St. Patrick Can Kiss My Royal Irish Arse

HAMLET
The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,

Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;

And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,

The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out

The triumph of his pledge.

HORATIO
Is it a custom?

HAMLET
Ay, marry, is't:

But to my mind, though I am native here

And to the manner born, it is a custom

More honour'd in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel east and west

Makes us traduced and tax'd of other nations:

They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase

Soil our addition; and indeed it takes

From our achievements, though perform'd at height,

The pith and marrow of our attribute.

- Edward, Earl of Oxford writing as Shakespeare, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

The following blog post originally appeared over on my LiveJournal blog back in 2008; the St. Patrick's Day parade in Southie happened on Palm Sunday. It did NOT impact liquor sales. I am not a fan of the day--like Denis Leary, it's the one day of the year I refuse to drink. I got a hoot out of his appearance on the Daily Show and hearing him say what I've been saying for years--it's the drinking day for amateurs. So tomorrow, I will NOT be drinking, at all. (Not that it's a sacrifice for me--it's anomalous for me to drink, most days.) I also WON'T be wearing ANY green--also some anomalous for me, as I wear a little bit of green every day and always wear a claddagh (I will have that on; I'm not THAT ridiculous). I may forego the black armband--I call tomorrow the Irish-American Day of Shame and Mourning.

If you ARE drinking tomorrow, please, play it safe--don't drive, don't do something stupid, wear a condom. I hate the Godsdamned things, too, but better safe than sorry.

Happy %$^&*()_ St. Patrick's Day.

Can I just say that it completely PISSES me off every time someone wishes me a "happy St. Patrick's Day!" Assuming that, because I'm Irish, I celebrate this travesty. Well, (as you've probably surmised from my surly heading), I don't.

St. Patrick's Day, as it's celebrated here in the U.S. is revolting. End of story. It's supposed to be a saint's feast day--a solemn occasion, or at least a decorous one. There's nothing in the fragments of his history that is extant that indicates that the jackass who infected Ireland with Xtianity was a sodden drunken jerkoff, so why is it that those who choose to "honor" him have to be?

I don't get it.

As someone from a typical Irish-American family--typical in that, like so many other Irish & Irish-American families, we have been afflicted with members lost to The Thirst--I hate the fact that the weakness (because, sorry, kids, alcoholism isn't a disease--it's a weakness and a choice. You CHOOSE to take that drink, you CHOOSE to deal with your problems by drowning them in alcohol rather than therapy and/or medication--bipolar disorder IS a medical condition; anxiety disorder is a medical condition; alcoholism is denial) is considered a mandatory part of the celebration of Irish pride--you have to get drunk and act stupid.

Where is the pride in getting falling down drunk? It just revolts me. One of the organizers of the South Boston parade, an elderly boyo with the auspicious nickname of "Whacko," expressed the hope that, because the parade was happening on Palm Sunday, people would behave more decorously--that it would be more of a "family day like it used to be."

Yeah, right. Quite possibly the single biggest sales day for the Southie pubs, and he thinks people care that it's Palm Sunday? Please. Very few remember that Lenten observation is more than just not eating meat on Fridays--it's supposed to include abstension from sex and alcohol (hence, the bacchanalia of Shrove Tuesday/Mardi Gras before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday). I've also been told that sweets were also a part of Lenten no-nos at one time (there's a reason for the chocolate orgy of Easter and the birthrate spike in November/December). There's no special dispensation from Emperor Popatine for the Boston Irish and the once-a-year-Irishmen for St. Patrick's Day.

Sorry, kids.

And what is this "everybody's a little Irish on St. Patrick's Day" bullshit? WHY? Everybody isn't "a little Italian" on Columbus Day, or "a little black" on Martin Luther King Day. I'm Irish every day, 365/24/7, whether I like it or not. Some parts of the heritage I'm proud of, some of it I'm ashamed of, but, either way, it's mine. Don't co-opt my culture & ethnicity and celebrate the worst of it, and I'll do you the same courtesy.

Let's get back to the parade. I boycott the South Boston parade because, for me, it's a symbol of the worst of the Boston Irish--a celebration of our bigotry and ignorance--exemplified by the exclusion of gay & lesbian groups from marching. I guess it's not OK to be gay, out and Irish, or at least to admit it. It just pisses me off. Back in my UMass days, I had a few gay friends (you can't be in theatre and NOT)--all of them from working/middle class Catholic families, either Irish or Italian, all of them either disinherited or definitely unwelcome at home. These were good men--decent human beings who would give you the shirt off their back (as we say in the neighborhood) and share their last meal with you. In short, no matter what their religious affiliation, they were true Christians in that they followed the One Commandment of Jesus Christ--"do unto others as you would have done unto you." Too bad the "good Catholics" who organize the !@#$%^&*()_ parade have forgotten how to be good Christians. Makes me ANGRY.

And let's get to the final reason why St. Patrick can kiss my royal Irish ass--why, why, OH WHY would a witch so far out of the broom closet I've forgotten where the Godsdamned door is, celebrate the bastard who ruined her forebears' culture by shackling it with the horrors, the bigotry, the chauvanism, of Xti-insan-ity? Why would I celebrate the destruction of the shamanic traditions, the bardic traditions, a society where women were respected and played an equal part? Why would I celebrate the castration and co-opting of the Old Gods and their rich and full stories into sanitized, chaste saints? Roman Catholicism is the WORST thing that ever happened to Ireland, worse than any strife the British brought.

Gimme that Old Time Religion--bring back the Old Gods and keep your stupid saints.

Today's photo comes from the Northern Sun catalog, http://www.northernsun.com/. I NEED one.

St. Teresa... 'Round the Twist?

…Or Just Out to Get Me?

I promised this story a while back and never got the time to type it up. Tonight, as the regulars know, I'm off to see Jim Jefferies down at Foxwoods; my friend Tess is going to the show with me. There is going to be another passenger with us: St. Teresa. Yeah. You heard me right. Pray for me.

In December, St. Teresa was hospitalized after she did a nasty faceplant in the kitchen. Being the Good Kid of the Year (FOUR YEARS RUNNING!), I went up to visit her daily while she was in (except for one night, but I was working). Well, I had my laptop with me on one of those nights, and as I was taking it out of my satchel, I also happened to pull out Alcoholocaust. (I had that, along with Going Postal, in the bag because the lappie is the only DVD player I have set up for UK DVDs). Well, of course, she had to look at it.
“He’s not bad looking in this picture, Lee,” she remarked, looking at the inside sleeve. (From Mum, this is high praise for anyone not Elvis Presley, Tom Selleck, or the Loon who played Mad Max.)
I just shook my head and smiled. “Yeah, well, as he hasn’t announced a Boston date on this tour, I think I’m going down to Foxwoods in February to catch him.”
“Oh, good. I’ll come along.”
At which point, my head snapped up, a look of wild-eyed panic on my pan.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can go see him, and I can go play.”
To which I replied, in an effort to keep my rising panic at the idea of being saddled with Her Daftness at Foxwoods while trying to enjoy myself and relax, “Why don’t you call Marie and ask her along? You two can make a night of it.”
“That’s a good idea!”
“Yeah, I can just see it now… I make a pass at Jim, and say, but we have to go to your place because I’ve got roommates. Real smooth.”
“Oh, you get your own room then.” And then she looks at me—y’know, the way a mum looks at their kid and REALLY looks at ‘em, and says, “Y’know, Lee, you should try to lose a lot of weight before February. You could do it.”
There was no meanness in this statement (for once). My mother was actually trying to help me get lucky, and not just with anyone, either.
I don’t know how I feel about this. Honestly. I really don’t. Aside from the fact that I was joking about making the pass (I am still embarrassed about NYC, and I’m having a laugh at my own expense, folks), I don’t know whether to a) be flattered that she thinks I would actually have a shot at him; b) be worried that she WANTS me to have a chance at him; c) ask her what the aliens did with my uptight mother who can’t stand the idea of me having any kind of fun that might lead to sex.
Either that, or she was having me on.
No matter what, I’m doomed.

My real fear is that she's going to show up in the lounge and accost Jim and the story will end up either on the podcast or in his act. Pray for me.

Celebricrush - Cashing a Reality Check

Written 13 January 2011

Greetings from my aching head and back. I really hate storms; some people find them fun and fascinating and cool. I find them a trial. I’m a bit sensitive to the weather; aside from the fact that I can predict any change in it by the pain in my head, I’ve always been a bit of a “weather witch”—can’t control the shit, but I can feel it when things are malevolent.

I haven’t been sleeping well, either, partly because I have someone in the house who watches far too much true crime TV—the shit gives me nightmares. For real. I don’t want to hear about the ugly, horrible things the serial rapist/murderer did to all those girls in Westofnowhere, Middle America. I REALLY don’t, ESPECIALLY as I’m trying to get to sleep. On a work night. I don’t need dreams about Greek gods, floods, magic German Shepherds, underground Somerville (which looks a lot like a cement marble run big enough for Indiana Jones-sized boulders), rain, angry mechanics trying to get a date, broken cars, convenience stores (a lot of convenience stores, for some reason), trying to find pizza, and generally being on the run from bad guys and trying to save people who can’t protect themselves. And partly, my sleep has been fucked up because of stress.

Last week… last week was not fun. I’m still trying to put my head together. I managed not to have a fight with St. Teresa until Monday night; of course, get in the car, start heading out to go shopping, and the shit hits the fan, and I end up angry, yelling, and crying. I finally told her that an offer had been made; I also told her that it wasn’t happening, but that the offer was made because my friends are tired of seeing me so stressed out because I’m getting it from all sides—home AND the job. I also told her that once the house was dealt with, we would find her a decent elder housing place, and I was going out on my own.

I have so many decisions to make in the next six months (which is the projected time line from the cleaners for getting this place under control). I am going to pull out my resume and start retooling it. I think I’m done with the library game for a while. I love what I do, but I’m toast, and honestly, this is not what I trained for and where my passion lies. I think I have enough producing experience to make a go at event planning; fuck knows, I’ve done enough of it; possibly even promotion. I need to be working with people and being social.

And there’s the book and the performing thing.

One of the things that was said to me that really upset me was the accusation—and it was an accusation—that I am in love with Jim Jefferies. I actually got offended by the remark and refuted it fairly effectively (considering I was utterly fucked up on tequila). It was followed by the comment that if this person came along to the NJ gig, they were going to damn well make sure I ended up fucking him.

I was horrified. Honestly. Horrified.

Not at the idea of sex with Mr. Celebricrush, but at the way that it was put to me and the idea that someone who knows me so well could get something so wrong. For one thing, for all the shit I talk on here, I actually have a fair bit of respect for men (usually more than I have for most women, honestly). I have never—EVER—had a sexual liaison of any level with someone I didn’t actually feel a connection with and some measure of respect. Sex is PERSONAL for me—we are discussing the most sacred and secret part of my body and my favorite team sport on the planet. We’re also talking about someone whose work has had an amazing affect on my life, and whom I respect for that reason.

And being misjudged like that by one of my closest friends REALLY upset me. While I will readily admit I need to get laid worse than a priest in a whorehouse, I am so not into just putting it out there. I mean, right now… Folks, I am so fucking sick of being misjudged. I get that I am a very judgmental person. I know that. There’s a reason for it—I feel like I’m on trial most of the time, like 95% of my life, so it’s my way of fighting back. The situation at home has me on edge completely, especially after overhearing all the bullshit Idiot was telling the cleaners last week, and knowing that these lies have been perpetuated not only to them, but also to Elder Services. I’m tired of dealing on a daily basis with the weak little bullies, stupid, little people who never, EVER think outside of their tiny little mental cages, because to do that would mean they’d have to leave their comfort zone. I’m tired, weary to the soul, with people looking only at the surface and not getting that the rage, the sarcasm, the lack of tolerance for hypocrisy and stupidity comes from having a very gentle, compassionate and deeply, deeply loving and caring heart that has witnessed far, far too much pain, both for myself and for the people I love. Think about that the next time you try to pass judgment on someone—think about why they’re angry and what has pushed them to that point. I don’t talk about the things I do for other people—and there’s a fair bit—because honestly, that’s between them and me. The only applause I want for an act of kindness is a sincere thank you; I don’t want public lauds. That kinda shit annoys the piss out of me.

So excuse the fuck out of me if I have a serious comedy hard-on for a kindred spirit.

HOWEVER… just to be sure I wasn’t in denial—because I KNOW how I can get—I did a quick reality check with the Fabulous Alicia because if anyone is going to be straight with my ass, it’s her. Now, the Fabulous A knows quite a bit about Celebricrushes—she has a couple of singers that she refers to as her “celebrity husbands,” as she is quite happily married. Her husband is aware of them; he even encourages them as he accompanies her to the concerts whenever they’re in town. So, if anyone could empathize, it’s the Fabulous Alicia.

Well, Leesh responded thusly: “No, he’s your distraction right now. And you need it.”

Christ, I was relieved. I mean, this blog is a piece of my reality—but only a piece. There’s a lot of fuckery on here. It’s my public persona, the stuff I don’t mind people knowing, the shit I will stand by and take whatever lumps come from it. As open as I’ve been about my views on sex and politics and my own issues, there is so much I keep off of here because it doesn’t belong here. I can talk all I like about myself; however, I have a trust to keep with my intimates. This is my story I’m telling, and when I have to tell someone else’s as a part of it, I make sure that what I’m saying won’t hurt them or upset them (unless they’ve put themselves in the position to be in the firing line; e.g. Captain Strapon and St. Teresa) and if it isn’t harmless, I file off the serial numbers and keep them as anonymous as possible. The bitching I’ve done about my job here has not gone into specifics because honestly, I have people there who would love to see me fired. I’m not giving them any ammo (although that last sentence probably just did).

I’m still horrified that I made a pass at Jim in NYC. I mean, a) I have never been a starfucker—I have never been one of those chicks willing to blow her way backstage for a chance to fuck the singer or the band or what have you. The idea offends me on so many levels because 1) there is an art to a good blow job; and 2) I enjoy giving them too much to just bestow one on just anyone. Point b) is that I’m not a one night stand kinda person, especially not with someone I have genuine admiration and respect for. I may talk shit on here about finding him hot (and I do, have no doubt about that, he fits my definition of WOW! for a lot of reasons), but… I mean, c’mon! Aside from the fact that he’s an internationally known comedian, I’m ten years older than him, at a very different place in my life, and quite frankly, it’s silly. Would I say no if the opportunity presented itself? Hell, no—I may be loco in the cabesas, but I am NOT stupid. And c) well, honestly, I am incredibly shy that way. Seriously. And a bit old fashioned—I prefer a man to make the first move.

The reality of the situation is that I came across his comedy at the right time—at a time when I really needed to hear someone taking no prisoners on stage. I don’t agree with everything he says, nor do I take everything he says seriously. But I love his honesty—the fact that he’s totally willing to use his own life and experiences, and just doesn’t give a fuck. There’s a price you pay for that, I know it, been through it, and I respect it when someone else has the balls to do it. Too many fucking people in this world care too much about what others think, rather than calling them on their shit, and it’s the cause of a lot of pain and misery. (Hello, Catholic Church, let’s let the jackals loose amongst the lambs and cover it up! Hello, lace curtain Irish let’s not talk about all the terrible things in the family so the cycle can keep on going!) I hate hypocrisy, can’t abide it, and I love that Jim lambastes the hypocrites—and himself—in his comedy. In short, I love his work. That I can deal with. It’s no different from my love of Shakespeare or Terry Pratchett—love the work.

That’s what matters.

As for being in love… For fuckssake, BE SERIOUS. Aside from the fact that I don’t know the man personally, shit, I don’t know if I’m even capable of ever being in love again. I don’t know if I even want to ever fall in love again. I don’t know if my heart can take it. The last couple of times almost killed me, literally. I’m dealing with the one year anniversary of Brit Boy #5 and missing him terribly. And love is something that takes contact—regular, serious contact. Plus, I’ve been taking care of other people for so long, I want some time to take care of me. Considering my age, I don’t know if that means I will be able to have a family, as desperately as I want one. I’m trying to accept this, and it’s so damn hard.

And honestly, I don’t know if there’s anyone out there who can accept me for who I am, as is. I mean, I can improve my body, no problem, but I’m still going to be me. My Imperial Self with all my flaws and fabulousness… that won’t change. And I’m hoping to make a complete life change over the next year—I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going to be living—never mind what city, state or country—in the next year.

So someone let Jim know he’s safe—I’m not stalking him, and I have no plans to EVER make another pass at him. But I still have a serious artistic hard-on for his work.

The Bottle and the Damage Done

The siren song that is your madness
Holds a truth I can't erase...
You let me down, I said it...
- "The God of Wine," Third Eye Blind*

alcoholic: One who has accepted they have a drinking problem and is dealing/has dealt with it
drunk: Fucking loser who has a drinking problem, blames everyone else and keeps drinking, destroying their own life and the lives of everyone they possibly can.

Alcoholism, addiction and their attending madness have been a part of my life since conception. My father is a drunk; has been for all of his adult life. All three of my mother's brothers have/had drinking problems (two of them are dead; sadly, the youngest is still alive and making life fucking miserable). My ex-husband and three long-term ex-boyfriends were all drunks. I had a brief flirtation with the bottle about 9 years ago--partied a little too hard for about eight months and then got really bored with it.

Drugs... with the exception of a little weed every now and then, I've never bothered with them. They scare the fuck out of me--most of my idols and Celebricrushes have battled the bottle and/or drugs, so I learned my fear from them: I learned from the stories of Peter O'Toole and David Bowie back in high school to keep my nose clean and behave myself (granted, Peter O'Toole is one of the greatest actors on the planet; and Bowie made incredible fucking music when he was a mess, but his best album came after he cleaned up [Scary Monsters & Super Creeps, if you must know, although the Berlin Trilogy has some spectacular songs]). John Belushi's OD had a major affect on me through Robin Williams--his comment made on a talk show (Donahue, I think it was), to the effect of, "He was a bull. What was that going to do to a little guy like me?" [paraphrased from memory; it's been 30ish years]

All of the people I've really admired have had addiction issues--all of the comedians especially. Carlin... Carlin was famous for his drug use, and so much better for quitting (although he was another one who kept a little weed around). I think I was the only person in the audience who cheered when Jim Jefferies said he'd been sober for a month in New York. The two guys I was sitting next to had said he was awesome fucked up; I've seen enough clips of him fucked up--he was better sober. Sharper, more on point (and he looked fabulous). And honestly? Enlarged liver and shitting blood... no. Not something I would wish on anyone but my mother's younger brother. That comment snapped people, but not really. I mean... WTF? Haven't we lost enough great comedians to substances? Stay sober, Jim--stay alive, keep making people laugh, and get your ass cast in a movie that will actually showcase your acting talent. That's an Imperial Edict, dammit. ;-) Stay sober, and the next time you're in Boston, I will buy you dinner (yes, a beautiful chick DOES know how to pick up a check), and unlike most of the men I've dated, I won't expect sex afterwards.

Hmmmm... that also reminds me... need to think about finding an agent for Keith J.'s script. Anyone know anyone looking for a film script for the best buddy comedy ever written? I could kill him to this day for that--boring me to tears with all the proposals for action adventure CRAP, and all the time he had a near-perfect comedy script on his shelf. I love the guy like a brother, but there are days... *smack* And that's why we're still friends.

But I digress...

Back to substances... The only thing I've ever really had going for me was my brain. I mean, my body has never worked properly, and even my brain is pretty fucked up with the chemistry issues, but I've always known I had intelligence, creativity and talent, and all of those relied on me keeping my brain up and running properly. The one thing drugs fuck up completely is your head, and this goes for the legal as well as the illegal.

Now, I take anti-anxiety meds daily. They are necessary, unfortunately--if I don't take them, my panic attacks get pretty ugly. During the PMDD, they get even uglier and require the additional support of Xanax. I take a low dose of that--just half a tab of whatever I was given because if I take the whole thing, I fall asleep instantly. I drink rarely these days and have to be careful about what I drink because certain things will send me off the deep end--I don't touch Jack Daniels any more (and I used to be legendary for dancin' with Mr. Damage), can't touch most grape wines unless they're fizzy (don't ask me, I don't get it), beer is baaaaaad (although the coffee porter was OK--must be the crap-ass American piss), and me and absinthe never liked each other. The gastric bypass made drinking even dicier because if there's no food in my stomach, I go bright red and burn up--seriously, I have to ice my face. I've been told it's like a diabetic reaction to alcohol, and considering the fact that my sugar & fat filter is no longer connected, I get it.

At one point in my life, I was misdiagnosed as bipolar II. THAT was entertaining. NOT. Before the diagnosis, to deal with the weight that was packing on for no apparent reason, my GP put me on Prozac. I slept for two weeks and felt AWESOME afterwards. Then we tried Zoloft: no reaction until PMS kicked in and I went homicidal. Entertaining... I chased a guy all the way across Somerville with the intent of pulling him out of his car and dribbling his head off the pavement like a basketball for cutting me off. A little voice inside my head kept trying to get my attention and tell me that it was a bad idea. It took three miles for me to register that voice, and I was traveling down Somerville Ave--consider the number of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other cars I had to deal with in that three miles. Yeah. Zoloft... NOT a good idea. Then came the lower does of Prozac--sleeping without the happiness afterwards. Then shipped off to a psychopharmocologist who evaluated me as bipolar II. Paxil was my friend, and then Depakote got added, and then the doses went up... and don't forget the emergency Xanax, and then the anti-psychotics when the Xanax stopped working for the panic attacks... that was about the time I started keeping at least a bud around because three tokes did what all the meds in the world couldn't--calmed me down and kept me from slashing my wrists.

Of course, I ended up in a blanket of cotton wool about three feet thick, lost my sex drive, and didn't function as an artist. Due to circumstances, I ended up having to stop all meds, cleaned out my system, and then... started over again. Once the hypothyroidism was diagnosed and under control, the anxiety disorder became apparent and that was treated, and the bipolar was off the table.

Whew. But I still need the meds.

I hate them. I hate what I'm like without them even more. I have gotten so attuned to my body that I can feel the chemical changes--I know when my thyroid is off, I know when my hormones surge--there's a little bump mid-month, then a BIG bump about five days before the bleeding starts--and I know what real depression is.

I also know when it's safe for me to drink, and when it's NOT safe because it will start a chemical downward spiral that will end with me trying to slash open my veins and die. I am long past the days when I want my friends babysitting me to make sure I don't shuffle off the mortal coil under my own steam; it's humiliating and exhausting, and eventually, it loses you friends. So, legal or not, I guess I'm a drug addict like damn near most of America these days (at least, those of us who have health insurance with prescription drug coverage).

But I'm not a drunk, and the drugs I take are to keep me sane and functioning. It's a very different thing from the animal I'm dealing with at home. Now, Moron has been sober since the end of January when I had his ass clapped into rehab. At the court hearing, the court shrink--who it was obvious he thought he had flim-flammed, FUCK! HE IS SO GODSDAMNED STUPID!--who evaluated him stated that he had stated that he had "tried cocaine a couple of weeks before."

Right.

The reality--as we found out from his friends--is that he had a full-blown coke habit. It explained quite a bit, like why the flooze he had been trying to bed was calling in a panic, the impotence issues (there are some things NO ONE should know about older members of their family), and of course, the paranoia.

Now, understand that I really DON'T like cocaine. I've never tried it, but I really DON'T LIKE what it does to people who use it constantly--the paranoia, the itchiness, the suspicion, the coldness, the one-step-removed from the world. I don't like it. I have run away almost every time I've had it near me; I have never forgotten a coke-fueled ride home from a friend--beautiful girl to look at, smart, funny but coked out of her head and telling me how much she envied my ability to say no and stay away from it, that she and the hottest guy in the office [whom I had been crushing on up until that minute] were fucking each other and getting high all the time and were both broke and losing everything because of it; I was 18. I didn't need any other warning or example.

Alcohol is a familiar demon--I understand alcohol-fueled violence and stupidity--been surrounded by it all my life--I know the signs, the stench, the clues, and I know how to deal with it. I can kick a drunk's ass easily--let them think they're leading the dance, fake 'em out, step aside, let the punch fly by, and then step in under the guard, and WHAM! Easy-peasy, down he goes. Coke adds something to the mix that makes a drunk think he's invincible--it adds a persistence, an unstoppability that means the one punch won't take them down. It sharpens the shit the alcohol usually dims.

Once I found out that coke was in the mix, I knew why he was overheating and freaking out. And why he swung on me (and yes, as empowering as it is to know I have the PTSD under control, I still wish I had crushed his windpipe. Life would be very complicated, yet so much simpler). See, Moron learned back in '02 what happens when you swing on me--I humiliate your ass. He backed his car into mine so it looked like I had those special shocks to make the car bounce. Several times. And then, when I ran over to his car to get him to stop, he started throwing punches out the window. I caught the punches in my hands and forced his arms back, bending back his fingers.

He's now trying to blame the surgeries he's had for his hands on me--because of that, I caused all of his problems with arthritis in his hands. It's not he was a telephone lineman in the worst weather for 25 years; it's not that I was defending myself and not allowing him to pummel me--he had a right to do that.

*slams head on the desk*

Can I just state for the record that I am done? Beyond done. I had a conversation with Elder Services today because I can't take the madness any longer. Mum doesn't make it any better--she just accepts life with an addict. And I wonder why it took me so many years to get healthy, why it took me so long to wake up and realize that no one has to endure being abused. I lost it last night; she spent fuck knows how much in the grocery store to buy a shitload of stuff that we have no room for. He strong-armed her into buying a small refridgerator with an ice maker--vital for a drunk who sucks back cocktails, not necessary for two women who like to cook and need storage space. I cannot take the hoarding, I cannot take the addiction, I cannot fucking take it any longer.

So I called Elder Services. I'm getting her a lawyer to deal with the foreclosure issue; Elder Services is going to get referrals for help with the house. I've contacted her kidney doctor for a shrink. The bills will go on a schedule; there will be a calendar posted on the fridge for her fucking doctor appointments so I don't get surprises sprung on me.

As for the Moron... argh. I have one possible ace up my sleeve for that, and Gods help him if I call that one in because his ass will be nailed to a wall. There is one person who, if he finds out what that idiot has been doing, will set his ass so straight, it will be practically set in cement.

Cement might work, too, come to think of it... Nah. Considering how toxic his body is at this point, I really wouldn't want to poison the river any further.

Any advice anyone has to offer, I'll take at this point.

ADDENDUM: Just wanted to add that I DO NOT condemn drinking and recreational drugs in general. If you've got a handle on it (and I know a lot of people who can do a little and be fine), no worries. Hey, I like my shot of silver tequila (with five slices of lime because it's going to take me 10 sips to get it down and sea salt on the side) and the occasional toke still. It's just the idiots whose bodies can't handle it and who are destroying lives... *sigh*

* Today's epigram is from the first album by Third Eye Blind--amazing friggin' album from start to finish, only two songs that I didn't bother to put on my Zune. Lyrically astounding, musically fabulous... if only their other albums had been as good. This song is incredible, especially if you've ever had a drunk in your life. You will know it and weep to it.

Wrestling the Noonday Demon

We're learning to live with somebody's depression
And I don't want to live with somebody's depression...
- "Fantastic Voyage," David Bowie

Good afternoon, cherished blurkers.

Your Empress returned to Hell's Vestibule last night, an hour past schedule. I took the long way home after I hit NH--got off in Portsmouth after 300 miles of freakin' Maine to get some gas (and wasted 15 minutes outside of the restroom while some little kid played in there--was ready to murder the parent), took the Route 1 toll road bypass, got back on 95 as far as Lynnfield and Wakefield, and then took a wrong turn on 129, and ended up touring Wakefield instead of back on Route 1. The Jerry Jingle (Lynn Fells Parkway to modern readers) didn't even look familiar, I was so zonked at that point. I actually had a cigarette (yes, I smoke the occasional clove cig--deal with it. It prevents me from killing people, and one cigarette every other week ain't gonna kill me. And if it does, it's my own fuckin' fault) to keep myself awake.

Sorry, did I sound a bit defensive? Ah, well. I feel like I have a little gremlin in my head whacking away at the inside of my skull with a sledgehammer. It also doesn't help that I woke up so depressed at being back, I posted a status of: "Dear Monday: Drop dead."

I had to talk myself out of bed. Even the cat purring didn't help. Of course, I realized then that I'd forgotten my meds the day before, so I popped the happy pills quickly, knowing it would take a little while for them to kick in. I may still need an emergency half-tab of Xanax later. Argh.

My own fault, in part, for forgetting the meds. In part... in part, it's just returning to that Gods-forsaken, hateful, horrible, ugly, miserable, awful, fucking hellhole. The title of today's post is taken from a book (that I have yet to read, but I liked the title and the book flap): The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression. I invoked an old David Bowie song in today's epigram because I've realized that I'm depressed not because I'm depressed because of other people's issues.

Let's start with Mum's hoarding.
Argh.
Argh.
Argh.

All of the fucking cleaning I did while she was in the nursing home has been undone. All of it. My kitchen... Oh, Christ, what a fucking mess. She hadn't cleaned out the fridge since I left. the table... the table was a sea of crap. Papers, DVDs, meds, supplements, junk EVERWHERE. No clear place to sit and eat, the one thing I had asked her for. She never had Idiot close the windows for her, so the house is freezing, which means we're wasting heating oil...
*slams head on the desk*
*slams head on the desk again*
*slams head on the desk repeatedly*

She had actually prepared a meal (and to be fair, it was good) for me so I could eat when I got home. I was thankful, but at the same time, who the fuck wants to eat in a place where there's no place to sit and prepare a plate and eat like a human being? I want a dumpster, I want a shovel, and I want the whole fucking place EMPTIED. She's hugging me and telling me she's glad I'm home, and all I want to do is curl in a ball and cry.

The fucking cat couldn't even get to her shitbox because Mum had (as usual) blocked her path. There was no fresh water down for her, and there were papers over the dry food. And she tells me that Piddy has been "very vocal." NO FUCKING KIDDING! I'D BE BITCHING TOO IF I COULDN'T GET A FUCKING DRINK OF WATER OR TO HALF OF MY GODSDAMNED FOOD! Yes, I corrected this immediately. I don't care if she has a water dish in the bathroom as well, as soon as I put that fresh water down in a clean dish, the poor little thing went at it like she'd crossed the Gobi.

"Need to murder... rising... rising..." [Thank you, Homer Simpson. BEST SIMPSONS EPISODE EVER!]

If I had the gas money, she and I would be heading north right now and never looking back.

So I guess I should be grateful that they're foreclosing on the house, right? That she's not even going to fight it. I should be happy that soon, the place will be gone. Of course, that leaves us homeless, but hey, that's just a little concern. After I gave her a stack of information of where she could get help, she's done nothing. NOTHING.

Makes me want to hit something. (Note, I said "something." I've talked about this before, just in case someone of lesser intelligence reading this thinks I'm contemplating elder abuse. I'm not. I'm just considering forcing her arse into counseling because I think she's FUCKING INSANE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

This is not a happy blog today. I am sorry. *ack* *gag* *choke* And the Idiot in the Office has just blown by me in a haze of heavy perfume. Fuck, I hate people. I really do.

*sigh* OK, time for an attitude adjustment. I will allow myself to feel like this for another hour or two--while getting copious amounts of work done--and then I will find a more positive approach so that I can change my situation and better my life.

At least the Captain has been in touch and is eager for my company. Small consolation. Potential Paramour is sniffing around again, as well. *rolls eyes* One of my favorite baristas has gotten a job in his field--HOORAY! That made my morning (as was being greeted with, "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever!"). Finding Cape Breton oatcakes in the staffroom was happy-making. Piddy cuddling up in my arms and purring made me happy. Being welcomed back by friends here made me happy. Knowing I'm going back to NS in April makes me happy. The compliments from and old friend (and the like from another old friend) for the blog on FB were encouraging. KJ bailing my arse out in Northern Maine yesterday (for gas, not jail; long story) was awesome, and a reminder of the amazing friends I have. Seeing Nova Scotia and New Brunswick in the glory of autumn was awe inspiring. NaNoWriMo is next month, and I've figured out the next twist to put in the first book to make it all work. Finding out Russ got married... that's hurting and hurting hard. I will get over it; I may never get over him completely, but... *sigh* Yeah. But I got to meet my latest Celebricrush two weeks ago, and damn, was he amazing on stage and hot as hell in person. And one week from today, I can pre-order my b-day present to myself, his new DVD, Alcoholocaust.

A number of my friends are hurting right now, too... four of my nearest and dearest are in pain, and there's not a lot I can do but be there and give them what I can. Another friend is going to be deployed to The Sandbox... hard, hard, hard. I cannot tell you how guilty I, as an American, feel when I hear about soldier from other countries being sent into a conflict that we started and have failed them so badly at supporting.

So life is OK. Not perfect, not fabulous, but it's OK. And with a little hard work and determination, it will get so much better. Have decided to give Gold's a miss and try Planet Fitness--it's around the corner from the house, on the way to work, parking is easier, and it's right down the street from Sbux, and nothing lifts my mood like lifting weights. Yay, team, go, team.

*slams head on the desk*