6/26/2006
Night in the ruts
How was my weekend?
Well, I walked Amanda downtown for the Art Gallery walk, and she was actually ready when I got to her house, though she insisted on stopping for a beer two blocks before the first gallery, so we were late, anyway. I liked the first exhibit and she wanted to move on.
I detested the second exhibit, where she lingered, and then she pointed out that I hadn’t ever taken her out to dinner and headed into a restaurant. It wasn’t devoted to a cuisine I didn’t care for, and it wasn’t too pricey, so I good humoredly acquiesced. She insisted on an appetizer, opting for fried, breaded mozzarella sticks, which she decided after one bite were too salty, requiring a pitcher of beer. She insisted that I order dinner, and I selected a smoked turkey/artichoke heart/ricotta mozzarella calzone. Before the waitress got that order to the kitchen, Amanda said she was bored and wanted to go sommeplace else. I reminded her that we’d just ordered dinner.
It was the methadone kicking in, I’m fairly certain, that made her forget that dinner was on the way three more times before I suggested that I have it wrapped and bring it to her house and that she precede me and walk the dog so that chore would be done before I got there.
Normally, I wouldn’t send a woman to walk home alone, but it was before dark and in good neighborhoods, and I was getting a little pissed about the whole whatever-the-hell-it-was that made her demand dinner, then reject the appetizer, then forget the dinner. With drinks and tip, I was looking at $48 here, for no good reason, and the gallery knoshing should have been the appetizer, anyway, so I let Amanda walk home by herself and I had another drink while waiting for the food.
It got there sooner than I’d expected, so I stopped at another bar on the way to her house, knowing how she’d dawdle walking the sonofabitch Rottweiler, Buddy Joe, and got there around 10. She was on the edge of unconsciousness by that time, so the rest of the night passed quietly.
I awoke at five Saturday, because I do, and stepped into her hallway to find a ghoulish abattoir. Amanda has a daughter who just graduated high school, there’s a thing you may have heard of called the “McClintock Effect,” named after one of John Wayne’s more violent Westerns, and the goddamn dog had eaten a bathroom trash can full of used sanitary pads and then yacked them up all over the hallway floor and to a wall height of just under three feet. I left it there.
Before leaving at noon, after she’d gotten up and I’d tried to fix some computer problems for her and we’d gone over the fact that she didn’t like turkey club sandwiches anyway and I’d given up on trying to tell her it was a calzone and not a club, and while I was devouring the whole damn thing myself, I was treated to a humorous anecdote.
You see, it’s a small world, and Loonville’s a small town in a small world, and I’ll be a ringtailed son of a bitch if Crazy Martha, Annie, Rhonda (last year … with bulldog) and Amanda don’t all go to the same therapist at Whackjob County Center for Mental Repair (multicounty government agency). Amanda’s anecdote comes from a few years ago, when she was trying to make her husband sicken and die by scrubbing his toilet with his toothbrush. She complained to Dr. Dingwad that this clever parlor trick wasn’t even making her husband sick. He (Dingwad) replied that her husband’s own waste residue would probably not kill him, and advised her to scrub someone else’s toilet with her husband’s toothbrush if she really wanted to kill him.
Let’s see, that takes us through noon, Saturday ...
Well, I walked Amanda downtown for the Art Gallery walk, and she was actually ready when I got to her house, though she insisted on stopping for a beer two blocks before the first gallery, so we were late, anyway. I liked the first exhibit and she wanted to move on.
I detested the second exhibit, where she lingered, and then she pointed out that I hadn’t ever taken her out to dinner and headed into a restaurant. It wasn’t devoted to a cuisine I didn’t care for, and it wasn’t too pricey, so I good humoredly acquiesced. She insisted on an appetizer, opting for fried, breaded mozzarella sticks, which she decided after one bite were too salty, requiring a pitcher of beer. She insisted that I order dinner, and I selected a smoked turkey/artichoke heart/ricotta mozzarella calzone. Before the waitress got that order to the kitchen, Amanda said she was bored and wanted to go sommeplace else. I reminded her that we’d just ordered dinner.
It was the methadone kicking in, I’m fairly certain, that made her forget that dinner was on the way three more times before I suggested that I have it wrapped and bring it to her house and that she precede me and walk the dog so that chore would be done before I got there.
Normally, I wouldn’t send a woman to walk home alone, but it was before dark and in good neighborhoods, and I was getting a little pissed about the whole whatever-the-hell-it-was that made her demand dinner, then reject the appetizer, then forget the dinner. With drinks and tip, I was looking at $48 here, for no good reason, and the gallery knoshing should have been the appetizer, anyway, so I let Amanda walk home by herself and I had another drink while waiting for the food.
It got there sooner than I’d expected, so I stopped at another bar on the way to her house, knowing how she’d dawdle walking the sonofabitch Rottweiler, Buddy Joe, and got there around 10. She was on the edge of unconsciousness by that time, so the rest of the night passed quietly.
I awoke at five Saturday, because I do, and stepped into her hallway to find a ghoulish abattoir. Amanda has a daughter who just graduated high school, there’s a thing you may have heard of called the “McClintock Effect,” named after one of John Wayne’s more violent Westerns, and the goddamn dog had eaten a bathroom trash can full of used sanitary pads and then yacked them up all over the hallway floor and to a wall height of just under three feet. I left it there.
Before leaving at noon, after she’d gotten up and I’d tried to fix some computer problems for her and we’d gone over the fact that she didn’t like turkey club sandwiches anyway and I’d given up on trying to tell her it was a calzone and not a club, and while I was devouring the whole damn thing myself, I was treated to a humorous anecdote.
You see, it’s a small world, and Loonville’s a small town in a small world, and I’ll be a ringtailed son of a bitch if Crazy Martha, Annie, Rhonda (last year … with bulldog) and Amanda don’t all go to the same therapist at Whackjob County Center for Mental Repair (multicounty government agency). Amanda’s anecdote comes from a few years ago, when she was trying to make her husband sicken and die by scrubbing his toilet with his toothbrush. She complained to Dr. Dingwad that this clever parlor trick wasn’t even making her husband sick. He (Dingwad) replied that her husband’s own waste residue would probably not kill him, and advised her to scrub someone else’s toilet with her husband’s toothbrush if she really wanted to kill him.
Let’s see, that takes us through noon, Saturday ...
Comments:
<< Home
Gee I am seeing a pattern here with the food and restaurant experiences among many other things, so when do you think that maybe it is YOU and NOT the "crazy' women you date?
And well, lumping all of the "crazy" women you date in Loonville together and then thinking "Gee, why do they take this personallY?" Hmm, I wonder? All I can think is you are addicted to these types of women for some very sad reasons. C'est la vie in Loonville!
And well, lumping all of the "crazy" women you date in Loonville together and then thinking "Gee, why do they take this personallY?" Hmm, I wonder? All I can think is you are addicted to these types of women for some very sad reasons. C'est la vie in Loonville!
# posted by 
: 7:54 PM
: 7:54 PM
When you follow the blues, sometimes it catches you. Hell, yes, I've had those same concerns and worried about myself and done repeated soul searching, but then I get up and go to work and pay my bills and contribute to the community and get good comments here and elsewhere, as well as "sad" ones like this.
The pattern is in this town and the sadness is in the therapy available to people I'd rather see well here. "Coincidence" is something you missed the first half of. Pre-existing conditions of paranoia about government agencies, severe, ongoing back problems requiring heavy pain meds that string them out and confuse them on top of the mood meds, and the specific bizarreness regarding toothbrushes, conditions shared by all the women in these certainly sad narratives, point to a "first half" for which I was not present. The rational mind, then, looks for what was present, and where, when these conditions coagulated. That would be the therapy in this town.
How awful and how sad am I for being present for its repercussions? Can they, literally, take these anecdotes by reading them as personally as they take their prescribed antidotes by ingesting them?
The pattern is in this town and the sadness is in the therapy available to people I'd rather see well here. "Coincidence" is something you missed the first half of. Pre-existing conditions of paranoia about government agencies, severe, ongoing back problems requiring heavy pain meds that string them out and confuse them on top of the mood meds, and the specific bizarreness regarding toothbrushes, conditions shared by all the women in these certainly sad narratives, point to a "first half" for which I was not present. The rational mind, then, looks for what was present, and where, when these conditions coagulated. That would be the therapy in this town.
How awful and how sad am I for being present for its repercussions? Can they, literally, take these anecdotes by reading them as personally as they take their prescribed antidotes by ingesting them?
# posted by : 8:54 PM
: 8:54 PM
My question then is this: Why on earth would the "rational mind" keep going backwards in life to revisit the very same "crazy women of Loonville" that he USED to date? I am guessing that it is comfortable to this "rational" minded person, and that it is as always self serving to keep going back to the familiar so he can continue to criticize them as opposed to say moving forward to the unknown where he might actually find a woman who is not dysfunctional in his eyes, which by the way are few and far between, but then how would he answer to his own demons? That is a tough one. So it seems the comfort zone provides better material to write about. And I am also guessing he tells these women he is still in love with them because he doesn't know what true love is and sadly never will unless he changes.
# posted by : 12:39 PM
: 12:39 PM
Reasons for trying again? Enough romanticism to see past the illness and into the souls of women I fall in love with. Enough egotism to believe I can ride it out until they get well. Enough faith in humankind to be absolutely certain that today's chemical therapy will be looked back on in a few years with the same abhorrence that we now feel for that fellow who received a Nobel Prize in the '40s for performing lobotomies with a device resembling nothing so much as an icepick, inserted in mental patients' noses get. Gluttony for love that makes me take chances on known problems in order to pursue not just a present and possible future, which is what one gets dating strangers, but a past, present and future.
Do I know what true love is? Hmmmm, it's hard for that one to not be subjective, isn't it?
Do I know how long a doctor treating physical ailments could go on "treating" them without any progress and with all of his patients "coincidentally" developing the same new infections before losing his or her license and being sued for malpractice? I have a pretty good idea that after no more than six months, that physician would be lucky to find a job as a shoe salesperson. Do I know how long how many women of my acquaintance and, sadly, attempted affection, have received "treatment" from the same mental health care provider in this small town and, in addition to retaining each and every aspect and degree of the illnesses for which they're supposed to be receiving professional care, but, also, all ended up convinced of constant, malevolent government agency surveillance, terrific back pain that must be treated with more and more numbing meds and some weird attitudes about toothbrushes? I have a pretty god idea that it's been far too ridiculously long.
Do I know what true love is? Hmmmm, it's hard for that one to not be subjective, isn't it?
Do I know how long a doctor treating physical ailments could go on "treating" them without any progress and with all of his patients "coincidentally" developing the same new infections before losing his or her license and being sued for malpractice? I have a pretty good idea that after no more than six months, that physician would be lucky to find a job as a shoe salesperson. Do I know how long how many women of my acquaintance and, sadly, attempted affection, have received "treatment" from the same mental health care provider in this small town and, in addition to retaining each and every aspect and degree of the illnesses for which they're supposed to be receiving professional care, but, also, all ended up convinced of constant, malevolent government agency surveillance, terrific back pain that must be treated with more and more numbing meds and some weird attitudes about toothbrushes? I have a pretty god idea that it's been far too ridiculously long.
# posted by : 8:43 AM
: 8:43 AM
The "ones" that get well unlist their phone numbers, block his email, issue restraining orders and ultimately flee this idyllic paradise to "Get Well". The remainders commit suicide. His path is strewn with death and decay. Author epitomizes 'Creep', a desperate evangelizing atheist, hates love, believing in nothing but his own cum. This format is his cheap variation of his own therapy for his suffocating perversions.
# posted by : 3:41 PM
: 3:41 PM
There are neither restraining orders nor suicides. I think that note is a bit excessive in tone, bringing up new, cheap shot issues in a maddened frenzy that is not justified by any comment that precedes it. This must be someone who's desperately clinging to the chemical therapy I'm so against, attacking me for attacking the prescribed cotton candy fog of those damn pills.
# posted by : 6:01 AM
: 6:01 AM
Gotta admit it Whip, I've seen some of these chicks you date, and have come to the conclusion that you must be totally desperate to stick you dick in anything. What a bunch of psychopathic losers. You should raise your bar out of the basement, dude.
# posted by : 5:43 PM
: 5:43 PM
Now I do take complete exception to that. The women in my life have been physically alluring even when mentally ill. It would be a lot easier on me if they weren't, actually. When they relax and relapse and light up Loonville's skyline with neon and lightning, it's like being given a mansion, moving in and getting comfortable in it, then finding out it's sitting on toxic waste and having a disagreeable person show up out of nowhere to condemn it and force you out.
# posted by : 5:39 AM
: 5:39 AM
Not breaching protection of anonymity to expose the facts that Author hasn't talent enough to exercise poetic license. He simply lies. See here a common sadist, who only hopes an uncommon death, as that of his hero, will cause him fame. He'll not migrate from his fishbowl, he won't even flush the water.
Post a Comment
# posted by : 11:16 AM
: 11:16 AM << Home
