’t know, simpletons I would never want to know.  People who say things like “My childhood ended this week.” 

Well, my childhood ended when my father died.  He was 33.  I was 10 years old and in 5th grade.  What I would have given for another 17 years with him!  Neither Farrah Fawcett nor Ed McMahon nor Michael Jackson had even an ounce of impact upon my life then or now.

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Years ago I wanted to get my master’s degree and become a therapist.  Then on reality TV the other day I observed a woman completely lose it, sobbing in agony, the kind of pain I feel regarding my father.  I wanted to peel my skin off with a dull carrot peeler rather than observe the expression of that kind of agony. 

It was a bonus moment.  I realized I saved about $60,000 since I would never have been able to use the therapist’s license if people dared express that kind of agony in front of me.

And that is why I can’t bear people expressing supposed grief over famous figures who don’t really touch their lives in any way compared to loved ones who die and rip your heart out.  It so totally denigrates the kind of pain a daughter has when she loses her father at the age of 10, the kind of pain everyone has at some point in their lives, the kind that is real. 

It makes my heart hurt, too, just thinking of my blog roll and things people have suffered silently — and still do — with little or no sympathy sent their way.  Just know I’m thinking of you.

There is plenty of agony in life.  Don’t take a share that doesn’t belong to you.