It seems more and more clear that there is a PERFECT profession for would-be killers and thugs who want to get a paid vacation after killing an innocent person. Yes! Become a police officer!
Once again, an innocent person, Kenneth Howe of Webster, MA, has been beaten and killed by a gang of thugs, the cops. OK, he was allegedly smoking marijuana, which is now subject to a $100 fine in Massachusetts and something even US Presidents have admitted to doing. My god, half the cops smoke weed! This is NOT a capital offense, last I heard. Wanna place a bet that NO CHARGES WHATSOEVER are laid against any of the police in question?
http://www.boston.com/news/local/breaking_news/2009/11/driver_police_b.html
In case you don't believe me, check the history. Victoria Snelgrove, a 21-year-old Emerson student, a bystander after the first Red Sox World Series win in 86 years died in 2004. Victoria was standing OUT OF THE WAY at Fenway Park, just watching the celebratory happiness, when she was shot in the eye by a rubber bullet and died.
Any charges against the cop who shot into this crowd of happy bystanders? No way. And yet her parents received a $5.1 million settlement from the city of Boston. How does that work? Oh right, the rubber bullet was at fault, not the cop who decided to fire into a peaceful crowd.
In 2008, David Woodman, a young guy full of life and happiness after the Celtics Championship, made the HUGE mistake (and committed an atrocious crime, it seems) of saying, off-hand to a bunch of cops standing around a corner where nothing was going one, “Wow. I guess there’s a lot of crime on this corner.” For that he was beaten and died. Any charges against the police? No my friend, none.
"http://jonathanturley.org/2008/07/01/boston-police-accused-of-beating-student-to-death-for-snide-comment/
Allegedly David had a pre-existing heart condition. But just in case he didn’t, health “experts” have now conveniently discovered a BRAND NEW CONDITION!!! It is called “excited delirium” and if you didn’t know you had it before the cops beat you to death, you will find out after the fact, or at least your next of kin will.
http://www.theprovince.com/Knipstrom+death+linked+controversial+medical+condition+coroner+says/2243323/story.html
There are many cases in Massachusetts where a non-lethal weapon could have been chosen, particularly when dealing with a mentally ill or severely distraught person. Instead, over and over again, these people are killed. Any charges? Are you kidding me?
Then we have Sean Bell, the NYC bridegroom killed in 2006 leaving his bachelor party, and Amadou Diallo killed in NYC in 1999 while reaching for his ID. Any charges? Not a one.
So if you are thinking of calling the cops for help sometime, think twice. You may find yourself charged with something (the first tactic, even when police are at fault) and end up dead. And if you do die, will your family find justice? Not bloody likely.
When will it be time to look at the toxic environment of the police force? How about a look at the courts, which almost NEVER find any guilt in these cases? And how about higher standards when recruiting candidates for the police force, including better testing for bullying tendencies or other mental health issues?
Or if in fact the police are no longer there to protect and serve but instead to beat and kill if they so choose, let’s put the cards on the table, and send a general press release to the community at large.
At least then we will all know where we stand.
Here are a couple more links. There are thousands. Just Google “police abuse”.
http://www.coldink.net/2009/11/24/Abusive_cops_are_the_norm_not_the_exception
http://bullcutter.blogspot.com/2008/02/copd-kill-innocent-person-again.html
http://www.gainesnet.com/police.htm
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
YAY!! I Survived Thanksgiving and Lived to Write About It!
Well, I made it through TG DAY. YAY!
And I didn’t:
1. Wander off into the woods in a huff after a TG Day annoyance, only to be found 24 hours later, alive and freezing, like the woman from Gloucester, MA.
2. Lock my kids in the trunk of my car, like the man from Fall River, MA (OK, this was Tuesday, but I think it counts as “Thanksgiving Week” behavior).
3. Shoot anybody, like the 76 year-old man in Colorado who shot and killed his 46 year-old son in an argument over chores.
4. Jump up and down on my mattress, fraying an electric cord, which then caused a fire, like the kids in Brockton, MA, resulting in 200K damage to two triple deckers.
5. Eat 3000 calories for my evening meal, like the average American at Thanksgiving dinner.
6. Crash a White House State Dinner (which really could have been interesting...maybe...although politicians DON’T strike me as the most fascinating people in the world...). Again, Tuesday, but it counts.
7. Crash my SUV into a fire hydrant pulling outta my driveway at 2:35 a.m. Thanksgiving night like Tiger Woods did, after an argument with his wife. (he’s OK, even though his wife then came running out to "help" him with a golf club in her hand)
8. See an image of Jesus in the bottom of my iron, like the woman in Methuen, MA (that woulda freaked me out, I’d say—although I have seen some pretty strange things in my life, such as a fish jumping for joy at a fish-less pond on Mont Royal in Montreal).
9. Line up at 3 a.m. for some cheap electronic junk from China that I really don’t need, like just about everybody did.
10. Get drunk or stoned, or call up some faithless ex-boyfriend for a "quick, let's avoid reality" booty call, or eat an entire pan of brownies in an attempt to space myself out on sugar.
So all in all, I am feeling pretty pleased with myself. All I did was get suicidally depressed for several hours, write some of the bleakest words ever to be put to paper, yell at the woman who works at the Harvard Square Theatre “You are HORRIBLE!!! You’re HORRIBLE!” after she was really nasty about letting me use the bathroom (I did it ANYWAY, so there!), shed a few tears on the bus, ate an entire bucket of buttered popcorn, sent a couple of guilt-tripping texts, and hated my roommate some more.
On the positive side, I met some nice people during my travels (including the British guy who buys an India ale every day from Cardullo’s and has lived here since 1967), made really fantastic homemade mince meat, realized again that I am SO grateful Werner Herzog and all his weirdness exists in this world, AND I didn’t jump off any bridges!!! So I consider this Thanksgiving a real success.
As a side note: I have a sign on the wall of my bedroom which reminds me to “Say YES to yourself!” and sometimes that involves saying NO to other people, including family members who might be inclined to use any get-together as an opportunity to have major screaming fits, as painful and difficult as that NO may be.
Next year I plan to be surrounded by love love love. Whatever it takes, I am damn well finding that in this world and making love love love the centerpiece of my life. That’s exactly what the extraterrestrials who landed in Africa in 1994 advised. OK, they said forgiveness is important too, but I’ll take this one step at a time. Here’s a link, for the skeptical among you:
http://www.ufoevidence.org/cases/case127.htm
And I didn’t:
1. Wander off into the woods in a huff after a TG Day annoyance, only to be found 24 hours later, alive and freezing, like the woman from Gloucester, MA.
2. Lock my kids in the trunk of my car, like the man from Fall River, MA (OK, this was Tuesday, but I think it counts as “Thanksgiving Week” behavior).
3. Shoot anybody, like the 76 year-old man in Colorado who shot and killed his 46 year-old son in an argument over chores.
4. Jump up and down on my mattress, fraying an electric cord, which then caused a fire, like the kids in Brockton, MA, resulting in 200K damage to two triple deckers.
5. Eat 3000 calories for my evening meal, like the average American at Thanksgiving dinner.
6. Crash a White House State Dinner (which really could have been interesting...maybe...although politicians DON’T strike me as the most fascinating people in the world...). Again, Tuesday, but it counts.
7. Crash my SUV into a fire hydrant pulling outta my driveway at 2:35 a.m. Thanksgiving night like Tiger Woods did, after an argument with his wife. (he’s OK, even though his wife then came running out to "help" him with a golf club in her hand)
8. See an image of Jesus in the bottom of my iron, like the woman in Methuen, MA (that woulda freaked me out, I’d say—although I have seen some pretty strange things in my life, such as a fish jumping for joy at a fish-less pond on Mont Royal in Montreal).
9. Line up at 3 a.m. for some cheap electronic junk from China that I really don’t need, like just about everybody did.
10. Get drunk or stoned, or call up some faithless ex-boyfriend for a "quick, let's avoid reality" booty call, or eat an entire pan of brownies in an attempt to space myself out on sugar.
So all in all, I am feeling pretty pleased with myself. All I did was get suicidally depressed for several hours, write some of the bleakest words ever to be put to paper, yell at the woman who works at the Harvard Square Theatre “You are HORRIBLE!!! You’re HORRIBLE!” after she was really nasty about letting me use the bathroom (I did it ANYWAY, so there!), shed a few tears on the bus, ate an entire bucket of buttered popcorn, sent a couple of guilt-tripping texts, and hated my roommate some more.
On the positive side, I met some nice people during my travels (including the British guy who buys an India ale every day from Cardullo’s and has lived here since 1967), made really fantastic homemade mince meat, realized again that I am SO grateful Werner Herzog and all his weirdness exists in this world, AND I didn’t jump off any bridges!!! So I consider this Thanksgiving a real success.
As a side note: I have a sign on the wall of my bedroom which reminds me to “Say YES to yourself!” and sometimes that involves saying NO to other people, including family members who might be inclined to use any get-together as an opportunity to have major screaming fits, as painful and difficult as that NO may be.
Next year I plan to be surrounded by love love love. Whatever it takes, I am damn well finding that in this world and making love love love the centerpiece of my life. That’s exactly what the extraterrestrials who landed in Africa in 1994 advised. OK, they said forgiveness is important too, but I’ll take this one step at a time. Here’s a link, for the skeptical among you:
http://www.ufoevidence.org/cases/case127.htm
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Come on Boys, Get REAL!!!
I'm sorry. There are just some times when it is impossible for me to hold my tongue.
A couple nights ago on Carson Daly was one of the LEAST-TALENTED musicians I have ever seen in my life. But there he was, playing guitar and being adored by a crowd of mostly women, a few men (it was San Francisco, I think).
A flashing neon sign went off in my brain: "Hey, guys!!! I play guitar AND I have a penis, so I MUST BE AMAZING!!!" This guy was so damn pleased with himself it made me want to puke.
Really. Enough is enough. You guys are NOT entitled to be adored simply because you have YOUR extra flesh appendage exposed as opposed to protected (like we women do!). And women need to STOP participating in this LIE!!!
Robin Williams joked that he was so emotional after his bypass procedure that he thought the doctors must have given him a kitty cat (not his word, mine) rather than a valve.
GIVE ME A BREAK!!! People throw this "you're a pussy" insult around all the time, the implication being that vaginas, and the people who own them, are somehow weak, vulnerable, not too smart and just plain yucky.
Excuse me, penis-people, but have YOU ever tried to push the equivalent of a watermelon outta your exposed flesh? I thought not.
Did you know that one reason Einstein and his wife separated is that she was pissed that he "borrowed" so many of HER theories (including Relativity) and never gave her any credit?
And did you know that some artists, including the very famous Georgia O'Keefe, think vaginas are just plain BEAUTIFUL???? Funny how something that at least 75% of men chase after most of their lives can be reduced to an insult. Maybe the truth is, boys, it just BUGS you to be so obsessed with something so soft, beautiful, strong and powerful that YOU don't OWN!!!!
Really, I just cannot take this any more. The expression ought to be, "Wow, he's really got OVARIES" and "You da pussy" should replace "You da MAN" as a compliment.
And talentless guitar players are talentless guitar players, penis or not!
A couple nights ago on Carson Daly was one of the LEAST-TALENTED musicians I have ever seen in my life. But there he was, playing guitar and being adored by a crowd of mostly women, a few men (it was San Francisco, I think).
A flashing neon sign went off in my brain: "Hey, guys!!! I play guitar AND I have a penis, so I MUST BE AMAZING!!!" This guy was so damn pleased with himself it made me want to puke.
Really. Enough is enough. You guys are NOT entitled to be adored simply because you have YOUR extra flesh appendage exposed as opposed to protected (like we women do!). And women need to STOP participating in this LIE!!!
Robin Williams joked that he was so emotional after his bypass procedure that he thought the doctors must have given him a kitty cat (not his word, mine) rather than a valve.
GIVE ME A BREAK!!! People throw this "you're a pussy" insult around all the time, the implication being that vaginas, and the people who own them, are somehow weak, vulnerable, not too smart and just plain yucky.
Excuse me, penis-people, but have YOU ever tried to push the equivalent of a watermelon outta your exposed flesh? I thought not.
Did you know that one reason Einstein and his wife separated is that she was pissed that he "borrowed" so many of HER theories (including Relativity) and never gave her any credit?
And did you know that some artists, including the very famous Georgia O'Keefe, think vaginas are just plain BEAUTIFUL???? Funny how something that at least 75% of men chase after most of their lives can be reduced to an insult. Maybe the truth is, boys, it just BUGS you to be so obsessed with something so soft, beautiful, strong and powerful that YOU don't OWN!!!!
Really, I just cannot take this any more. The expression ought to be, "Wow, he's really got OVARIES" and "You da pussy" should replace "You da MAN" as a compliment.
And talentless guitar players are talentless guitar players, penis or not!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Dreading the Holidays
I know I'm not supposed to say this, but honestly, the period of time between now and January 2nd is just not something I EVER look forward to.
Let's see, first we have Thanksgiving. Well, Native Americans mark this with a Day of Mourning. That makes sense to me. Not only from the perspective of the horrible genocide Native Americans experienced at the hands of Europeans, but also because so many people dread, I mean DREAD, with fear and trepidation, the yearly trip to the family.
I tried, one year, to participate in the Day of Mourning at Plymouth, MA. I didn't feel really welcome. I probably have some Native American blood (two of my ancestors arrived in this country in 1732 and fought in the Revolutionary War, so I figure my blood is pretty mixed), but honestly I'm 90% non-NA. So I understood. A little like having men at a feminist support group.
I figure this might be the second year in a row that I just call off the holiday, in terms of spending time with any relatives. That helps, sort of. But one is left with a lot of sadness to deal with. Maybe I could just go on a bender for the next few days, and again around December 25th. Oh wait, I don't drink or do drugs. Darn.
Then, we get to Christmas. Well, aside from the fact that I am not Christian, but closer to a nature-loving Pagan, I also get really nauseous with the Buy Buy Buy money orgy of the season. I even wrote a song about it once. It's called "Buy Buy Buy"!!! I think most of the buying is really a bribe to that terrifying family. "Here, Uncle Joe, look at the great IPod I bought you! PLEASE don't get drunk this year and scream at everyone and knock over the Christmas tree like you did last year, OK?"
Or, "Here Mom, look at the beautiful sweater I bought you. Now, can you PLEASE not give me the third degree about my love life and remind me that I SHOULD be married to a doctor with a brood of snot-nosed kids by now, like you do every year?"
Oh, and never mind all the treacherous memories just lurking under the surface, like some blood-thirsty shark just waiting to attack. OK, I know sharks aren't really like that--Humans just aren't very tasty--but memories ARE!
Maybe the best Christmas I ever had was one year when I went to Mexico with my friend Wade. He wasn't really happy about it once we got there, because Wade is gay (or he was then--when I first met him he was straight, so I'm not sure where he's at these days). Wade found Playa del Carmen overwhelmingly straight and macho. He just didn't realize that some of the extreme machos were in the closet waiting for a lovely man like Wade to open the door. Patience is required.
For me, it was simpler. I'm pretty gorgeous, if I do say so myself. Also smart. I speak a little Spanish, and I love to dance. On top of that, I'm from a Rich Country, which means that I MUST be rich, right? Even if we were sleeping in hammocks at the Palapas Hostel on the beach, surely we had plenty of money back home. (nope, but hey, I was on vacation, in a foreign country, so I guess in some way that DID make me rich) So I had lots of attention from some very pretty boys. It was quite fun, for awhile.
Oh, poop. Even reminiscing about my Mexican adventures isn't helping. Maybe it's time to take up drinking.
Let's see, first we have Thanksgiving. Well, Native Americans mark this with a Day of Mourning. That makes sense to me. Not only from the perspective of the horrible genocide Native Americans experienced at the hands of Europeans, but also because so many people dread, I mean DREAD, with fear and trepidation, the yearly trip to the family.
I tried, one year, to participate in the Day of Mourning at Plymouth, MA. I didn't feel really welcome. I probably have some Native American blood (two of my ancestors arrived in this country in 1732 and fought in the Revolutionary War, so I figure my blood is pretty mixed), but honestly I'm 90% non-NA. So I understood. A little like having men at a feminist support group.
I figure this might be the second year in a row that I just call off the holiday, in terms of spending time with any relatives. That helps, sort of. But one is left with a lot of sadness to deal with. Maybe I could just go on a bender for the next few days, and again around December 25th. Oh wait, I don't drink or do drugs. Darn.
Then, we get to Christmas. Well, aside from the fact that I am not Christian, but closer to a nature-loving Pagan, I also get really nauseous with the Buy Buy Buy money orgy of the season. I even wrote a song about it once. It's called "Buy Buy Buy"!!! I think most of the buying is really a bribe to that terrifying family. "Here, Uncle Joe, look at the great IPod I bought you! PLEASE don't get drunk this year and scream at everyone and knock over the Christmas tree like you did last year, OK?"
Or, "Here Mom, look at the beautiful sweater I bought you. Now, can you PLEASE not give me the third degree about my love life and remind me that I SHOULD be married to a doctor with a brood of snot-nosed kids by now, like you do every year?"
Oh, and never mind all the treacherous memories just lurking under the surface, like some blood-thirsty shark just waiting to attack. OK, I know sharks aren't really like that--Humans just aren't very tasty--but memories ARE!
Maybe the best Christmas I ever had was one year when I went to Mexico with my friend Wade. He wasn't really happy about it once we got there, because Wade is gay (or he was then--when I first met him he was straight, so I'm not sure where he's at these days). Wade found Playa del Carmen overwhelmingly straight and macho. He just didn't realize that some of the extreme machos were in the closet waiting for a lovely man like Wade to open the door. Patience is required.
For me, it was simpler. I'm pretty gorgeous, if I do say so myself. Also smart. I speak a little Spanish, and I love to dance. On top of that, I'm from a Rich Country, which means that I MUST be rich, right? Even if we were sleeping in hammocks at the Palapas Hostel on the beach, surely we had plenty of money back home. (nope, but hey, I was on vacation, in a foreign country, so I guess in some way that DID make me rich) So I had lots of attention from some very pretty boys. It was quite fun, for awhile.
Oh, poop. Even reminiscing about my Mexican adventures isn't helping. Maybe it's time to take up drinking.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
When Old Codgers Call Me "Red" I Really LOVE It!
OK, all right. I'll admit it. I really LOVE it when some eccentric old codger calls me "Red". Makes me feel like I'm stepping right out of a 1940's movie.
One of my favorite is Charlie, a tall grey-haired conductor on the Fitchburg line train, which I take to Concord to go swimming at Walden Pond when weather permits (actually, I was just there a week ago and some crazy guy was swimming, but no, not me). The two vertical sides of Charlie's face don't match at ALL, so sometimes when I am tired I feel like I need to blink to get his face in focus. Only with Charlie it doesn't work. But I don't care! Charlie always calls me "Red"!!!
"Hey Red, how's it going?" he asks, as I hand him my ticket. I really LOVE that!
It helps that Charlie has a distinguished 1940's vibe going on, a little like James Stewart in his later years. Charlie is friendly and funny in a way that I think has almost disappeared from the face of the earth. He's actually kind of fatherly--which is something I have rarely found in any man of any age since I reached puberty.
But I remember another man, similar to Charlie. His name was Hank, and he was a tall, angular, craggy-faced cab driver who frequented the Greasy Spoon where I worked after school when I was a teenager. Hank had SUCH a beautiful face! He always reminded me of Humphrey Bogart--clearly his life had been difficult, but he had so much dignity and kindness, and a major twinkle in his eye behind the pain.
Hank came in almost every night in his worn leather jacket and ordered the special, which was usually mashed potatoes, peas and carrots and some kind of protein -- meatloaf, sliced turkey, hot roast beef sandwich, tuna a la king (OK I'm getting carried away--it's supper time and I'm hungry!).
After supper, Hank would order coffee to go with his cigarette, and that is when, in his beautiful baritone voice, he would say "Thanks, Red" and give me a really good tip. I was saving every penny to get my own place (and get the hell away from my mother's drinking "problem") as SOON as I finished high school, so that three dollar tip meant a LOT to me.
I always imagined that Hank had been in love once, maybe married, and his wife had run off with another man, and now he lived in a Boarding House with his own private bath but no kitchen, and watched the evening news while he smoked his cigarette and thought about Betty Jo and that scoundrel she ran off with. I really liked Hank.
And so, just now, a guy selling Spare Change, the "homeless" newspaper, called me "Red". "Hey Red, help the homeless?" Well, he had me at "Red". I bought the paper, and gave him a dollar tip, in honor of Hank and Charlie, and the few really NICE men in my life who have made me feel special in a really lovely, warm kind way.
One of my favorite is Charlie, a tall grey-haired conductor on the Fitchburg line train, which I take to Concord to go swimming at Walden Pond when weather permits (actually, I was just there a week ago and some crazy guy was swimming, but no, not me). The two vertical sides of Charlie's face don't match at ALL, so sometimes when I am tired I feel like I need to blink to get his face in focus. Only with Charlie it doesn't work. But I don't care! Charlie always calls me "Red"!!!
"Hey Red, how's it going?" he asks, as I hand him my ticket. I really LOVE that!
It helps that Charlie has a distinguished 1940's vibe going on, a little like James Stewart in his later years. Charlie is friendly and funny in a way that I think has almost disappeared from the face of the earth. He's actually kind of fatherly--which is something I have rarely found in any man of any age since I reached puberty.
But I remember another man, similar to Charlie. His name was Hank, and he was a tall, angular, craggy-faced cab driver who frequented the Greasy Spoon where I worked after school when I was a teenager. Hank had SUCH a beautiful face! He always reminded me of Humphrey Bogart--clearly his life had been difficult, but he had so much dignity and kindness, and a major twinkle in his eye behind the pain.
Hank came in almost every night in his worn leather jacket and ordered the special, which was usually mashed potatoes, peas and carrots and some kind of protein -- meatloaf, sliced turkey, hot roast beef sandwich, tuna a la king (OK I'm getting carried away--it's supper time and I'm hungry!).
After supper, Hank would order coffee to go with his cigarette, and that is when, in his beautiful baritone voice, he would say "Thanks, Red" and give me a really good tip. I was saving every penny to get my own place (and get the hell away from my mother's drinking "problem") as SOON as I finished high school, so that three dollar tip meant a LOT to me.
I always imagined that Hank had been in love once, maybe married, and his wife had run off with another man, and now he lived in a Boarding House with his own private bath but no kitchen, and watched the evening news while he smoked his cigarette and thought about Betty Jo and that scoundrel she ran off with. I really liked Hank.
And so, just now, a guy selling Spare Change, the "homeless" newspaper, called me "Red". "Hey Red, help the homeless?" Well, he had me at "Red". I bought the paper, and gave him a dollar tip, in honor of Hank and Charlie, and the few really NICE men in my life who have made me feel special in a really lovely, warm kind way.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Snarky Blog--Don't Read This if You are in a Good Mood!
Every time someone is executed in this country, I am sickened. Remember Rwanda? That country has abolished capital punishment, but the United States, alone amongst "Western Industrial" nations, continues to allow capital punishment as a state-by-state mandate. And in cases of federal law, states without capital punishment can sometimes be overruled by the feds. So the Washington DC sniper was put to death last week. Will it bring back the people killed? No. Just more blood spilled. So barbaric, really.
The US strikes me as such a medieval country in so many ways. Still running empire wars, enslaving the poor with impossibly low wages, denying health care to the less privileged, forcing poor young women to bear children they can never support (abortion access is NEVER an issue for the wealthy), handing over taxes to Corporate, Wall Street and Banker Kings, while about 15% of the country has no visible means of support, all the while claiming that "God wills it". Yeah. Sure.
OK next. Check the video of the woman who "accidentally" fell on the T tracks in Boston a few days ago. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P__S-OF0ezU
I hope someone who knows her is smart enough to realize she was actually "accidentally" trying to commit suicide, whether she realizes it or not, and gets her the help she needs. First, she goes to the corner where the train will first enter the station (greatest impact area). Then, she lights a cigarette ("casual"). The she looks down the track to see if the train is coming. Then, she doesn't just "stumble" onto the tracks, for goddess's sake! She JUMPS/stumbles (looks like part of her does NOT want to die, YAY). And to me, it looks like she intentionally touched the 3rd rail with her foot, maybe figuring it would knock her out so she wouldn't feel so much the impact of the train. Yes all of this could also be just a "drunken accident". But she admitted to having drunk FOUR TWENTY-TWO OUNCE beers in a couple of hours. WHY?
I knew a teenager in Montreal who committed suicide in exactly this manner, except that she was hopped up on psych meds and not juiced. After spending about 8 months at the loony bin for extreme manic-depression and NO ONE being able to figure out why this smart, beautiful 16 year old was so messed up, she was doped up on meds and sent home. Home to the father who had been sexually abusing her for years. A month later she jumped in front of a train. She died, and no one, least of all her father (or so he claimed, to the media), understood what had led her to such desperation.
Next comment: WHY the hell is it that almost every frickin (and by the way, this is NOT a polite word--it comes from "frigging" which means self-pleasuring, as I learned from Irish-Canadians I met in Eastern Canada; "fricking" or "freakin" is just a couched Americanization) time I sit down inside Au Bon Pain to work on photos, someone (usually male) decides to slam the back of his chair into mine. It's not as if I'm invisible. Or maybe that's what the message is--"You SHOULD be invisible" as in, get outta my space, you female encroacher, you.
Reference for "frig": http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/frig
Next comment: I still hate my roommate. He is so arrogant, condescending and passive-aggressive. I hate it when I hate a roommate. He is not so horrible that I have to kick him out, but I hate feeling like I just CAN'T WAIT til he leaves. Really hate it. And sure, I can try to talk to him, but he won't get it. Just like he doesn't get why I don't want him using my personal bath soap. Yuck!
Finally (not really, but I can only snark so much before it tires even me out): why is that I have met many a man who was initially SO ATTRACTED to me, for my red hair and feisty attitude, and then the second or third order of business (after meeting and charming me) is to try to get me "Under Control"? WHY IS THAT? Something else I just hate. Oh, it can take many forms. Sometimes very coarse, such as quick anger and jealousy. Other times more subtle, such as abruptly rescheduling appointments, or revealing a hidden addiction and insisting I be the rescuer, or being extremely secretive, or “juggling” a few women at once. The hook, of course, is that I, being the female, should not complain, pry, demand, get pissed or have a damn fit, even if I feel like it. Why is that? Why take something wild and crazy (which you LOVE for being wild and crazy) and try to tame the very thing you love? I don’t get it.
The US strikes me as such a medieval country in so many ways. Still running empire wars, enslaving the poor with impossibly low wages, denying health care to the less privileged, forcing poor young women to bear children they can never support (abortion access is NEVER an issue for the wealthy), handing over taxes to Corporate, Wall Street and Banker Kings, while about 15% of the country has no visible means of support, all the while claiming that "God wills it". Yeah. Sure.
OK next. Check the video of the woman who "accidentally" fell on the T tracks in Boston a few days ago. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P__S-OF0ezU
I hope someone who knows her is smart enough to realize she was actually "accidentally" trying to commit suicide, whether she realizes it or not, and gets her the help she needs. First, she goes to the corner where the train will first enter the station (greatest impact area). Then, she lights a cigarette ("casual"). The she looks down the track to see if the train is coming. Then, she doesn't just "stumble" onto the tracks, for goddess's sake! She JUMPS/stumbles (looks like part of her does NOT want to die, YAY). And to me, it looks like she intentionally touched the 3rd rail with her foot, maybe figuring it would knock her out so she wouldn't feel so much the impact of the train. Yes all of this could also be just a "drunken accident". But she admitted to having drunk FOUR TWENTY-TWO OUNCE beers in a couple of hours. WHY?
I knew a teenager in Montreal who committed suicide in exactly this manner, except that she was hopped up on psych meds and not juiced. After spending about 8 months at the loony bin for extreme manic-depression and NO ONE being able to figure out why this smart, beautiful 16 year old was so messed up, she was doped up on meds and sent home. Home to the father who had been sexually abusing her for years. A month later she jumped in front of a train. She died, and no one, least of all her father (or so he claimed, to the media), understood what had led her to such desperation.
Next comment: WHY the hell is it that almost every frickin (and by the way, this is NOT a polite word--it comes from "frigging" which means self-pleasuring, as I learned from Irish-Canadians I met in Eastern Canada; "fricking" or "freakin" is just a couched Americanization) time I sit down inside Au Bon Pain to work on photos, someone (usually male) decides to slam the back of his chair into mine. It's not as if I'm invisible. Or maybe that's what the message is--"You SHOULD be invisible" as in, get outta my space, you female encroacher, you.
Reference for "frig": http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/frig
Next comment: I still hate my roommate. He is so arrogant, condescending and passive-aggressive. I hate it when I hate a roommate. He is not so horrible that I have to kick him out, but I hate feeling like I just CAN'T WAIT til he leaves. Really hate it. And sure, I can try to talk to him, but he won't get it. Just like he doesn't get why I don't want him using my personal bath soap. Yuck!
Finally (not really, but I can only snark so much before it tires even me out): why is that I have met many a man who was initially SO ATTRACTED to me, for my red hair and feisty attitude, and then the second or third order of business (after meeting and charming me) is to try to get me "Under Control"? WHY IS THAT? Something else I just hate. Oh, it can take many forms. Sometimes very coarse, such as quick anger and jealousy. Other times more subtle, such as abruptly rescheduling appointments, or revealing a hidden addiction and insisting I be the rescuer, or being extremely secretive, or “juggling” a few women at once. The hook, of course, is that I, being the female, should not complain, pry, demand, get pissed or have a damn fit, even if I feel like it. Why is that? Why take something wild and crazy (which you LOVE for being wild and crazy) and try to tame the very thing you love? I don’t get it.
Friday, November 13, 2009
More About Ghosts and Goblins in Montreal
OK, so really I need to call Sprint and deal with the fact that they have once again screwed up the bill (in their favor, of course) but I HATE dealing with that crap, and I always end up yelling at someone working in the Philippines for two bucks an hour and then I feel guilty and exhausted. So here's my solution: procrastinate!
Sometimes procrastination isn't all bad. It can get you to take care of other stuff, like cleaning out the microwave, waxing your floors, enrolling in online banking--all pretty essential to modern living. Argh.......
So before I take a shower, bake some cookies, sort out my old files and practice my guitar (I am now ONE PERCENT BETTER than I was 6 weeks ago, haha!) in lieu of screaming at "Brittany" in the Philippines, I thought in honor of Friday the 13th, I'd write a little bit more about the ghosts I lived with in Montreal.
The first one, who was there most frequently, I will call Zachary. His story is in my blog about Cambridge Clones. So I won't repeat everything about him--but maybe just one anecdote about something funny that he did.
The second ghost, who I really don't WANT to give a name, hung out in the bathroom. Sometimes he would leave drops of blood in the sink (SERIOUSLY! No idea where that came from!) and more often, he would turn on the water in the bathtub. So of course, I had the bathtub fixture checked, and there was nothing wrong with it.
After living with him for a long time (I stayed in that place for 15 years!), I found out that someone had actually died in the bathroom, long ago. Apparently he had a heart attack and was calling out for help, but the insane family living there (relatives of the insane family who currently owned the place) ignored him, and he died.
Knowing the insane landlords (the Goldbergs, whose son had actually killed his own father but never been charged--true to Montreal justice, the case didn't proceed, because after the father died of a severe beating, the judge dismissed the case for lack of a witness!!!) I figure there is much more to that story, but honestly, did I want to know what it was? Not really.
OK so there may have been a third ghost, but I don't want to talk about that at all right now, because he was waayyyy too scary, if he existed.
Instead, let me finish this segment of my procrastination vacation with the anecdote about Zach.
At the back of my apartment (it was the third/top floor of a triplex in the Plateau area, not far from Mount Royal Park) was a room we used as a study. One day at about 5 p.m. I was in that room writing, with the door closed. I heard the front door of the apartment open, someone walk up the steps, through the living room and hall and into the kitchen, which was right next to the study.
I figured it was my roommate Karen, so I kept working. Karen (or so I thought) banged around with pots and pans, so I figured she was making something for supper. But after a few minutes, the banging stopped, and I heard the person walk back through the apartment and out the front door. I thought it was a little odd, but maybe Karen changed her mind and decided to eat at the Souvlaki joint on the corner instead?
Twenty minutes later I thought that was a good idea--great Souvlakis, and I was hungry. So I walked over to the resto, and sure enough, there was Karen, sitting there enjoying a plate of chicken kebob, rice and salad. It looked good.
I sat down with her. "Hey Karen, so you decided not to cook supper at home tonight?"
Karen looked completely baffled. "What are you talking about?" she asked.
I told her I had heard her banging around in the kitchen while I worked on my writing in the study. She shook her head.
"I haven't been home yet. I came from downtown directly here, to eat." I didn't believe her at first, but she was adamant.
OK, so did she give keys to someone else? She swore no, and I believed her, since no one had ever just walked into the place before, and she had been living there for four months. AND, because my landlord and family were so insane, I had secretly changed the locks without telling them and NOT given them a key. Not legal, I know, but I didn't care. They were truly dangerous.
Oh well, so I ordered a Souvlaki sandwich and figured hmmm, strange, but...
Well, so a couple weeks later I was sitting in the same restaurant about the same time, and who walked in but Karen.
We had the SAME conversation again, only this time she thought it was ME who came home, rattled pots around and then left. But, like Karen the previous time, I had gone to the restaurant directly from a Spanish class downtown.
So Zach had a sense of humor, I guess. Or maybe it was his wife? One previous roommate claimed to have seen both Zach and a woman, walking arm and arm down the stairs. So maybe Zach's wife Cecily came home to cook a nice meal for him, and then went out to get molasses to make cookies?
Whoever it was sounded a bit annoyed. Probably thought the kitchen wasn't clean enough, cuz it never was. I only started cleaning more after I did Vipassana meditation and heard the birds chatting, but that's another story.
Sometimes procrastination isn't all bad. It can get you to take care of other stuff, like cleaning out the microwave, waxing your floors, enrolling in online banking--all pretty essential to modern living. Argh.......
So before I take a shower, bake some cookies, sort out my old files and practice my guitar (I am now ONE PERCENT BETTER than I was 6 weeks ago, haha!) in lieu of screaming at "Brittany" in the Philippines, I thought in honor of Friday the 13th, I'd write a little bit more about the ghosts I lived with in Montreal.
The first one, who was there most frequently, I will call Zachary. His story is in my blog about Cambridge Clones. So I won't repeat everything about him--but maybe just one anecdote about something funny that he did.
The second ghost, who I really don't WANT to give a name, hung out in the bathroom. Sometimes he would leave drops of blood in the sink (SERIOUSLY! No idea where that came from!) and more often, he would turn on the water in the bathtub. So of course, I had the bathtub fixture checked, and there was nothing wrong with it.
After living with him for a long time (I stayed in that place for 15 years!), I found out that someone had actually died in the bathroom, long ago. Apparently he had a heart attack and was calling out for help, but the insane family living there (relatives of the insane family who currently owned the place) ignored him, and he died.
Knowing the insane landlords (the Goldbergs, whose son had actually killed his own father but never been charged--true to Montreal justice, the case didn't proceed, because after the father died of a severe beating, the judge dismissed the case for lack of a witness!!!) I figure there is much more to that story, but honestly, did I want to know what it was? Not really.
OK so there may have been a third ghost, but I don't want to talk about that at all right now, because he was waayyyy too scary, if he existed.
Instead, let me finish this segment of my procrastination vacation with the anecdote about Zach.
At the back of my apartment (it was the third/top floor of a triplex in the Plateau area, not far from Mount Royal Park) was a room we used as a study. One day at about 5 p.m. I was in that room writing, with the door closed. I heard the front door of the apartment open, someone walk up the steps, through the living room and hall and into the kitchen, which was right next to the study.
I figured it was my roommate Karen, so I kept working. Karen (or so I thought) banged around with pots and pans, so I figured she was making something for supper. But after a few minutes, the banging stopped, and I heard the person walk back through the apartment and out the front door. I thought it was a little odd, but maybe Karen changed her mind and decided to eat at the Souvlaki joint on the corner instead?
Twenty minutes later I thought that was a good idea--great Souvlakis, and I was hungry. So I walked over to the resto, and sure enough, there was Karen, sitting there enjoying a plate of chicken kebob, rice and salad. It looked good.
I sat down with her. "Hey Karen, so you decided not to cook supper at home tonight?"
Karen looked completely baffled. "What are you talking about?" she asked.
I told her I had heard her banging around in the kitchen while I worked on my writing in the study. She shook her head.
"I haven't been home yet. I came from downtown directly here, to eat." I didn't believe her at first, but she was adamant.
OK, so did she give keys to someone else? She swore no, and I believed her, since no one had ever just walked into the place before, and she had been living there for four months. AND, because my landlord and family were so insane, I had secretly changed the locks without telling them and NOT given them a key. Not legal, I know, but I didn't care. They were truly dangerous.
Oh well, so I ordered a Souvlaki sandwich and figured hmmm, strange, but...
Well, so a couple weeks later I was sitting in the same restaurant about the same time, and who walked in but Karen.
We had the SAME conversation again, only this time she thought it was ME who came home, rattled pots around and then left. But, like Karen the previous time, I had gone to the restaurant directly from a Spanish class downtown.
So Zach had a sense of humor, I guess. Or maybe it was his wife? One previous roommate claimed to have seen both Zach and a woman, walking arm and arm down the stairs. So maybe Zach's wife Cecily came home to cook a nice meal for him, and then went out to get molasses to make cookies?
Whoever it was sounded a bit annoyed. Probably thought the kitchen wasn't clean enough, cuz it never was. I only started cleaning more after I did Vipassana meditation and heard the birds chatting, but that's another story.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Walking at Walden Pond and Avoiding Exhibitionists
So today I finally got out to Walden Pond again. It has been one month, and the last time I was there I was feeling pretty devastated because of, what else? Some person with that extra appendage who had let me down big time.
Maybe I will write a whole blog about that very soon. (Don't worry, Darius Leavenworth, of Main St, Arlington, TX, 888-555-1212, I will NOT provide any details about you!) But right now, let's talk about walking around Walden Pond at about 4 p.m. in November.
It was so beautiful and calm, peaceful cloudy and overcast. Seemed a bit lonely, as in, not a lot of people around so I thought, "Well, I'll just walk to the cove and back." I took a bunch of photos--branches and water, leaves and sky. I'll post one I took awhile ago with this blog.
Normally I feel pretty safe at Walden Pond, but it can get a bit eerie when there is no one else walking the path. I was weighing possibilities when suddenly Sophie Freud, the granddaughter of Sigmund, who is in her 80's, hoofed it past me, wearing headphones and a brace on her right arm. She smiled at me. We've talked before.
"Hi, Sophie!" I called out. "Are you going to walk all the way around the pond?"
She nodded. I asked about her arm. She said it was OK. Obviously not in the mood for a conversation. The parking lot gates close at 5, and it takes about 45 minutes to walk around the pond. So I waved her on, while I took a few more photos.
But now I figured, if Sophie can do it, so can I. So I took a deep breath and started my trek around the pond. I took a few photos, got nervous a few times, heard mysterious crackling in the bushes from time to time, made my detailed plan for escape from any ravaging beast, human or animal (it involves throwing my backpack at the ravager and jumping into the freezing lake), loved the sounds of snapping twigs and shuffling leaves, avoided a few madly dashing joggers, wondered where I could buy some pepper spray (just in case), thought about how anyone in the throes of new love should definitely buy a new generic wardrobe and NEVER EVER wear that special Che T-shirt, because if the person you love ditches you, then you will want to burn anything that reminds you of the pain, and it would be much easier to burn new generic clothing than a special Che Shirt from Chinatown, NYC, and then I thought about how great it would be to have a special ISLAND for people in the throes of new love, so that, once again, if one person ditches the other, for absolutely no reason at all, then the injured party would not be inclined to leave town to avoid painful memories surfacing all over the damn place.
Anyway, at about 4:45 I rounded the last cove heading to the Kids' Beach and then the parking lot. For some reason, I decided to have a look at the public bulletin board. Well, actually, the REASON was that I wanted to see if the Ranger had finally posted a warning about deer ticks, since I got bitten by one a few years ago and when I called to let park supervisors know, they breezily told me they were having an INFESTATION!!! But NO warning sign anywhere!
OK, I found a small tick warning, but THEN...right next to the tick sign on the bulletin board...a larger warning: "Please be advised that an individual has been spotted at Walden Pond exposing himself to park patrons. If you see this person, do not approach him." (of course, it's a HIM--how often do you ever hear of a female exposing herself at a park?) "Call the police."
Well, damn. I was REALLY glad I hadn't seen that notice before my walk. And who knows, maybe those snapping twig sounds in the woods...?
I immediately wondered if an acquaintance, let's call him "Bill" had finally gone off the deep end. Bill has a tendency to grab women's butts and other parts, right out of the blue. I confronted him about this in September. He denied having a problem. I suggested he get help before he gets in trouble. Maybe silly old Bill, like so many silly old men, didn't listen to me.
Time to buy that pepper spray. Or maybe hoof it after Sophie next time.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Exxon Mobil Gets Iraq Contract, Sam Says Americans Are Innocent
“I’m for anything it takes to keep innocent Americans safe,” said Sam, talking to me an hour ago.
“But most Americans are NOT innocent, Sam. Do you know how many truly innocent civilians have been killed in Iraq due to the American invasion and occupation? A million or more. For real.”
Sam was in the military himself, many years ago, so he doesn’t pay me any mind. He was also a guitarist in a heavy metal band, until he got shot in his left hand while arguing with a cocaine dealer.
Exxon Mobil and Royal Dutch Shell just inked an agreement with the Iraq oil ministry to develop one of the largest oil fields in Iraq. I mention this to Sam. His face goes blank.
“So the people who screamed at my ‘NO BLOOD FOR OIL’ signs were WRONG and my sign was RIGHT!!!! Follow the money, Sam. The whole POINT of that invasion was the oil. It was never about Saddam Hussein, other than the fact that he wasn’t willing to fork over his oil as quickly as Exxon and other World Corporate Leaders wanted.”
I don’t really know why I am talking to Sam about this. He’s a great mandolin player. Amazing, since the middle two knuckles of his left hand are held together by a metal pin. But, like so many Americans I’ve met, even most of the “liberals” seem to have been horribly brainwashed.
I told Sam I thought Osama Bin Laden was “selected” to be the invisible bad guy because his name is easy to pronounce. Sam insisted Bin Laden IS a truly bad guy and said, “Well if they put it in the paper, there’s got to be some truth to it.” Whaaatttt????? I seem to recall something about proof of Iraqi Weapons of Mass Destruction being published in the NY Times a few years back.
But here’s the thing. How stupid can human beings be? WHEN are we the people going to get together and INSIST that we don’t WANT to burn oil or coal any more? When are we, en masse, going to voluntarily leave our cars at home, and use public transit, walk, ride bikes, in order to REALLY put less CO2 into the atmosphere? When are we going to insist on government representatives who truly understand that we are on a path of extinction, and that the whole model of GREED and unrestrained development must go the way of the Dodo?
The people in charge of the wholescale destruction of our planet, our home, our nest (and US), are criminals and should be charged and imprisoned as such. The rest of us have a huge mess to clean up. Fast.
“But most Americans are NOT innocent, Sam. Do you know how many truly innocent civilians have been killed in Iraq due to the American invasion and occupation? A million or more. For real.”
Sam was in the military himself, many years ago, so he doesn’t pay me any mind. He was also a guitarist in a heavy metal band, until he got shot in his left hand while arguing with a cocaine dealer.
Exxon Mobil and Royal Dutch Shell just inked an agreement with the Iraq oil ministry to develop one of the largest oil fields in Iraq. I mention this to Sam. His face goes blank.
“So the people who screamed at my ‘NO BLOOD FOR OIL’ signs were WRONG and my sign was RIGHT!!!! Follow the money, Sam. The whole POINT of that invasion was the oil. It was never about Saddam Hussein, other than the fact that he wasn’t willing to fork over his oil as quickly as Exxon and other World Corporate Leaders wanted.”
I don’t really know why I am talking to Sam about this. He’s a great mandolin player. Amazing, since the middle two knuckles of his left hand are held together by a metal pin. But, like so many Americans I’ve met, even most of the “liberals” seem to have been horribly brainwashed.
I told Sam I thought Osama Bin Laden was “selected” to be the invisible bad guy because his name is easy to pronounce. Sam insisted Bin Laden IS a truly bad guy and said, “Well if they put it in the paper, there’s got to be some truth to it.” Whaaatttt????? I seem to recall something about proof of Iraqi Weapons of Mass Destruction being published in the NY Times a few years back.
But here’s the thing. How stupid can human beings be? WHEN are we the people going to get together and INSIST that we don’t WANT to burn oil or coal any more? When are we, en masse, going to voluntarily leave our cars at home, and use public transit, walk, ride bikes, in order to REALLY put less CO2 into the atmosphere? When are we going to insist on government representatives who truly understand that we are on a path of extinction, and that the whole model of GREED and unrestrained development must go the way of the Dodo?
The people in charge of the wholescale destruction of our planet, our home, our nest (and US), are criminals and should be charged and imprisoned as such. The rest of us have a huge mess to clean up. Fast.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Trillium, Khanji, Dr. Thuna, The Diva and Me
I had a friend in Montreal, who broke up with her long-time boyfriend Paul to have a mad affair with a married older man, Khanji (and I THINK I keep seeing Khanji in Harvard Square and that he has relocated here, I guess I should just ASK the guy some day, "Are you Khanji from Montreal?"), but of course Paul was not happy about it and waited a long time to see what my friend would do.
Well, yes, eventually she and Khanji (who had left his long-time wife for her) did break up, and my friend moved by herself (poor Paul) to a ranch in Arizona and changed her name from Patricia to Trillium and as far as I know she is NOT now relocated in Cambridge but still lives on that ranch in Arizona. I imagine that she still has that pale Medieval face and that dark hair to her waist and wears long midnight-blue gowns, but who knows? Maybe now she is weathered and tanned with a blond bob and wears cowboy boots and chaps.
But the point I am trying to get to is that Tricia and I had a discussion once about how hard it is to break relationship patterns. We came to this analogy: If YOU finally tell your partner that it really BUGS you that he leaves the toilet seat up all the time, then HE is probably going to finally tell you that you snore at night, which will lead to YOU finally letting him know that his breath REALLY stinks in the morning, and then HE will tell you that he actually hates your hair short and always preferred it long, and well... the madness will just never end. Which is why most couples just keep their mouths shut and end up silently hating each other after 20 years together, and take vacations to Sanibel Island and go out to dinner at Gramma Dot's and barely speak a word during the whole meal, all the while staring at the one single woman in the whole place, who sits alone reading and actually looks happy (that would be me, a few years ago in Sanibel Island).
But sometimes, you know, you just have to take a chance, dive in, hold your breath, hope for the best and OPEN your damn mouth. And that is what I have done recently with a close relative who is, quite frankly, very often a total Diva Beyatch with me. She takes her stress and her crap out on me and I JUST HATE IT!!!!! So, I have started hanging up on her the minute she gets that attitude. I have also refused to let her set foot in my house for the past five months. And it's really interesting how, rather than trying to alter her behavior or even apologize, she has just gotten worse and worse, until I hang up after about thirty seconds, and sometimes less.
I figure something is about to break (as in breakthrough) or maybe we will end up with a relationship in short bursts of text only. But the harder I put my foot down, the more she just seems to want to stomp on it. Pretty painful, until I finally figured out that I need to not only put my foot DOWN, but move it the hell outta the way. We'll see what develops. I'll keep you posted.
As for Tricia or Trillium...well the other best part of her story is that we worked together grading papers for an herbalist correspondence course which was pretty much either bogus or stolen from other sources. A very old (85) crotchety mean man, Dr. Thuna, ran the place. But I think he was a figurehead, since he pretty much did nothing except complain and daydream. He was also profoundly deaf.
One day the fire alarm went off, which it had never done before. We worked in a basement office, twenty feet from Dr. Thuna, and there was only one exit. Dr. Thuna was daydreaming and had not heard the alarm.
Tricia looked at me and then Dr. Thuna, the wheels turning, and asked, "Do you think this is a real fire?" I answered, "Maybe. This IS a pretty decrepit building."
Tricia grabbed her knapsack and yanked my arm. "Then let's get the hell OUT of here!"
She ran for the exit. But I called after her. "Tricia, we can't leave Dr. Thuna!" Tricia turned to me, a burning dark fire in her eyes, some primal instinct I had never suspected nor seen before in her angelic alt-girl face. "Oh can't we?" she asked. "Just watch me!" And she ran up the stairs. To freedom. Alone. Without the Boss.
I didn't hate Dr. Thuna quite as much as Tricia, since I only worked 12 hours a week. Tricia worked 35. So I ran to his side, yelled, "FIRE" in his one slightly less-deaf ear, and helped him hobble out of the building.
In the end, there was no fire. But six months later Tricia ran off with Khanji. And poor Paul sat there shaking his head in dazed incomprehension, while I remembered that look in her eyes. She was just running for freedom, and honor or Dr. Thuna be damned. If the whole place burned down behind her, sobeit. Tricia was breaking patterns, and that takes guts. With a big helping of insanity, for good measure.
Well, yes, eventually she and Khanji (who had left his long-time wife for her) did break up, and my friend moved by herself (poor Paul) to a ranch in Arizona and changed her name from Patricia to Trillium and as far as I know she is NOT now relocated in Cambridge but still lives on that ranch in Arizona. I imagine that she still has that pale Medieval face and that dark hair to her waist and wears long midnight-blue gowns, but who knows? Maybe now she is weathered and tanned with a blond bob and wears cowboy boots and chaps.
But the point I am trying to get to is that Tricia and I had a discussion once about how hard it is to break relationship patterns. We came to this analogy: If YOU finally tell your partner that it really BUGS you that he leaves the toilet seat up all the time, then HE is probably going to finally tell you that you snore at night, which will lead to YOU finally letting him know that his breath REALLY stinks in the morning, and then HE will tell you that he actually hates your hair short and always preferred it long, and well... the madness will just never end. Which is why most couples just keep their mouths shut and end up silently hating each other after 20 years together, and take vacations to Sanibel Island and go out to dinner at Gramma Dot's and barely speak a word during the whole meal, all the while staring at the one single woman in the whole place, who sits alone reading and actually looks happy (that would be me, a few years ago in Sanibel Island).
But sometimes, you know, you just have to take a chance, dive in, hold your breath, hope for the best and OPEN your damn mouth. And that is what I have done recently with a close relative who is, quite frankly, very often a total Diva Beyatch with me. She takes her stress and her crap out on me and I JUST HATE IT!!!!! So, I have started hanging up on her the minute she gets that attitude. I have also refused to let her set foot in my house for the past five months. And it's really interesting how, rather than trying to alter her behavior or even apologize, she has just gotten worse and worse, until I hang up after about thirty seconds, and sometimes less.
I figure something is about to break (as in breakthrough) or maybe we will end up with a relationship in short bursts of text only. But the harder I put my foot down, the more she just seems to want to stomp on it. Pretty painful, until I finally figured out that I need to not only put my foot DOWN, but move it the hell outta the way. We'll see what develops. I'll keep you posted.
As for Tricia or Trillium...well the other best part of her story is that we worked together grading papers for an herbalist correspondence course which was pretty much either bogus or stolen from other sources. A very old (85) crotchety mean man, Dr. Thuna, ran the place. But I think he was a figurehead, since he pretty much did nothing except complain and daydream. He was also profoundly deaf.
One day the fire alarm went off, which it had never done before. We worked in a basement office, twenty feet from Dr. Thuna, and there was only one exit. Dr. Thuna was daydreaming and had not heard the alarm.
Tricia looked at me and then Dr. Thuna, the wheels turning, and asked, "Do you think this is a real fire?" I answered, "Maybe. This IS a pretty decrepit building."
Tricia grabbed her knapsack and yanked my arm. "Then let's get the hell OUT of here!"
She ran for the exit. But I called after her. "Tricia, we can't leave Dr. Thuna!" Tricia turned to me, a burning dark fire in her eyes, some primal instinct I had never suspected nor seen before in her angelic alt-girl face. "Oh can't we?" she asked. "Just watch me!" And she ran up the stairs. To freedom. Alone. Without the Boss.
I didn't hate Dr. Thuna quite as much as Tricia, since I only worked 12 hours a week. Tricia worked 35. So I ran to his side, yelled, "FIRE" in his one slightly less-deaf ear, and helped him hobble out of the building.
In the end, there was no fire. But six months later Tricia ran off with Khanji. And poor Paul sat there shaking his head in dazed incomprehension, while I remembered that look in her eyes. She was just running for freedom, and honor or Dr. Thuna be damned. If the whole place burned down behind her, sobeit. Tricia was breaking patterns, and that takes guts. With a big helping of insanity, for good measure.
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