Yesterday, I walked to the pantry, where BeeGirl was. I told her that her dental braces were sexy. And clean. And, “It’s like you’re turning into a robot”. I stopped by there to see if I could pick up some chicken for my dog, but no luck. Then I proceeded to an apartment that my LL suggested I check out.
Out front, there were aimless characters milling about. Also, there had been gunshots right in that area a week or two ago. I went inside. In comparison to the heat and humidity outside, it almost felt like it was air conditioned. This was a major point, because my apartment gets even hotter than it is outside – and this is going to be a hot, humid summer. I can’t fathom that my dog and I can survive it.
The apartment was newly painted, with dark shiny wood floors. But the kitchen was as tiny as a kitchen could be. Same with the bathroom. As a one-bedroom apartment, it would be impossible for me to move there, especially since I have so much stuff, and there is no storage area in the apartment, whatsoever. So, it’s just too small. And SHOULD the guy upstairs decide to stomp, the accoustics would be even more devastating than they are here. I don’t know why my LL thinks that my moving to a downstairs apartment would solve my problems, when it is the guy downstairs who is crazy nuts.
I do like the apartment, though. If I were a swinging bachelor without stuff and a dog. Another great point is that it is closer to downtown. Too bad I just can’t have it. So, after resting my painful brain a little bit, in the nice cool apartment, I went back outside. (I noticed a cute racoon ornament on the porch, and wondered if my LL put it there for me). Some old man started talking to me, calling me, “young man.” I always find this label distressing because I gender-identify as an old lady. Ha ha. The man just talked slow and stupid and would not let me leave. He was nice, but talking to him made me feel like an anxious city-slicker. This town, I tell ya, it is so warped. Time-warped.
The man said he was 63 years old, and so he went to bed early, and therefore knew of no trouble in the hood. He also told me about one of his neighbours who went around picking up cigarette butts, and all the poison ivy all around the aprtment I was looking at. So – no – I CANNOT be around poison ivy!!!!!!!!!! I don’t even want to go into how horrible it is for me and my CFS. All I have to do is look at a picture of it on Wikipedia, and I end up in parapalegic traction.
So, then I proceeded on a long walk, in the heat-was-hot, all the way to the hospital. First I bought some avocados at the Hispanic food mart, where the girl who likes meh has not given up her flirting.
Along the way, I came upon a large, excellent yard sale. I really had no money to buy anything, except for a $1 survival thingie. Cool. But there were all these fishing and camping things. There was a big box filled with nothing but yellow hard-hats. These things make me wonder. Despit all this sporting stuff, the sellers were an old man and woman who were heavy and out-of-shape, and terse. I think they were of Irish decent. The woman kept upbraiding the little girl who somehow might have been their daughter or something. She looked to me as an emblem of future male possibilities, in my sexy black A-shirt, and I pitied her.
At the hospital, I registered for Thyroid labs. It is a strange thing. At this hospital, there is a dispraportionate amount of middle aged or older females who do everything they can to pretend they are like 20-30 years younger. They die their hair, they dress borderline-slinky, they pour on makeup, and they talk and act like teens. What interests me about this is that the hospital is somehow an environment where they are allowed to get away with this. Are they in denial of death? Anyway, I had two of these in my encounters yesterday.
Sitting in the lounge, waiting. A blond woman came in with her rambuncteous son, and sat down across from me, in my sexiness. Her tummy was way out of shape but otherwise she looked attractive. I think she must have hit a wall when she was younger, and had a kid, and then divorced her husband, (as I later learnt). I think she was a teen who was now locked in this tragic prison of her own making. She seemed honestly fatigued and jaded by her son, and all she wanted to do was text on her phone.
The little boy just rolled around the place. Tra la la. And the mother kept yelling at him in a talking voice. “You are making me mad.”
“What did I just tell you!”
“You’re going to live with your father!”
But her upbraidings became even more obtuse, launching into sentences that the boy could not possibly understand. But I could. What she was doing was speaking not to the boy, but broadcasting to me, the public. She was speaking to the image of herself in her head, which she wanted the public to read. I was flabberghasted. She had no empathy for the kid. Just stuff in her head. Control, control. Hope against clostraphobic insecurity.
I, dear reader, was once a little like this. And it also reminds me of certain members of my family. (But this woman was really much worse). Anyway, I worked on my problems, and grew my way out of them, which has had the effect of first distancing me from my family, and then from the rest of the human race, until I was, ultimately, reduced in functionality to buzzing like a Kafkaesque fly on the wall. And all has been recorded for you to read.
“Sit!” she commanded. “Sit!” she insisted, like the cruel owner of a hopeless beast. And the boy, of course, contradicted. This went on and on. I have a dog who is very headstrong, and even more contrarian, if he is disrespected, (according to him). So, I have learnt with this dog, and others before, how to deal with stubborn creatures. Ya make them more stubborn when ya try to constrain or fight them. Ya only bring endless strife upon your life. And your words and punishments become ineffectual, only increasing the problem, though they seemingly may “work” - more and more temporarilly.
I have to exaggerate my actions. I have to resort to reptilian, Pavlovian tactics. But most of all, I HAVE TO SHOW MY DOG THAT I CARE ABOUT HIM. So, why can’t she figure this out, when all she has to work with is a fellow human being?
“I am not playing your games!” she shouted, as if to a former boyfriend.
Meanwhile, the boy is starting to go crazy, thinking that he is not allowed to go to the bathroom. He has to wait to pee in a cup. And the mother says, “I understand that, but…” And then she says, “OK. You want to go home? We’re going home!” And she walks away with him, a little.
When she is out of range, she whacks him, or twists his arm, or something. And they come back. And the kid is crying and screaming, “Mom! That HURT!!!”
I am in pain.
Then he sits down a little. Quietly. But, predictably, he is back up, wanting to roll around. Because, “I don’t want to sit next to you!”
Got the picture? So, during this, along comes a woman with a fluffy poodly dog. And the dog wants to kiss people. But the boy runs away from it. Because, as I wanted to tell the woman, “You are raising a psychopath.”
And, at some other point, another woman with a magically white poodle came by, wanting to kiss people. And the leader directed this dog to the woman and her son. And nothing much happened. And she left a little card. And, a second latter, “What did I just tell you? Sit!”
So, I was thinking about how this woman was letting so many opportunities fly by, in her emotional squalour. Here was me – a really big something for people to know – seriously, I really am a RELATIVELY awesome creature. But, also, these dogs, and all the nice and wonderful things that the son was doing. It disgusted and saddened me, how this could happen, in this day and age. The 1960’s amounted to nothing.
Well, while that boy was sitting dutifully next to his deranged mother, an older couple walked by behind them. One was a man with a cane, and one was his woman in a wheelchair. The boy looked up, and simply said, loudly and loving ly, “Hi!”
Not only did the man say, “Hi!” to the boy…
But as the couple moved along into the distance, someone approached them, and the older man with the cane greeted that person with another, “Hi!” – sounding very much like the little boy. It was cheerful and Christmassy and sad.
We are only on Earth once.
So, I started thinking about how goodness propagates, even in the dourest of circumstances. This is why I invest in the young. This is why I invest in the creative, the free, the ill, the maginalised, the poor, and on and on, anon. Even while these marginals are forever assaulted by the rich and the wannabe’s.
I am amongst those assaulted.
Meanwhile, the television is inviting quasi-cool-guy, William Shatner onto its stage. And he is exclaiming, “It doesn’t matter if the good things you do show results. They will affect people. And people will repeat these good things later. And it never ends!”
I thought, how nice. Except William Shatner was opportunistically rich, and hocking a new book. Nevertheless, the message is as good – at least IN A CLASSY SOCIETY, YO. FUCK YO.
I also thought of Moslems, and all that. (see below)
When I went in for my blood-draw, of course, the kid was balling balling balling. And I said to the nice phlebotamist from Armenia, “I have never see such a terrible mother.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
I give a knowing look.
I get so far in my development and observations, and the only way I can convey them is through a knowing look.
Enough of the hospital.
Then, I wind my way up to the Walgreens. I buy a bottle of wine, apparently for $8.99. The nice girl at the counter informs me it is on sale for $5.99, so I go back and buy another.
Then I cross the highway over into some large pine trees. I wanted to see if any of the food cans, etc., that I had left there for homeless people, had been used. Nope. Everything was still there, worn by weather. That included all the belongings of homeless people, sadly. Infuriatingly. Since noone had used the tarp I had left, I took it away.
I went down the steep concrete embankment below the highway, trying deperately not to collapse and fall to my deathly chagrin. Then I walked up the railway. A firetruck lay way ahead on the rails. It was specially equiped to run on rails, even while it maintained regular street tires. I got out of its way. It caused me no never mind. Nice to walk free with my shirt off.
Then I got to the scratch-and-dent grocery store, which sells expired food, etc. The owner ia an Iraqi. He sometimes calls me, “Boss.” Today, he was entertaining his young black friend, who sat behind the counter. They were watching some damn thing on video, and laughing insanely. After I was done shopping, he went into a thing where he was now offering catfish and “buffalo fish” – but none of it is weighed or priced. He took me back to show me. I asked how what I would pay for a certain piece, and he got angry.
He has gotten angry other times. Like when I had to return a roll of toilet paper, but I could not find the right place to put it, because of my CFS/memory. If I want to get this post done, and send it off at the library, then I will have to forego my discussion of my experience with Moslems.
After this, I went and depositted $15 into my checking account, because I am really stretching it lately. This involved a great deal of waiting. The American girl who likes me was not there; the Thai girl who likes me was, and the Polish lady with the boobs and big nose was off doing something else.
Then I went to the library. I really didn’t feel like attending to my theory, and writing while there. I was also concerned about my dog in my hot apartment. I just did a little on my laptop, and then found some DVD’s to watch, now that I have an awesome screen!
But along the course of this, I found that the library’s heaters were ON, despite it being about 90 degrees outsie. So, I posed this question to a tall female librarian who kept fixating on my bicep. She said that it had something to do with, “Balance.” She has been there 5 years. And they had a fricken fan going. And I said um this was a waste of taxpayer money.
I know enough about this stuff. Ya don’t need to be running heat in 90 degrees. Balance my ass. The gas company is making money here, that’s all it is.
Yeah – this town is so screwed up. But maybe I’ll do a post on it later.
OK – so then I walked home, getting around a really, really slow dork from the library. I got inside my home and immediately the guy downstairs starts stomping around insanely.
Because life is not allowed to occur.
Now I am trying to get to that yard sale again, with cash, so I can buy some pots, and a saw.