Return of the Living Dead

I am back in my hometown, grazing in the pastures of hell. My, what a nice analogy, even though I am not a cow. I grew up in a conversative, middle to upper-middle class town in New England full of mostly snarky white people, and frankly returning here makes me feel like God is one helluva practical joker. The lower depths of hell, you could say. Then I think about people in third world countries with REAL problems, and realize what a narcissistic, self-absorbed ass I really am. Which is just more narcissism.
Which is why I am heading to confession today. There's nothing like sitting in a box with a priest who doesn't know you and is full of his own crippling sexual problems to make you feel better. It's really a rush, people! Not that I have crippling sexual problems, but last I heard the Catholic church was full of men who had a predeliction for little boys. It's very disturbing, is what I am trying to tell you here.
I am, for the first time in my life (and God, I hope sincerely one of the last) renting a room in a house with a very clean, very annoying older widower woman (not widow, as my elder lawyer brother corrected me recently -- he loves to correct). I am soon leaving this situation, because living with her is like living in a nursing home with someone who desperately needs therapy and medication. More than they need jello and sing-a-longs with Bobo the Clown. She constantly slams doors, is in mortal fear of germs, has already accused me in rampaging paranoia of stealing a glass, and is cheap enough for three other people. She told me that she gives money to "hundreds of charities" (her quote, folks), and in the meantime the house was last decorated in the 70's and she worries that people are ripping her off of cheap water glasses. This glass could have been purchased at any five and dime store, people! She is insane. This is the crux and the thrust of the matter, and trust me when I say I could use some cruxing and thrusting. But that's another story for a smuttier publication.
Speaking of,
a cute man just entered the room here in the library, made eye contact with me, and wandered off. If I was less shy I might have attacked him. You know, thrust my phone number (there's that verb again!) into his hand, then batted my eyelashes. However, I simply looked at him and returned to my blogging. Ah, there's nothing like being an introvert. We do suffer so. Extroverts, you are lucky people. I could live alone for the next 70 years of my life unless I take the bull by the horns. If only the bull looked more like Kermit the Frog.
So life consists now of looking for another place to live as well as the usual 80,000 other little niggling details. As REM says, it's the little things that drag us under. Why that is, I don't know, but there ya have it.
I have missed all of you. I also enjoy the faux sincere "replies" to my blogs full of commercialized prospects that wish to impress upon me the need to buy jam, or vaccum cleaners, or to upgrade my technological storehouse of audio/video cables. Speaking of, I was in Radio Shack recently and not a single salesperson approached me. However, a man who came in AFTER me was approached. Any Radio Shack salespeople care to comment on this?? Women are usually ignored in any traditional male haven, although this is the year 2006. That's been my experience, anyway.
Oh yes, I wrote Craig Ferguson a letter! What a cheeky thing I am. He'll never see it, but I enjoyed popping it into the mail. Here's hoping he'll see it. Nothing like a fresh cup of fantasy with your morning oatmeal (instant, with Folgers coffee made in a coffee pot set on a stove, while my landlady bangs doors and wonders why she's going deaf. Can we say, passive-aggressive wanker?).
God bless you, my little donuts.

Saturday Night and I Ain't Got Nobody

Ah, I lied about this being my last blog! I need the sweet release of writing to be OK! Must be the mark of a true writer or a desperate woman, take your pick.
My brother's computer is faintly freaking me out. But outside it is a gorgeous wind-tossed autumn night here in spooky ye olde New England, haunted by history and the sense that nothing much will ever happen here. I like it that way. I just created my very own pasta -- quite impressively delicious as I grow bolder with the cooking thing -- and PJ Harvey is on the CD player. Someone is getting their car towed by the looks of things outside -- there's some flashing lights, and it isn't a cop. Looks to be a tow truck! My powers of perception astonish me.
I am way stressed about money and finding a job, and hope the pain eases soon. An old high school friend of mine -- former friend, I should say -- left me a message earlier on my phone, apparently deluded into thinking we are still friends. When I was out in CA, I visited her and was treated to many of her alarmingly bi-polar like outbursts. I hadn't seen her for a billion years, so I shouldn't be surprised, since apparently half of all Americans will be diagnosed with some sort of mental or anxiety disorder at some point. If you believe everything you read, which I don't, but frankly it wouldn't surprise me. This is a seriously whacked-out denial-ridden society. And that's on a good day, people! Not to say I'm anti-American -- I ain't -- but this is not exactly an easy country to live in, land of the free and home of the brave or not.
I am stuffing chocolate into my mouth to ease the pain of everything. Addiction rules, yes indeed. I have a candle burning, which is nice, and am slowly making my way through a great book called The Snow Queen. I like fantasy, although this is more sci-fi, which I generally steer clear of, but in this case I've made a huge and lovely exception. Awesome book. Yes, it's another stellar Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody! Actually, I went out to a bar with the brother and the wife last night, which was actually pretty fun, although I don't like bars much. Irish pubs are fine, but I think bars are usually pretty icky places.
My sister-in-law's father was there last night, a very cool hippie kinda guy who, like me, listens much and talks little. We mostly listened to the older brother and wife exchange amusing commentary and Almost Get Into A Fight, which we both thought was funny. Ah, the married life!
I do find when I most want to be alone that people decide to call me. Not that I'm complaining. Friends are very important. But I get overwhelmed with too many people in my life, which is the mark of the True Introvert. Extroverts, on the other hand, love to be surrounded by people and thrive off of the energy. I do not, I feel drained by the night's end, or whatever the case may be, and half to go off alone to recharge my batteries. America is a very extroverted society, and it's not easy to be an introvert here. I saw a special on Finland, I think it was, once, and apparently there people are really shy and will barely talk to each other. I would fit right in!! God, what a relief that would be. I really tire of having to put on this competitive American face when in truth I just want to sink into gentle little me. When I'm feeling gentle, that is, teehee. Maybe the secret is to no longer do it.
Well, gee, thank you for the brain implant, Dr. Phil! I've solved one of my problems. Loverly!
Rest easy in the autumn leaves, wherever you may be.

Babies for Chocolate

I have b/c weary of my own musings, so this may be my last blog for awhile. All 1.4 of you, weep!
There are STILL mice dying in my brother's basement, for those one of you following the mouse saga. The exterminator, a friendly if a bit too chatty man from the midwest, ostensibly bagged all of the mice and put out a bunch of traps. However, I heard squeaking earlier and lo and behold, a poor mouse was staggering around looking like he'd had himself one helluva bender.
I tired of watching his or her suffering, so tried to coax the tiny thing onto my shovel. No dice. I was forced to leave it there to die slowly. Which makes me feel like a baby killer, or something (the mouse, is, in fact, a baby). I did, however, give the lucky exterminator man (who is selling his house, for those of you who want a ranch house near a pond !) my brownies, which are healthy. So far as brownies go, as I used whole wheat flour and 1/2 cup of sugar only.
Today has been another day from slow hell, but that's OK, there's always tomorrow, Scarlett O'Hara. GWTW is one book I never finished. It was too southern for me (yes, you may point your righteous guns of wrath at me, but I'm just being a truthful Yankee gal), and frankly too boring. I mean, Rhett and Scarlett, Scarlett and Rhett, like, who cares, people! Now I'll get comments, I'm sure!
The doorbell rang when I was in the middle of my impromptu Alanis Morrisette concert and I was greeted by an aggressive woman from some sort of National Health Survey Thingie who wanted to try and interview my absent brother and wife. I explained I couldn't speak for them, she wanted to know where they were, like she's a fed or something, and finally I got rid of her. Is there any such thing as being left in peace anymore? Now I expect the next interruption to be the Man Who Will Fix My Brother's Garage, but apparently he has a key, which is great, b/c frankly I don't do well with strangers. Hell, I don't do well with you if I've known you for ten years, but I do try. Call it the case of the Skittish Introvert, and yes, Capitals Are Fun!
I tried to watch Sin City (these are the useless things I've done today, in case you were wondering!), but it was so gratuitously violent right off the bat that I decided to pass. I'm not a Quentin Tarantino fan, and he seems kinda scary in interviews, like he's REALLY ANGRY. I spent years REALLY ANGRY, and now I'm just SOMETIMES ANGRY, but kept in check by the laws of nature, Catholicism, and punching bags. Well, I hope to be, anyway, I'd love a punching bag.
I read more about TomKat's Scientology Baby. Personally I do not plan to procreate. I have wonderful friends with a new baby, and I enjoyed her in the way you're supposed to with babies, but my maternal instincts must have died a couple years back. I had more in my twenties. Now the juice is gone (that sounds mildly obscene, but really, I'm just being quaint). I was referring to holding and rocking the baby, incidentally, not offering it up to satan a la Rosemary's Baby. Just in case you were wondering!
I am happy the exterminator man was happy to receive my brownies. Midwesterners I've met are all really nice and friendly. People where I live are not really nice and friendly, although they can be after you've known them for a year or so. It's the New England thing. I am sad the mouse continues to squeak pathetically, but c'est la vie.
Speaking of exterminators, how does one enter this line of work? How do you develop a crushing, overwhelming, all-consuming desire to rid people's homes of pests and rodents? It must pay well, since no one else wants to do it, a la the garbage removal gig. It's the only thing I can fathom. That, and maybe you were a geeky kid who kept a rat in the cage. Maybe they save all the rodents after they bag 'em up and just pretend to kill 'em. Ooh, that's a lovely thought (erg!).
Well, my pretty pretties, watch Craig Ferguson (we are fine again, Craig and I), go to bitterwaitress.com for celebrity tipping stories that are GREAT, and keep breathing. Love yourselves, the earth, and your children.
And for God sakes, have some chocolate.