I just finished reading the New York Times Style section. I find it perversely entertaining but it manages to piss me off each and every week. Not that pissing me off is very difficult to do. Jennifer love Hewitt is an expert at it without even trying. (Did you hear her unsolicited advice to cokehead Kate Moss? Christ, why won’t she and her enormous jugs just shut the hell up. Speaking of Kate Moss…there’s great articles about her on my new favorite website…thebosh.com.) Back to the Style section of the NYT…the featured wedding talked about how this woman was leading a very fulfilling life, going back and forth between her two homes and spending her time going to galleries, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. I realize that I’m a wee bit judgmental, but is that really fulfilling? Anyway, now she’s got an old rich former ambassador to someplace I forget, to keep her company and we’re supposed to be thrilled for her. Or maybe we’re supposed to be jealous. I’m not really sure what the point is.
I’m at Starbucks. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again- I know I’m supposed to hate Starbucks but I don’t. I will say that my first choice was the independent, brimming with character, coffee shop down the street, but all the tables were taken. So here I am. I’ve just fallen in love with the pumpkin spice latte. Look for our wedding announcement in the NYT vows soon. Obviously, we’ll be having a fall wedding.
Speaking of fall, after surviving what felt like summer on the surface of the sun, I’m really happy that fall has arrived. Perhaps it’s the Irish in me, but I do love me some gloomy days with a cool breeze and maybe some rain. Also, I think most people look better with rosy cheeks and more clothing on. Yesterday I went to the yarn store (yes, tis the season of 12 half finished knitting and crocheting projects) and I stood outside my car, intensely inhaling the smell of rain and leaves, for what was probably a good 3 minutes. I must’ve looked like a dog on ludes. But, as any dog on ludes will tell you, it hurt so good.
I watched “the Machinist” last night. After seeing “American Psycho” I developed a minor crush on Christian Bale and needed to see more of him. Well, the movie was pretty good, but I saw a whole lot less of him. I normally hate when a movie is praised for the great lengths the actor took to prepare for the role. I don’t care that Zellweger gained 20 pounds for Bridget Jones. The movie was merely decent, no matter what her weight. But Bale…wow, he must’ve lost at least 430 pounds for that movie. I’m sure he weighed about -50. It was unreal.
Everything I know about growing up in New Orleans, I learned from a gay old man. Ken. One of the greatest fellows this crazy world has ever seen. I met Ken through my job in San Francisco. If Ken were a needlepointed saying, he would be “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” I’m sure he’d add, “and please have a hot young pool boy serve it to me.” Ken looks a lot like Santa Claus. He’s a huge guy, with a big grey beard and an enormous smile. He lives in a tiny apartment in the Tenderloin, with his cat, Gumbo. He’s seen more than his share of illness and loss, but he keeps smiling and enjoying life.
Ken is master of laughing at himself. One incident in particular comes to mind. A friend of mine picked up Ken to take him to the movies to see “Troy.” As she was driving, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something white and puffy sticking out the side of his pants. She figured it was part of his adult diaper creeping out. She dropped Ken off at the entrance so she could park the car, and as he walked away, she saw a giant adult diaper stuck to the back of his pants, complete with a smear of shit on it. Oh my. What to do? There was her movie date with a very large shitty diaper stuck to his very large ass. She parked the car and walked into the theater with much trepidation. She found Ken, sitting on a bench, laughing hysterically. He called her over and pointed to the big shitty diaper which was on the floor, in the middle of the lobby. Through his laughter, he said, “That was mine! It was stuck to my pants! Quick…let’s get in the theater so no one knows!” So that’s just what they did. And for the next two hours, Ken sat enjoying the movie, while occasionally shouting out comments about Brad Pitt’s hotness. When life hands you a shitty diaper, make a run for it.
Ken fills much of his time making artwork out of matchsticks, hand-dying each one. One of his other favorite pastimes is reminiscing about his life growing up in New Orleans. The first time I went to visit Ken’s, I cleared away one of the many piles of papers in his musty apartment, so I could make a seat for myself. I settled in for his two hour story about Marie LaVeau, New Orleans’ voodoo queen. When Ken talks about New Orleans, it’s clear that for him, it’s more than a place. It’s his true first love. When he talks about the music, his toes are tapping. When he talks about the Cajun cooking, his mouth is watering. When he talks about the fellas he knew there, his eyes twinkle. Of course, Ken had his share of fun times in San Francisco and wasn’t afraid to talk about them either. My favorite being his long detailed account of a drag queen show, that ended with him jumping out of a giant clamshell wearing a mermaid costume. That one takes him a good two hours to tell. But I, like Ken often does, digress.
I’ve done a lot of traveling throughout the US, but unfortunately, New Orleans is one place that I’ve never been. I certainly plan to go one day. And no matter what state the city is in when I go, I’m sure the spirit of people like Ken, will continue to make its way through the devastation and loss to preserve the magic of the city and help create a place that may be different, but just as important. A place that the old gay queens of tomorrow can consider their first love.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Thursday, September 1, 2005
Blind Faith
From the moment I saw Enid, I knew I was going to like her. Not necessarily like in a "let's be best friends" way. More like her in a "My, what fun huge pointy rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses you're wearing!" way. I was sent to visit Enid as part of my job at a non-profit that matches volunteers with isolated senior citizens. My co-workers gave me the heads up that Enid was very intelligent and often personable, but had the tendency to get paranoid and angry. My love for crotchety old folks was what led me to the job in the first place, so I felt ready.
When I entered her apartment, Enid was sitting in the dark, in the corner of the living room in an old mold-green chair, sporting a floral muumuu and the aforementioned rhinestone glasses. The familiar old lady scent (a mix of talcum powder, dentures and saggy skin), along with Enid in her chair and a table with a small radio on it, were the only things filling the room. I greeted her with a friendly, "Hi Enid, I’m Mary!"
Enid spoke matter-of-factly, with a southern accent, "Well, hello Mary. Thank you for coming. Where did you go to college?"
I sat on the edge of the table, and proceeded to answer Enid’s litany of questions about my background and education. Enid and I talked for over an hour about sociology, theology and the state of American education. Just when I was thinking, "This gal knows her stuff", she said, "Mary, the po-lice shoot lasers under my doors at night." That's precisely how our conversations went from then on. Discussions about education and politics were peppered with details of Enid's paranoid hallucinations.
For the most part, Enid kept to herself aside from the few friends she had from my agency and a couple people she knew at church. She came to our office to help with our newsletter mailing, carefully placing labels on envelopes with her special finger measurement method and yelled at people who dilly dallied and held up the process. Occasionally she'd get relaxed at a luncheon and do a special dance with her walking stick. Much of my quality time with Enid was spent taking her to medical appointments. One day we sat next to each other, in silence, in a crowded doctor’s waiting room for what seemed like hours. I was apathetically flipping through a year old issue of Ladies Home Journal, when Enid yelled, "Mary! I thank God I do not have the squirts!"
For some unknown reason I was able to keep my chuckles to an inaudible level and managed to utter, "I think we all thank God for that." The guy sitting across from me was biting his lip so hard I was sure it was going to bleed. The woman next to him covered her wide grin with her hand and bolted for the door. Enid, sat still, looking straight ahead, seriously pleased that she was squirt-free.
Months went on and Enid and I became closer. Enid didn't talk much about her past, and didn't get very personal with me, but she grew to trust me completely. When we went to a doctor's appointment, Enid wanted me to read over everything and make sure it was okay. Sometimes, when presented with something she had to sign, Enid would yell, "Can't you see I'm blind?! Mary will let me know if I should sign it!" That was one thing I loved about Enid. She wanted to do things on her own, but wasn't beyond yelling, "Can't ya see I'm blind!?" to anyone who annoyed her. My favorite of these episodes was when we were at her regular doctor's office and a new novice doctor asked what medications she was taking. Enid, being very prepared, pulled a zip-loc bag full of prescription bottles from her gigantic black pleather purse and handed them to the assistant. The woman, who looked to be about twelve, picked up a bottle, looked at it for a second and asked, "What's this?"
Enid screamed, "My God! You're my doctor and you don't know I'm blind!? How the hell would I know what you're holding up? Read the damn label!"
Suzie med student flashed a snotty look my way as if we were supposed to commiserate with each other. I said, "I know, Enid. You'd think between your glasses, the walking stick and the fact that you've been a patient here for god knows how many years, that they'd figure that one out. I think I'm in the wrong field."
Enid sighed in exasperation and said, "Mary...read her what's on the bottle!"
Enid would usually call me at least twice a day, often with very practical demands. “Mary, please come over and tell me when my milk expires.” “Mary, please come over and re-set the speed dial on my phone.”
One morning my co-worker Tony yelled from the other side of the office, "Hey Mary...your girlfriend is on line two."
“Hi, this is Mary.”
It was, of course, Enid. "Hello Mary. I love you."
"I love you too, Enid."
"Okay...have a nice day." she said, and then immediately hung up.
I was with Enid the day she found out she had cancer. She had not been feeling well, and after some tests, Enid's doctor suspected that it could be cervical cancer. She went in for yet another test, and after helping Enid get into her paper robe and walking her over to a nurse, I headed towards the waiting room. Enid yelled, "Oh no...Mary has to be here." So I stayed with Enid, and stood at the edge of the bed and held her hand as she sat with her legs in stirrups: naked, vulnerable and terrified. As suspected, the results were not good. In fact, the cancer was worse than the doctor had first suspected. It was terminal.
Enid was quickly hospitalized. On one of my visits, Enid carefully removed a tiny key from the inside zipped pocket of her purse, and directed me to go to her apartment and use the key to open up the suitcase under her bed. She said it was full of important paperwork. The next day I went to her apartment to follow Enid’s order. After cleaning out her fridge, emptying the garbage and tidying up a bit, I looked under Enid’s bed and there laid a huge dark-brown leather suitcase. I dragged it out and flung it on the Pepto-Bismol pink floral sheets. I sat on the bed and unlocked the suitcase with the tiny key. The top immediately popped open from the force of papers yearning to breathe free. At the top of the pile were numerous copies of some poems Enid had written, most of which she had recited to me hundreds of times. I reread my favorite, “Little Flower.” Enid’s recitation always ended with her slowly bowing her head, dropping her arms, pausing in silence and then saying, as if reciting Shakespeare, “Little Flower…I let you die.” It made me smile every time. After setting aside insurance paperwork and medical forms I thought Enid might need, I came to the last document in the pile- the transcripts from her murder trial.
I knew that Enid had spent time in prison back in the seventies. The social worker that referred Enid to our agency told us that Enid was a witness to a murder that her husband had committed, and subsequently served time in jail. Enid would occasionally refer to her time in prison but would quickly change the subject if I asked any follow-up questions. The details that I read that day were much more horrifying than I ever imagined. Enid was no witness. Back in the early seventies, Enid (actually her name wasn't even really Enid) and her husband were expert con-artists. They had hired some people to put a new floor in their basement. The men who went to install the floor were suspicious and contacted the police. As it turns out, there were two bodies buried down there. The bodies were of a couple that had mysteriously gone missing months before. The dynamic duo of Enid and her husband had failed to receive some money they thought they were owed, so they strangled their "friends" and buried them in their basement.
My girlfriend was a murderer. And I loved her.
I sat in Enid's tiny bedroom that had nothing but a bed and a dresser, and reread that document over and over. In some ways, I was creeped out that I didn't feel very differently about Enid. She had always been nice to me and aside from the time she crapped on my hand as I was helping her out of bed, she never gave me reason to dislike her.
The next day I went to visit Enid and brought the medical forms she needed. She told me that she had a dream that she was on Jeopardy and won the car. She said my co-workers and I were all there and she gave the car to our organization. I stared into her foggy blind eyes and tried to picture her strangling someone. It seemed so impossible.
Getting to know Enid affected me in a way that I still can't completely understand. I watched someone who killed, grapple with facing death herself. She never discussed what she did with me, but she said she always prayed to God for forgiveness. She was terrified of dying. In some ways, Enid grew old alone because that's what she deserved. But on the other hand, sometimes I'd look at her and think that she served her time and did the best with her second chance at life.
Enid died within a few months of her diagnosis. If there is an afterlife, I wonder where Enid is right now. I sometimes miss that crazy old broad. I never met anyone like Enid, and hopefully never will again.
When I entered her apartment, Enid was sitting in the dark, in the corner of the living room in an old mold-green chair, sporting a floral muumuu and the aforementioned rhinestone glasses. The familiar old lady scent (a mix of talcum powder, dentures and saggy skin), along with Enid in her chair and a table with a small radio on it, were the only things filling the room. I greeted her with a friendly, "Hi Enid, I’m Mary!"
Enid spoke matter-of-factly, with a southern accent, "Well, hello Mary. Thank you for coming. Where did you go to college?"
I sat on the edge of the table, and proceeded to answer Enid’s litany of questions about my background and education. Enid and I talked for over an hour about sociology, theology and the state of American education. Just when I was thinking, "This gal knows her stuff", she said, "Mary, the po-lice shoot lasers under my doors at night." That's precisely how our conversations went from then on. Discussions about education and politics were peppered with details of Enid's paranoid hallucinations.
For the most part, Enid kept to herself aside from the few friends she had from my agency and a couple people she knew at church. She came to our office to help with our newsletter mailing, carefully placing labels on envelopes with her special finger measurement method and yelled at people who dilly dallied and held up the process. Occasionally she'd get relaxed at a luncheon and do a special dance with her walking stick. Much of my quality time with Enid was spent taking her to medical appointments. One day we sat next to each other, in silence, in a crowded doctor’s waiting room for what seemed like hours. I was apathetically flipping through a year old issue of Ladies Home Journal, when Enid yelled, "Mary! I thank God I do not have the squirts!"
For some unknown reason I was able to keep my chuckles to an inaudible level and managed to utter, "I think we all thank God for that." The guy sitting across from me was biting his lip so hard I was sure it was going to bleed. The woman next to him covered her wide grin with her hand and bolted for the door. Enid, sat still, looking straight ahead, seriously pleased that she was squirt-free.
Months went on and Enid and I became closer. Enid didn't talk much about her past, and didn't get very personal with me, but she grew to trust me completely. When we went to a doctor's appointment, Enid wanted me to read over everything and make sure it was okay. Sometimes, when presented with something she had to sign, Enid would yell, "Can't you see I'm blind?! Mary will let me know if I should sign it!" That was one thing I loved about Enid. She wanted to do things on her own, but wasn't beyond yelling, "Can't ya see I'm blind!?" to anyone who annoyed her. My favorite of these episodes was when we were at her regular doctor's office and a new novice doctor asked what medications she was taking. Enid, being very prepared, pulled a zip-loc bag full of prescription bottles from her gigantic black pleather purse and handed them to the assistant. The woman, who looked to be about twelve, picked up a bottle, looked at it for a second and asked, "What's this?"
Enid screamed, "My God! You're my doctor and you don't know I'm blind!? How the hell would I know what you're holding up? Read the damn label!"
Suzie med student flashed a snotty look my way as if we were supposed to commiserate with each other. I said, "I know, Enid. You'd think between your glasses, the walking stick and the fact that you've been a patient here for god knows how many years, that they'd figure that one out. I think I'm in the wrong field."
Enid sighed in exasperation and said, "Mary...read her what's on the bottle!"
Enid would usually call me at least twice a day, often with very practical demands. “Mary, please come over and tell me when my milk expires.” “Mary, please come over and re-set the speed dial on my phone.”
One morning my co-worker Tony yelled from the other side of the office, "Hey Mary...your girlfriend is on line two."
“Hi, this is Mary.”
It was, of course, Enid. "Hello Mary. I love you."
"I love you too, Enid."
"Okay...have a nice day." she said, and then immediately hung up.
I was with Enid the day she found out she had cancer. She had not been feeling well, and after some tests, Enid's doctor suspected that it could be cervical cancer. She went in for yet another test, and after helping Enid get into her paper robe and walking her over to a nurse, I headed towards the waiting room. Enid yelled, "Oh no...Mary has to be here." So I stayed with Enid, and stood at the edge of the bed and held her hand as she sat with her legs in stirrups: naked, vulnerable and terrified. As suspected, the results were not good. In fact, the cancer was worse than the doctor had first suspected. It was terminal.
Enid was quickly hospitalized. On one of my visits, Enid carefully removed a tiny key from the inside zipped pocket of her purse, and directed me to go to her apartment and use the key to open up the suitcase under her bed. She said it was full of important paperwork. The next day I went to her apartment to follow Enid’s order. After cleaning out her fridge, emptying the garbage and tidying up a bit, I looked under Enid’s bed and there laid a huge dark-brown leather suitcase. I dragged it out and flung it on the Pepto-Bismol pink floral sheets. I sat on the bed and unlocked the suitcase with the tiny key. The top immediately popped open from the force of papers yearning to breathe free. At the top of the pile were numerous copies of some poems Enid had written, most of which she had recited to me hundreds of times. I reread my favorite, “Little Flower.” Enid’s recitation always ended with her slowly bowing her head, dropping her arms, pausing in silence and then saying, as if reciting Shakespeare, “Little Flower…I let you die.” It made me smile every time. After setting aside insurance paperwork and medical forms I thought Enid might need, I came to the last document in the pile- the transcripts from her murder trial.
I knew that Enid had spent time in prison back in the seventies. The social worker that referred Enid to our agency told us that Enid was a witness to a murder that her husband had committed, and subsequently served time in jail. Enid would occasionally refer to her time in prison but would quickly change the subject if I asked any follow-up questions. The details that I read that day were much more horrifying than I ever imagined. Enid was no witness. Back in the early seventies, Enid (actually her name wasn't even really Enid) and her husband were expert con-artists. They had hired some people to put a new floor in their basement. The men who went to install the floor were suspicious and contacted the police. As it turns out, there were two bodies buried down there. The bodies were of a couple that had mysteriously gone missing months before. The dynamic duo of Enid and her husband had failed to receive some money they thought they were owed, so they strangled their "friends" and buried them in their basement.
My girlfriend was a murderer. And I loved her.
I sat in Enid's tiny bedroom that had nothing but a bed and a dresser, and reread that document over and over. In some ways, I was creeped out that I didn't feel very differently about Enid. She had always been nice to me and aside from the time she crapped on my hand as I was helping her out of bed, she never gave me reason to dislike her.
The next day I went to visit Enid and brought the medical forms she needed. She told me that she had a dream that she was on Jeopardy and won the car. She said my co-workers and I were all there and she gave the car to our organization. I stared into her foggy blind eyes and tried to picture her strangling someone. It seemed so impossible.
Getting to know Enid affected me in a way that I still can't completely understand. I watched someone who killed, grapple with facing death herself. She never discussed what she did with me, but she said she always prayed to God for forgiveness. She was terrified of dying. In some ways, Enid grew old alone because that's what she deserved. But on the other hand, sometimes I'd look at her and think that she served her time and did the best with her second chance at life.
Enid died within a few months of her diagnosis. If there is an afterlife, I wonder where Enid is right now. I sometimes miss that crazy old broad. I never met anyone like Enid, and hopefully never will again.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
the yellow bowl
i apologize for being such a blogging slacker. i haven't had regular access to a computer so it's been difficult but that should change soon. anyway...let's focus on what's really important right now. the end of the greatest show ever, "six feet under." for those who haven't watched this show- get the dvds immediately and get to work. the series finale was by far the most satisfying series finale EVER. yes, that's right, even better than the final "dawson's creek." (but, go watch that too, because the final creek was GOOD.)
so...the final episode...i thought the final montage was so beautiful and extremely satisfying. afterwards i said to seth, with a smile and tears streaming down my face, "that was so awesome...because everyone we know will die!" he looked a little scared of me. but really now. in some ways it seemed so crazy to watch each character die, but it's a given that they will. that is what i love about that show- their ability to show the absurdity, sometimes humor and often sadness in death and greiving. but most importantly, they show the inevitability of death. i was left morbidly picturing what the death montage of my family and friends would be. yup...it may've included you! were you the one gasping for air in a hospital bed or being run over by a train...it's your guess! see what fun this is!
the night after i watched this episode i had a strange dream. i was in my parent's house- well, the location was the same but the house was very different. there were a lot of people there and there was a collective feeling of uneasiness and impending trouble. i was taking care of a baby that was dying. i looked up and then looked back down and the baby was a pile of dry sticks. i kept pouring water on the sticks trying to bring them back to life and suddenly it was back to being a baby girl again. someone burst into the house and we all ran out. i ran down the street and there was a big abandoned house- much like the fisher's house on "six feet under." ruth fisher was next to me and we agreed to seek shelter in the house. it was me, clare, ruth, my mom and the baby. i was excited to fix up the house and raise the baby with those three women. i woke up feeling hopeful and peaceful.
back to reality (or the reality of television fiction). the dream is fairly obvious to interpret because i really connected with the scenes between clare and her mom. i was a bawling mess during most of them. clare, standing in front of the house, was reluctant to leave the only home she'd known and start over someplace where she knew no one. that was me before i moved to montana, and again when i moved to san francisco. my mom was ruth. she was being strong and supportive and told me that i was doing the right thing and should always follow my dreams and do what makes me happy. the conversation ruth had with brenda about the loneliness of motherhood killed me too. i remembered my mother and i sitting next to each other on the couch right after we got into a bad argument. we sat with tears streaming down our faces, apologizing to each other profusely. my mom said, "you'll really never know how much i love you. sometimes motherhood is so lonely because no one can truly understand the love a mother has for her child." i, of course, sobbed. sometimes i get a glimpse of just how much my mother loves me and it's almost too much to handle.
one of my favorite moments of the episode was when ruth asked david if he wanted his cereal in the yellow bowl. it's amazing how life often seems so complicated and people are rushing around to try to seek happiness, but happiness and comfort often come down to eating your cereal from your favorite yellow bowl. it was an incredible moment showing how simple things often invoke so many memories. i recently got a muppets glass that was part of a mcdonald's campaign about 20 years ago. a couple weeks ago i was standing in front of my sink, staring at the glass, and having a flashback to being 9 years old. i was wearing my red and white stripe footy pajamas and drinking my "before bed" glass of milk. it was a mild summer night so the back sliding door was open. it smelled like a combination of green peppers, coffee and freshly cut grass. my dad was watching "the tonight show" and johnny carson's monologue was being drowned out by the sound of cicadas in the backyard. my mom was reading the paper. my brothers were out with friends and/or away at college and i was left with a lot of time to wonder about the details of each of their lives. i'm not sure if i knew it, but i was happy. all this from a muppets glass.
needless to say, that show really left me thinking.
so...the final episode...i thought the final montage was so beautiful and extremely satisfying. afterwards i said to seth, with a smile and tears streaming down my face, "that was so awesome...because everyone we know will die!" he looked a little scared of me. but really now. in some ways it seemed so crazy to watch each character die, but it's a given that they will. that is what i love about that show- their ability to show the absurdity, sometimes humor and often sadness in death and greiving. but most importantly, they show the inevitability of death. i was left morbidly picturing what the death montage of my family and friends would be. yup...it may've included you! were you the one gasping for air in a hospital bed or being run over by a train...it's your guess! see what fun this is!
the night after i watched this episode i had a strange dream. i was in my parent's house- well, the location was the same but the house was very different. there were a lot of people there and there was a collective feeling of uneasiness and impending trouble. i was taking care of a baby that was dying. i looked up and then looked back down and the baby was a pile of dry sticks. i kept pouring water on the sticks trying to bring them back to life and suddenly it was back to being a baby girl again. someone burst into the house and we all ran out. i ran down the street and there was a big abandoned house- much like the fisher's house on "six feet under." ruth fisher was next to me and we agreed to seek shelter in the house. it was me, clare, ruth, my mom and the baby. i was excited to fix up the house and raise the baby with those three women. i woke up feeling hopeful and peaceful.
back to reality (or the reality of television fiction). the dream is fairly obvious to interpret because i really connected with the scenes between clare and her mom. i was a bawling mess during most of them. clare, standing in front of the house, was reluctant to leave the only home she'd known and start over someplace where she knew no one. that was me before i moved to montana, and again when i moved to san francisco. my mom was ruth. she was being strong and supportive and told me that i was doing the right thing and should always follow my dreams and do what makes me happy. the conversation ruth had with brenda about the loneliness of motherhood killed me too. i remembered my mother and i sitting next to each other on the couch right after we got into a bad argument. we sat with tears streaming down our faces, apologizing to each other profusely. my mom said, "you'll really never know how much i love you. sometimes motherhood is so lonely because no one can truly understand the love a mother has for her child." i, of course, sobbed. sometimes i get a glimpse of just how much my mother loves me and it's almost too much to handle.
one of my favorite moments of the episode was when ruth asked david if he wanted his cereal in the yellow bowl. it's amazing how life often seems so complicated and people are rushing around to try to seek happiness, but happiness and comfort often come down to eating your cereal from your favorite yellow bowl. it was an incredible moment showing how simple things often invoke so many memories. i recently got a muppets glass that was part of a mcdonald's campaign about 20 years ago. a couple weeks ago i was standing in front of my sink, staring at the glass, and having a flashback to being 9 years old. i was wearing my red and white stripe footy pajamas and drinking my "before bed" glass of milk. it was a mild summer night so the back sliding door was open. it smelled like a combination of green peppers, coffee and freshly cut grass. my dad was watching "the tonight show" and johnny carson's monologue was being drowned out by the sound of cicadas in the backyard. my mom was reading the paper. my brothers were out with friends and/or away at college and i was left with a lot of time to wonder about the details of each of their lives. i'm not sure if i knew it, but i was happy. all this from a muppets glass.
needless to say, that show really left me thinking.
Friday, July 29, 2005
april fools
the august after i graduated from college, i moved to montana to start my year as a jesuit volunteer. during that year i worked at a shelter for battered women, and lived with four other volunteers who were working at different non-profit agencies in town. it was one of the best years of my life. among many other reasons, i was thrown, head-first, into the life of a social worker. my job was case manager to the women at the shelter and training volunteers to work on the crisis line- i had absolutely zero experience in any of it. it was baptism by fire, at its finest.
working with the women and children at the shelter was sometimes way more fun than i would've ever guessed. there were times when we'd all sit around the living room, share stories and laugh our asses off. other times, it wasn't so fun. during that year i heard some cases of abuse that were unimaginable to me. that job gave me new meaning to "having a bad day at work."
april fool's morning i got to the shelter bright and early. the residents were all visibly upset and talking over each other, a mile a minute. i was finally able to piece together the story. carrie, one of the residents, had been put in jail the night before. she got pulled over for speeding and because of a history of writing bad checks, forgery and breaking parole, she was immediately arrested. this left her six year old son, billy, without anyone to care for him. the police contacted billy's dad dean, to let him know that carrie was in jail and had been staying at the shelter. dean called the shelter the previous night, demanding his son. if even a fraction of the stories about dean were true, this was not a good idea. everyone was freaking out.
billy went to his first grade class like it was a normal day. he showed me his "2, 5, 10 award" on the way out. he could count by 2s, 5s and 10s. it took everything in me not to cry, as i congratulated him and made sure he had everything he needed in his backpack. billy's grandmother was the emergency contact, so she was called. she was driving from out of state to go talk to dean in person. she said there was no way she'd allow billy to be with his dad.
apparently, dean wasn't going to budge. he spent the morning making the rounds to child protective services, justice court and the victim's advocate office, demanding that he get his son back. i was sitting in the shelter, feeling helpless, when carrie called from jail. "is billy ok? please make sure he's ok." carrie told me that she and billy had an order of protection against dean. she asked me to go up into her room, and find the custody papers that were in her top dresser drawer. i immediately went upstairs and searched. along with scores of credit card bills, statements of past arrests, speeding tickets and pictures colored by billy, were custody papers. the entire morning i had been talking to people at the agency's main office and they were in constant communication with an attorney. i took the custody papers, and left for the agency's main office. a police car was parked right outside the office. i was greeted by the news that the judge had ammended the order of protection, so it no longer included billy. scribbled on a piece of paper, it said that dean could come to the agency office and "take the child." dean who gave carrie a black eye and a broken tooth while billy watched. dean who told billy, and his older brother (who dean had custody of) "it's okay to hit a woman. the only thing they're good for is to suck your cock and then you roll them over and fuck them up the ass." he's a regular ward cleaver.
my co-workers and i paced around the director's office trying to think of a master plan. the cop and dean were getting antsy. we called the agency's attorney and found out that child protective services wouldn't get involved. i had found paperwork that included billy's brother telling a cps worker, "dad touches my penis and puts his mouth on it." but the case was investigated and closed, so that information couldn't be used. we stalled dean and he agreed to come back at 4:30pm with the cop. one of the shelter volunteers gathered billy's belongings, picked him up at school, and brought him to the office. he came sauntering into the building with all of his belongings fitting into two bags. stuffed animals, a tape player, his bookbag and a soccer ball. my co-worker jen and i took billy into the playroom, and we all kicked the soccer ball back and forth. billy yelled, "i won't go with him! he throws me up against the wall. he hits me whenever he wants to. he gave mom a black eye. he hits my brother too."
after jen and i pleaded with child protective services, they agreed to send over someone to talk with billy. we told billy that someone would be coming to talk to him, so he should tell the person everything he told us. billy sat in his tiny black sweatpants, with his bangs trimmed straight across. his mom must have used the ruler method. he waited patiently, with his little butt balanced on his soccer ball. finally a jolly friendly man came in, and introduced himself to billy. "hi! i'm john!"
jen and i left them to talk, and we slipped into the kitchen and stood in silence. the girls gymnastics class continued their practice in the huge room in front of us. little girls tumbled happily to the sounds of disney music. a sickeningly sweet vanessa williams song came on, and jen and i looked at each other, with tears streaming down our faces. we decided to go downstairs and see what our co-workers were up to. who was standing in the lobby but dean. he was as friendly as a disney song and it made me feel sick. after john finished talking to billy, he talked to dean. minutes later, dean and billy left together. billy looked back and waved, "bye jen. bye mary.", dragging his bag of stuffed animals behind him.
i stood there thinking about my own life when i was six. i had a whole room full of stuff. stuffed animals, books, pictures, little useless thingies on my shelves, the smell of dinner oozing in from downstairs. the safety of mom and dad down the hall. brothers who loved me. friends at school. a neighborhood that i could play in. i was fearless. except for the monster in my closet and the bats that came out in the dark. but i didn't fear my parents. they were the ones who got rid of the monsters. they weren't the monsters.
after sitting in silence and sadness with my co-workers for a while, i got on my bike and headed out of there. when i got home, i slowly ascended the old wooden porch stairs and spotted a box in front of the door. it was for me. i went inside, slumped my tired body on the couch, and opened the box. mom and dad had sent me a care package for easter. i sat, eating my chocolate eggs, and wept.
working with the women and children at the shelter was sometimes way more fun than i would've ever guessed. there were times when we'd all sit around the living room, share stories and laugh our asses off. other times, it wasn't so fun. during that year i heard some cases of abuse that were unimaginable to me. that job gave me new meaning to "having a bad day at work."
april fool's morning i got to the shelter bright and early. the residents were all visibly upset and talking over each other, a mile a minute. i was finally able to piece together the story. carrie, one of the residents, had been put in jail the night before. she got pulled over for speeding and because of a history of writing bad checks, forgery and breaking parole, she was immediately arrested. this left her six year old son, billy, without anyone to care for him. the police contacted billy's dad dean, to let him know that carrie was in jail and had been staying at the shelter. dean called the shelter the previous night, demanding his son. if even a fraction of the stories about dean were true, this was not a good idea. everyone was freaking out.
billy went to his first grade class like it was a normal day. he showed me his "2, 5, 10 award" on the way out. he could count by 2s, 5s and 10s. it took everything in me not to cry, as i congratulated him and made sure he had everything he needed in his backpack. billy's grandmother was the emergency contact, so she was called. she was driving from out of state to go talk to dean in person. she said there was no way she'd allow billy to be with his dad.
apparently, dean wasn't going to budge. he spent the morning making the rounds to child protective services, justice court and the victim's advocate office, demanding that he get his son back. i was sitting in the shelter, feeling helpless, when carrie called from jail. "is billy ok? please make sure he's ok." carrie told me that she and billy had an order of protection against dean. she asked me to go up into her room, and find the custody papers that were in her top dresser drawer. i immediately went upstairs and searched. along with scores of credit card bills, statements of past arrests, speeding tickets and pictures colored by billy, were custody papers. the entire morning i had been talking to people at the agency's main office and they were in constant communication with an attorney. i took the custody papers, and left for the agency's main office. a police car was parked right outside the office. i was greeted by the news that the judge had ammended the order of protection, so it no longer included billy. scribbled on a piece of paper, it said that dean could come to the agency office and "take the child." dean who gave carrie a black eye and a broken tooth while billy watched. dean who told billy, and his older brother (who dean had custody of) "it's okay to hit a woman. the only thing they're good for is to suck your cock and then you roll them over and fuck them up the ass." he's a regular ward cleaver.
my co-workers and i paced around the director's office trying to think of a master plan. the cop and dean were getting antsy. we called the agency's attorney and found out that child protective services wouldn't get involved. i had found paperwork that included billy's brother telling a cps worker, "dad touches my penis and puts his mouth on it." but the case was investigated and closed, so that information couldn't be used. we stalled dean and he agreed to come back at 4:30pm with the cop. one of the shelter volunteers gathered billy's belongings, picked him up at school, and brought him to the office. he came sauntering into the building with all of his belongings fitting into two bags. stuffed animals, a tape player, his bookbag and a soccer ball. my co-worker jen and i took billy into the playroom, and we all kicked the soccer ball back and forth. billy yelled, "i won't go with him! he throws me up against the wall. he hits me whenever he wants to. he gave mom a black eye. he hits my brother too."
after jen and i pleaded with child protective services, they agreed to send over someone to talk with billy. we told billy that someone would be coming to talk to him, so he should tell the person everything he told us. billy sat in his tiny black sweatpants, with his bangs trimmed straight across. his mom must have used the ruler method. he waited patiently, with his little butt balanced on his soccer ball. finally a jolly friendly man came in, and introduced himself to billy. "hi! i'm john!"
jen and i left them to talk, and we slipped into the kitchen and stood in silence. the girls gymnastics class continued their practice in the huge room in front of us. little girls tumbled happily to the sounds of disney music. a sickeningly sweet vanessa williams song came on, and jen and i looked at each other, with tears streaming down our faces. we decided to go downstairs and see what our co-workers were up to. who was standing in the lobby but dean. he was as friendly as a disney song and it made me feel sick. after john finished talking to billy, he talked to dean. minutes later, dean and billy left together. billy looked back and waved, "bye jen. bye mary.", dragging his bag of stuffed animals behind him.
i stood there thinking about my own life when i was six. i had a whole room full of stuff. stuffed animals, books, pictures, little useless thingies on my shelves, the smell of dinner oozing in from downstairs. the safety of mom and dad down the hall. brothers who loved me. friends at school. a neighborhood that i could play in. i was fearless. except for the monster in my closet and the bats that came out in the dark. but i didn't fear my parents. they were the ones who got rid of the monsters. they weren't the monsters.
after sitting in silence and sadness with my co-workers for a while, i got on my bike and headed out of there. when i got home, i slowly ascended the old wooden porch stairs and spotted a box in front of the door. it was for me. i went inside, slumped my tired body on the couch, and opened the box. mom and dad had sent me a care package for easter. i sat, eating my chocolate eggs, and wept.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
the case of the missing bagger
during my time in boston, when i was working as a professional friend to the elderly, i had some of the greatest encounters of my life. the elderly i worked with were all over seventy and lived alone. they had limited social contacts due to a number of different reasons including death, relocation, or estrangement from many years ago. with some of the people i visited, it was clear why they were alone. (the woman who had spent years in jail for murder comes to mind). with many it was impossible to understand why, after living a good life and being a friend to so many, they were left to live out their final years by themselves.
one day i got a referral from a social worker, indicating that this gentleman named john, might like to have a friendly visitor. i didn't have much information other than the fact that he was 77 and lived by himself. i called him up and he immediately picked up and yelled, "YELLO!" i introduced myself to john and told him that his social worker thought he might like to become involved with our program. i offered to come out and meet him so we could get to know each other and figure out if it was something he was interested in. john was all business. "all righty. well, let's see...what have i got today...how's about you call me later today and we'll schedule a time?" i agreed to do that and we hung up. a second later, the phone rang. "hey mary...it' s john. what time is it?" i told him it was 10:45am. "well okay then. i'll meet you outside my building at quarter past 11. we'll go for a walk, talk about something, and what not." sounded like a good plan to me. i was about to hang up and he yelled, "hey...whaddya wearing? how will i know who you are?!?"
i went to john's building and he was waiting on the bench outside, wearing his powder blue jacket, just as he said he would. he sat, medium height, very trim, gray hair slicked just so, chewing furiously on a toothpick. i introduced myself and we sat and chatted for a bit. john knew everyone who walked by and shouted out his pleasantries as each person passed. "hey daisy! where you not gonna say hi to me?!" after a split second of silence, he said, "did you have garlic yesterday?" slightly confused, i said, "uh...i don't think so." "well," john said in his very frank way, "you've got nice breath." we moved on to discussing our favorite foods and he busted out with, "SO...whaddya do for liquids?" i was silent because i was completely baffled by the question. john, clearly frustrated by my silence, followed up with, "so ya like orange juice? apple juice? water? WHAT?!" wow...i wasn't hallucinating. i was in fact, sitting on a bench, with an old man, discussing my favorite liquids. and getting paid for it.
it didn't take long before i knew that when john wanted something, he made it clear. we were on john's schedule. "ok...let's go over to stop 'n shop." i agreed, we both stood up, he grabbed onto my arm, and off we went. we walked, very slowly, to the store, making sure to say hello to everyone we passed including popping into the dry cleaners to say hi to the owner and then we had to wave at the people sitting in the diner. as soon as we entered stop 'n shop, he headed right for the salad bar. an employee, looking to be about sixteen, was filling up the tomato bin and waved at john. "hey matt...i want you to meet my friend mary. now- no kissing you two. but mary, he's pretty good-lookin for an irishman, right?" before i could even respond, john stabbed his toothpick into a piece of melon and popped it right in his mouth. he used that toothpick to consume at least a pound of items from the salad bar and no one could stop him, not even matt.
after what seemed, and probably was, an hour and a half of slowly winding up and down aisles, looking for the very best price of every item, we finally approached the check-out. "hey mary- the guy in front of us smells like a goddamn ashtray, doesn't he?" i told john that i couldn't smell anything. but he was right. the guy reaked. i just felt kind of badly for him, so i felt the need to disagree with john. it was finally our turn, and of couse he said hello to the woman checking us out, because he knew her too. "hey there, karen. three bags, double-bagged please." i breathed a sigh of relief at his politeness with karen. the bagger was called over by another employee, so he stepped away. john immediately shouted, "WHERE THE FUCK DID THE BAGGER GO?!" everyone in lined cracked up, and in a bizzarre way, i felt like i was with a stop 'n shop celebrity. "wow john," karen said through her giggles, "ya havin a bad day?" he looked over at me and said, "as you can see, i sometimes like to holler but i mean no harm by it. if things aren't perfect than i go a little crazy." well, i thought, the first step is admitting it. "but where is that fuckin bagger?" he said, in all seriousness.
we began the slow trek back to his apartment. john said, "now, i'm gonna let you in my apartment on one condition. you have to behave yourself. and i'll behave myself." "sounds like a perfect plan," i said. we were in the elevator going up to his apartment, and john was chatting with his buddy, the UPS delivery guy. the UPS guy said, "john, you're a lucky man to be spending the afternoon with this young lady." john said matter-of-factly, "yeah, and she's lucky to be spending it with me." no kidding.
one day i got a referral from a social worker, indicating that this gentleman named john, might like to have a friendly visitor. i didn't have much information other than the fact that he was 77 and lived by himself. i called him up and he immediately picked up and yelled, "YELLO!" i introduced myself to john and told him that his social worker thought he might like to become involved with our program. i offered to come out and meet him so we could get to know each other and figure out if it was something he was interested in. john was all business. "all righty. well, let's see...what have i got today...how's about you call me later today and we'll schedule a time?" i agreed to do that and we hung up. a second later, the phone rang. "hey mary...it' s john. what time is it?" i told him it was 10:45am. "well okay then. i'll meet you outside my building at quarter past 11. we'll go for a walk, talk about something, and what not." sounded like a good plan to me. i was about to hang up and he yelled, "hey...whaddya wearing? how will i know who you are?!?"
i went to john's building and he was waiting on the bench outside, wearing his powder blue jacket, just as he said he would. he sat, medium height, very trim, gray hair slicked just so, chewing furiously on a toothpick. i introduced myself and we sat and chatted for a bit. john knew everyone who walked by and shouted out his pleasantries as each person passed. "hey daisy! where you not gonna say hi to me?!" after a split second of silence, he said, "did you have garlic yesterday?" slightly confused, i said, "uh...i don't think so." "well," john said in his very frank way, "you've got nice breath." we moved on to discussing our favorite foods and he busted out with, "SO...whaddya do for liquids?" i was silent because i was completely baffled by the question. john, clearly frustrated by my silence, followed up with, "so ya like orange juice? apple juice? water? WHAT?!" wow...i wasn't hallucinating. i was in fact, sitting on a bench, with an old man, discussing my favorite liquids. and getting paid for it.
it didn't take long before i knew that when john wanted something, he made it clear. we were on john's schedule. "ok...let's go over to stop 'n shop." i agreed, we both stood up, he grabbed onto my arm, and off we went. we walked, very slowly, to the store, making sure to say hello to everyone we passed including popping into the dry cleaners to say hi to the owner and then we had to wave at the people sitting in the diner. as soon as we entered stop 'n shop, he headed right for the salad bar. an employee, looking to be about sixteen, was filling up the tomato bin and waved at john. "hey matt...i want you to meet my friend mary. now- no kissing you two. but mary, he's pretty good-lookin for an irishman, right?" before i could even respond, john stabbed his toothpick into a piece of melon and popped it right in his mouth. he used that toothpick to consume at least a pound of items from the salad bar and no one could stop him, not even matt.
after what seemed, and probably was, an hour and a half of slowly winding up and down aisles, looking for the very best price of every item, we finally approached the check-out. "hey mary- the guy in front of us smells like a goddamn ashtray, doesn't he?" i told john that i couldn't smell anything. but he was right. the guy reaked. i just felt kind of badly for him, so i felt the need to disagree with john. it was finally our turn, and of couse he said hello to the woman checking us out, because he knew her too. "hey there, karen. three bags, double-bagged please." i breathed a sigh of relief at his politeness with karen. the bagger was called over by another employee, so he stepped away. john immediately shouted, "WHERE THE FUCK DID THE BAGGER GO?!" everyone in lined cracked up, and in a bizzarre way, i felt like i was with a stop 'n shop celebrity. "wow john," karen said through her giggles, "ya havin a bad day?" he looked over at me and said, "as you can see, i sometimes like to holler but i mean no harm by it. if things aren't perfect than i go a little crazy." well, i thought, the first step is admitting it. "but where is that fuckin bagger?" he said, in all seriousness.
we began the slow trek back to his apartment. john said, "now, i'm gonna let you in my apartment on one condition. you have to behave yourself. and i'll behave myself." "sounds like a perfect plan," i said. we were in the elevator going up to his apartment, and john was chatting with his buddy, the UPS delivery guy. the UPS guy said, "john, you're a lucky man to be spending the afternoon with this young lady." john said matter-of-factly, "yeah, and she's lucky to be spending it with me." no kidding.
Monday, July 25, 2005
puppy love
about eight years ago, i worked at an agency in northern new jersey that served the homeless. i was one of four employees, and the thing that kept me there for two years was the fact that the three women i worked with were hilarious, incredible people. it surely wasn't the actual work. i was the case manager for homeless families living in transitional housing apartments, and to single men who were in recovery from alcohol and drug addictions. plus, we ran a food pantry and had some funding to help people with emergency services. and we had a 24-hour emergency hotline. things were a wee bit busy in that office and the bar for what was considered a crisis situation lowered with each day. when i got the job i had a year's social work experience from my stint as a full-time volunteer case manager in montana, but that was it. in reality, i didn't know what i was doing.
the director had a rule that saved us all. we always had to treat each client with respect and dignity, but when it was just us in the office, we could say whatever we wanted to let off steam. considering we were often dealing with incredibly intense and difficult situations, this was my lifeline to sanity. thankfully, my co-workers shared my belief that the best relief for stress is the use of extremely inappropriate humor.
i had been at the agency for a few months and was finally getting into the swing of things. i was getting more confident in my ability to give people the correct referrals and be able to work with them to develop reachable goals and a solid plan so they could get back on their feet. one day the phone rang, as it did approximately 3 million times a day there, and i picked it up with my usual friendly tone. the guy on the phone introduced himself and said that he was having trouble finding a job. he explained that he had received some help from our agency in the past. he told me that he was a recovering alcoholic and did some stupid things in the past, and he was worried that because of his unemployment, some of his old ways of thinking would come back. i listened to him talk for a while, using my best active listening skills, and gave him some referrals for job resources and addictions counselors. he was very appreciative of my help and as we hung up i was very proud of myself for my ability to handle the situation. out of curiousity, i looked up his file to see what type of services we had provided for him.
in his file it said, "he called for help with housing. he was receiving welfare. he said that he no longer wants to have sex with his wife. he likes having sex with young boys. he also likes having sex with animals. he got caught having sex with a dog and was arrested. his wife decided to leave him." talk about doing some stupid things in the past. wow. i, of course, shared the story with my co-workers, and then went to get lunch and regroup. when i walked back in, my co-worker meg said, "hey mare...i think you must've sat in something...there's something on the back of your pants." so i turned around to look and she said, "hey, is it just me, or do you have a DOG IN YOUR ASS!?!" meg said, "just kidding...seriously, come here and let me know if this makes sense." she was working on a daily to-do list for her clients at the shelter. i glanced over at her computer screen and it said, in about 40 font, "#1: TAKE THE DOG OUT OF YOUR ASS."
the director had a rule that saved us all. we always had to treat each client with respect and dignity, but when it was just us in the office, we could say whatever we wanted to let off steam. considering we were often dealing with incredibly intense and difficult situations, this was my lifeline to sanity. thankfully, my co-workers shared my belief that the best relief for stress is the use of extremely inappropriate humor.
i had been at the agency for a few months and was finally getting into the swing of things. i was getting more confident in my ability to give people the correct referrals and be able to work with them to develop reachable goals and a solid plan so they could get back on their feet. one day the phone rang, as it did approximately 3 million times a day there, and i picked it up with my usual friendly tone. the guy on the phone introduced himself and said that he was having trouble finding a job. he explained that he had received some help from our agency in the past. he told me that he was a recovering alcoholic and did some stupid things in the past, and he was worried that because of his unemployment, some of his old ways of thinking would come back. i listened to him talk for a while, using my best active listening skills, and gave him some referrals for job resources and addictions counselors. he was very appreciative of my help and as we hung up i was very proud of myself for my ability to handle the situation. out of curiousity, i looked up his file to see what type of services we had provided for him.
in his file it said, "he called for help with housing. he was receiving welfare. he said that he no longer wants to have sex with his wife. he likes having sex with young boys. he also likes having sex with animals. he got caught having sex with a dog and was arrested. his wife decided to leave him." talk about doing some stupid things in the past. wow. i, of course, shared the story with my co-workers, and then went to get lunch and regroup. when i walked back in, my co-worker meg said, "hey mare...i think you must've sat in something...there's something on the back of your pants." so i turned around to look and she said, "hey, is it just me, or do you have a DOG IN YOUR ASS!?!" meg said, "just kidding...seriously, come here and let me know if this makes sense." she was working on a daily to-do list for her clients at the shelter. i glanced over at her computer screen and it said, in about 40 font, "#1: TAKE THE DOG OUT OF YOUR ASS."
Friday, July 22, 2005
back on the blogwagon
bless me father, for i have sinned. it's been 6 months since my last blog. wow...that sounds like something i should see a doctor for. perhaps some leafy greens and a burrito will help me blog again. i'm not sure what the hiatus has been about. it's not as if i don't have things that annoy me and things that crack me up that i'm willing to share with the 2 people who read this every 3 months or so. i guess i can blame it on my move to chicago and transitional times and vh1 countdown shows.
enough of that, i'm back. let me begin with my latest encounters with funny old people. even though i don't work with them anymore, i still make sure to befriend them now and then. this is made easier since the manfriend works with them. he introduced me to a couple gems last week. first we've got maria. she's from romania and has a very thick accent and the world's highest voice. add in the paranoia and you've got a great time! as soon as we walked in, she yelled, "I LOVE YOU! I LIKE YOU! YOU MAKE SET HAPPY! GOD BLESS YOU LIFE! YOU FIND ME IN BED...I SO SORRY, YOU FIND ME IN BED!" it wasn't long before i was engrossed in her story about how the gypsies come in at night and take her blood and will eventually cut off her limbs and send her up there. apparently these gypsies are the true evil. they are dangermental. they've got the psychos. she also let us know that the dad on "everybody loves raymond" is warning people about these gypsies, and david letterman also speaks the truth. even helen knows (i think she meant ellen). ted o'neill from "married with children" has also given people some signs, but so far it hasn't worked. my favorite part of our conversation was when we were discussing what they serve for lunch at the nursing home. she was complaining about how much chicken they give her, and exclaimed, "I CAN NO SUPPORT THE SMELL OF THE CHICKEN PATIO!" so watch out chicken patio smell- if you're planning on running for the president of smells, you do not have maria's support. maria's situation is really very sad. i suspect that she did have a horribly violent and difficult life which left her paraoid and alone. she's really a very kind person, it's too bad those dangermental gypsies want to take her skull.
then we have johnny. here's johnny... a WWII vet through and through. it's evident from his "death before dishonor" tattoo (it only cost $7!) to his unapologetically frank war stories. when we got there, we spotted johnny, with his out of control scraggly grey hair shooting out from the side of his baseball cap, sitting in the lunch room, wearing classic old man brown bedroom slippers on his calloused feet, waiting for his hamburger. seth tapped him on the shoulder and johnny immediately shot up straighter. apparently he had been taking a little nap. "hey...johnny...this is my girlfriend, mary." johnny looked at me and then looked at seth and yelled, "nice! ya got somethin nice to play with!" he thinks i'm too beautiful for a common name like mary. i asked what name i should go by and he said, "how about marian? that's a name, right?" but after mulling it over, he said, "but i'll call ya sweetheart." yeah, cause sweetheart is so original. he was telling us about a woman named mary that he dated when he was in hong kong. that led to him complaining about china and how he couldn't understand anything anyone said. he said, "ya know any chinese?" seth said, "no, but i know a few words in japanese." johnny said, "i killed a couple japs." then we heard the details on that unfortunate encounter. at one point he said to seth, "wait...so ya still got the mary in frisco AND this mary?" once we cleared up the fact that i am, in fact, both frisco mary AND chicago mary, johnny said that if i think there are a lot of queers in frisco, i should check out bakersfield. the funny thing is that i have been to bakersfield and i would've been happy to find some queers. instead all i found is what seemed to be a ghost town with only the occasional sociopathic-looking fellow roaming about. perhaps the most awkward moment of the johnny visit began when a woman in a wheelchair started wailing in pain. johnny yelled over to her, "hey...ya having yer baby now?" then he pointed to seth and said, "cause i got a dad here for ya."
on a completely unrelated note, i highly recommend "march of the penguins." before seeing the movie, i thought penguins were cute and fun, for birds. birds that swim...that's pretty cool. birds that don't fly...also pretty cool. birds that can survive in antarctica where practically nothing else does...literally, very cool. but after seeing this movie, i am obsessed with penguins. as i watched the movie, i thought about how i really hope that there's no such thing as reincarnation, because what if i come back as a penguin? walking 70 miles for food in -85 degree weather? balancing my baby's egg under my fat belly for months, while i wait for my spouse to hopefully return and help me out? nevermind the effects of the cold air on my combination skin. i just don't think i'd do very well at penguin life.
but, one more day of 90-something weather with 1000% humidity and i may book a flight for antartica. this is not right. can people please stop using aerosol cans and doing whatever else it is that they're doing that is ruining the ozone layer? global warming is annoying the crap out of me. on one of my little crack binges i decided to sign up for the chicago marathon this fall. that means running a helluva lot in what feels like the most humid and hot conditions ever known to humankind. tomorrow i've got a 12-miler to tackle and i'm not really looking forward to it.
why do i have such intense hatred for tom cruise? yeah, he's ridiculous and ignorant and fairly talentless and embarrassing. but the hatred i have for him is kind of unwarranted since, as far as i remember, he's never done anything to hurt me directly. but, anytime i see him or read something he says, i just wish he would move to an island (with kelly rippa and starr jones and melissa rivers and all the other people i don't know, but have intense hatred for), so i never have to see his face or hear anything about him ever again. but, the irony is, that i secretly love reading stupid crap he says, just so i can hate him more. his latest tirade about psychology would be laughable if i could be sure that everyone who saw or read it, knew that he was completely insane and in need of some drugs. i fear that some lost souls may actually look up to him and take what he drivels on about as the truth. i also fear, that at this rate, if he says one more stupid thing, my country is likely to elect him as our next president.
enough of that, i'm back. let me begin with my latest encounters with funny old people. even though i don't work with them anymore, i still make sure to befriend them now and then. this is made easier since the manfriend works with them. he introduced me to a couple gems last week. first we've got maria. she's from romania and has a very thick accent and the world's highest voice. add in the paranoia and you've got a great time! as soon as we walked in, she yelled, "I LOVE YOU! I LIKE YOU! YOU MAKE SET HAPPY! GOD BLESS YOU LIFE! YOU FIND ME IN BED...I SO SORRY, YOU FIND ME IN BED!" it wasn't long before i was engrossed in her story about how the gypsies come in at night and take her blood and will eventually cut off her limbs and send her up there. apparently these gypsies are the true evil. they are dangermental. they've got the psychos. she also let us know that the dad on "everybody loves raymond" is warning people about these gypsies, and david letterman also speaks the truth. even helen knows (i think she meant ellen). ted o'neill from "married with children" has also given people some signs, but so far it hasn't worked. my favorite part of our conversation was when we were discussing what they serve for lunch at the nursing home. she was complaining about how much chicken they give her, and exclaimed, "I CAN NO SUPPORT THE SMELL OF THE CHICKEN PATIO!" so watch out chicken patio smell- if you're planning on running for the president of smells, you do not have maria's support. maria's situation is really very sad. i suspect that she did have a horribly violent and difficult life which left her paraoid and alone. she's really a very kind person, it's too bad those dangermental gypsies want to take her skull.
then we have johnny. here's johnny... a WWII vet through and through. it's evident from his "death before dishonor" tattoo (it only cost $7!) to his unapologetically frank war stories. when we got there, we spotted johnny, with his out of control scraggly grey hair shooting out from the side of his baseball cap, sitting in the lunch room, wearing classic old man brown bedroom slippers on his calloused feet, waiting for his hamburger. seth tapped him on the shoulder and johnny immediately shot up straighter. apparently he had been taking a little nap. "hey...johnny...this is my girlfriend, mary." johnny looked at me and then looked at seth and yelled, "nice! ya got somethin nice to play with!" he thinks i'm too beautiful for a common name like mary. i asked what name i should go by and he said, "how about marian? that's a name, right?" but after mulling it over, he said, "but i'll call ya sweetheart." yeah, cause sweetheart is so original. he was telling us about a woman named mary that he dated when he was in hong kong. that led to him complaining about china and how he couldn't understand anything anyone said. he said, "ya know any chinese?" seth said, "no, but i know a few words in japanese." johnny said, "i killed a couple japs." then we heard the details on that unfortunate encounter. at one point he said to seth, "wait...so ya still got the mary in frisco AND this mary?" once we cleared up the fact that i am, in fact, both frisco mary AND chicago mary, johnny said that if i think there are a lot of queers in frisco, i should check out bakersfield. the funny thing is that i have been to bakersfield and i would've been happy to find some queers. instead all i found is what seemed to be a ghost town with only the occasional sociopathic-looking fellow roaming about. perhaps the most awkward moment of the johnny visit began when a woman in a wheelchair started wailing in pain. johnny yelled over to her, "hey...ya having yer baby now?" then he pointed to seth and said, "cause i got a dad here for ya."
on a completely unrelated note, i highly recommend "march of the penguins." before seeing the movie, i thought penguins were cute and fun, for birds. birds that swim...that's pretty cool. birds that don't fly...also pretty cool. birds that can survive in antarctica where practically nothing else does...literally, very cool. but after seeing this movie, i am obsessed with penguins. as i watched the movie, i thought about how i really hope that there's no such thing as reincarnation, because what if i come back as a penguin? walking 70 miles for food in -85 degree weather? balancing my baby's egg under my fat belly for months, while i wait for my spouse to hopefully return and help me out? nevermind the effects of the cold air on my combination skin. i just don't think i'd do very well at penguin life.
but, one more day of 90-something weather with 1000% humidity and i may book a flight for antartica. this is not right. can people please stop using aerosol cans and doing whatever else it is that they're doing that is ruining the ozone layer? global warming is annoying the crap out of me. on one of my little crack binges i decided to sign up for the chicago marathon this fall. that means running a helluva lot in what feels like the most humid and hot conditions ever known to humankind. tomorrow i've got a 12-miler to tackle and i'm not really looking forward to it.
why do i have such intense hatred for tom cruise? yeah, he's ridiculous and ignorant and fairly talentless and embarrassing. but the hatred i have for him is kind of unwarranted since, as far as i remember, he's never done anything to hurt me directly. but, anytime i see him or read something he says, i just wish he would move to an island (with kelly rippa and starr jones and melissa rivers and all the other people i don't know, but have intense hatred for), so i never have to see his face or hear anything about him ever again. but, the irony is, that i secretly love reading stupid crap he says, just so i can hate him more. his latest tirade about psychology would be laughable if i could be sure that everyone who saw or read it, knew that he was completely insane and in need of some drugs. i fear that some lost souls may actually look up to him and take what he drivels on about as the truth. i also fear, that at this rate, if he says one more stupid thing, my country is likely to elect him as our next president.
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