Santa Claus

I’ve been trying to figure out ways to help me cope in the clusterfuck that is life at work in America these days. There is all kinds of advice out there. All kind of information about how to breathe and how to stretch, and how to take "me" time at work. There is also the advice to bring small personal items to work to soothe yourself during the course of a workday. So I decided that some day when I actually get unpacked I am going to bring some pictures to work.

I have lots of photos, spanning generations of my family. I decided I want to bring one of my Mom and Dad, in it they are both actually younger than I am now. They are staring adoringly at each other, and have that little gleam in their eye that surely would have led to more siblings had my Mom not been spaded as I so eloquently put it. I also want to bring one of my cats, because I am sure it will be much easier for me to acquire 96 more and become the weird old lady with 98 cats if everyone knows I am a cat person. Finally, I decided I will bring a picture I have of me and Minnie on Santa’s lap.

I remember the day the picture was taken, but not precisely what year. Looking at the picture I am pretty sure it was the year that I was 6 and Minnie was two. I am thinking this was when it was because this was the summer that Minnie was sporting a partially self-inflicted mullet, and it is quite evident in the photo. It was in November, really on the heals of Halloween, and well before Thanksgiving, not to mention Christmas. I was sitting in our downstairs hallway petting our dog, whom my Mom referred to as the best babysitter we ever had. When I looked up and there was Santa! coming out of the dining room. Now, I will be honest with you, I was more nosy than amazed at the sight of him. The prior year nosiness had caused me to go on a covert search for my Mom’s perfume which I was not allowed to touch and had resulted in my being fully divested me of the notion of Santa, AND the Easter Bunny, AND the Tooth Fairy. So, basically, what I said was; "hey Daddy, how come you’re dressed up like Santa?"

Right then both my Mom and Dad and My Brother and Holly Hobby shushed me so that Minnie did not know it was Daddy. Then my Daddy took me in the dining room and told me why he was dressed up like Santa. See, my Dad was the stereotypical fat dude, often pressed into Santa duty. All happy and friendly, and profoundly gifted in dealing with children, particularly in the guise of Santa. Right up until the Christmas before he died, my Dad made many calls on every Christmas Eves to the children and grandchildren of friends and family, encouraging kids to go to bed early so he can keep his schedule and visit all the kids that night. Assuring them he and the reindeer adore the snacks the children had planned. So this year, some parents of a little boy who went to the same grammar school as me and Holly and My Brother, had asked my Dad to play Santa for their son.

He was in fourth grade, and he was very, very sick. He had cancer, and was going to die, and there was nothing to be done to help him get better. He was going to die soon, probably before Christmas. So, his Mommy and Daddy wanted to make a surprise for him. So my Dad agreed to do whatever he could to help them. That is why my Dad was dressed up like Santa in early November. My Dad actually owned a Santa suit, and a Santa sack. The boy’s Mommy and Daddy gave him presents to put in the sack. Before my Dad left, Minnie discovered him. She was so excited. She did not care if Santa had stuff for her. She did not know if was Daddy. She was just so excited. So my Dad told her he was visiting our town to double-check his list. He pulled me and Minnie onto his lap, and my Mom took our picture.

It is a really good picture, a Polaroid, that I had made into prints for me and Minnie the second Christmas after our parents died. My Dad is holding us both tightly, Minnie is in absolute hog heaven oblivious to the fact it is our Dad, and I am smirking smugly because I know it is him. My Dad is smiling, but his eyes are haunted and grateful. So, I figured this is a really good picture to bring to work with me. It always makes me smile. It reminds how absolutely beloved and wanted and cherished all of my parents children were to them, and it most importantly reminds me that work is inconsequential.

Bizarre

A day in my life...

My dermatologist has me use some stuff on my face at night to help deal with allergies. Somehow, as I slept I managed to get some in my right eye, I think. When I woke up, miraculously NOT at 4:20, my eye was stingy and I had the skin gunk all caked sexily in the corner of my eye. That’s how I get all my men, by the way. So I got up and took a shower, and put on my hypoallergenic moisturizer, and instilled my allergy eye drops. Realizing it was going to be a "bad allergy day" this was followed by mass consumption of both prescription and over the counter allergy remedies. Clarinex, is a gift from heaven, the pharmacist is your friend, and dosage guidelines are for wussies.

So all is well, I manage to bathe and dress myself, including contact lenses, without doing myself or anyone else any dire harm. The evil furries I live with apparently had a shedding ritual while I slept, as I got a face full of cat fur as I snuggled up to them on the couch to say goodbye for the day. I did this by kneeling down in front of the couch, of course, because those two ungrateful wretches were hogging the entire couch. I see other people with cats who curl up in cute little tiny balls. Not my kitties. Girly Kitty is fifteen months old now, and she and Mon Petit Amour are both bigger than the White Witch. Perhaps their personal trainers have advised them that they must completely stretch out in order to maintain the maximum ability to wreck my stuff when I am not home. Even though I am a cat Mommy, I am technically allergic to cats, and the nose full of fur was not a good addition to my already allergy critical day.

Benadryl, you can mix that with Sudafed and Clarinex, right?

Off I go to the Public Library to get my money’s worth on my taxes by using the free UNFILTERED wifi. I do not want the children and various and sundry other nosey people there to read my writing, or see how much time I waste on D-Listed. I always like to find a private table against the wall, not a carrel, or a shared area in the middle. All my regular spots were taken. So, I am wandering about, looking for a good place to compute with a reasonable expectation of privacy and access to an electrical outlet. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the coupon exchange area. Ah, the only thing I love more than coupons are coupons I don’t have to cut out. Score! So I am mindlessly looking for shampoo and cat litter coupons when a little old man wanders up to the table. He proceeds to chat my ear off as we shuffle through the coupons. Normally I do not mind little old men, or ladies, or anybody else, chatting with me when I am obviously out in public and available to be spoken with. However, this was a freak show.

During the course of shuffling through the coupons, he informed me how he used to be crippled by arthritis when he was younger. Then he began taking 30 vitamins a day, and now he is fine, and he is in better health now that he is 80, then when he was 30. I am a nerd, so I told him I was there to use my computer, and was looking for a plug, and happened upon the coupon joy. He told me I am very pretty, and if I don’t have a husband, I can come over his house and use my computer there. He then told me he is a widower. His wife died five years ago, and he was lonely, and nobody will come home with him. I expressed the requisite non-committal condolences to strangers who have just divulged that someone presumably precious to them has passed away. He then went on to tell me that it was awful because one of the neighbor ladies lured her away and beat her death. The neighbors think he did it, and he told the cops about the neighbor lady, but nobody believes him. Right about now I am wondering what else he is on besides vitamins. Seriously, if this guy were not an 80-year-old dude I could easily have kicked the shit out of, I would have run. Why do these people always find me? I need to learn to be more aloof, or at least look like I carry a gun or something.

So then I give up on the coupon situation, no cat litter relief to be found. I wander around again looking for outlets to plug in my laptop. I finally found an unused one in a little furniture grouping. There is already a guy there sitting on one of the couches. No biggie, this is a public place after all. So, I start to take my stuff out of my laptop case, and get plugged in to the outlet, and pull out my headphones. The guy who was already there invites me to sit next to him to share the table. I say; "no, I’ll just curl up here on the couch, just like at home." He tells me there are some open desks on the center of the library. I tell him I do not like to sit there in the middle. I like to sit against the wall so nobody can read what I am writing, or doing on my computer. He says; "ooh, are you looking at porn?" I tell him; "no, I just hate nosey people." So, eventually he goes away, or so I think. He comes back after I have moved my stuff on to the table, and then proceeds to keep trying to look at my laptop screen. He would have been sorely disappointed to see I was merely working on my resume and job hunting if he had been able to get a good peek. I just have no idea why weird people attach themselves to me. Maybe there just are no normal people, and I am not able to come to grips with that reality yet. Perhaps, I am flypaper for freaks, as I have long suspected. Perhaps, I am their queen, and have not yet come to grips with my own glaringly obvious eccentricities.

At the end of this surreal day I have bunkered down at home to reconcile my checkbook in my office. I am sitting there watching trashy TV. Where do they find these people? Who dresses these dorks? The lingo used to describe "seduction routines" sounds like a cross between a Star Trek convention and a Dungeons and Dragons symposium. So I am sitting there minding my own business, entering my receipts to Money, wondering how Mystery ever gets laid, when, all of a sudden, the ceiling fan makes a horrible racket, drops a couple feet, and spins around like a ball on a tether. Luckily, whatever caused this also broke the fan, and it goes off. After I assure myself I have neither pissed nor shit myself, other surefire ways by which I get my men by the way, I slither along the wall to turn off the switch for the fan.

Once I hit the wall switch for the fan, I happily ventured to the basement to shut off the breaker in my brand new breaker box. I try the switch labeled office, to no avail. After some experimentation, I manage to get the TV in the office to go silent. I had left it on very loudly so I could be sure when I had shut off the electricity to the office without running up and down the basement stairs every time I flicked a switch. Then I go upstairs and grab a pair of scissors to cut the only remaining wire that is holding the ceiling fan to the ceiling. I decide it may be best to leave the breaker for the office off. However, I discover some problems in the rest of the house. At first, I think there may be a breaker thrown that I did not notice, or perhaps when the ceiling fan careened about it caused other electrical items to short out.

After significant experimentation, much changing of unbroken bulbs, and intense swearing regarding the cost of replacement of apparently non-functioning air conditioners, televisions, and a computer, I discovered another quirk of my old house. When I had the electrical service updated, I had told the electricians my Dad had always told us the house had lot of strange configurations of the mechanicals, but was well constructed. All the contractors agreed, and when the new service went in, we transferred the labeling from the fuses to the breakers, knowing we had no freaking idea all each circuit entailed. Thanks to the ceiling fan calamity, I found out that all the outlets in one half of my living room, and all the outlets in three of the bedrooms on the main floor of my house are on the same circuit. I also found out all the ceiling lighting in these same rooms are not on the that same circuit but are on the same circuit together. What that means is not only do I not have to replace most of my small and mid size appliances, but also that I am one lucky ducky. I started to cry when I realized I had stood on a metal chair in my bare feet and cut a live wire with a pair of sewing scissors. Never a dull moment at the Money Pit I call home.

Disillusionment

Sometimes I am just so disappointed.

I want to believe as a rule that human beings recognize occasions and rise to them.

Today makes me sad because we have the anniversary of an occasion to which we all rose, like 9/11, like the bombing in Oklahoma, like the Indonesian Tsunami, like so many things that are thrown at our feet by a constant barrage of sound bytes, and news clips perpetuated constantly through all the forms of media that are literally at our finger tips. The thing is it seems that we often subscribe to interest in these tragedies until the next one comes along. It is like our humanitarianism has a short attention span. Like we have no follow up, no accountability to each other, no depth of interest in anything beyond ourselves.

On a smaller scale, it seems like we are not really involved with or aware of the inner workings of the lives of those we hold near and dear. No matter how long you know someone or how "close" you are, or how much time you spend together, it seems no one can really know anyone. Because we all view the world through the prism of our own experiences, we view everything, including each other, uniquely. It seems like the more I hope to find "like minded individuals" the more isolated I feel. It seems to me often that my world view is so utterly warped from the alleged norm that I feel like I do not have anybody to talk to, not even the people who love me.

I have a lot of expectations of other people, but nothing less than the expectations I have of myself in relation to other people. I expect when I directly tell people who purport to care for me about something they do, or do not do, that is hurtful to me, that they will stop or start doing it posthaste. It really pisses me off when the people who I feel like are my support system are the ones about whom I need to be supported. So, I am disgruntled, with no hope of becoming gruntled soon. Some things, no matter how trivial, are important to me, and I am mad that my peeps dropped the ball.

Meanwhile, back to the aftermath of Katrina, people in Mississippi and Louisiana still are homeless, penniless, and hopeless. That is pretty fucked up here in the richest country in the world, with the best infrastructure in the world, and the best military in the world, dontcha think? Do what you can, even if all you can do is pray, do it. Do something, anything; buy an extra can of food for your local homeless shelter, clean out your closet, volunteer somewhere. Just do it. Take responsibility for your fellow humans and stick to your commitment damn it.

Everybody Poops

This morning once again, I am up at O’dark thirty. I cannot find the elusive Unisom anywhere. I think maybe it is one of those drugs the pharmacy holds now, you know like the Sudafed. Perhaps there is some sort of street drug one can fabricate using the Unisom as well. As I sat on the edge of my bathtub shaving my legs, yes shaving my legs, let it not be said that I do not use my time wisely, I realized something. It occurred to me that I woke up today at 4:20 AM, as I have every day for weeks, no matter when I fell asleep. Being a great believer not only in divine intervention, but that you also subconsciously know the solution to all your problems, I am thinking maybe I am supposed to become a pothead.

I have also observed many other things as I have enjoyed my most recent bout of insomnia. First of all, I realize that over the past few months I have really scaled back on my contributions to my cable company’s bottom line by canceling my $9,827,236 per month cable modem internet service, and progressively decreasing my channel selection down to the dreaded "family" package. It was just taking up too much of my time to surf through thousands of channels all day while simultaneously looking at porn and trying to bring up my church bulletin on the internet. Now I have plenty of time to do funky stuff like sleep, alas, I am not sleeping. While I realize that I now have only approximately 100 television channels, I am mystified as to why nearly all of them play the dreaded "paid programming" all night long. Perhaps everyone has been reduced to the depths of sorrow known as "family"cable and the cable company really needs to drum up revenue.

In my opinion, the Dual Cleanse guy really looks like the kind of person I would think would be into poop. Who dresses these infomercial people anyway? I must say though, I am a purist, I think the SoloFlex guy was way hotter than the AbRail guy. Having decided I no longer need to put the Dolan family through college, I of course do not have Showtime, and will not be watching one of my vintage era hotties, David Duchovny, in Californication. I sure do like going retro and watching those old X-Files episodes though. According to my unscientific television research the world is full of STD ridden, fat ass, acne prone, stupid young women with no shirt on lovin', classic rock fans. I am totally going to break down and buy that Singers and Songwriters series one night.

I am going to go back to bed, Angel is on. Before I go; America, please keep your legs and mouths, and other various orifices closed for Christ’s sake! I am sick of the herpasyphilaids treatment commercials you sluts.

Elusive Sheep

For awhile now, I have been profoundly tired and unable to sleep. I fall asleep for a short while, just enough to take the edge off the sheer exhaustion. Then I cannot sleep anymore. I am too old for this shit. I want to sleep at night, all night, like normal people. Over the weekend I saw some of my close friends and got along loving lecture about not worrying about other people, and who gives a shit if you hate work, we still love ya.

But I am still tired. Right now I feel like the money to make the rest of the repairs to my house is unattainable, and I will be stuck living in this decrepit dump forever. Sometimes I wish I had been shallow and gotten married, then I could at least hove some alimony coming in. But my parents always said; if you marry for money you earn every penny.

I am simultaneously worried about my sisters, and sick of them being such colossal fuck-ups. I have given them all the advice I have to give. I am not a bank and this is not a hotel. They are what I call penguins, ya know, they just stand there making a lot of noise and flapping their wings and going nowhere. Somehow I have to figure out a way not to give a shit.

Being tired is hard for me. It amplifies the worst of my personality, and squelches the best. I want to smack the shit out of people most of the time. They all drive too slow, talk to slow, talk to loud, breathe, and otherwise hinder my progress through life. It sucks. I lay in bed at night and ask God to please help me fucking sleep so I can think. Me and God are tight, he knows I have a potty mouth, but I mean well.

I have tried a few things; tonight I am trying Unisom. If it does not work I am going to have to break down and go to the doctor and get some real drugs. I might slap a few people who need it first though.

Geezer Pervs

Seriously, what is the deal with pervy old farts? Do I have "talk dirty to me you salacious old fuck" tattooed on my forehead or what?

I have long history, some of which my friends misguidedly find funny, with dirty old men bothering me. It has not changed any as I have aged; the pervs have just gotten older.

One of my most creepy experiences was when I went to see Silence of the Lambs with some friends. I’m sitting in the very crowded movie theatre, minding my own business, trying not to be too much of a wimp, as I am not a scary movie person. An older man, like grandpa age, comes and sits next to me, and I think nothing of it until I realize he has thrown his coat over both our laps, is trying to "touch" me, and get my hand into his lap. I aggressively crossed my legs, threw his coat on the floor, elbowed him in the ribs, and stage whispered to my friend "this creepy old dude is trying to touch me!" My friend's husband laughed, I wanted to punch him too. Several people around us were horrified, and the old dude picked up his coat, and high tailed it up the aisle and out of there at a surprising rate of speed for such a geriatric case.

My apartment where I lived the whole time after I left home was really cute, and I liked it there. Across the driveway lived a little old man and a little old lady. They seemed nice enough. The lady used to make me laugh telling me stories about her kids and grand kids. We were friendly with each other; it was a friendly neighborhood in general. One time the lady got excited to answer the door when her grandchildren came to visit, she hurried too fast, slid on the welcome mat, and shattered her elbow on the door frame. She was in the hospital and rehab for quite some time. While she was away, I, and several other neighbors, helped the little old man with stuff he never had to do before, like work the stove, and washing machine. A couple years later, the little old man had a very serious car accident. He did not brake in time as he approached an intersection where the light had just turned red. He had to be cut out of his car by the firemen. This was between Christmas and New Year’s one year.

He was upset because they had just bought the car that fall, and they cut off the coat he had gotten for Christmas. What really pissed him off, was lying on the ground in his "undershorts" in the snow while they stabilized him to go to the hospital. Anyway, all along the little old man would tell me I was pretty, or sexy, or looked nice, or my boyfriend was lucky, or tell my boyfriend he was lucky, etcetera, blah, blah, blah. I thought nothing of it, as I am pretty, and my boyfriend was lucky. The two biggest flirts in the free world raised me, so I thought nothing of considering such compliments as merely passingly friendly, and wholeheartedly innocuous. One night, in the midst of my parents’ illnesses, I made myself some cappellini with butter and fresh grated Romano cheese. Real food from a pot, not a box, alone, at a table, with no one to take care of, and nothing to do but chew. As I sat there at my kitchen table, in front of my beautiful thirty two divided light picture window, I noticed a flash of light and looked up to see my neighbor across the driveway in his kitchen, all the lights blazing, buck naked, masturbating like he was getting paid for it, and staring dead at me. I spit out the food I had in my mouth, closed the blinds, which I did not open again until they moved a year later, and checked all the locks on the doors and windows. I called the police. They said I could have him arrested. I felt sorry for him. I thought he must have lost a few too many marbles or something, so I did not have him arrested. Then I later found out he had been making a habit of doing similar things for years. Too bad the neighbors never mentioned THAT at the block watch meetings, huh?

So, recently, I am sitting on the beach thinking maybe I will go to Vegas because it is probably cooler there. In the midst of the freakish heat wave, I like many people am taking every opportunity for hydrating. I am enjoying a nice watermelon flavored shaved ice, and thumbing through a stack of magazines I drag around in my car. I swear I am minding my own business when I little old dude, soon to be revealed as a big fat pervo, comes and sits at the picnic table with me. He starts talking about the weather, blah, blah, blah. I am politely uh huhing as I read my old Vanity Fairs, and my parents’ AARP magazine that is still coming. They have a really good crossword puzzle, by the way. As I am flipping through a magazine, the geezer dude notices something that catches his eye. He goes; "ooh naked people," "I like naked people pictures." I showed him; nope it is not naked people, just a make-up ad. He then goes on and on about naked people. I tell him that I would think people should not talk about naked people in front of kids, of which a whole gaggle was sitting all around us. He STILL did not shut up, until I pointed out you can get arrested for exposing kids to such conversation.

Seriously, what the fuck!?

My New Camera Phone Works Too!

Life is good.

I can indeed sit on the beach with my computer, a nice cool overpriced coffee based drink at my side, and watch the waves, and sailboats, and people, and the coming weather on the horizon over the top of my laptop screen while I write.