Wednesday, February 13, 2013

#ROW80 1ST QTR POST 13 – WEDNESDAY CHECKIN, FUN IN THE PSYCHIATRIST WAITING ROOM




In what is become an unfortunate habit of late, I seem to churn out a batch of words around check in time and then go merrily off about my business. Lately, this has consisted of baiting idiots in the psychiatrist’s waiting room, going to the ER and playing a whole lotta Runescape. When I got sick, ambition was probably the first fatality. The house looks as though it were a bear den. That speaks more to my level of domesticity than any lack of ambition, although I believe the two are related.


My new pet, Sparky, in Runescape

Actually, a quick side note. I was at the ER on Sunday, and although I have Congestive Heart Failure, it is minimal. I also have COPD and emphysema. This flu or streptococcus of the bunghole or whatever this shit is has exacerbated all 3. My pulse is running 112 to 120 and I'm short of breath. More annoying? My essential tremors are horrible. I'd like to take my fists and stuff them up that neurologist's ass and let them churn around and see if "we're still not convinced you have PD." Well, you can tell I'm feeling better! But, I digress.

One of my stupider husbands had the temerity to complain about my domestic skills to my mother after we married. She looked at him, like he had just grown a 3rd eye, and said, “What are you bitching about? You lived with her before you married her. You knew she was as domestic as a bobcat. What do you want me to do, take her out to the wood shed? She'll eat me alive!”

He had at least one more brain cell than Hubby number 2, who I met on a gig. Playing the viola. At the time, I was laboring under some dumb-ass delusion that anyone who makes art must be a beautiful person. If this isn’t one of the more deranged notions in the history of forever, I’d like to hear the winner. I cringe just writing this. Anyway, Phil played viola, ergo, he must be just an awesome guy. Plus, he was single, which was a big asset. With no other inner savvy than that to go on, you can see how we were a match made in oh, I don’t know, Planet Bizarro?

After a whirl-wind 3 week engagement, we got married. After the honeymoon, I did not turn into the Piccolo player, or the String Bass player, or any thing OTHER than the Viola player that Phil had married. Plus, he drank, but went to AA and made a big deal about what a great AA-er he was. He stopped going to AA, but made a sudden decision to go back, the night he put his hands on me. That resulted in a right upper-cut and a left-cross. I let him explain that to all of our orchestra colleagues. I took the week off and gardened, registered for school and got the hell out of Dodge City, the following year.


Yer can keep yer Gah-damn Viola!

So, I have no brain cells or luck when it comes to men. JC was sent to me by God. I am absolutely certain of it. We all lived in those 2 houses side by side. 80 of us, most of us with some kind of physical disability, or down on our luck, or fresh out of prison. 80 people in 2 houses meant to hold 12 tops. There is every kind of chicanery, con, drug deal, bad thing going down there. The ex-felon mentality is strong. Some people never lose it, and sadly, they stay in their bars. Jurisprudence and penal systems in this country are flawed, deeply flawed. People are walking around who should be behind bars for the wrongs they’ve committed. Extrapolate on that for a minute. Homeless person; person released from the can. How's it working? Fucking Awesomely beautiful!!! Bar none, the best thing that has ever happened! Happy? Ecstatic! Oh, by the way? This is our little secret. It wasn't a choice. It was meant to happen.

Other people have made mistakes, been in the wrong place in the wrong time, and with no malice aforethought and no evil intent and have been railroaded by the system and had years stolen from them. They are then further stigmatized with labels and made to pay money for “therapy” that is more akin to show-and-tell.

Yet, there’s one guy here on Nebraska, 33605, Ray-Ray who’s a psychopath. A TRUE psychopath. Read about him here. He’s an habitual offender and he’s out for the 4th time. He and I have a serious mutual hate and that’s fine. He thinks he’s entitled to everyone’s everything. He does some low-level informant work for the Federales and he sucks, because if I know this and I’m hooked into absolutely NO-ONE’S gang, how clandestine is this asshole? He’s been locked up for drug possession, grand theft, domestic abuse, running from the police, failing to register; just unreal. Yet, he’s out here running around, free as a bird.


Ray-Ray is like Prison Break, only there's just one guy, no smarts, no driven FBI guy like Mahone, no Sucre, no C-Note. Ray-Ray isn't even a T-Bag. Although he COULD be, that's why he's so goddamned scary. He's lost all access to easy money.

In a culture where everyone gets a second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. chance, just because a person doesn’t have money, they are slapped with a label and stuck in a pigeon-hole. I have my own labels. “Bipolar” “Asperger” “Baker-Acted” “Crazy” I play to it; happily. I admit it and I revel in it. “Homeless” has no sting anymore, because what came after was so much worse. So, yeah, I tell the world proudly.

Like I said to “50 Shades of Douchebag” who was hating on Indians in Dr. V’s waiting room, because Dr. V, the head doctor wouldn’t right his buzzed ass a script for a bunch of pills; after his fucked-up tirade “You wanna schoolyard it? Let’s go! Outside! I’ve been Baker-Acted. I can go again. I used to have to wear dresses and bows 'n shit. My ma thought I wouldn’t fight. My dad called it camouflage. C’mon, Rambo…” Sometimes, labels are an advantage. Rambo left in a huff. I thought of the old Groucho Marx joke, "Don't leave in a huff, you can leave in a minute-and-a-huff."

Anyway, when it came my turn to see Dr. V, I felt it important to apologize on behalf of America, because “we’re not all like that.” He seemed to appreciate that. Afterward, I went out and sat at my bus stop and waited for my bus. The day was warm and the sun felt good. There was a girl who was just getting off of her day-labor job. She was funny and affable and we sat there and chatted. I was glad to get home. JC told me the story about Mr. Cantrell's hunter that he spent a mint on. Apparently, that dog is still running.



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