As our lives return to normalcy or a mere façade of what poses as normal, after the recent turmoil of a Presidential election combined with a devastating storm, I want to impart a few laughs. Don't know about you, I really need one!
Here at the ranch, the tree's biting into the shed's structure and I've a 25' mountain of tree limbs at the road. Casting caution to the wind and playing my odds with the Russian roulette of fate, I walk underneath that 40' massive limb to get to the road. To date, I've yet to hoist the cut logs there because I really value my back. Inside my cottage, the poltergeists randomly flush my toilet (deemed literary critics by a twitter pal) and certain light switches throw off lightening bolts. I guess when those huge tree branches bounced off my roof, they dislodged a few things. All I know is: Houston, we got a problem here!
At the same time, I'm acclimating to the winter cold. During the 7-day power outage, I slept in 20 degree temperature without expiring. That's when I discovered FLEECE and FLANNEL!
Oh my! To think of the years spent frozen solid in 600 thread count brushed cotton sateen sheets. No matter how many down blankets piled on top, it still felt as if I slept on an unforgiving slab of iced concrete. Why didn't Mom tell me about FLEECE and FLANNEL? Now, those would've been pearls of wisdom.
My mother studied at FIT and was a fashion designer. She was famous in the early 1950's for incorporating adult styles into children's fashion, notably the skirt with a poodle for little girls. Then, she designed womens' shoes for National Shoe until she married Dad. When I was 19, she burnt all her designs, gorgeous designs, far ahead of the 1970's. Still, she made beautiful clothes intermittently for several high-end clients and for me. I had some wardrobe! From an early age, I learned about fabric. With my educated fingers, I could discern the composition with a passing touch. That's long gone today in wake of manual labor to keep my cottage intact. My hands, still soft, are immune to these distinctions; my fingertips are ruined beyond repair. Even so, Mom ignored FLEECE and FLANNEL focusing instead on natural silk, cotton, linen, wool and the ability to make sure there weren't any blends.
Two days after the storm after NYSEG removed the power lines from the street, I ran to the nearest store, Walmart and bought two sets of mix 'n match acrylic fleece pjs. They don't allow the skin to breathe and honestly I don't care. It's warmth I'm angling for, not fashion. On my way out, I picked up the remaining set of flannel sheets. Oh my! WHAT A WONDER!
Please forgive me, dear Reader, for extolling the virtue of FLEECE and FLANNEL. I live in a small 100-year old summer cottage with a hint of insulation. Actually, it's more like 80% caulk and 20% plywood after applying my futile attempts to insulate. And heated by a portable Edenpure electric heater and a monster gas propane one that makes only the living room hot as hell for minutes. To quote someone who has the same arrangement, "I've the choice of either burning to death or asphyxiating." Hence, my obsession with heat, caulk, fleece and flannel.
Now that I got my two seconds of kvetching in, let's get to the matter at hand.
As written numerous times in my blog, I noticed that people say the most inappropriate things to me. I find it quite disturbing; perhaps Mom did bring me up right. Although she could've told me about FLEECE and FLANNEL.
I guess my beef has more to do with the people who I interacted with before Hurricane Sandy. Let's say the interactions are nil to negligible. Still, I met tons of new people in my community from venturing to new locales seeking haven from the storm. These people were polite. A direct contrast to the people I've interacted with before, even on a very limited basis. Which is why this topic reared its ugly head again.
Unlike several people I've blogged about before, I've never in my life approached someone and told them in a conversation how I plan for their death. I rarely confront people with fake accusations. Perhaps it's because my life is quite full and I don't need to bother people with my neuroses. It's a good thing having a full life, even a recluse like myself. I enjoy my bouts of solitude and rarely am bored.
Yet, I ruminate about the shit people say to me. The freedom with which they're compelled to tell me how poorly they think of me. Given the spate of incidents over the past several years, I learned that silence is complicit and now I tell EVERYONE and BLOG the shit people say. This story, one of my classics, I simply must blog.
Four years ago, a guy in my neighborhood got a crush on me. This happens periodically. No one notices me for say, thirty years, when suddenly, BAM - I'm in their radar. I know all the signs and laugh. A sardonic one at best.
At any rate, this guy who, incidentally what you may deem 'butt ugly' waves at me while biking and gestures to stop in front of his house. His wife, ten years my junior, is a mere ten feet away gardening. That's when I saw her butt exceeded her height by a ratio of 3:1.
I pull over. "Yes?" I warily say. There's no reason why this guy should contact me.
"You know," he hesitates, then flashes his browned teeth, "I really want to fuck the shit outta you."
"That's nice," I respond, "Let me tell your wife."
He turned ashen.
Sad to say, I didn't tell his wife. Instead, I ignored him. Then, a year later, he waves me over. Of course, I couldn't wait to here this one. You'd think I learned from the first time? Nah.
"My son graduated from college with a degree in media. He's having problems landing a job. I figured you might know people in media 'cause you're an author. Can you help out?"
"Sure. I do happen to know a lot of people."
"Great," he smiles, "I'll tell him to drop by your house."
"Good. So, how many copies of my book are you going to buy?"
"What?" he yelps.
"Since you want a favor from me, I'm sure you're going to reciprocate and purchase my book in kind."
"HOW DARE YOU!" He sneers, exposing those ugly fangs and turns his back.
Yes, how audacious to demand something in return to a man who wants to fuck the shit out of me. And this fucktard expects me to get his son a job?!?
Do I have SCHMUCK plastered on my face?
Flash forward to last year. I'm in the local gas station and fucktard enters. "Are you angry at me? Why won't you talk to me?"
"Yes, I'm angry at you. You spoke to me inappropriately."
He laughs in my face.
Just recently I attended a community event. And guess who was there? Yep. Fucktard. He avoided me like the plague. Suddenly, one guy who I met several times entered and I scooted over to say hello.
"Let me introduce you to my wife," and we shook hands. "She's the author I told you about," he says to his wife. To me, "My wife's XX's sister."
"Oh," I say to her. "I've issues about your brother."
She laughs. "Yeah, he's known for that."
"He said to me four years ago, not even ten feet from his wife that he wants to fuck the shit outta me. I figure, if he felt free to say that to me right by his wife, well, I'm telling everyone. It's the only way people will learn to speak to me with respect." And then I realized, or shoot me. As I once wrote, "Shoot me in the face, not in the heart. At least then I'll be right about my heart."
She groans, "I'll have him apologize."
"No, please don't. He laughed in my face last year when I told him how inappropriate he was. He doesn't get it. But, don't worry, there's no reason why I should hold that against you."
She's a wonderful woman and we had a pleasant chat afterwards.
So, let me put it out there: if you feel free to say shit to me, then don't be surprised when I blog about it. I may appear nice and will listen to what you have to say; trust me, I ain't no angel. Do not mistake my kindness for weakness nor my silence at the time as a bond or trust that I won't say a word.
I don't need to respond to you: that's what my blog's for.
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