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2005-01-26 @ 12:36 a.m.
right anger butt cheek pain (try saying that fast)

When I got the mail yesterday, I got a momentary bolt of electricity through me. There was an envelope addressed to: Witty O’McDougall-LeGerg.(What? I’m Irish and French-Canadian). It was from a life insurance company....the life insurance that had insured my father before he passed away two years ago. I, of course, had been “forgotten” in my Dad’s will. That’s pretty hard for an only child to be forgotten, especially one as memorable as me. But it was really due to the dedicated work of my filipino mail order whore stepmother, who my Dad had ordered from page 23 twelve years earlier. I had hoped that there was a return policy on filipino mail order whores, once I realized she was stealing money from my Alzheimered Dad, but no such luck. She was there to stay.

But back to the mail story...

So I was all excited about the envelope from Trans(cough)AmeriKa Life Insurance Company, because there it was....addressed directly to me. Two years earlier I had searched relentlessly for some life insurance policies after he died, hoping that maybe the filipino mail order whore had somehow slipped up and not changed her name over on one of the policies (and my Dad was covered to the max on all of them), but unfortunately, not only was she a devious little bitch, she was also very thorough on her total annihilation of my inheritance. She never even called me when my Dad died. I had to find out through a cousin and then had to contact Hilary Clinton’s office in order to get a death certificate. Along with the death certificate from the Philippine government, I also got several hospital reports from the months preceding his death. Was he physically ill? Nope. He had a dislocated shoulder in one. Skeletal bruises and a bruised arm in another. My mom and I figure the filipino mail order whore and her boyfriend (yeah, she had a boyfriend, whose housing my Dad was unwittingly paying for), were probably trying to push him down some stairs or something. You know, to speed up that pesky process of “dying”, so she could get her inheritance.

Oh yeah, the mail story...

So anyways, I opened up the letter nervously, hoping to see something like: Dear Ms. Witty O’McDougall-LeGerg, We’ve been looking for you for nearly 3 years now. The filipino mail order whore Mrs. L. O’McDougall-LeGerg accidently stepped on a land mine and was unable to collect her ill-gotten inheritance, so we’ve got a check for $1 million dollars. We know you want need to buy a new car with snow tires. so please call us...”

But as usual, it wasn’t all quite so glamorous. Instead it said:

“In February you’ll turn 47, an age when many life insurance companies will begin to look at you differently (as in, one foot is on a live third rail in a subway and the other one on a banana peel). From now on, when you need financial protection for your family (even though we know you’re a loser and have never gotten married or had children), you may find the health questions will be a lot tougher....the coverage offered to you will be of lesser quality and the rates will surely be higher (because you’re so damn fucking old).

In fact, rates are already set to go higher for you the moment you turn 47 in February (that’s February 12th, diaryland readers, in case you want to send money or hook me up with giftcards). That’s only days from now...(well, technically its 39 days from now, but whatever). The deadline to apply for your lifetime protection and lifetime pre-birthday rate is your BIRTHDAY (when you will officially be old) Time is running out...”

And I suddenly felt this cold breath on my neck and whirled around to see...


Right there...on my front porch....behind me...and I quickly read the rest of the letter which strangely threatened: “So for your sake and your family’s, please mail your application right now. In fact, if you want you can give it to the Grim Reaper guy, he’s really a postal worker. He moonlights as the Grim Reaper, when he’s not dreaming about mowing down his co-workers with an uzi.


I finally got back to work yesterday. We had our morning meeting and I had the Lesbian making moo-eyes at me again. I guess I just don’t realize how truly fascinating I am, until I look over and see her staring at me, transfixed. Yes dear, I realize you haven’t had your wittykitty fix in nearly two weeks, but do you have to stare? It was really making me really uncomfortable and I was uncomfortable anyways, because of the subject matter of our meeting. I had also loaned my one and only pen to a co-worker who was now twirling it around in his hand and I really wanted to get it back so I could doodle and draw in my new Datebook. To do some Angst a coping mechanism. When an opportunity to co-facilitate our woman’s group came up at the meeting, I jumped at the chance, since I am, once again, with no hours this week. The Lesbian had formerly worked this group, but now has to trade off with me and another woman. And I was rather sassy about it, reminding her that I had missed last group because it had been canceled without notice. I don’t think she liked that, but when you’re in total awe of someone (like me, unfortunately), you just let it slide. She came to the group anyways, and it was rather comical. Well, at least to me.

The first hour is spent catching up with everyone to make sure they’re okay and then in the second one, we usually spend reading an article out of such magazines as “Oprah” or “Psychology Today” (well, we had to balance things out somehow). Yesterday we read “Seven Myths about Marriage”. Earlier during check in, I was my usual sardonic self, sharing my little story about the fortune cookie message predicting that I was “doomed to wedded bliss” in 2005, and also about my husband hunting stint at Barnes and Noble. The other women in the group just all look at me like I was from the Planet Kriptart.

Once the Lesbian took note of what she had to say to be like me (She has done this before. Originally when she found out that I was an artist, she went into overdrive trying to prove to me that she was an “artist” too, by carrying around sketchpads when she knew she’d see me. And huge art books about Impressionism when we were scheduled to meet). Yesterday though, after I talked about husband hunting at B&N, guess who suddenly developed an intense interest in getting herself, one of those rootin’ tootin’ husband thingies? Yeah, the Lesbian. As in: “I want a husband more than anything. Somebody to be with. Somebody to rub my feet. Somebody to go to the movies with. I really want to be married....bad.”

HUH? Oh, you mean like ol’ wittykitty?

(Oh, and by the way. Even though I’ve never been married, I do realize that there’s a little more involved with being married than feet rubbing and movie going).

I’m not really sure how I am going to burst this girl’s bubble though. I just can’t see what she sees in me. I’m probably old enough to be her mother, for god sakes. And I’ve only had one other lesbian sweet on me. But she had a boyfriend when we met, so I had no idea. Oy! Why can’t I get the right kind of attention?

I finished up the newsletter for my art group last night. It was the first time I ever did it, so I had to do a little designing work to do. I wish I was getting paid, but I guess I will just have to gleen my pleasure by “volunteering”. It was actually pretty worthy this morning when I dropped it off to our Fearless Art Leader’s place of employment. I hadn’t called him or anything (I’m kind of famous for that. Not calling people). They paged him over a loudspeaker and when he came out into the reception area and beheld the allmighty piece of crap N-E-W-S-L-E-T-T-E-R, he broke into a huge smile. It was like seeing the SUN (which we haven’t in about 23 days). So THAT was nice. :-)

I also saw the ever effervescent “A” this morning after his holiday vacation. It was nice seeing him again. I always miss him when he’s away. Yeah, I know. He’s only my shrink...but he’s “A”!!! He has totally changed my life. What was once nearly a dead shell of despair eight years ago, is at least now a vibrant shell of hellacious anger. Sometimes I wish I could just let go of things, and not be such an ass kicking hellion, but I guess once you open those doors, there’s no turning back, right “A”?

So our goal for 2005 (unlike the Doomed to Wedded Bliss one) is to try and wrestle that anger back under control somewhat. I’m sure it’ll be like lassoeing a volcano or building a sand barrier against an oncoming tsunami. I have a lot of things to be angry about*. (*for example see Dad story above). And I do tend to hold onto anger, mainly because I was never allowed to express it as a kid.

So this is going to be a big job. A huge job in fact. I am really consumed with anger right now and its starting to affect my mental and physical health. And its mainly centered around Married Guy. And that was, in fact, what we worked on today, in the form of a role play. “A” played Married Guy, and I played...well, me. (Typecast AGAIN!!).

It was extremely intensive, because even though I was very happy to see “A”, I pretty much came in brimming with anger. “A” never pulls any punches in our role plays, and he’ll do anything to help get my anger out. He's a real trouper. About the only bad part is that I really don’t have a cooling down period. We ended the role play about 4 minutes before the end of my session and I ended up leaving his office feeling like I wanted to knock somebody on their ass. I went over to the yuppie grocery store afterwards and some yupperina bumped into my purse really hard and I felt like yanking out a machete and filleting her forehead.

I then was going to go see “Spanglish” this afternoon, but I missed it by 15 minutes, so I just went home and laid down. My right butt cheek is killing me. I actually think its anger. Anger which has settled in my right butt cheek. Right Butt Cheek Anger Pain. Who else do you know with Right Butt Cheek Anger Pain? Just don’t tell the Lesbian Chick, otherwise, she’ll get it too.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty