The Mystery Of The Birdbath

When I first moved here, I put a bird bath in my back yard.  It’s a heavy, solid concrete bird bath, consisting of a base and the top.  I came home one day and the top had been taken off and turned upside down.  Now, this top probably weighs as much as I do, so the idea that a squirrel or one of my neighbors’ cats could have toppled it, is not a possibility.  It wasn’t broken nor was there a divot in the ground that this heavy top would have certainly created, had it “fallen.”

The next thing I noticed was a car, driving slowly by and then stopping in front of my house.  There was a woman sitting in the drivers’ seat…taking pictures.  She took pictures of the side of my house and then the front.

My mailbox was knocked over while I was in Florida.  Then there were the men who were quizzing me while I was mowing my neighbors’ yard.

Everything was okay for a while.  I moved my bird bath to the front yard, thinking my neighbors would be likely to see anybody messing around with it.

On September 18th, I walked out to the front yard to pick up stray limbs and what did I see?  My bird bath had been turned upside down again.  It was placed on top of one of the little rabbits I had put around it.  Again, there was no divot, nor was the little rabbit smashed.  Had that top fallen on it, it would have been shattered.

I keep thinking to myself “I know it’s not Loser.  He is just not that kind of person.”  Now, the WTC?  Possibly…given the things she said about me while she was making sure that I knew that she was marking her territory.  I just keep thinking “it can’t be Loser.”
But…again….I think back to some of the things Loser did in the past.  Things that were so out of character (I thought.)  He was gone so much, who knows what he did…aside from the obvious, which was to cheat.

The first time he surprised me was when I was trying to fix dinner one afternoon.  I had a screaming migraine headache and I just remember thinking “if I can just get dinner made before I die.”  Loser was playing his guitar and was as drunk as a skunk.  It never occurred to him to help me.

#1 and #2 were out in the front yard, supposedly watching #4.  They decided to walk down the street to a friends’ house and left #4 by himself.  He started waking around and a woman who lived down the street, picked him up and brought him back.  She walked right in the house and into the kitchen.  I had never met her but I thanked her for bringing him home.

As I was showing her out the door, she decided to let me know what she thought about my maternal instincts.  She let me have it with all four barrels.  Loser, being the coward he is, just stood there and let her berate me.  He never said one word.

But then…she started on him.  “And where were you?  Sitting there drinking your beer while your son is wandering around the neighborhood?”
That’s all it took.  He said “fuck you,” took a swig of beer and spit it in her face.  I couldn’t believe he had done that.  She got him back, though.  She kicked him so hard on the thigh, that it immediately left a mark.

Unbeknownst to me, she had called the police before she brought #4 home.  They arrived just after she kicked him and had sprinted back down the street.  The officer looked at it and said “that’s going to leave a pretty good bruise.”  The officer asked Loser if he had been drinking (duh) and Loser said “yeah, I’ve been drinking.  So what?”
When the officer said something about our son not being looked after, Loser said “well, she was fixing dinner.”  (It had to be my fault, didn’t it?)  I wonder why he didn’t say “well, I was too busy drinking to notice…and besides, it’s HER job to look after the children.  Obviously, you didn’t know that I am God.  I can’t be bothered with shit like paying attention to my son.”

The second time he surprised me was when we were leaving a party.  After I started driving home, I discovered that he had a beer in his hand.  I told him to pour the beer out immediately.  It pissed him off so he took a big gulp, crushed the can, rolled the window down and threw it into somebodys’ yard.  I pulled over, got out and picked up the can.  I gave it to him to hold and as soon as I started driving, he rolled the window down and threw it out again.

I do know that he can be covert and driven, when he wants information about somebody.  He spent forty years trying to find the girl he was involved with at Duke.  He was fooling around with her while he was engaged to his high-school sweetheart.  She was another one who left him and not knowing where she was, ate at him.

He used to come to “see me” yet he would sit at my computer for hours….searching for “her.”  He finally found her but not on my watch.  When he told me he had found her, he had a satisfied smile on his face.  That meant that he once again, has control.  He has power over her.  He knows where she is.
Tragically, like his first wife…and me…she is suffering from mental illness.  All the women who have left him are afflicted with some form of insanity.

Loser told me to not think that he couldn’t find me.  He wanted that control.  He wanted that power.  Maybe he has found me and the bird bath is symbolic somehow.  Maybe it’s a calling card of sorts, saying  “I told you I could find you and now I know where you are.”

So, I’ll leave him a calling card.  “Be very careful.  If that WTC finds out that you have found me, you will be punished, just like you were before when she found out that you had talked to me or seen me…and I know that chain she has around your balls is already pretty tight.”

 

An Open Letter To Doris Brown

Dear Doris,

Thank you so much for your recent comment.  Although it went to my spam folder, I did find it.  I am curious though, about how this particular post, “A Conversation” could have prompted you to offer advice on how to hack my ex’s email, facebook, whatsapp or phone.

Obviously, you haven’t read any of my other posts or you would know that I divorced him.  I don’t need to pay somebody to hack into his various social media sites or his phone.  I already knew that he was a lying, cheating scumbag.  THAT’S WHY I DIVORCED HIM.

You don’t have a WordPress blog, so apparently you just sit around and troll the internet.  Does this really work for you?

Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger.  I have also received offers to have a spell cast on Loser (my ex) to make him return to me.  Um…why would I want him to return to me when it took me ten years to get rid of him?  And would his return mean that WTC would have come with him?  SURE!  Cast that spell and we’ll have a ménage à trois!

I am not in need of spells or hacks…but here’s an idea.

Instead of trolling the internet, offering the services of others and just being a nuisance, you could…I don’t know…research what prison life if like for people who try to make a living running scams.

I have posted the information from “cyberlord” so that any interested parties can quickly contact him to get something hacked.  I’m sure they will be happy to name you as the person who recommended him, as you requested.  Tell me.  Do you split the fee?

By the way…if you’re going to try to run a scam, you could at least pretend to have half a brain.  You could for instance, capitalize the first word in a sentence and the “i” when referring to first person.  Also, when giving the email address, you could say that it is his email…not he’s.

Doris, Doris, Doris.  There are some people you just shouldn’t fuck with.

 

 

doris brown
dorisbro95@gmail.com
197.210.25.82
hi, am Doris, i had my friend help me hack my ex’s email, facebook, whatsapp,and his phone cause i suspected he was cheating. all he asked for was a his phone number. he’s email is (cyberlord7714@gmail.com)..IF u need help tell him Doris, referred you to him and he’ll help. Am sure his going to help you do it, good luck..ko8BAqI4Hp0

Becoming Nothing More Than A Foul Odor – My Answers

The answers to my own questions will be based on posing them to myself.

Should somebody grieve for me when I die?  Maybe.  Do I think anybody will?  No, I don’t.
When did I become a non-entity?  I suppose I became a non-entity when it was decided that I was “clinically insane.”  When did I become unimportant?  I became unimportant when I could not return to the person I used to be.

Should I have mattered?  Of course, but what I sometimes seem to forget or refuse to acknowledge is that even if I should have mattered, it doesn’t mean that I did.  Some people matter and some people don’t.

Will anybody notice before I become rotting flesh and bones?  No.  There is nobody left to notice.
I will most likely be one of those people who become a foul odor.  One of my neighbors, while walking their dog will notice the smell.  I will have fallen or gotten sick and died and become just another “old person” in the neighborhood who “left.”  I might very well also be anonymous because my neighbors don’t even know my real name.

I can’t help but think of the irony of it all.  I spent almost my entire life, taking care of my children and that lying, cheating son-of-a-bitch and now, I am alone.   Still, somehow I think I always knew I’d end up alone.

I spent my entire young life, wishing I had a family.  I spend my entire married life, wishing I had a husband.  And I have spent the last several years, wishing I still had children who wanted to me to be a part of their lives.

Loser smiled when he told me that he was going to have my name put on his tombstone, like I should be honored that he actually recognized me as somebody who mattered…for once.  I wonder.  Is he going to have his first wifes’ name and of course, that WTCs’ name put on there as well?  And where would I fall as far as importance?  Would I for once, get top billing or would I, as in the past, be relegated to last place?

I have left instructions that if that does occur, the tombstone is to be destroyed.  It will be replaced, but without my name.  I don’t want my name anywhere near his, in life or after death.

Nobody will be notified when I die.  I have no “next-of-kin” listed on any documents.  I have no “emergency contact numbers” listed anywhere.  There will be no need for one of my children to have to “drive for hours and hours to go through my stuff.”  There will be no ceremony.  There will be no wake.

I don’t want the people who chose an abusive, serial adulterer and that WTC, to show up with their pretentiousness after I’m gone.  How many of them would make hollow statements about how much they loved me?  How many of them would shed crocodile tears?  How many of them would express regret about how things turned out?

I used to tell my children that I wanted my flowers and kind words while I was alive…not after I was dead.  When you’re dead, you’re dead.  You can’t see or smell flowers.  You can’t hear any kind words.  You can’t hear any apologies.  You aren’t going to know if somebody takes the time and trouble to visit you on your birthday.

I wanted them to visit me in life.  I wanted them to talk to me in life.  I wanted them to send me flowers in life.  I wanted them to treat me like I mattered in life.  Mostly, I wanted them to treat me like their mama.

I have seen people who wouldn’t give somebody the time of fucking day, yet they show up at their funeral and act like they actually gave a shit.  I despise that behavior and it is not going to happen to me.

My grandchildren will never know me the way I knew my grandparents.  They will never know me at all.  I will just be the “crazy old grandma” that nobody talks about.  I won’t be lucky enough to be the “abusive, drunken grandma” that everybody protected and speaks of fondly.

I will very likely become one of those unclaimed bodies, wrapped in plastic and sporting a toe tag…at least until my attorney shows up with a check.  Then, I’ll turn into unclaimed ashes.  There will be no distribution of those ashes.  Nobody will be carrying them around in the trunk of their car, as I have done with mama for almost nine years.
My attorney can throw them into the dumpster or sprinkle them in the parking lot of his office.  I don’t care.

He could decide to leave me a Jane Doe and keep the money.  I’ll never know and again…I don’t care.

I used to think that I would like to be sprinkled on top of my grandparents’ graves but there is nobody to carry out that wish.  But like I said, when you’re dead, you’re dead.  Would I ever know if my wishes were carried out anyway?

I truly believe that I will be just as unimportant in death as I was in life….and with that….I am okay.

Maybe I’ll leave a mysterious stone somewhere, bearing four words.  Then again, maybe I won’t.

 

Becoming Nothing More Than A Foul Odor

I watched a terribly sad show yesterday about coroners and what they see and do every single day.  I guess like EMS, they become immune to the horrors of broken, mutilated bodies…bodies found in different stages of rigor mortis…and others who have been found simply because they have become a foul odor.

Every year in the United States, there is an average of 40 thousand unclaimed bodies that wait in a cold room, covered in plastic with only their feet exposed.  A lone toe tag is the only identifying scripture, stating either a Jane or John Doe.  Most of them are drug addicts, homeless and mentally ill people.

Those numbers are staggering.  These are men, women and yes, even children.  They are housed deep inside a building, far away from public view.  They don’t make headlines.  There are no demonstrations or calls to end the very reasons these people became drug addicts, homeless or mentally ill.

That particular building housed up to 500 bodies.  There was row after row, stacked three high.  They weren’t animal carcasses.  They were human bodies.  They once lived, breathed, loved, lost, worried, and most likely felt enormous pain.  Now they are laying there, unknown and uncared for.  They have fallen between the cracks.

On the rare occasion when a family member can be located, the coroner is most often met with indifference.  Society deems them to be unsavory.  They have been ignored in life and are ignored in death as well.

Their lives are reduced to a small manila envelope which contains all of their worldly goods.  When their possessions are not claimed after a specified amount of time, they are destroyed.  This includes money, jewelry, pictures and the clothing they were wearing when they were found.

There are grave sites where these people are buried en masse.  There are small 3×5 markers which bear only a number, such as 2013, 2056, 2654, etc.  The public is invited to attend when they have a collective ceremony and sometimes, a few make an appearance.

Should these people have mattered?  Should there have been somebody who grieved for them when they died?

When did these people become non-entities?  When did they become unimportant?  When did they no longer matter?  Shouldn’t somebody have noticed before they became rotting flesh and bones…and nothing more than a foul smell?

Maybe.

Or maybe at some point in their lives, they decided that they just wanted to vanish.  Maybe disappearing into anonymity was their way of escaping a world that didn’t seem to care.

I’ll answer my own questions…in my next post.

 

 

 

 

A Conversation

Last night, I had a three hour conversation with a lovely old friend.  The last hour consisted of his “arm-chair” psychiatry.

He described me as living in a tightly wound cocoon, surrounded by huge, self-erected walls.  Yes.
Cocoons are made of silk threads.  Silk threads when en masse are extremely strong and my cocoon has had several years to form.  My walls are equally as strong and are impenetrable.

He said I should break out of that cocoon, spread my wings and become the beautiful butterfly that I can be.  (He sounds like my cyber-husband, who writes poetry about his broken butterflies.)

He knows about my life.  He has suffered great loss and is himself, trying to crawl out of the throws of depression.  He understands when I laugh and say “I will tell you the same thing I told Sam and Pepper and several others…you will NEVER break through those walls.”

He understands that when I say that, I am not challenging him nor am I boasting.  He says it is a protective shield and he knows that I find comfort within my cocoon and those walls but that I need to find comfort somewhere else.

Just because I am alone (or on the road away from home) doesn’t mean that I am one to run to the comfort of just anybodys’ arms that I can pick up.  I’m not one who is willing to pay for the comfort of companionship.  I’m not one to fall for the comfort of shallow flattery…which prompts my sarcastic sense of humor to come out for the next part of the conversation.

He said:

“You’re a very good-looking woman.”
(You’re obviously drunk.)

“You are very intelligent.”
(How you reckin’ that happened..seeing as how I’s a uneducated hillbilly?)

“You have means.”
(Well, then all I need is a house and a ways and I’ll have a committee.)

He suggested that I smoke pot, so that I can experience the “joy of food and maybe gain some weight.”
(Puh-lease!  Eating is a fucking drag!  And, if I have to cook…for-fucking-get it!)

He said I needed to learn how to enjoy a drink so I could “loosen up.”
(I’ve had a drink and got loose enough to throw up all over Losers’ car.  Yay!  I have to say that it made me smile to think that WTC was going to unknowingly, sit in my puke.)

He said I needed to have a relationship and went on to describe several options.
(Okay.  In answer to those options…I’m not going to be anybodys’ “fuck-buddy.”  I’m not going to be anybodys’ “casual sex” partner.  I’m not going to be anybodys’ “back-door girlfriend” and I am certainly not going to be what Loser wanted me to be, which was “a back-door wife.”)

There are always going to be expectations in any relationship.  If I cited my expectations for one, I imagine I would get the same frustrated response I always got from my children when I talked of friendships and marriage…”mom, your expectations are too high.”

So, I imagine I will continue to live in my cocoon…inside my thick walls.  I’ve learned so many valuable lessons about trust and honor and fidelity.  I unhesitatingly offer honor and fidelity but two things I will never offer again are…..commitment and trust.

 

A Girl Named Hope

A while back, one of my readers said he would like to hear about some of my calls when I was running EMS.  We discussed our calls among ourselves, even though we were bound by those pesky HIPPA laws but if the Mayor was transported after a drunk driving accident, it wasn’t like we all didn’t know.

There were calls that bothered me, calls that annoyed me and calls that pissed me off.  I remember them all but I decided to write about one that was incredibly memorable and sad.

In EMS, we have patients we run on regularly and they become known as “frequent flyers.”  We get to know them well and form a sort of bond with them.

This is the story of Hope.

My partner and I got a call for “respiratory distress.”  We got on scene and were led to a back bedroom.  That was the first time I saw Hope.  She was a twenty-six year old girl who weighed 852 pounds.  My partner and I each weighed about a buck fifteen.

Because of her weight, she was bed bound and frequently had difficulty breathing.  She kept apologizing for the “trouble.”  I told her it was no trouble and we were there to help.  I could see the embarrassment in her eyes when she took my hand and said “I’m sorry I’m so fat.”

I don’t know if I ever ran across a patient who had a sweeter disposition than Hope.  Even while she was struggling to breathe, she said “you are so kind and you have such beautiful hair.”

I asked her parents how long she had been having trouble breathing.  They said it had just started and then asked me if they could feed her before we left.  They seemed to be more concerned about her getting to eat than being able to breathe.

Her mama was less than five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.  Her daddy wasn’t much taller and looked like a toothpick.  Hope was their only child.
Her mama took me aside and said they didn’t want Hope to be hungry.  I told her that the hospital would give her something to eat but we needed to get her there before she got worse.

I knew that we were going to need help getting her to the hospital so I called dispatch and asked for any available crews to come assist.  I also asked them to send the fire department.  I knew she would never fit on our stretcher so I requested that one of the crews bring “Chitty.”

Chitty was our critical care ambulance.  The cab was the size of an eighteen wheeler and the “trailer” was as large by half.  The fire department had a “whale carrier.”  Since it was a coastal city, large marine life would sometimes get stranded and the carrier was how they moved them.  It was the only way we could get Hope out to the ambulance.  We had to remove the standard stretcher mounts and slide her onto the floor.

She was naked, so I used my sense of humor to distract her from the indignity of being eyed and handled while she was being loaded and made sure that she was covered to prevent gawking neighbors from seeing anything.

After we got her loaded, she started crying and said “I don’t want to die.”  I told her she wasn’t going to die on my watch.  She said she had tried to lose weight and wanted to have gastric by-pass surgery but she weighed too much and then started apologizing again.  I told her she had nothing to apologize for.

This was the routine for several months.  I got to know her well and she was such a sweet child.  She was the same age as my youngest daughter.  We talked about music and movies and as soon as I would get her to the hospital, she would always say the same thing.  “I don’t want to die.”

As soon as we got her in the bed, her parents wanted to know when she was going to be fed and again said “we don’t want her to be hungry.”

It was so heartbreaking when her parents talked about wanting her to not be hungry.  Every time she was hospitalized, her parents would sneak buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken into her room.  The nurses finally had to threaten them with loss of visitation rights if they continued.

I was on shift on Christmas Eve and had just dropped off a patient.  I stopped at the nurses’ station to get some paperwork signed and one of them asked if I had heard about Hope.  I said “of course.  I’ve brought her here many times.”
The nurse shook her head and said “no.  Hope died.  She went into cardiac arrest about an hour ago and we couldn’t bring her back.”

She was down the hall in a room but I couldn’t bring myself to go see her.  The nurses said her parents had asked for a few minutes alone with her, which of course, they granted.

When they went in to disconnect the machinery, one of them noticed something trickling from Hopes’ mouth.

While her parents were alone with her, they stuffed her mouth full of candy.  They didn’t want her to be hungry while she was alive and they didn’t want her to be hungry after she died.

 

My Posts Are Being Rated “Very Poor.”

I have noticed lately that some of my posts have been rated “poor” by somebody.  The latest one was for the last post I wrote.

Okay.  What was poor about it?  The way it was written?  The content?  Did you not like reading about what a lying, cheating, disease-giving, narcissistic ex-husband said and did?

Do you think that I should still protect him and present him as the most wonderful man who ever walked Earth?
(Sorry, not going to happen.)

If you think I’m going to remove the “rate” option from my site, you are dead wrong.

SO HERE’S WHAT YOU DO:

Don’t hide behind a “star.”  GROW A SET and post a comment.

You could say something like:

“You suck.”  (That phrase has a few connotations so let’s address them.)
First.  “I suck.”  Does that mean I’m a bad writer?  Okay.  If you think so, here’s an option…don’t read my posts.
Second.  “I suck.”  Are you assuming….or dreaming of possibilities?

“Your punctuation is all wrong.”
Hey. I’m one of them thar uneducated peepas.  Just ’cause I don’t know from commas or semi-colons don’t mean I don’t know nothin’ about good writin’.

“You should write about recipes and….squirrels.”
Well, I’ll be dogged!   Just this morning I loaded my shotgun and bagged a couple of those little critters.  I’m going to whomp me up some squirrel stew tonight and I’ll provide the recipe on tomorrows’ post.  How’s that?

“You couldn’t write your way out of a wet paper bag.”
I’m willing to bet my sweet bippy that you can’t either.  I’ve always heard that those who can’t….criticize those who do.

So, all of you “poor raters” and trolls out there, go ahead and crawl out from under the woodwork.  Nobody likes cowards.

Remember…even the sun shines on a dogs’ ass sometimes and if cockroaches wouldn’t hide under the cover of darkness, it might shine on them, too.