When I started reporting in earnest some 5 years ago (Gad, it’s been that long already?), I used to get a kick out of going to meetings and watching residents get all fired up at the council/school board/plan commission/whatever government entity I was covering at the time. They were fighting back against injustice, real or perceived, I thought. Sticking it to THE MAN. I applauded their tenacity, and anyways, it generally made an otherwise dull-as-toast meeting more fun to sit through.
Now? I’d rather shoot myself in the head or knee them all, one by one, in the nuts before sitting through one, especially when there’s going to be a ton of people.
I submit to y’all the meeting I covered tonight: the long-awaited public forum of the muni that got hit the hardest during the Great Flood of ‘06. At least 300 people showed up for it, which no surprise there since 1,700 homes were affected by flooding in some way. Ok, so various officials got up and repeated everything I’ve reported in the last six weeks since the flood, and then a guy from FEMA got up and started talking about flood insurance and the need for it whether you’re in a flood plain or not.
That’s when everyone, as Kaffy would put it in her gentle Southern way, started showing their asses.
You know, I understand that people suffered major damage from this flood; one woman who spoke said the damage to her house will come to $79,700, for example. And I can imagine that dealing with FEMA has been a bureaucratic nightmare. But people. People! Do you really think that heckling the town officials/calling them names/applauding every person who yells their situation because the more forcefully you say it, the better the point is helping? Because it’s not. All you’re doing is making the meeting go 10 times longer and making yourselves look like idiots, not to mention that I can’t hear what I need to report when you’re sitting behind me catcalling to everything anyone who has the floor is saying. And it’s pissing me OFF.
It’s called decorum and civility. Use it, for the love of God.
-- From an amusing conversation I had with JB re: My somewhat dubious taste in men
Y’all remember me telling you about how I came across the e-mail of one of my most beloved exes and how I was debating whether I should contact him or not, but then I never did because I didn’t want to look like crazy pussy? It appears he’s back in the county doing prosecutor things again.
Should we start placing bets now as to when and where it’s going to happen? Or better yet, if I’m going to look like an absolute slob when it does?
Since I’m one of those who believes the universe has this (sometimes cruel) way of presenting one with all the information one needs to realize whatever it is they’re supposed to, I’ve been getting a lot of refresher courses on domestic abuse lately. Today’s lesson came via my morning assignment: The county sponsored a seminar for stylists and other salon professionals on how to spot abuse in their clients. And this seminar of course had a workbook detailing the types of abuse, i.e. isolation, denial and blame, coercion and threats, economic and male privilege. Well, under “emotional abuse,” what should they have detailed but “Tries to make you think you’re crazy,” and under reasons women stay with abusers, it lists “Guilt over failure of relationship” and “Guilt about choosing an abuser?”
There’s an oooof for you if I ever seen one.
The other lesson came Saturday night when, against my better judgment, I went out with an acquaintance that I normally know better than to set foot out the door with, but did anyway because ... well, because. Anyway, she and I go to see a local band that wasn’t my homies (for which I got shit today, but you know, got to check out the competition, too), and it started off lovely—met some new people, got stinkin’ drunk, had guys staring at my bodacious tatas because my tank top kept slipping, had some good hair going ... you know, chillin’ and illin’.
I should’ve realized that was not going to last, however, when said acquaintance started talking about how her boyfriend hadn’t acknowledged Sweetest Day, like, before we even got out the door.
After two songs or three songs into the second set, Acquaintance decides we’re leaving because she hasn’t heard from the boyfriend since before we left for the evening, and we’re going over there, but would I take her car home? ‘k, I think to myself; she’ll go in to his crib, they’ll decide it was all a big misunderstanding, and I’ll be home about 2-ish. Yeah, I don’t know how long I was passed out in the car, but I wake up to Boyfriend telling me in very broken English, yet in no uncertain terms, that I needed to get her out of there, because he doesn’t want to have to call the police. All right, I say as Boyfriend storms off into the night. Naturally, Acquaintance is having none of that—even though he’s broken up with her in the time that she went inside and I passed out—so we’re going into the house and waiting for him and his friend (who speaks even less English than boyfriend) to return.
In the hour or so that we waited for them, she called him what had to have been three or four times (he turned his phone off, of course) and proceeded to repeat over and over the whole shpiel of what I missed. Oh, and she isn’t leaving, but I could, which, cool! this was getting a little too crazy for me. So I take off, only to get about two blocks down when she calls me to pick her up a pack of smokes.
Shortly after, the two men return, and Acquaintance chases him first to his room, then to the garage, then to the front of the house and then back to the garage while I’m sitting there drunk and trying to carry on a conversation with a man who speaks marginal English at best. They come back into the house, and since physically moving away from her wasn’t working, Boyfriend decides to play like he’s sleeping on the couch so maybe she’d back the hell off. That only made Acquaintance sit on the edge of the couch and poke him to wake up. He goes back to his room, she follows ... you get the idea. At some point, she tells me I can go again and she’ll call someone else to come get her in the morning. WONderful! I think. I’m out!
Until I got the phone call that he pushed her out of the house, come get her.
I go back, and the friend is coming out of the house. Where are they now? I ask, and he shrugs his shoulders and gets in his car. She then comes around the corner and gets into the car with me and starts telling me how he grabbed her and pushed her. And then? The drunken hysteria started, followed by the “I didn’t do anything wrong” proclamation. Now, you won’t get me to excuse a man for resorting to violence toward a woman ever, but saying that getting all up into his grill isn’t “doing anything wrong?”
Long story short, I didn’t get to bed until 7 a.m. Sunday morning. The end.
For enduring my tale of woe, below is a shot of me taken earlier in the evening, when I was drunk and rockin’ out:
Not sure why, but I look uncharacteristically olive in this shot. That never happens.
Ok, so which one of youse has the “getting-to-not-caring-about-someone-after-caring-about-them-for-years” cheat sheet!?? My kingdom (such that it is) for that formula, because this “It’s a PROCESS” bullshit BLOWS. BLOWS, I tell you.
PS The South Park rendition of Beth Chapman in this week’s episode? Funniest thing EVER.
A certain Innerbunny character (who shall remain nameless) wrote a very, very disgusting, yet very, very true (but very, very disgusting) account of one of life’s little pleasures today.
Who knew pus could even collect down there? Wouldn’t that be akin to, like, digging for gold or something? Like, what if you brought up knee cartilage or something?
when you check your voicemail, and the last message you get is a little voice saying:
That word is “Squeeeeeeeeeeee!”
that not only was I glad for the pain I know someone is enduring right this second, but that I’d love to stick my finger in their eye for good measure, would that make me a total asshole? You know, as opposed to the asshole I already am.
I’m off to the scary fundie church to cover an assignment.
This better not cut into my “Desperate Housewives” time.
Do “Shambala” and “Thunder Island” ring any bells!?? Because I just downloaded them to my iPod, and now I’m totally rocking out.
’k, guys, the previews for next week’s Nip/Tuck: a mouse growing a human ear so Rosie O’Donnell can get an ear transplant? Bitch, please. This season is waaaaaaay over the top, although I do like how Larry Hagman’s and Brooke Shields’ characters are developing.
That’s some full moon out there tonight, because wooooooooooooo! The crazy cans are a-shaking all over the place! Man alive. Snidgey and I were just like, WOW, what in the HELL is going on around here? and then I recalled Thursday, there was just a smidgen left before the full moon would be in its big shiny glory. And say what you want about the full moon bringing out the crazy, but I’m telling you, the crazy is OUT THERE and LOVIN’ IT.
So I’ve been logging entirely too much time this week ruminating over my emotional well-being, something I despise doing because it means feelings are involved, and I don’t do well with feelings, especially my own. And even worse than actually having feelings, at least to me, is trying articulate them in some sort of meaningful way; it’s not at all like writing a story, where everything is all (scribbled illogically) in my notebook. It’s more like walking through a haunted house during Halloween when you’re a little kid and sticking your hand in what’s supposed to be a brain but really is a bowl of spaghetti, and you’re trying fish out the meatball or piece of candy or whatever’s hidden in the goo. It’s moist and way unpleasant, but if I don’t and I leave the meatball in the goo, it’s going to mold over and start reeking. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if these feelings could cure cancer, much like my beloved Garcia Birkenstocks that I had to pitch because I figured they’d dry out once the detail guys got them out of the soup. Or cause it (cancer, I mean). Whatever.
The events leading up to all this, as I’m sure y’all gathered from last week’s bile spew, were nasty, horrific, embarassing, you name it, so I’m not going to rehash them verbatim. Suffice it to say, I got sucker-punched hard (proverbially, y’all, not physically) by someone who meant a great deal to me and has for a very, very long time. None of it should’ve surprised me, and though most of it didn’t, it’s the vitriol, man—the level it reached is just off the charts when it didn’t need to be. It NEVER needed to be, but I’m being told that yes, it did, because I just didn’t get it otherwise, and anyways I LET it happen, so really, it’s ALL MY FAULT. Got it now!??
Yeeeeeeeeeeeeessss. It’s all my fault. Way to rationalize your own behavior, dicksmack.
As someone who prides herself on being fluent in batshit crazy, I’m well aware that that’s all it is—not wanting to be called out on the carpet for rotten behavior, projecting one’s own (many, MANY) demons onto someone else and so on and so forth. I get it. Yet there are days now when I run it over and over about how I not only failed him, but that I put myself in a position to be shit on repeatedly, and there’s no deciding which is worse. Luckily, they’re fewer and further between, and I can go for extended periods keeping it all in perspective and, more importantly, not flogging myself over that which I cannot control. It’s just the waiting for the day when the good just clicks on and stays on that’s maddening.
While I’m off chasing the latest storm to hit NWI, I leave you with the comments my small brother just left, because I love his voice and think he should be blogging his own damn self, but why would he listen to his older, wiser (snerk) sister?
oh my gosh. your brother is a complete fool. or a complete hero. as *fate* would have it, last night on the way home a homeless black man (he would be white, well maybe in the next life) came up to me and asked me for food because his family got displaced by a fire. he had this story that seemed sincere, asking for assistance because he had 2 kids, and that the fire had broke out and that he had tried all of the different shelters and they refused him because he had a house to live in. I wasn’t too sure about his story except it made sense to me that if he had tried the different places out, they would possibly turn him away. He asked for “cerial” only. He said he would get cerial and milk because it would last longer if he did.
Me, being the freshly laid up guy with the rotten day thought *well, my finances aren’t THAT bad, and this guy DOES have 2 kids, and I know what it’s like to be displaced from MY home and what it feels like to rely on someone for HELP and how people in chicago will turn you away because they think you might be crooked and trying to cheat. and he WAS asking for CEREAL.
I took him to walgreens. he shook my hand, was one of the nicest guys in the world. I bought him Cerial, milk (*thinking IM A SUCKER*) , and then microwavable items.
Then I started noticing something .. he was buying some of the most EXPENSIVE stuff in the store. Huge .. like 6 or 7 dollars an item. The price kept going up and going up and I had a train to catch. Once he got about 3 days worth of items (TOILET PAPER, some fried chicken. Don’t black guys like Fried Chicken? Well, I guess any family that is BROKE and has no FOOD could like fried chicken and little WHITE CASTLE MEALS TOO!). Toilet paper, some crackers, and stuff like that.
no LIQUOR, no CIGARETTES, nothing that dosn’t seem out of the originary. (Damn, I feel bad even questioning the resolve of this, but geez, $66.90 dollars later and I’m wondering if I got HAD).
So I took the guy up to the thing, payed 66$ for him. Sure, you might think what a stupid idiot he is for doing that for that man. What if he REALLY WAS DISPLACED. We all need to WIPE our ASS, right (did I fail to mention he bought two huge rolls of toiletpaper)?
He’s about to leave with 4 bags of stuff from Walgreens (all I could think about was what a nice thing I was doing for this man!) and the guard there that monitors walgreens goes “who be buyin that for whom?”
i said, “im buying it for this guy.” he looks at the poor homeless man and says ‘i fiddin you ain’t gonna be sellin, eh?’ he goes “man, why you gots to be that way?” the guard goes “yea, man, i see it all the time.” and the guy, who didn’t offer any explaination of his situation with his family simply said “man, you ain’t THERE. you ain’t even THERE!” my anger swelled. so i turn to for an explaination and it dawned on me. you been either tricked, and you too STOOOPID to figure it out, or it just melts your heart so much to think that this is possible that you don’t want to admit it.
so I PROPOSE A USELESS, FAKE, IMAGINARY TOAST TO THIS MANS BUSINESS.
this poor poor man is an entrepenuer! he is taking my items from my pocket, that i have worked just as hard working for in my construction business, and he’s opening his own business. he could be selling the items on the street, he could be providing for his family, but dang nammit he is using this for a GOOD PURPOSE. just think. he is getting business SKILLS. he is learning ECONOMICS. he is even avoiding TAXES (like rich people) and he is pretty much making a SHITLOAD of cash.
*at whos expense*.
I offered out of the kindness of my heart. and besides, he COULD indeed have a family to care for. We never REALLY established that he did or didn’t, because I had a train to catch in 5 minutes. On the way into Walgreens, he mentioned a name of his daughter, 6 years old (of course, her name was like 12 letters long, and he kept repeating it as if he was proud of being about to spell it).
it rained. it poored. i went away mad, and then felt agravated that i just spent $60 on a lesson i could have learned in high school.
my dad would kill me if he knew that i was stupid enough to participate in this learning experience. the fact is, i can’t tell if it was real or not. the guy could go sell my stuff for crack. i once had a crack addiction, and i stole for it too. anything for PLEASURE in the brain.
but then again, providing for your family by asking for help from someone elses’ kindness is not really about pleasure, but about SURVIVAL. Yet, when we look at this man and examine his reasoning for his actions, we think that we should IMPAIR his ability to do what he does because it helps you sleep at night or because it someone reinforces our own emotional or moral wellbeing.
even if he was a crackhead, i am helping keep the economy running for a human being who is trying to survive. call me mother theresa for crackheads, but another person who found out about being “HAD” at walgreens by the guard, might have KILLED him, riped out his organs and sauteed them in a pan. (a delightful stirfry of homeless people sounds like it needs a DASH of salt or pepper to taste).
How quickly my generosity turns to ANGER. Turns to FRUSTRATION. Turns in on myself. and the punchline is.. it might be real. and I feel this way, simply because I offered to help.
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.
Give it to me, baby.
Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...
The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:
/> Wanna make a bunch of money doing what you're doing right now?
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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].
Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, I’m not the only one I know. I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have… ...[go].
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script assistance by
This explains that large bit of type at the top.
Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.
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