Ladies and gentleman, I am in loveeeee……………………and I owe it all to my brand new, Shark Rocket Ultra-Light Upright. Sweet baby Jesus I am over the moon and I doubt if I’ll come down from the clouds any time soon.
We are country mice, and we have no squares to spare for things like vacuum cleaners. However, I have had the same burber carpet for 15 years-and as I’ve been using my in-laws twenty year old Oreck vacuum, complete with holes in the outer bag-for longer than I care to admit-well, I grabbed that Kohl’s 30% off coupon and ran for the jeep before anyone could stop me. I was a woman on a mission, and nothing, NOTHING I TELL YOU, WOULD GET IN MY WAY.
You want to know about pure hell on earth? Try living in a small farm house with 6 cats and a golden retriever without a workable vacuum. If you’re lucky, you won’t lose your freaking mind, and if you’re really lucky? Well, you won’t be seen cursing a blue streak whilst kicking the shit out of said crap vacuum on your front porch in your skivvies. True story. I hate that piece of shit like I hate poison, and I can finally say adios!!!!!!!! you mother effer, you are banned to the land of failed household appliances, forever.
My husband just laid mouse traps, that’s right, mouse traps under my settee and behind my wood stove, as the cats were so afraid of that monstrosity? They would literally crap their pants-or, crap my floor is more like it.
I have become such a germ phobe that I wear flip flops in my own shower, for crying out loud, after I have scoured it with Clorox. And God forbid the shower curtain touches me, I wince in disbelief each and every time it happens.
Did I tell you my brother, mon frere, my amigo is coming tomorrow? I may be a withered nub of nothing when he arrives, but you can bet your sweet ass my house will be clean.
Kool For Katz…………………
The Indians send signals from the rocks above the pass, the Cowboys take position in the bushes and the grass…….
This has been a Summer of profound loss-and I am doing my very best to keep it together right now. The subject matter is loss of a beloved pet, so if you want to move on, well, I understand.
We live on a farmette, seven acres of trails, orchards, gardens and cats. At one point we were feeding 17 stray cats-we didn’t have a pot to piss in, but we fed those babies. When you live out in the country, people drop off unwanted animals. They come in all sorts and sizes, and the end result is always the same-we love them, they pass on, we bury them. In the Winter of 2004, we were cat free. During a blizzard, I happened to look out of my laundry room window-there she was, a beaten up, starving kitten. It took months for her to acknowledge me, but I fed her twice a day and as she was full of piss and vinegar, tended to her wounds, her babies, and her voracious appetite. We couldn’t afford to have her fixed at the time, and she was the grandmother/mother of every cat I now own. I named her Precious, because she was just that.
The other night I awoke to an ungodly sound. Jesse, my golden retriever and I headed for the front door-and as soon as I opened it? The sound disappeared. The other morning, I heard it again, even with my headphones on. A sinking feeling in my gut, I counted each and every feline: where was Precious? It is impossible to check every inch of this property, but she never misses a meal, and in my heart of hearts I know she is no longer mine. We never stop loving the animals who have passed, they are our children and the pain may soften, but guaranteed, it will put you down on your knees again: a picture, a song, or even a trip to the vet can cause a reemergence of grief.
In loving memory of Precious Hoffman. Your heart will live on.
Jesus H. Christmas, I am in a horrific mood. I believe I may be a rage-o-holic, in need of some weed, a nap and a attitude adjustment. Oh, and I need to laugh. God help me, I need a good laugh.
I am the original scream queen, and my dog and cats will tell you I am hell on wheels when I start feeling sorry for myself. It starts small, like crying through the entire service at church on Sunday. My poor pastor is going on a really long hike in Spain, and he suffers from anxiety, just like myself. You should have seen the look on his face, when, backpack and hiking stick in hand, he addressed said trip with the congregation. I don’t know why (HORMONES PERHAPS???????) I lost it, but I did and I think he was alarmed, or his widened eyes were not my responsibility and I am centering the universe around myself. Again.
I just called my girlfriend, let’s call her Kathleen Schaeffer for privacy reasons. She lives in Maine, but we went to high school together. I pity the shit out of her, because she will soon listen to my voicemail, which goes something like this:
Hi it’s me (blubber, blubber, BLUBBER) I hate Summer this humidity is killing me the ice machine is broken and I can’t get rid of the fleas and my family sucks and I can’t take it anymore. (blubber, blubber, BLUBBER!!!!!!) I’m gonna get stoned and take a nap. Don’t worry about me I feel bad because I know others have it worse bye.
Not a bloody breath taken, I turn off my phone and proceed into my filthy house. I can’t win, no one loves me, the cat just peed on the floor, why aren’t my vases selling, will I ever make anything out of myself, WHERE IS THE WEED DAMNIT, Hank you may NOT enter the house, you have abused your privileges, was that a FLEA that just bit me, oh Lord, why am I so depressed, somebody get this F***ing ice machine fixed, I have no clothes.
I feel better now. The dog is hiding under the coffee table, but damnit, I FEEL BETTER.
I am in bed, half sick, half depressed-a pajama day if there ever was one. It is raining, hard sheets of melancholy tears pour out their sorrow, both inside and outside of me. I feel despondent, forlorn and invisible.
Yesterday, after appearing before a judge in Harrisburg, with the knowledge that I did not get my Disability; the woman behind the gavel decreed that she would need more time to “think about” it, (I suppose two years wasn’t enough)and my attorney said it could be months before we know the outcome. Not only did I have to testify on my own behalf, but the hearing was over an hour. The Vocational Specialist who testified for my side, for the most part, is one and the same man who told the judge-after being asked if there is any accessible work for someone in my condition-that yes, I could indeed work as a potato chip sorter. Having to go under oath lest there be purgery charges, asked incredibly personal questions and discussing my mental health as if it was a form of currency~well lads and gents, it was all I could do not to faint. Or vomit. It was terrifying.
Turns out I came very close to that faint on our way out of the building via elevator. I could feel myself going, not unlike Katy Perry having an mk ultra breakdown, on stage, before millions of screaming fans-only I just had one attorney and a husband.
I’m in bed because my heart hurts. My ego almost non existent, trying to sum up the energy to even breathe, I know well in my heart that this too shall pass. Sometimes it takes a breakthrough under stressful circumstances: and a pivotal moment came when I was asked by my attorney if 5 years of therapy with Pamela helped my CPTSD.
“No. She wouldn’t put me in Philhaven, even when I was suicidal.” Ouch. My own therapist let me down so majorly, she neglected to keep any files on me…which came up at the hearing.
“you are so invisible, not even your doctors see you……..” I translated.
While we were awaiting my attorney, my husband left the office to plug a traffic meter, and we are far from street smart-he took so long I started to pray. And then it hit me: no matter what happens in my life or this world, after God comes Dwain, and I would rather have my husband and dog, (few cats, 17 of them if you count the outdoor felines) than a million dollars. Let alone this crappy circumstance I find myself in, you have blessed us with true love, fidelity, respect of one another………we eat, my needs are more than met.
I am saying this now, while all wounds are fresh, I don’t think I can go through another appeal-such a prostitution and rape of pride. But as long as I have my three main men, well………the beat goes on.
I am anxious about my Social Security Hearing this Thursday. I am in the pit, as they say, and long to get out and make something of myself. I’m a million different people from one day to the next…..and unrecognizable to my friends and husband. I have never been one to dwell on negativity, for more than a day, if that. But I have always run from the truth, the pain, the cold and brutal realities that are hidden in the crevices of my mind. I’m not running any more, but I would like a break from it all.
In the “rooms” they call it a backlog of grief. In my room I call it family bullshit, bittersweet memories and rage. I keep giving it all to God, then taking it right back. I can’t find a therapist I would trust, and the last gal I poured my heart out to let me down, in major and minor ways. I saw her for five years and while she was a good sounding board, she never really helped me with my CPTSD. I would be halfway through a breakthrough and she would say something like, “Did I tell you my ex is dating a cow? Did I tell you she was from India and has stalked me for months?????” I would lose my train of thought, and there was no turning the conversation back to me.
I prefer to talk about anything but moi, I am an Empath and would rather listen. I feel stuck in my sweet little cottage of a home, surrounded by gardens, wildlife, friends and neighbors. Actually, it has nothing to do with the beauty of my surroundings (and I thank Abba each and every chance I get. I thank him for the miracle that is my life out in the hills of Amish country, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I praise him for meeting our needs, but at the same time with blessing us so abundantly. I have true friends, a wonderful man and supportive church family.
Alas, it is when I am alone and left to my own devices…….my anxiety keeps me busy hiking, cleaning, painting, gardening….what have you, until my body says, “please Sir, could you spare me a minute or two for the purposes of sitting my fat white ass down.?” I shower, and dress, and worship; after that I have no choice (unless I take an Ativan, or Benadryl for my allergies, and this tempts me every day.) I simply cannot be left to my own brain waves….even for a minute.
Where my mind travels through the wasteland of my childhood, (the good memories make me cry too) my narc of a sister once bit me as a child. She wasn’t even a year old when I was holding her, and she bit a hole the size of a lemon out of my underarm, and I will never forget how I was blamed for that, or how much the ensuing tetanus shot hurt, not to mention seven stiches. I miss my father, so that’s very painful, even though he died 15 years ago. I currently am obsessing over the fact that the narc kept my godchild, niece and nephew from me for ten years, simply to punish me for sobering up-I now had a productive, happy life-so she made sure she hit me in the gut-my beloveds are lost to me-how long will they think me “crazy Aunt Michele?”
I am not one to care what others think, never have been, nor will I be. I care about what my loved ones, and Jesus thinks…of course, but there have been so many lies told about me to so many people over the years? I simply can’t afford to care. We are told that we are not to be creatures of this world, but to push on for the life we have awaiting us in Heaven, with the angels and saints, the lions that lay down with the lamb, our pets and our loved ones await us. It’s not that I’m in any hurry, believe me-but I have four journals, chock full of atrocities performed by my sister-meticulously kept over the ten years I have had my heart pulled out of my chest. And on the day I go home, they will be delivered to my nieces, one by one.