Thursday, August 27, 2015

Swattin flies with sledge hammers and other things to do when aggravated.

The cat insisting on sitting on my lap and dominating my writing loft may be the final straw that sends me to the nuthatch (as my friend used to say before he really did go). The cat is driving me fuckin' crazy. He insists on sleeping on the printer or sitting on my lap at all times. I can't reach the keyboard to type. Also, he's a keyboard licker. He loves to lick keyboards, whether it be on the desktop or my iPad, and yesterday evening, he kicked his crazy up a notch by actually chewing off the keys. I found the "9" in the floor with teeth marks in it and was able to pop it back into place on the keyboard, but then this morning, the letter "N" was missing. I've had enough of his shit, and I yelled at him this evening.
"This shit's not gonna start tonight, Bubby!"
Two minutes later: "No, Bubby!"
Two minutes after that: "Get the fuck down, Bubby!"
(His real name is Comma, but I started calling him Brother because he sleeps on the Brother printer. Then I shortened it to just Bubby because every redneck around here has a Bubby that they scream at, and I guess I felt left out.)
I feel a little bad that Bubby is bearing the brunt of my frustrations. Perimenopause is just as much to blame, I guess. They tell me that's what I'm going through. Hormones are the reason I want to eat sugar and kill men and say things that I shouldn't be saying aloud like: I wouldn't piss on you to put you out if you were on fire, and I was on fluid pills. I'm not on fluid pills yet, thank the Lord and Sonny Jesus. I tried to get some help-me-meds from the gyno today. I called up the doctor, and you know how they do:
"WELCOME TO THE OB-GYN! THIS IS BRITTANY (or Kandi or Muffy or something too cute and perky)! Can you hold for half the damn day please?"
"Meh. Sure."
She comes back 20 minutes later, "Oh, you still there hon?"
"I need help because I haven't had a period in two months but I've been PMSing for at least a month."
"Are you pregnant?"
"Are you cramping?"
"No, I'm achy and irritable and bloated, and I feel like I've had PMS for a month."
"Okay. Hold on."
She comes back some time later, "The doctor says this is normal sometimes. She said to wait a few more weeks, and if nothing happens, call us back."
And she leaves me wondering: Normal for who? Because I just told you I've had PMS for a month.  What has to happen to warrant me calling them back? A total melt down? Somebody probably told Lorenna Bobbit the same shit just prior to her event. Obviously, Brittany-Kandi-Muffy doesn't understand that PMS and ADHD makes you a total bitch that says whatever comes to mind to whomever happens to be around. It's bad for functioning. I might not have anybody left in my life in a few more weeks, and Brittany-Kandi-Muffy doesn't even care.
She doesn't understand that weight gain alone can drive me insane. I've gained 12 pounds since February. I could be hormones, everyone says. It could be that I live in my car and eat stuff I find at gas stations or that I emotional eat when people like Brittany-Kandi-Muffy don't take me seriously when I tell them that I'm a bloated, achy, mega bitch. She doesn't understand that just today alone, I went off on an IEP team, a psychologist, and some lady from Meals on Wheels.
Cookies. I needed cookies right that instant.
I bought a dozen of them and settled into my Jeep to drive some.
If Trinny has a dozen cookies and five friends, how many cookies will each one get? Two.
If Trinny has a dozen cookies and chronic PMS and five friends, how many cookies will each one get? The friends will get one each, if they are lucky.
But if Trinny has a dozen cookies, chronic PMS, and scares off all of her friends, she can eat all the cookies by herself.
If Train-wreck-Trinny leaves Point A with a dozen cookies and chronic PMS, chances are the friends will disperse before the train-wreck arrives at Point B. Therefore no cookies will have to be shared.
The reality of it is, all those damn cookies are gonna be gone before I get home, and the friends will never know of their existence and everybody's  happy.
Speaking of trains, I'm worried about my boomerang baby. I call Sully my boomerang baby because you can drop  him off at school, and they will suspend him so fast that he will beat  you back  home. He was suspended the first week of school. He runs away from school, and they sent him home for running away so when he had to return to school, he ran again, so they suspended him again. And Sully's thinking: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
He's teaching the behavioral specialists how to give him his way every time. They tell me he hits. They tell me he elopes. They tell me he paces and doesn't attend to task. I tell them that this is AUTISM and that every other school system we've been in knows how to deal with it. Why do they act like they've never seen it before? What have they done with all the other kids who are like him?
I ask if the door can be locked to prevent elopement. No, they say, because it would violate the fire codes. I ask if we can send his favorite caregiver with him to keep him safe. No, they say, because that person is not a school employee and could be a liability on the school. I ask if they can change rooms that Sully works in so that there is not an outside opening that leads to the street and train tracks. No, they say, there are no other rooms available...even though the conference room we are sitting in is in the middle of the school with no door leading to the outside and even though it's virtually empty except for the table we are working on. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Can't. Can't Can't.
Ok so his caregiver can't come to the school. The teacher can't manage him. The current aide is female, even though we've told everyone involved he needs a male. Annnnd no one can keep him from running away. Why aren't they concerned about the school's liability about that?
I wanna smoke, and I shouldn't smoke. I wanna drink, and I can't drink right now. I have to be alert, oriented, and "on" seemingly 24/7. So I've been walking and trying to transition that to running, but so far I really hate running, and  most of the time I meander more than I walk. I'm easily distracted by the river, sunlight through trees, interesting people, drawings kids have done in sidewalk chalk, and this bastard dog that keeps trying to eat me.
He's just a little ankle biter, but he gets frantic when I walk by.  Jumps up and down while he's running (I swear to God he can do this), growls and barks. The first day he did this, I jumped because I wasn't expecting him and that just reinforced  his ego. He's like those guys in big trucks with no penises. Those guys that have the need to rev the engine to get your attention because there's really nothing under the hood. So anyway, I've  had it with this little bully of a dog, and  I yelled at him the other day in Eminem Lyrics:
"I don't have a weapon, but I'ma pick up a rock and bust ya ass!"
And do you know that he did shut up. And every day since when I walked by he just stared at me like: The insanity in me recognizes and appreciates the insanity in you.
Yeah, that's right. Namaste, you little mo-fo.
These little crazy pets are reinforcing to me that yelling does work, and it makes me feel like a bully. But actually, the pets were bullying me first so I just stood up to a bully and yelled at a bully, and that usually has always worked. It has worked for me since 6th grade.
I yelled at a bully once in 6th grade. She said mean things to me every morning when my dad would drop me at school, and it always ruined my day. Then one day I mouthed off to her, and she didn't do shit. Then she tried to be friends with me, but I wasn't havin' that either. I saw her the other day on my walk, ironically just after I passed that bully dog. She looks way older than me and in worse shape. Yeah, I sized her up and figured I could kick her ass now, but it looks like some combination of the universe, karma, and drugs have kicked her around enough.
I had this little calico cat one time. Snags was her name. She was the epitome of the scrawny alley cat, and I couldn't fatten her up no matter how hard I tried. She would lay on the kitchen chairs and enjoyed reaching out and snagging your legs when you walked by. Fearing nothing, her approach to life was to reach out and grab it or smack it. If she was intimidated by something, it only made her aggression worse. I saw her flatten herself out on the ground, reach under a rock, and jerk out a snake all in the space of about three seconds or less. I watched her take down a fully grown Siberian husky before. He wasn't expecting it. He ran by her barking, expecting her to run from him, and she ran at him, grabbed him with one paw and pummeled him with the other. He was running sideways to get away from her.
I learned a lot from her. Advocacy for one thing. If something is a threat to the most vulnerable, you  have to go after said threat and take it out. And don't just hit it with a fly swatter because it may just get stunned, bounce back, and keep being a threat. You have to quash it, like Eminem says. I like overkill in situations like that, like smashin flies with sledge hammers. Those fuckers ain't gonna unfold themselves and annoy me again. They are gonna be DONE. Usually these threats come in forms of policy.
Antiquated policy becomes the law and bible of the uncreative. They adopt this attitude of: We can't do what would work because it's not what we've always done. We've always done this, and if this doesn't work for you, then we can't help you. And those who are supposed to be helping and serving become slaves to what is and have no vision of what can be. Or maybe they become slaves to higher salaries and sell their humanity because they have to tow the company line.
I'm wild. I'm unmanageable (ask anyone who has tried to manage me). Nobody owns me. Say what you're gonna say. Do what you're gonna do. If I think something oppresses the vulnerable  or just isn't right,  I'm not going along with it, and I don't care what it costs me, and that's what you call sincerity. It's what you call being genuine. I think to do less than this is to risk losing our humanity. You gotta always be willing to reach under those rocks, jerk those slimy bastards out, and expose them. Smack that fucking bully in the face, and worry about the consequences later.
Between social work and advocacy efforts for Sully, I've been spending a lot of time lately trying to protect vulnerable folks from slimy bastards. It's my passion, though, and really the only thing that makes me feel alive, fired up, hyper, and ready to take on whatever. I guarantee you that I will wear down what aggravates me before it wears me down (thanks to OCD and ADHD). I've carved out a role of being a bully to the bullies. I don't know what that makes me, but I can weather any shit-storm on the horizon.  It will  be all right. Things will  work out. So mote it be.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

The Disappointing Pin-up Dress

I wanted to look like a sexpot pin-up girl
from the 1940s.
I ordered:
the dress in yellow,
the shoes in red and white,
the cardigan sweater in red,
the headband in red polka dots.
I looked like:
Ronald McDonald,
the mom from Christmas Story,
Flo from Mel's Diner,
somebody's mother-in-law
or grandmother,
a combination of Saturday Night Live characters,
a goddamn circus tent.
The mister says:
"Those shoes say:
There's no place like home
except the bowling alley."
Maybe he's never seen so much sexy in one place.
I've clicked my heels together a million times,
but I can't get anywhere but here.

*If you're not sure if sexpot is one word or two, DON'T google it! 

Sunday, August 23, 2015

A blog I wrote for Mother's Day (just a few months late)

For the first time in 20 years, I went to Beecher's house. Last time I went to Beecher's house, I was with Beecher. It had been a winter day, and we were high school seniors. His mom had made a stew, but Beecher and  his brother didn't like all of the ingredients, so when she fixed their bowls, she used a strainer to fish out anything they didn't like. That's love, I thought.
He was long-haired and free-spirited, loved music and playing his guitar. He smelled like cigarettes, leather, and freshly washed hair. He felt things deeply and would react rashly, but he would come back later and talk it out, apologizing if necessary.
Two years after we graduated, his life started to unravel. Problems mounted at work, school, and with his girlfriend. It got to be too much, and he made the decision to take his life. I imagine that, if it were possible, he would think it over, come back and apologize. And in some ways he has.
Beecher appeared to me in dreams multiple times. He always wanted me to check on  his mother. He would show me images and tell me things. Once he showed me a lake. She was on one side, he  on the other.
"But you are the lake," he told me.
He wanted me to call her, and I did. He would come to me several more times over the years. Then there was this final dream. I did not see him, but he was flying and carrying me. We looked down on the earth. He showed me scenes of war and destruction and then beautiful images: a single tree in  pasture with a rainbow hanging over head, the sky still mostly gray.
"There are terrible things and beautiful things, but I'm all done here," he said.  I haven't dreamt of him since.
Often I had thought about going to visit his mother, but how could I go to Beecher's house without him? We all play those games in our minds where we pretend that something is unless we go prove to ourselves that it isn't. Sure, I knew the reality of it. I had been to his grave multiple times, a pack of Marlboros and a little wilted bunch of wild flowers in my hand, and I 'd sit and chatter to him.  But I held the image of him tucked away at his house instead of in his grave, and a visit to his house would take away the security of denial.
Denial was something his mother didn't have the luxury of. She had faced a house without him every day for years and had gained a level of acceptance. Not peace and not a feeling of "getting over it" but an acceptance of what is. I'd run into her at the grocery store and promise to come over and visit, but I'd never followed through. Finally one evening she offered to come to my house, and I worked up the nerve to agree to go to hers.
I drove the three miles up the holler road. I pulled down into his driveway, walked up the steps, knocked on the familiar door, and heard his father telling me to come in.
 Beecher looked like both of his parents. He had his father's nose and mouth and his mother's golden eyes and beautiful, long, naturally curly hair. I found a little bit of him in each of them. His scent was still in the air. We all hugged, and his father asked me why I hadn't been up before. I just told him I'd been busy. I found it too difficult to explain that I was both afraid that I would find too much of Beecher there and not enough of him all at the same time.
I sat and talked with his mother for hours. Every time I held eye contact with her, there Beecher was again. Nobody else I know has eyes that color. Some of her mannerisms and the way she phrased things, gave him back to me in small doses, an IV drip to a spirit in drought. I hope I've been able to do the same for her. I can't bound up on her porch and bust through the door like I did years ago, probably excited about some concert and talking about music. All I can offer are a few scattered dreams, the reporting of visits, and a maybe a reminder of how old he'd be now.
We're hitting 40. Would he get a kick out of me turning 40 while he is eternally 19? I think so. Because that's how he is. I can almost hear it, "Fuck, Trin! You're getting old."
A fellow psychic recently told me that he still comes around me and that there are several who follow me. She said I'm a beacon, that they can see me if they can't see anything else, and so they will come. He's an enlightened one, and I feel that he has moved on. He doesn't hang out because he has to. He comes around because he wants to.
We finished our coffee. I gave her a hug and promised I'd be back, and I fully intend to visit regularly. She's one of those people that will always be "home" to me. She followed me out to the porch and watched me walk up the driveway to my car. Last time I did that, Beecher ran beside me yelling "I got shotgun."  

He always called shotgun and wanted to ride up front beside me. Even if I had a boyfriend who should've rightfully been in that spot, we always let Beech ride shotgun when he called it. I wish shotgun would've retained this innocent meaning. I wish so many things weren't so. 

Saturday, August 15, 2015

He said he wouldn't, but then he did. And, anyway, today marks that day.


Things were groovy ‘til you went insane,
and I didn’t have a clue
that reality was so hard for you to maintain.
I danced in your bizarre point of view.
There’s nothing a friend can do.
I’m not the keeper of your zoo.

There’s no tour guide
on the bipolar roller coaster ride,
but Mr. Jones is by your side.
And always, always, always
you still have your pride!

I have to admit this whole relationship
is going down like a bitter tea,
especially when my mind steeps too long
in the way things used to be.

This simmers on the back-burner of my brain,
and for a while I’ll let it brew,
but I’m always startled by the sharp whistle of pain

when my thoughts decide to sip on you. 

Viewpoint of a Sociopath

You don’t have real problems.
None that compare to mine.
Your biggest issue is that
you don’t see me as divine.

Of this crumbling castle!
There’s no kingdom in sight, but
I have no subjects but
I know I’m right!

Life has hardened me.
I’m not the boy you knew.
The only promise I make is
I’ll only hurt you.

I know how to save me.
I don’t need your advice.
You can never reach me.
What will you sacrifice?

I can’t love you.
Love would make me weak.
You’re ALL weak and needy.
Wipe that tear from your cheek. 

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Walking with the Little Professor

This was a "small stone" (where you try to capture a moment of time each day and paint it with words), but it turned into a longer piece. Little goes to middle school next week. Sully is on his first camping trip with his buddies and starts 8th grade. My dear niece "Baby Sam" is preparing to leave for college. I'm struggling with it all.

Walking with the Little Professor

We step out into the humid, shady morning.
"This is good weather for the crested gecko," she says.
"We could take him walking,
if we had a tiny but really long leash."

We go to check on the chicks,
hatched only weeks ago.
We make our rounds through the
tomatoes, cantaloupes,
pumpkins, cucumbers.

Lazy butterflies float by.
The dog won't lift his head to greet us.
Leaves drop themselves into the creek to float a while.
The sun beats down.
"And now this is good weather
for the bearded dragon
because he likes the desert,
but it's too hot out here for me."

Years ago when she was about four,
she found a special rock on the playground
and held it up to me:
"Wose Quawtz," she said.
Rose Quartz.

I lost her to kindergarten round-up that year.
I'll lose her to middle school shortly.
"Four more days until school starts, Mama,"
she said out of the blue today.

"Time sure does go fast." 

(*Insert crying like Snoopy here*)