Archive for the ‘Disorders’ Category

Donald Trump: Is The Nightmare Over?

Friday, April 1st, 2016

trump ugly face

After all we have endured from this piece of shit, it’s hard to believe that his comment about abortion is the thing that broke the spell.

Who knew that people cared so much about women’s rights? It seemed like a majority of Americans were in favor of rolling back Roe vs Wade, and that’s been scary.

But lo and behold, Trump’s absurd statement that women who have abortions should be punished is striking a chord with everyone. For some reason, this is where they’re drawing the line.

I hope.

The news is telling me tonight that the tide has turned. Please make it be true!

Remember when it was fun to see Trump’s bloated red face, emitting outrageous noises that no one in their right mind would ever say if they were running for President, or even Boyscout Leader?

The fun turned to horror, didn’t it? I head a reporter call him a ‘steaming pile of human refuse’ on MSNBC the other night, and it felt like an understatement.

Now we’re hearing that women won’t support Tump, which makes perfect sense, but what the fuck has been wrong with men in that case?

Racism doesn’t begin to explain the attraction. Neither does the ‘people are sick of the status quo’ argument. They could have sided with Rand Paul if all they wanted was a maverick.

What is it about a fat loud bully that American men find so appealing? Is it some kind of projection? Is it a vicarious thrill to see some shameless lowlife insulting his betters?

My visceral hatred of this cunt has reached defcon whatever. His every facial movement is like a knife in my heart. That O-shape he makes with his mouth. The plump frown. The crazy hand motions and the way he says “believe me” twice after every ridiculous lie.

Is it over for real? Can we actually get out of this without anyone getting killed? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

I blame the press. I blame Donald Trump’s parents. And I blame the Idiocracy that America’s anti-intellectualism has spawned. Feel more comfortable with stupidity, America? How stupid is stupid enough?

Sure, Ted Cruz is a crazy prick and Kasich is a jerk. But there is nothing on earth as awful as Donald Trump.

Let us pray.

 

I Am Risen

Sunday, March 27th, 2016

iamrisen

A few days ago, I got up from the deathbed of my flu to see about the sawing noise from my backyard.

A guy was building something right next to my fence, a wooden thing that towered around three or four feet above the six-foot fence.

As someone who has had enough of neighbors and their fucking fences or add-ons that block the sun like a nuclear winter, I was immediately incensed.

I demanded, “What are you doing?” in a hostile tone and the guy pretended not to speak English. Another guy who I couldn’t see also pretended to not speak English until I yelled, “I’ll bet this isn’t legal!”

The invisible guy asked me what my problem was, and the fact that he spoke English made me furious. He said something like, “What’s it to you?” My feeling was, I don’t want to see a thing towering over my fence because I just don’t, motherfucker! How dare you!

I issued some nebulous threats and stomped back inside. I was ready to kill. I nearly peed. I looked up the local building codes and found a complaint form and some phone numbers.

A couple of days later, still wearing the same smelly pajamas, I decided to go over there to get the address. A couple of people milling around refused to speak to me.

Then an old guy appeared and said, I’m the owner of this building, what’s the problem?

I told him that I was concerned about the huge shed he was building and he insisted it was nothing for me to worry about. He asked me if I wanted to go back and look at it.

We went back and I could see that he was adding on to a storage shed for one of his tenants, and we discussed the property line. He said he’d been there for 35 years, as if to say, Back off, newcomer. I retorted, “Well, my husband was born in this neighborhood, and he’s 65!” I felt an atavistic aggression coursing through my veins and I also felt like a big angry baby.

I said, “What are those nails sticking out for?” in an accusatory tone, and he explained that he was hoping to grow some beans but it didn’t work out.

Maybe it was the failed beans.

Something shifted in my deranged territorial psyche and I realized that he was just a human being living his life.

He assured me that he planned to paint the shed to make it look nicer. He told me that he came here from Cuba, where he was an accountant. He told me that he likes to build things. He revealed that he had gone to school with Fidel Castro and had fought along side him in the revolution. But of course the revolution tuned bad, so he had sent his wife and kids to Miami before fleeing for his life.

I asked him what he thought of Ted Cruz (hated him but likes Rubio) and we talked about our mutual contempt for Donald Trump. He’s a Republican like many exiles but it was all good. He showed me his mango trees and we shared our disappointment in our attempts to grow lemons.

His name is Felix and he’s 87 or 89, I forgot which. I apologized for getting off to a bad start with him. I said I’d enjoyed talking to him. He said something like, “Yes. I like to talk, sometimes too much!”

I turned around to look up at him and said, “Me too! But that makes the world go around. We need to communicate and connect!”

His smile was so unexpected, his first smile, and lit up his face like a happy child’s.

I went home and announced, “Well, I have a new best friend.”

I don’t want to lose my edge, okay? I still want to start fights and hold grudges. But people are starting to worry about me. This is the third time in the last year that I’ve laid down my arms, so to speak, and found something better.

It’s still Easter Sunday here in California. Maybe I’m Jesus!

The Famous Writer

Thursday, February 4th, 2016

famous writer

Late in 2012, I became Facebook friends with a famous writer. I considered him one of the most talented writers around, a truly unique and brilliant voice. His novels are dark and disturbing but also hilarious.

He not only accepted my friend request, but he sent me a message to say he liked my blog. It was like being blessed by the Pope, only better.

We started to write messages back and forth and exchanged email addresses, We shared a depressed but cynically amused world view and had many of the same literary heroes. We even shared a love/hate relationship with weightlifting.

We decided to talk on the phone. I loved his deep voice and I loved his ideas. Here he was, a living god, and he seemed to really enjoy talking to me.

Our conversations weren’t sexual or even suggestive, but it was like a love affair based on a mutual sensibility. That’s how I saw it.

We talked about suicide and his experience helping a deeply depressed friend. I told him that I was struggling, and his insights were comforting and useful.

He told me about a crazy girlfriend who had shattered his belief in his own judgement. She had bailed on him without warning and married some other guy. I agreed with his diagnosis of her and we spent many hours going over the awfulness of dealing with Borderline Personality Disorders.

We talked about the reasons I haven’t tried to tackle a serious writing project. He encouraged me to take the plunge despite my fear of failure and all the usual bullshit that people who can’t write a novel like to use as excuses for their lack of effort or talent.

Then, he offered to be my writing mentor.

It was like a beautiful dream where everything you ever wanted plots right into your lap! I was beside myself with excitement. And even hope. Now I would write something long, something that needed to be expressed in words, in order to both ensure my sanity and justify my worthless existence.

I started to write the story of Max.

I started with the end and worked backwards. I recounted every detail, trying to capture everything. the terror and shock and grief and remorse and most of all the love.

I sent him the six pages and he was supportive, although not exactly bowled over. He reminded me that you can’t just report things, even in a memoir. You have to create a whole world.

And then he disappeared.

He didn’t respond to my phone messages or emails. There was only silence.

I began to worry that he thought I was a stalker, that’s how many messages I left. I became paranoid, wondering if someone had turned him against me. I regretted writing the six pages of complete shit. How dare I have such an inflated opinion of myself to try to write something that mattered!

Then he reappeared. He was sorry about the long silence but things had been rough. However, now he had exciting news. He was deliriously in love with a much younger women but everything was perfect. She was incredibly talented and beautiful and was about to move in with him. They had only just become lovers but they were picking out name for their children. He would support her while she wrote her masterpiece. I think he even gave her a diamond ring.

I was stunned by his story, especially after the long silence. I tried to be happy for him even though I was pretty sure the romance would end badly for him. After another long silence, he called me to let me know that she’d disappeared. She left the ring but took the high-end clothes he bought for her.

We laughed about the clothes. I felt terrible for him. Two crazy girlfriends in a row, and I mean crazy.

Then he disappeared again. And I decided to forget about him. Maybe he was like my own crazy girlfriend, the one whose red flags I refused to notice.

I didn’t try to finish the Max story. I guess it’s a story to carry in my heart until I see him again.

First Wordist Manifesto of 2016: Voracious

Saturday, January 23rd, 2016

the marriage feast

In the last few days, my sensitivity to words has been causing problems at home. It’s like a chronic low-grade illness that sometimes becomes acute.

I was starting to read an essay on millennials when the word ‘peruse’ caused me to make a snap judgement: Anyone who would use the word ‘peruse’, in the first paragraph no less, was not worth my time.

I brought this up to my husband, who saw no reason to react to ‘peruse.’

It’s hard for me to accept that some people just don’t care about words that much. Probably most people. It’s such a real, visceral response for me when a word is used poorly or is just intrinsically awful, like peruse.

Some words just make me cringe, even though they are apparently harmless to others. But peruse, come on! There’s just no reason to use it unless you’re deliberately trying to sound stupid. It’s like using ‘loquacious’ when you could just say ‘talkative.’ Or using ‘sans’ for ‘without.’

I wanted to think of a term for this category of annoying words that connote an effort to sound smart. I have only come up with ‘bourgeois’ but I’m hoping for something better.

Meanwhile, someone on the radio yesterday said this about some guy who died:

He was a voracious joke-teller.

My brain went AAAAAAAAAAAAH.

You can’t be a voracious joke-teller, I complained. Maybe the guy was an inveterate joke-teller. Voracious implies an appetite or hunger. It’s bad enough that people always use the cliche ‘voracious reader’ but at least it is used correctly.

I could not get agreement from my husband so I turned to my nephew, a wordist of the highest order. He suggested ‘avid’ for the joke-teller.

Genius, right? Meanwhile, my husband and I retreated into our separate worlds of not caring and caring obsessively about voracious joke telling.

I turned to the Oxford Dictionary online to soothe my nerves.

Definition of voracious in English:
adjective
Wanting or devouring great quantities of food
he had a voracious appetite

Voracious implies something you can take in or ingest, then.  So you can’t be a voracious singer, duh.

But then, there is a second definition:  Having a very eager approach to an activity.  The example given is his voracious reading of literature. Elsewhere I found the example he was a voracious collector.

I’m going to stick to my guns about voracious joke-telling. It is an improper use of a word that was employed just to sound smart but ended up making me furious, but not as furious as those who are sick of my fucking wordist nitpicking.

If you have perused this whole rant, kindly opine on my condition whilst I consider upping my meds.

Cheers.

*extra points if that ‘Cheers’ put you over the top

Thankful Or Not

Monday, November 30th, 2015

tom turkey small

I have been struggling with inertia, feelings of hopelessness, and general apathy. Thanksgiving made me aware of my resistance to the whole idea of being thankful.

Why do we have to be thankful on demand? Why can’t we just wallow in bitterness and despair?

My Thanksgiving turned out to be a happy one, by the grace of friends who cook and play guitar. I even made a festive centerpiece. But three days later, I’m still coming across lists of Things To Be Thankful For. I just found one with a full 100 things that some idiot or group of idiots managed to compile.

Number 1 is :

Your health- because it’s one thing that you should never take for granted.

Really? I thought health was the thing you turn to when you can’t think of any other reason to be grateful, a last resort and kind of a bitter pill. “At least you’ve got your health.”

Number 4 is “scented candles”. Hahahaha! Jesus. In my world, that would come right after paved roads.

“Friends” come in at Number 15. Oh well.

Number 32 is “Free Shipping.” LOL!  Actually, free shipping is a good one, I’m going to make it number 10 in my personal hierarchy of gratitude.

Number 65 is:

A cup of really good coffee.

Clearly these philistines know nothing about coffee.

Number 85 = Hummus. Whereas “Art” is Number 91.

I have to admit this list gave me some good laughs, so I need to put “stupid lists” in my top ten. Let me change my mind about the Thankfulness thing and offer a list of my own. I hope it’s clear that I’m making all this up as I write, okay?

1. Love
2. Art
3. Music
4. Coffee
5. Chocolate
6. Dogs
7. ???
8. ???
9. Stupid lists
10. Free shipping.

Anyone want to share their own top ten? Or to fill in my seven and eight?

 

 

Epiphanies From My Vacation

Wednesday, September 9th, 2015

Tourists

We traveled to another state for a family visit and it was an experience rich with epiphanies. Here are the ones I can remember:

1. I have zero fear of flying and no anxiety about things going wrong. I sat next to the window and enjoyed being up in the clouds. I realized that I didn’t care about the plane crashing; it was a genuine feeling of ‘So what? No problem.’ I’m aware this may not be normal thinking but it is incredibly liberating.

2. I don’t need a green crocodile handbag by Nancy Gonzalez. I have viewed this item as the holy grail of consumer goods for a long time. Don’t ask why. I planned to buy one when some nebulous project made me a million dollars. I went to look at one and when I touched it, I felt no surge of longing or quickening heartbeat, and certainly no spark of joy. Poof, the spell was broken! This frees up at least $3,000 of imaginary future money.

3. I really do wear a 32C and and not a 34B. The last time some bra lady told me to switch sizes, I refused to take her up on it. A nice, more persuasive bra lady named Vicky convinced me to make the change. It was almost like accepting Jesus into my heart only it was Vicky. Thanks, girl!

4. I am emotionally better off when deprived of media. A few days without TV or internet can tamp down one’s everyday sense of rage. One day back at home and I’m ready to fucking explode at that stupid bitch who won’t let same-sex people get married. Why do we have her?? Take her away!

5. Ice cream is more important than any other type of food. Keep your fancy entrees and give me ice cream instead.

6. Coming home from somewhere else is deeply satisfying. I love my own bed and it loves me. Even though we discovered a plumbing leak that may be catastrophic, home is where you can do what you want, where all your shit is, like your Waterpik thing and your skin products. Home is your sanctuary.

Oh and here’s one more, but this is more like a life lesson or general wisdom: If you break your baby toe, someone’s going to try to run over it with a shopping cart, and they will eventually succeed.

 

Help A Sister Out

Tuesday, August 18th, 2015

Silver skirt problem

Okay so I bought this skirt online because it was reduced from a billion dollars to just a fraction of its original price, and because I loved its shimmery quality.

In real life, it’s even more shimmery, the thinnest silk lame but lined with cotton. Really, it’s the shit, you will just have to trust me on this.

The problem is, I love the way it’s styled here but I don’t have a sleeveless shirt like this and I have no imagination. None. I can’t think of one single way to wear the skirt and make it look casual and tomboyish instead of trashy or hookerish.

I don’t want to look like a prostitute, as I’ve noted here several times over the years.  I know this because I made a cyber-friend who pointed this out and told me all about his pathological girlfriends before disappearing back into the ethernet. ( Hi, Donald!)

If I don’t want to look like a prostitute, why do I keep buying clothes that warrant this caveat??

I have no idea, alright? Just help me figure out a top to wear. I already have pointy oxfords so I’m good in the shoe department. I even have them in silver!

If I wear the silver skirt with the silver shoes, will I look like a prostitute? Only answer that one after you find me a top.

Be specific and include links if you have em.

Thanks!

Calibrating Distress

Monday, August 10th, 2015

Sappho

For those of you who use ‘social media,’ did you notice how quickly concern for the dead lion evoked angry complaints that ‘black lives matter?’

People weren’t done mourning for whoever they were mourning for and they resented the outrage about the lion. Then some geniuses wrote think-pieces suggesting that it’s not an either/or situation: We could be upset about black lives AND lions.

Me, I don’t know what to feel upset about, or rather, what to put at the top of my list. There is just too much going on.

Mass shootings, police shootings, dead lions, Donald Trump, dead Palestinian baby, starving children in Yemen, transgender teen bullying, more riots in Ferguson, and a little hippo being mauled to death (Daily Mail online, don’t look!)

I couldn’t even feel a thing for the latest movie theater episode, except to feel sorry for Amy Schumer. Am I broken?

I don’t understand why the poor Palestinian baby is worth more discussion that the dying refugees in Yemen, complete with malnourished babies who look like tiny skeletons.

And while we’re on the subject, I was unable to be horrified at Planned Parenthood for marketing fetus organs. If someone wants to abort a fetus, why can’t it be used to promote life elsewhere? Because ‘life begins at conception?’ Why do Americans care so much more about the unborn than the born?

Tonight, there is a woman out on the cliffs near my house, deciding whether to jump. There are helicopters and firetrucks and lots of commotion. I would personally go out to talk to her if I were allowed to. Meanwhile, people on our local community Facebook page are sending their prayers or complaining about the noise. A couple of people want her to jump and get it over with.

I’ll bet you anything that those people are beside themselves about the fucking lion.

The Joy Of Trying To Tidy Up

Thursday, July 2nd, 2015

SnowWhiteClapping

In my continuing effort to make life livable, I’ve sunk to self-help books. It’s a poignant conundrum. The more you succumb to self-help books, the more of a loser you are, by definition.

Still. I have high hopes for The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. a worldwide best seller that makes a bold promise:

In this book, I have summed up how to put your space in order in a way that will change your life forever.

The book is slim, like The Prophet, and similarly filled with wisdom, only more useful wisdom. I vaguely recall stuff from The Prophet, like your children are arrows and sadness is a well or something. Great.

But compare that to the revelation that everything you own should spark joy. If you pick something up and you don’t feel any joy, YOU DON’T KEEP IT!

It’s such a huge but simple concept. All the shit you’ve acquired is shit that you have to put somewhere and there’s just too much of it. Duh, you know that. But you don’t know how to cull your stuff, and you’ve tried so many times. You can’t get rid of stuff because you paid good money for it, you might need it, you might lose weight. it’s a memento, it was a gift, it isn’t broken, one day you’ll give it to someone.

Anyway, the first brilliant edict from the author, Marie Kondo, that shook me to the core was this:

Don’t demote clothing to ‘lounge-wear.’

Right?!? Even my husband admitted to this practice. If something is too ugly or worn out to wear in public, you put it with your PJ’s.  Ms. Kondo insists that even when you’re at home, you should be wearing something that sparks your joy. Right now I’m wearing a green tank top that I’m going to throw away later tonight, because the color and cut bring me NO FUCKING JOY, none.

It’s that simple.

So, I’m not following Kondo’s instructions to the letter but I’m making a start. I emptied each drawer of my dresser and picked up each item. If there was a distinct No Joy feeling, I made a contemptuous face and threw it on the floor. If there was a ‘meh’ feeling, I hesitated.

But I did collect two bags of shit to throw away. I have to go around the house and do this with everything. It will be exhausting but I think I can eliminate tons of stuff from my amassed belongings, which have become burdensome.

I also got a book for parents whose adult children hate them. It is somewhat comforting.

Throwing shit out is the way to go, the road to harmony and contentment. Maybe the less I need, the less needy I will seem. I will be spartan, disciplined, and self-contained. I will accept no nonsense from green tank tops.

And throwing shit out puts you in a position of power, which is good. Like George Bush said about Donald Rumsfeld, I am The Decider.

Exciting News About Hideous Denim!

Wednesday, June 10th, 2015

denimpile

Yay for me!

I have started a new blog devoted solely to hideous denim, so as to spare sensitive viewers (and impressionable children) from being subjected to this topic.

It you’re wearing your big boy pants, go check it out.

xoxoxo