Our home has been taken over. It's full of intruders, strangers, and people who don't have my best interests at heart.
The bathroom's being redone.
This means: I can't shower; I can't urinate; I can't wash my face or hands.
I smell like Ernest Borgnine's underwear.
Reduced to the most base behavior, I wait until nightfall to go to the bathroom outside. I'm using "baby-wipes" to clean myself which produces that weird baby diaper odor: not fresh, not clean, just chemically altered. My dog wants to eat the bathroom workers' faces off.
The absolute worst part? I've been forced to take showers at my mom's apartment. Nothing's changed since high school, pure hell. ("Whatever, Mom! Get off my back! Gawd!") To achieve the full effect, I should sneak cigarettes and listen to awful '70's arena rock (outside of country music, the only option growing up in '70's Kansas City).
Home contractors are a strange lot. They don't like to work more than a couple of hours a day. Communication is an alien concept to them as is a full day's work.
Yet, here I am, keeping hope alive, believing these yahoos. Each day I'm told, "Oh, yeah, we'll be finished tomorrow." Each day, a little bit of hope dies. And I smell a lot worse.
Sigh. Back to Mom's apartment. ("I already told you, Mom! Gah!")
That's my boy! A very expensive boy!
Recently, Zak blew out his knee. Irreparably damaged. One extremely costly operation later, he's home. Drugged out of his furry mind and stuck in the Cone of Shame.
The vet tells us Zak needs six months of recovery time.
Six months???
That entails keeping him on a leash always, confining him to small quarters, watching him, doting on him, giving him massages and physical therapy for God's sake. It's up to me to take care of him 24-7 and make sure "he doesn't get excited." I said to the vet, "You're kidding, right?" Zak's a force of nature, as out of control as a tornado. He practically destroys the house trying to get to the mailman.
Now, I have to sleep downstairs because Zak can't handle the stairs to go up to our bedroom where he usually sleeps. We have a special harness to lift his back end up so he can take the two steps down off the deck into the yard. He can't be left alone and I can't go anywhere. Much to my mom's disgust, I can't take her on her weekly shopping and yelling sprees ("Huh. I guess your dog's more important than me.")
I feel like I'm under house arrest. A full-time job.
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did. In one of those quirky moments that fate seems to love to toss my way, I fell off a stepladder in the garage. Now Zak and I hobble together up and down the street in painful, short walks. (It's funny how pet owners begin to resemble their pets: I have a limp, arthritis and gray whiskers! So does Zak!).
Seriously...if you're reading this, send help!
Okay, armchair psychiatrists, get ready to analyze!
There I am, usually either at high school or Burger King (two places I haven't set foot inside of in decades, so make of that what you will). I'm heading for the public bathroom. When I open the door...
It's a vast room, jam-packed with people, both men and women. Everyone jockeying for a position to relieve themselves in a dizzying array of strange devices: there's the chin-high banana (your aim would have to be pretty astounding to use it); there are the usual urinals, of course, but the toilets are scattered all over the room with no privacy stalls; how about the elaborate playground jungle gym devices that people have to climb to rain down their business upon the poor people beneath them? And no one in there cares! Business as usual! Unzip, drop, laters.
The absolute worst part, though--the part that brings me to a sweating, gasping, waking state night after night--is the grotesque hygiene . All the toilets overflow with foul liquid. The walls are smeared with unspeakable waste. The smell could send a skunk running. And everyone drops their business willy-nilly.
And, without fail, I'm always in socks. Desperately trying to hopscotch over the spreading tides of waste. The filthy floods chase me across the tiled floor. A monstrously loud toilet whoosh signifies the newest approaching tsunami.
My bladder's full. My stomach wants to expel. My socks and feet are soaked with vile, awful...
That's usually when I wake.
I used to worry about my mental state of health regarding this recurring nightmare. Until recently, that is, when I found hope in the oddest of places. With great relief--a wonderful feeling--I found out "Lorelei Gilmore" suffers from this recurring nightmare, too.
(SIDE BAR: If it pleases the court, I readily admit to enjoying the Gilmore Girls. I used to validate it by telling people it's a show I watch with my daughter {true}, but soon found myself drawn to the surrealistic whimsy and dialogue so funny, so furious, and so fast it'd give Aaron Sorkin whiplash. No guilt here! But I digress...)
I started wondering if maybe more people have this dream. According to my much valued research assistant, Ms. Google (I fired Mr. Bing last week), they do! Apparently it's pretty common.
No one's been bold enough to put a name to it yet, but armchair dream analysts (and have you ever wondered if the word "anal" in "analyst" is a snarky comment?) are sure giving it a go. I've read all sorts of nutty theories: people are trying to work out their own "crap"; it goes back to how one was potty-trained; fear of public places; fear of urinating; bla, bla, bla.
All I know is I'd rather have ten boogeymen fully loaded with axes chasing after me than go back to this horrendous public bathroom of my dreams. Maybe it goes back to when I visited a Stuckey's bathroom and...and... Gah!
Never mind! It's just great to find out I'm not alone. Maybe I should start a support group or something. Anyone? (I see Lorelei's got her hand up).
Okay, okay, I'm sick of politics, too. Especially this new world order that makes no sense whatsoever.
Two weeks in, let's look at Trump's major accomplishments: low-income families can no longer afford to buy houses. The Trump immigration ban? Makes sound sense, right? What the United States is all about. Trump's ticked off China, numerous other countries. Shocker. But America's great again!
No wonder 1984 is the best-selling novel now.
I'm absolutely terrified. Who's our new US president representing? And why are people buying into it?
Trump says he's giving America back to "the people." As long as "the people" are white, rich, male and orange, natch.
Here's what I don't get...white, rich, male, sexist, Eagles-listening, Fox News-watching, golfing people have ALWAYS been represented by the government. No matter the political denomination, Republicans or Democrats. The power's been in their hands, will continue to be. So why are white guys suddenly rising, like there's something to be angry about?
Orange is a new power group, but I thought the Oompa-Loompa Union had them covered.
Nothing's changing in the US regarding the power structure. Doesn't look like it will in the next four years.
Trump proclaims he wants to unite the country. Good luck, Orange One. Your hateful political campaign divided the country. (And, yes, Hillary had a hand in that as well).
We liberals aren't exempt from horrible behavior. I own up to that. Proponents on both sides have turned ugly, bitterly awful. I used to enjoy healthy political chats with friendly opponents. Not any longer. Not even with politically like-minded allies.
The so-called "leader of the free world" promotes hatred like a merit badge for scouts. Someone who's supposed to lead by example of exemplary behavior.
I feel like I'm following the biggest brat on the playground. One who likes molesting women and loves golden showers.
Have you tried having a decent, intelligent, political chat these days?
Trump has unleashed a wave of hatred, anger and bigotry across the country, unrivaled since Hitler's reign. Now more than ever, people find it okay--even admirable--to bash people, verbally and physically.
Opinions that people have been harboring--festering away like cancer--are suddenly being unleashed with zeal. Thoughts that people knew were previously forbidden to share. But everything's changed. Our leader's made it clear it's okay to hate everyone different! Shout it from the rooftops, dammit! Our president does!
Couple days ago, I wrote this about my new book...
"Not Donald Trump's biography! But
very close to it. From Riverdale Avenue Books, Demon with a Comb-Over (with a
brand-spanking, sparkly new prequel) is out now! http://amzn.to/2iZz0OH"
Just trying to find an amusing hook.
A woman responded, "Get over it! You're irritating me! We had 8 years of your idiot and he didn't do crap! Shut your mouth and deal with the future!"
Oof! Cyber-slapped! I "irritated" her. I live in her world and I'm just lucky to be sharing it. Whoops, my bad. Meanwhile, she's out there poking the bear.
Welcome to the new world order. It's like we're living in "Celebrity Apprentice," praying we don't get fired from life.
America's always been about freedom of speech and healthy political debate.
Let's get back to that.
Help stomp out orange.
