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
(or Kandi or Muffy or something too cute and perky)! Can you hold for half the
damn day please?" RANY ITT
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:
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. Normal
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:
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.