MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons
Eat My Dust You Insenitive Fuck
With all apologies to a one Mr. Rob Dickinson,
I am borrowing perhaps one of the greatest sentences
in the English language to describe my current state
of mind this lousy, hot Saturday afternoon. Oh and
congratulations to me and my blog. I may not write
like Kristin, and that's a bitch of an ego blow (but
that's OK because reading her stuff makes up for
it) but this is my 100th blog. Yay me.
Rob, I tip my hat to you, as I listen to your elegant
and stunningly beautiful solo work, "Fresh Wine For
The Horses" or, as I like to call it, "Look, He's Throwing
Horse Fish Back into the Ocean." But that's only at 3am
at Canter's after a long night of being a merch wench.
Ah, was that only a month and a half ago? Jesus, it seems
like I was about fifty other people back then. Who? Who knows.
Who am I now? A very tired, hot, pissed off bitch, that's for
certain. All that concert fun seems so long ago. Reality set in,
and set in fast and hard. Summer's over.
Everyone knows (don't worry, we're not heading into
Leonard Cohen territory here) about the saga with
Fletcher, my angel kitty. Life has been one long vet trip
since I got back from Chicago and all hell broke loose with
her, and myself as well. She had surgery Thursday on her
bladder to remove 'stones' which the vet said looked more
like sand. I wanted to ask, "Really? What kind of sand?
White, fine sand? Black sand you'd find on the volcanic
beaches of Hawaii?" Because I just paid $1000 and my kitty
had her bladder and belly cut open to remove this sand.
Which has to be sent to UC Davis to be analysed. So the cats
are on a shitty, expensive new PRESCRIPTION diet.
I have to be one of the dumbest smart chicks this side of the
Mississippi. Fuck me, honestly. Zoe had a few stitches on her back last year, near her tail, and they said, "Oh she won't need a cone; she won't be able to reach around and take these out." Thank god she
healed quickly, because within a week, she'd used those tiny
teeth and that flexible body to UNTIE each stitch. Not just
chew through them, but literally untie them. And these were
small stitches. Little fuckin' Houdini. I was ready to hand her a cherry stem and ask if she could tie it in a knot with her tongue. Let's face it, we're animals too, but we're big, motherfucking clumsy beasts. And we know better (most of the time) not to take our stitches out.
So I bought the same bill of goods AGAIN yesterday when the
vet said, "Cats don't usually take their stitches out" and even as
I heard myself explaining the story of Zoe, I STILL didn't ask for
a head cone for the cat. I must've subconsciously thought, "Well,
this is Fletcher. She's different." Or I'm just a dumbshit lately.
I'm gonna vote for the latter.
Last night, G came over and Fletcher had been licking her tummy
raw. Then she wasn't peeing. She was making bi-hourly visits to the
kitty loo but nothing was happening. So Icalled the vet earlier and
you guessed it, we took our third trip in as many days to the vet.
Poor cat. She had another X-ray, more strange hands feeling her
bladder. And this time I DEMANDED a head cone. I wish you could
all see Fletcher now. She can no longer hide under the bed. So I lifted
her up on top of the bed. She's got two front 'arms' shaved. She's
got a fentanyl pain patch wrapped around her rear right leg, which
I'm about to rip off and start licking myself. I'd like a fentanyl pain
patch for my soul. She's got a plastic cone around her head, tied
with a torn piece of an ace bandage. Her belly is shaved, and stitched. She's got the reminants of the pink Amoxicillin anitbiotic
on her face from this morning's fight to get it in her mouth. She
closes up her jaw when I try to give it to her. Her back has big areas
where I had to cut off patches of fur, because she tends to get these nasty knots and I don't know why and the only way to deal with them is to cut them out. No amount of grooming seems to help. She looks like punk rock kitty. I'm ready to just stick a safety pin in her ear, put a "Pretty Vacant" T-shirt on her and call it a fuckin' day. I can barely stand to look at her. She looks so sad, I'm about to cry.
Mom is tired. And this isn't even a kid. This is why mom doesn't have
kids, haha. Life is just a series of going from one minor crisis to another sometimes, and we must thank these capricious gods that
they're only minor crises, right? I would do anything though, to keep
my furry babies happy and healthy. Wish I could say as much for
myself. I'm still fighting this brutal sinus infection. Good thing I had
that $10,000 sinus surgery four years ago. Just once, ONCE, it'd be
nice to have a problem, and have it GO AWAY. FOREVER. Ah, but
that would be too easy. And easy's never been a real big part of my
life.
I never got to write about Chicago. And then I didn't want to write about it. I'm listening to one of Rob's songs though, and I remember
sitting at the Park West, my eyes filling with tears as his somewhat
tired, rhaspy voice sang it. Some guy made fun of his lyrics, specifically these, on the song, "Intelligent People." Funny, I didn't
get to really hear Rob sing in L.A. or Santa Barbara. So when I finally
did in Chicago, and when I heard this song, I insantly started to cry.
And I don't know why. Probably because I think it's a gorgeous song,
and I find the lyrics to be so sweet and so apt. I wish I was back at the
Park West, sitting behind S, watching Rob, watching the male fan
whose story I wrote about on SK's blog watch Rob, his face rapt with
attention and his eyes glossed over with bliss. Meeting S and H was
fabulous, seeing Rob was so great. He's one of the kindest people I've ever met, and that includes people in and out of 'show business.' To
find that kind of decency in a human being anywhere, anymore, is rare. People rarely have that kind of class. Funny. That's what this
song is all about. "Seek out good souls because they will be the ones...to hang around and prosper from" he sings to his son. Does he
really have a son? I don't know. Doesn't matter. I don't, and this makes me want to play this song for my future classes.
Which brings me to Tuesday, when my life is going to change so
drastically. Each morning, I'll be observing middle school and elementary school students. Observing, interacting, helping. These
schools are quite different from the one I was at last semester. WR
was a rich, white suburban school. These are urban schools primarily full of many ESL students and those who didn't win the
socio-economic lottery, or possibly even the parenting lottery. What's the saying? You need a license to fish but anyone can go out and have a kid.
Reminds me, my friend Jill just got back from a camp where she worked as a counselor with abused foster kids. The things she told me these kids go through and have been through pierced the core of my soul. The abuse these poor souls have had to endure at the hands of monsters is indescribable. 10 year old kids in diapers, fighting, hating everyone. Kids screaming all night from nightmares. Kids who were never socialised properly and cannot get along with anyone. And those are the happy stories. Seriously. I don't believe in the death penalty, but those who abuse children and animals deserve to
die a slow, painful death and burn in Hell for eternity. I know it's usually a vicious cycle, but the desire for vigilante justice is strong when you listen to these stories. How could anyone ever, ever, ever hurt a child? And not just hurt, but starve, burn, beat, verbally turn
to ash these children's little souls. I cannot think about it anymore. I am lucky I don't have to.
Reminds me of last night when I was bitching about the idiot kid at
Blockbuster who put the wrong Nip/Tuck disc in the DVD case. I kept wondering why it seemed the storylines had jumped ahead. Well, because I missed three episodes. This was after I told G I'd ordered a Catherine Wheel CD over a month ago and the post office lost it, as usual. And after our dinner delivery was missing a pizza and I called the restaurant and gave the manager a verbal smackdown because this was the second (and last) time they'd fucked up like this. This
goes back to a blog I did months ago on why no one can seem to do his or her job properly. From simple things, like delivering food, or mail, to things like getting onto the right plane and taking off from the right runway. G said, "D, you have the worst luck with this stuff."
And I got really angry. For the first time in my life I got angry. Because that's something the old me would've said. I grew up thinking and believing somehow I had bad luck. Blame it on what you will; alcoholic father, getting the big mystery disease, shit luck with men, dealing with the nasty suicide - you name it. Whatever. I was angry at her and I made it clear I did not have bad luck. I made it crystal in so many words that it wasn't me, it was people who couldn't do their jobs properly. I'm not buying that bad luck bill of goods anymore. I really don't think I believe in luck anyway. And if I did, bad luck is being born to a parent who sticks your hand on the stove or sticks you in the closet without food or water for days. Bad luck is getting on the wrong plane, with pilots who don't have a clue, and going down a runway that's wrong and too short, with one tired air traffic controller who's busy doing paperwork while you crash and burn. That's bad fucking luck.
So listen up, that line don't work here anymore. That scene isn't welcome in my little psychic diorama anymore. I can't see my pain
therapist anymore because her schedule sucks, and I'm going to be busy during the day. So I have to be my own therapist now. Maybe it's about time. I'm sick of the coddling, the bullshit. I'm sick of feeling like the only damaged doll at the store. Eat my dust you insensitive fucks. I may not be entirely sure of who in the hell I am on a day to day basis, but I'll tell you who I'm not anymore. I'm not the simpering, scared little girl who's afraid to rock the boat, or speak out to family or friends when something's not right. My mother constantly tells me what a mouth I have on me. She is I believe, mostly referrring to my swearing, and she's goddamn right. I swear.
But I think she also refers to my ability to verbally take down anyone anywhere, anytime. It's true. I could probably verbally make a flower wither on the vine. So if you don't like it, don't piss me off. Don't tell me I'm unlucky. Because I'll show you unlucky. Once I had a friend actually warn MWP not to get into it with me, verbally, because I'd win. I would. But sparring with pseudo rock stars is so yesterday. I've got kids to teach and great songs to listen to, and kitties to love. I've got some good luck to deal with.
Photo: Fletcher, in better days...with better days to come.
