2003-07-27 @ 4:36 p.m.
|I used to hate Sundays because my mother used to dump me off at church by myself when I was only 7 and 8 years old. She wasn't Catholic and my Dad was, and he traveled and wasn't home much on Church day.
It was Florida in the early 60's and in those days there was no guarantee of air conditioning. It was freakin' hot listening to Father Hide the Salami preach about purity, as I looked down at my shiny, white purse, snapping and unsnapping the clasp. I was obsessive even then.
But I remember this one day in particular being incredibly hot and sweaty. I was sitting alone on the metal chairs that were set up. No wooden pews for us. Just fold up chairs. Since snapping and unsnapping the clasp on my purse just wasn't doing it for me that day I started looking around. And you know how in movies, when someone is about ready to faint and suddenly the camera lens goes all smeary and things start to spin? Well that's what happened to me. Suddenly I was Dorothy Gale from Kansas, falling through the center of the tornado. I have no idea what happened next, but I assume I fainted, knocked over a few chairs and probably caused the priest to pause to see what all the racket was.
The next thing I knew I was walking, hand in hand, with this strange man up the front walkway of my house. My mother came running out of the house, looking remarkably alarmed. My mom, who I do love but who is largely responsible for my 25 years in therapy, never realized that the word mother was a verb as well as a noun. So the alarmed look was very pleasing to me. I guess the guy must have explained what happened and I got hugged and kissed like there was no tomorrow. (she was always very into show. Hugs and kisses when people were around. Whack, whack, you're funny-looking, when they weren't.) I still had to go to Church alone after that, but at least I had gotten some attention that day.
So I got ambitious today. In the interest of sanity, of which I am in low supply, I decided to move my computer from the living room to the kitchen. My living room carpeting is so wet and squishy, I am worried about its affects on my hard drive. I also thought it was a good idea to remove myself from the living room window area where all the brats play and scream. My kitchen windows are on the side of the building and the kids rarely go around there. I'm hoping that if I do get that graphics job tomorrow, I will need to be able to concentrate instead of feeling Incredible Hulk anger, everytime the brats gather to sing "Barney".
So it was the usual pain in the ass moving everything. 1200 wires, snarled like an L.A. freeway. I wanted to keep as many of them plugged in and together as I could since I put all my computer stuff on my office chair and rolled it into the kitchen. Fortunately there were no crashes and everything seems to be ok. My kitchen table isn't as comfortable as my desk, heightwise, but you can't have everything....otherwise I'd be having Johnny Depp's love child, right?
Also my computer is now a mere, 2 steps from the fridge. Is that not smart for someone on mind-erasing drugs? I think so. So hopefully this will keep me sane until I can get out of this dark, dank, mildewy hellhole, possibly in late September or October.
Of course, being this close to the refrigerator will have its drawbacks. Why? No, its not what you think (eating until my pants explode). It because the refrigerator is next to the cat box. I have a really small apartment. Everything has to fit in just so. And it really doesn't.
I went looking for my portfolio for my job interview tomorrow. I had put it in a plastic under-your-bed bin and thought it would be ok. Well, I got it out on Friday. It was damp and my newspaper samples were yellowed and crinkled. Crap! This fucking apartment and its damp carpeting.
One newspaper sample I just dispensed with. Another one which I had written a front page newspaper story on racial unrest due to police violence on an African American girl who tried to defend a family member during a domestic dispute. Fortunately, I had another copy of that, in a less moist location, so I was able to replace it. I was really proud of that article and had actually been asked to reprint it in the local African American newspaper in town.
I had an African American psychiatrist at the time and she was falling all over herself about the article and its positive affect on the community (they were happy with it). I was glad I had written it sensitively enough to please everyone.
See, I wasn't always a wacky-wacky.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty