#ROW80 1ST QTR WEDNESDAY CHECK IN - POST 22 – WE ARE NOT ALWAYS AS ADVERTISED

Goals, schmoals once again. My goals are this: Type one damn word without extra letters or some kinda goddamned type. Let’s not have a killing rage at idiots. Non-tangible, but right now, that’ll do! Oh yeah, and not sleeping 45 hours a day would work too; not one blue-eyed thing is getting done. Surprised I pooped this out, to quote Andi-Roo, courtesy of the world4realz.com.

I have had a good run, mood-wise lately. I’ve refrained from street-brawls and was never one to start a bitch-kitty of a fight. I generally let fights come to me. No less than the Military Strategist Von Clausewitz and Bruce Lee advise that strategy. That almost changed yesterday and the target was someone who did not help her cause.

I Wonder if he takes Medicare...

Two days ago, I received a call from my primary health clinic, telling him I could get my full spectrum of tests there at 11:30. I asked them 3 times, if I could come to their clinic, rather than busing all over the city. This is really hell for someone who has PD or non-pd and is legally blind to boot. The trip involves transfers and the weather has been cold, damp and nasty. My PD symptoms are still not good and I am still on edge. I am fine with my usual buddies, but not strangers (not that I ever am.)

This is a tip of the ice berg as to how I REALLY felt; bitches called ME. Next time leave me the fuck alone, or find your ass before calling, m'kay.

So, upon receiving this call from the Clinic, with my newly acquired Medicare, I asked these assholes on the phone, 3 times, if I would be able to come to them, rather then going to Quest. I was assured that I would. I set my alarm, thereby cutting off my much-needed sleep for my PD or non-Pd, and got up hella early and made it to the Clinic in plenty of time. Lo and  behold, if I wasn’t told that I would have to go to Quest anyway, because my Clinic does NOT accept my supplemental health insurance, yet these Bozos are my primary care physicians. I still have to set up my mammo and bone density on the same day at the hospital, not a biggie; they have the orders.

I am pissed beyond belief. I did fire grapeshot across the bow and reminded the front office that they called ME. I am postponing my doc’s appointment, because, bitch am I. The stupid girl helpfully pointed out the 2 different last names and said it would be a problem, in  an attempt to... make my day better? I rather unhelpfully and in a fairly hostile manner pointed out that “I knew all that and didn’t want to go there, and if she read further, she would see identical SSN#s. I am a hyphenate, but as I choose to use “Wallace” and Medicare chooses to use “Nunnally” there have been no problems. Then, I said, “Been there, and stop, please stop. You are one sentence from a swift beheading." She shut her piehole. NEVER try to patronize me, or tell me something I so patently know.

My mood helps not one whit. Calls are in process. I am not your average “person in the system.” I am not without resources. I am unfailingly kind. I have 3 rules that are sacrosanct. 1) Don't ever let me catch you hurting someone in any way, who is defenseless. You will get hurt. 2) DO NOT ever, tell me one thing and do a switcheroo upon my arrival. You had better have your shit together, and you had better be prepared to tell me the truth. It’s always dangerous for me out in the world. I don’t appreciate that treatment and other then seeing someone bullied, this is the most likely scenario to see someone who will have to go to the Laughing Academy in restraints, and carnage in my wake. And please, Dear God, don’t talk down to me and tell me shit I know. I’m smarter than you. There’s shit you don’t know, but I do. Rule 3 is stupid, but even at my advanced age it happens. Do not attempt to approach me and try to "pick me up." I will humiliate you, and do it loudly. I would never do that to you and just because I am a woman, this does not give you the right to act like a man in heat. I have a rapier with and you are easy prey. Trust me. Leave me the hell alone.

http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Spot

Unfortunately, I possess overtones of both. Throw in a little Spock; my parents had no idea what they created.

I can’t replace my ID now, because my certified birth certificate is in Michigan. My Florida DL is expired. My parents were not born here. There is a chance I will be deported. I know all this. As long as I exist as Wallace-Nunnally, or Wallace or Nunnally, I will be left alone. Enuf said. Tomorrow, I go to Quest Diagnostics, and all-day trip, with my voter’s registration card (it is too funny) some kind of bill with my name on it, as my "ID" and voilá! Blood work done. That will do. I have other chores to do as well. Would that my tremors in my center being would cease, that my heart rate would go down. The latest manifestation is typing the same letter many times, and staggering. This is just great for blind people.

Some great-geat-great- ancestor or 'nother. My dad used to bore me about him with our story. I've got a bunch or our stuff, replete with rust 'n' plaid. But do I wanna live in Glasgow? Plus, I didn't know old Sir William looked like Mel Gibson.

Terrific here in this neighborhood. On a cheap drunk? On Nebraska, 33602 and 33605. Who'da thunk it?

ROW80 WEDNESDAY JULY 25, 2012 CHECK IN DAY 16

Here I was this morning, rummaging around on the internet. Oh! Look at the picture of this cat; he's sitting in a recliner and he's apparently unraveled an electric blue sweater someone had knitted. The sweater appears to have been the size of Missouri from all the yarn strewn around. The caption reads, "Yeah, I didn't know I could knit, either." Ho ho ha ha. High hilarity indeed. I just love shit like that.

And so it goes. Linda Ellerbee used to say that when she signed off each episode after the excellent show NBC News Overnight she co-anchored with Lloyd Dobbins. This was an experimental new show that was on after David Letterman around 2 am-ish, on NBC back during the Piltdown Man era, whenever that was. All I remember is that it was summer and I was between semesters in school. It was a bit more in-depth and off the wall. Of course, it lasted about 4 minutes and was whisked off to TV Heaven, where Good Shows Go To Disappear.

So, while I was traipsing around the internet this morning I ran across a fascinating article regarding Christopher Nolan's Batman Trilogy. I happen to be a Batman fanatic. I'm not going to get into the horror in Aurora. Journeyman wordsmith that I am, I cannot get close to describing what I feel at all. Complex feelings, especially ones on this horrific a scale take me a long time to process and define, if I ever am able to. I like to be able to clarify and this I just can't sorry. It's sufficient enough for me to say it's on a par with JFK, MLK Jr., Challenger, 9/11,  and all the other "where were you's when it happened?" It's that indelible.

Language is a funny thing and once again, the language has transported me somewhere I hadn't anticipated on being. I wanted to talk about the beauty of language. I was reminded of it when I was reading the article, in today's The Daily Beast, regarding the Nolan Batman films. The author Richard Rushfield praises Christopher Nolan's cinematic trilogy, while explaining that the fanboy approach of donning a mask and wading into violence doesn't exorcise the demons, but rather, may invite them in. All pretty and florid enough and I'm paraphrasing a bit here. I like playing with verbiage. Always have. Anyway, that wasn't the phrase that tickled me. Farther on in the article, this jumped out at me:

“and orphan boys can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.”

No matter how much I tried to concentrate on the rest of the article and it's a fine one, I kept looking back up: “and orphan boys can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.” I can see, carefree boys, once hungry, shoeless, circa 1930s, which is when I always picture these nameless kids in Batman: “and orphan boys can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.” They are having the times they should have had, before they lost their parents.

My father lost his father at age 11, during the Depression. I think he sublimated most of his feelings and memories. He was my primary parent for a number of years, as my mother worked several jobs as he finished school and she also worked nights for many years, so I got to know him better than anyone. In retrospect, like everything else, I'm better at knowing what he was about than I knew him face to face.

My father was like a big kid. I do not remember him talking about his young life. He had two sisters who were several years older and he lived on a farm as a youngster, but he must have felt a lack. I'm probably grabbing at a straw that has been stretched from here to Jupiter but I bet my Daddy was a frightened little boy at the tail end of that Depression. He never said anything about it, but we carry echoes and feelings from our parents' pasts. I feel some loss, even though I never was without a parent, and it resonates in a way that it doesn't to me if I substitute "girl" for "boy." "And orphan girls can romp in a great big mansion, unafraid.”  Hell, they'd probably eat me alive. I cannot put my finger on it and I have no one to ask. So, in my Mary Confuse-a-Story way, I just make shit up. Or do I?

My father's mother was a wonderful woman, a stout Wallace, born in 1890, died in 1985, remembered Kitty Hawk and marveled at Man walking on the moon and felt bad about the Challenger, but she was very, very pragmatic and had no time for children's fears or vapors. They were crofters and I remember her killing a chicken on Sundays for dinner. When we visited, I think we had electricity, but there was no running water and we had to use chamber pots. What an adventure. What a pain, my mother said.

When we moved to California in 1962, I didn't see Daddy's Ma again until I returned to Ann Arbor in 1979. She was tough. She still lived near the upper peninsula of Michigan in Indian River to be near my Aunts, Mary and Shirley; she didn't care for California. She thought it was too "bright and fast." I think my father thought so, too. Anyway, this is probably my worst all over post ever, from a writerly point of view. I just can't seem to get it organized. But you know what? This whole thing has been a crap shoot from the beginning. I'm not going to stress. I'm still embryonic and I have a long way to go before I start thinking about Pulitzers or Peabodys. Yeah, I know; I'm delusional. So, while I know this isn't my best effort and I apologize, I know it's probably not the bottom of the worst slush pile you've ever read.