Caterwauling

When I was little, I cursed a lot. (Clearly I haven’t yet taken a hiatus!) So my family used to give me substitute words to squeal so I’d feel better and I wouldn’t humiliate them in public. It makes sense to me now in adulthood why non-relatives used to look at me funny when I’d get indignant and shout “bolts!” when I really thought I was saying “bullshit!”

So my friend’s got an astute 3-year-old who loves the word “ass.” Her substitute word is “turkey.” So when my friend catches her daughter using the bad word, she asks her to repeat herself. The little one dutifully says, “I said turkey, Mommy.”

The other day, the wee one announced, “Daddy’s a fucking ass!” And per the usual, my friend asked her to repeat herself.

So the little one said, “Daddy’s a fucking turkey!”

And my friend encountered the age-old conundrum — how to laugh to herself and correct the munchkin at the same time. And on top of it all, she didn’t want to lie to her and claim he ISN’T one!!! 😉

It’s always so cute when people make up a fake e-mail address pretending to be you and then forward your blog address to the executives in your company.

THEY ALREADY READ IT, MORON.

In fact, we just had the biggest laugh over my creative use of foul language. Heh. Imagine what they heard live and in person!

“But I feel that I should be heard loud and clear.
We all need a big reduction in amount of tears.”

Mom asked me to pray tonight. Here goes. …

Dear God,

I know we haven’t been on speaking terms for very long, really it’s only been since you helped me to find a job after that wretched period of my life. That you were there for me when I came back to you, hey, we’re cool.

You do remember that it was July 4, 1999, that I stopped having faith in you. The day you took my grandmother away — the day that fucked-up excuse of a hospital killed her.

I didn’t believe you could let one human being suffer so much. That you could stand by and let her get such shoddy, inexcusable care and let Satan of Silver Spring^TM continue walking this earth unscathed. I hoped that you welcomed my Gram with open arms, and then I turned and walked away.

So here we are with my grandfather — the man who raised me as his daughter, the only man who has never broken my heart — being tortured and abused and punished for some vendetta his so-called medical care staff has with the world. And where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?!?!

God is not in the hallways of the VA Medical Center on University Drive. There’s plenty of MRSA and VRSA and tuberculosis (gee thanks), but no sign of you.

(Incidentally, what the F? VA hospitals screening for staph — OK, I can overlook the fact that it seems to praise the Pittsburgh VA, but let me explain something. They aren’t fucking geniuses for colonizing the MRSA patients. You know where they’re located? IN THE PRIVATE ROOMS RIGHT OFF THE FUCKING ELEVATORS. Where people with weakened immune systems and visitors alike have to pass through. Let’s clap for stupidity.)

Have you seen their Web site? I am sure as the Almighty that you have a decent broadband connection. How can you let them get away wth saying “VA Pittsburgh Healthcare System – Nobody knows veterans like we do”? More like that nobody disgraces, disrespects or causes the death of veterans quite like them.

My grandfather is so proud of serving his country — he was a World War II hero. There was recently a special on The History Channel about his particular plattoon. The man has always been a god to me and to everyone who’s known him.

So when these ASSHOLES have signs around saying “Veterans First,” I must ask you first to whom? I want my tax dollars back if all I’m going to witness/hear are stories of their neverending series of screw-ups. I don’t want him to be someone’s afterthought — I don’t want to lose him to their ineptitude and I don’t think he has to suffer the consequences of it if he even DOES manage to hang in there.

I had taken my grandfather past a display case with fatigues, a canteen and all kinds of medals. And my proud, proud papa looked at all of it and said to me, “What for?” Meaning, why the fuck would anyone in their right fucking mind serve their country just to come back to be grateful simply to be alive. Was it worth it to sustain lifelong injuries and see horrors that they’re too proud to share but not strong enough to forget/overcome?

And you people WONDER why I’m against war?!?!

Mom is convinced he’s not coming back from this. He’s regressing, he’s fading, he’s ready to call it a day.

And all he did today, in moments of lucidity? Was ask where I was.

*sob*

God, I don’t ask you about my 13-hour workdays like today. I love my team and my work enough that they’re good hours. I try not to bug you with little, inconsequential requests. Yes, I oftentimes shout in your direction, “Why are you TORMENTING me?!?!” but I say it with love. Usually. 😉

I know there are people with worse problems than me, but I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for that wonderful man who’s done nothing but serve You and everyone around him to have his life back. This wasn’t a long, drawn-out, progressive illness. This is a series of 14-karat fuckups on the part of the people to whom we’re supposed to be entrusting his health that made him decline overnight. THEY should suffer. THEY can’t even give him something for the pain. THEY won’t even talk to me when I call because I’m not next-of-kin YET I can tell them more than their stupid asses know about anything.

In plain English, why in Your name is his precious, precious life entrusted to people who couldn’t find their own asses in a paper bag, and with both hands?

The next person, incidentally, who tells me that everything happens for a reason is going to get a Nine West shoe-induced tracheotomy. Is this Your plan? I should think you’d have higher standards for Your servants — are you going to let them get away with this?

It’s not my grandfather’s time to go and CERTAINLY not under these conditions. He should be at home in his bed in his pretty house surrounded by Mom and me and maybe even those obnoxious brothers of his who treat him about as well as the VA doctors but for some reason my grandfather loves them anyway.

I don’t know why the most vile, hateful creatures on earth will live forever and the best people either get fucked-up care (case in point) or no care (Mom).

God, I know I have no business demanding of you an explanation for the way things are. It’s Your plan, so they keep telling me. And frankly? I don’t WANT to know your plan. But what I DO want from you is your grace when it comes to my grandfather. Keep him alive for me. I’ve got so many things to tell him — so many things still left to do with him. He’s got so much to teach me and share with me and make me know that it exists.

We’ve had a good 32 years together. All I want is 20 more. He’s a young 80 — or, he was.

If you see this man, send him back where he belongs … with Mom and me.

In Your son’s name, Amen.

Love, Goddess

There are three things I’ve learned about my family this weekend:

1. They are the most polite people you will ever meet — they will thank you for even the smallest of things.
2. They are the nicest people on earth — no matter how much pain they are in, they are as gracious as can be.
3. They never miss a chance to tell you they love you. You will hear it a million times a day and they would say it more if they could.

I went to Pittsburgh this weekend because my grandfather is very ill. I got there on Friday at noon, took one look at him and dragged him to the hospital. (I was supposed to be on call for work. Oh well. Takes a family emergency for me to get my priorities straight.) Twelve hours, eight waiting rooms and two hospitals later, he’s checked in and getting mediocre treatment.

That’s an upgrade from terrible treatment. Because my sweet and nice and fabulous grandfather and my mom who takes care of him cannot for the life of them fight for anything. But then I — a cross between “Harper Valley PTA” and Shirley MacLaine in “Terms of Endearment” — hit town, and planted myself up everyone’s butt possible. It’s the only reason he’s gotten any attention.

I don’t know that people get family emergencies like this. That everyone’s burned out and it takes Miss Attitutde Problem to step in and demand quality care. This is someone we love, need and WANT. Do NOT let him slip through the cracks. It’s fucking ABUSE to leave an 80-year-old in such searing pain, and to write it off as depression? Jesus H on a motherfucking STICK, wouldn’t chronic pain that he’s had for 45 years that you refuse to help with his regular meds that his hotshot, braindead, fresh-out-of-school PCP decided to PULL drive your dumb ass over the edge, too?

GAWD.

They wanted to 302 him, but I fought that with my life. I bartered them down to a 201. (The difference between loony bin and regular admission. Loony bin? 80 years old, in insane pain and you fuckers think he’s mental? I smell lawsuit. Breathe deeply, bitches. 36 hours without a pain pill and that’s only because I had to beg and plead and threaten.

And let’s not talk about the fact that I know how to reset the IV machine because everyone else seemed to forget how. I’m pretty damned handy if I say so myself!

He had a horrible roommate when we checked in. I called the man Snarfalicious, Stankalicious, Sir Farts-a-Lot and just plain Asshole. Really rude motherfucker. Was literally puttting his ass up to the curtain that separated the beds to flatulate as loudly as possible through it. Groaned every 30 seconds but shut up when a nurse was in the room. And nobody seemed to think it was a problem to let my grandfather suffer with that.

So I threatened to move my grandfather myself if they didn’t. And God save the queen, we got the best nurse EVER, who loved my sweet, gracious, amazing little grandfather, who called him “My little man” and went against every rule (and everyone I’d already talked to) and got him into a better room.

The poor man can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t breathe, he’s in so much pain. Goddamned PCP. I told everyone that my cats get better medical care than my grandfather. I want her ass on a platter. I wish her three times the pain that he’s in right now. (Don’t fuck with a witch. Or bitch. Whichever.) It’s not HER life that gets screwed up by her stupid decisions.

And he? Thanked the one cuntrag nurse (whom I had to practically force into the pharmacy) profusely for bringing him one lonely pain pill and said he was sorry she had to go to any trouble for him. ARGH! That’s him, though. That’s his personality in a nutshell. My response was more of the, “See? Helping someone didn’t kill you!” variety, but it came out a little nicer. But not much. 😉

I may or may not document all the drama online later (but you’d best believe I’m going to be doing it for myself and likely for an attorney), all I have to say is that I drove home late last night (Sunday) and I should not be here. I am so worried what is (or isn’t) going to happen without me fighting for it. I think Mom will do her best, but I’m my grandmother’s granddaughter — I got the hot Italian blood from her that makes me want to whack somebody who acts simple.

I got into it with the psychiatrist they sent him to. Mom loves to hang back and watch me. I asked her why the F they would pull the cocktail o’ medicines that have been working for 15 years (which resulted in an overnight decline of his health that they refuse to address — this is a vital, happy man who’s now a shivering ball of suck right now) without first evaluating him. Why stop what works without due diligence? She was silent.

I got her once again when she asked him the date. He’d said Oct. 19, 2006. She snarled, “Well, you’re wrong, it’s the 26th.” Whereupon I said, “Gee, my calendar says the 27th. You’re not right, either.”

*smack*

Mom reminded me of how serving around the clock has caused me to neglect my health and mental health in a big way. And this is how it manifests itself — curled up in a fetal position, barely noticeable under a pile of blankets where you rot away on someone’s watch. All the stress comes back to you to remind you of what you did during your life … and what you didn’t.

My whole family has helped others their whole lives and never cared for themselves. And this is what makes me a bitch. Not on my own behalf — god forbid if I make waves. I feel like I must deserve all the pain I get. But when it’s someone I love? Don’t fuck with me. Seriously. My bullshit tolerance is very, very low.

So if everyone can understand that my head’s still in Pittsburgh (he asked if there were any way I could stay because he really doesn’t think he’s going to make it much longer — this is something he would NEVER in his right mind say) and understand that their problems don’t really concern me right now, we’ll call it an OK day.

And if I can find some time (ha) I might want to contemplate checking out the job market up there. I really don’t know if he’s going to come through this. It was like taking a lamb to slaughter. Elder care in this country blows goats, I tell you.

This all took place at Veteran’s Hospital, need I say more. I think we did luck out with some incredible nurses, but the doctors, well, the jury’s still out on that. (We were the only visitors in the hospital all weekend — really sad. Sadder still how they make an announcement into each patient room that visiting hours are over. Great — another day gone by for the majority of them with no one knowing or caring that they’re in there. Splendid.)

I’ll tell you the real shit part of all of this. That it was ME — I am the one who talked him into going to the hospital. (See “slaughter, lamb to.”) Six years ago, I did the same thing with my grandmother. She was so sick, in so much pain — and per the usual, they only listen to me. Mom provides all the care, but it’s my opinion they seek.

And I’d begged my grandmother to go to the hospital. For comfort, for drugs, for maybe a last-ditch effort to fix her up and keep her around for awhile longer.

She died that day. In the hospital. They gave her a few extra shots of morphine when we took my grandfather (with his low blood sugar) for a little bit of food.

She died before we came back from that last horrible meal. While the Fourth of July fireworks were going off. I cannot look at a firework anymore without wanting to die myself.

So here again, I was the catalyst — just trying to get someone I love the help they need and the comfort they deserve.

Maybe I should stick with pets. My ability to help humans at this point is sketchy. I might suggest that some of these so-called doctors do the same.

But I will tell you one thing — I don’t want to be as good and kind and serving as my family and end up with the world using my hair to wipe its ass.

The lesson to learn is one that seems to work in all life domains … the nice people do finish last because they’re willing to wait for whatever they need till it’s convenient for others. But those who put fear into others get results and priority treatment.

I am going completely against character as a mini-Machiavelli here but I rather like how empowering it is to command the respect people should be ready to give you in the first place.

Editor’s note: Heh, just found this entry stuck in my “drafts” folder, where lots of rants appear that should never be published (and clearly aren’t!). But this one’s benign enough to share. Enjoy!

Actually, it was thanks for the tips, as the housekeeping staff at my hotel actually left me a little note to thank me for tipping them. I thought that was sweet — nice to know that they actually care that you show up.

Although, I admit that I wonder about those kind folks whom you wish you could hire to clean up cat shit landmines before you get home late each night, tired and definitely not in the mood to inhale eau de cat ass the second you stick the key in the door. It’s bad enough the cats try to escape once the door is opened, but once you smell them, well damn, you wonder why you didn’t let them escape!

Ahem.

Anyway,. I’m convinced housekeeping staff booby-trap the place or otherwise fuck with you for shits and giggles. I have no doubt that they purposely change the lever on the shower so that you get rained on when just the day before, you know for a fact you last took a bath and didn’t switch the water flow to the damn shower head.

Well, as long as nobody’s wiping their ass with my toothbrush, I’m happy. I already have a potty mouth, thanks much!

I write this entry from 37,500 feet above ground in an obnoxiously uncomfortable seat aboard US Airways. I used to love flying, but right now, the jury’s still out on it. I know that neither my convenience nor enjoyment is anyone’s priority. That said, I’ve been on my feet for days and have slept a combined 10 hours during the past five nights. And when my plane touches down I’ve got to sit in D.C. rush hour traffic before trying to catch a quick snooze and getting up to do a little bit of work.

This particular flight is taking the cake for miserable air travel, however. I’ve tried to sleep. I’ve got a blankie, two pillows and a vitamin and sleeping pill in my system. (Vitamins make me queasy — good for making me want to pass out.)

But as I sit here in seat 22D, the only highlight of which is that it’s an aisle seat and nobody is sitting between me and the guy in the window seat (the only seat open on the flight — I checked), I’ve got the flight attendants right behind me.

And those FUCKERS have been chatting away quite happily and loudly for the past four goddamned hours. I have emitted about 7 million of my patented Heavy Exasperated Sighs and even resorted about 50 times to pulling the blanket over my head and attempting to strangle myself with it. I hate them. I’m so going to complain about this.

The seats are way too small and with the asshole in front of me being reclined, I’ve got the laptop half-open and am typing without actually looking at the keys/reading the screen. Which I happen to be good at, but come on already.

My seat doesn’t recline — of course, that’s a good thing ’cause my head would be in the toilet. Which, I’m afraid to say, might bring me much more auditory joy than listening to the cackling bitch who’s been drinking coffee all evening and yapping about her damn husband.

Would it be wrong if I hit the “needs assistance” button and when Yapper Flapper comes over, to request her compliance in wrapping the cord of my oxygen mask around her throat? 😉

Like a big ol’ bag of flaming poo:

Between the shit going on with my grandfather (I am going to sue Veteran’s Hospital someday. You will hear about it here first. That’s all I am going to say about it), my mom losing her cookies and my best friend telling me something HUGE after the fact (something for which I could/SHOULD have been there for her but she wrote it off as I’m “too busy to deal” with her stuff), I’m seriously going to explode.

Like a flaming bag of poo.

Tread carefully, for I shall splatter.

I was driving to work today, as I am apt to do on these things they like to call workdays, and from the interstate, I make a right-hand turn into Ye Humble Employment Establishment’s compound.

So as always, I flip on the blinker in advance of my turn, to signal to the asshole in the black Range Rover to kindly quit riding my ass so that I can slow the fuck down and not kill any pedestrians who might be walking where I need to be driving. I make my turn, look in the rearview …

… and Asshole FLIPS ME OFF!!!

Seriously.

So, if I may. *clears throat*

Dear Fuckhead,

Love,
Goddess

I like to travel not because I just don’t have enough stress in my life already, but because I get to meet people I will never see again yet will never forget.

Airports are small that way — we sojourners might be taken in myriad directions to the proverbial four corners of the earth, but each of us is taking an invisible treasure trove of stories and experiences that gets stowed away once we set foot on those 747s.

I was in a gift shop at National Airport (like most liberals, I won’t name the dead president whose name has been tacked on to it), buying a stupid little Washington, D.C., pink babydoll T-shirt because I was bored and it was on sale. The cashier was kind enough — seemed a tiny bit preoccupied but brightened up when we started talking.

And then? She fell silent.

The shop was in the America West/US Airways wing, and it overlooked the tarmac. A plane went driving by and the pilot backed it up a bit. She freaked. Absolutely went into silent panic-attack mode.

I didn’t know what the hell to do. I just wanted to go drink my Cinnabon coffee in peace. But I stood there quietly, looking around for the phone so I could call for help, just in case. I noticed her first and last name on her tag. Mamie.

When Mamie recovered from her moment, she seemed surprised that I’d stood there. (What can I say; I really did wonder where she’d gone in her head.) She went on to ask me if I’d remembered the plane that had crashed into the Pentagon on 9/11. An odd question to ask someone who lives here, but I nodded, almost terrified to hear what she had to say.

She asked if I had known that an 11-year-old boy had been killed in the crash. I vaguely remembered hearing a child had been on board, so I nodded. She said that it was her Rodney — her grandson.

I looked it up in the WaPo when I had a chance — Rodney Dickens.

I had a million questions for her, but I felt like all she needed was someone to give her a moment to process. She said she had just started working at the gift shop — she’d thought it would be a good place for her to meet travelers and wish them well on their way out of town and to welcome the people who managed to make it in safely.

Or maybe that’s what I thought she was there for, because that’s what she did for me.

She did say, though, that she jumps every time she sees a plane — it’s pretty unfortunate that her shop happens to overlook the tarmac. (It’s a tiny airport, not like those mega-mall types like Pittsburgh and Minneapolis, among others.) Instead of inspiring her and helping her to overcome her fears, though, she thinks that she’s just about through with this job. It’s too hard on her.

I looked for her when I flew back a few days later, at exactly the same time of day. Maybe it was her day off. Maybe she’d had too much already. I don’t know. I do know that she will never forget her beloved grandson, and with that mere three-minute conversation, she became someone I would take in my heart during my travels as well.

On the opposite coast, I had the fortune of meeting someone who was catching a connection at SFO after leaving Hawaii post-earthquake last week. His home had suffered some damage — he told some stories about it but didn’t seem too bothered by it. He was very much of the “shit happens” mentality about it all. I admired that.

As we were being stripped of all dignity and shuffled off into a little glass-partitioned area to get dressed again, I asked him if he were heading somewhere safe for the time being. He said yes and that his destination was in Georgia, for his 45th high school reunion.

I’d wondered whether he’d intended to go to it or if it just happened to be a place safe from Mother Nature for the time being. He shrugged sweetly and said he never talked much in school but had a funny feeling that with his life and the stories he had to tell, he’d be remembered this time around.

I wished him well and saw him scurry off to the gate leaving for Savannah. And I never dreamed I’d see someone wanting to run like hell away from Hawaii but, admittedly, my world is a small one.

But it’s expanding.

… at work.

Interesting article on what to me seems to be the obvious, but then again, I’m probably not its intended audience. 😉

Oh, GAWD, is it that time again already?!?! I already have my first writers’ group invitation on my calendar and hot damn, I don’t have a story line. (Or a brain that’s functioning, for that matter.)

‘Tis the season to raid the liquor cabinet and offer delicious, designer chocolates on a silver platter to my Muse, who is off in warmer climes and certainly not here with me. My main character for this year’s book doesn’t inspire me the way the last one did. I usually write from a female lead’s POV but this year I made it a man. Well, one who needs to do some serious growing up, so I’m chronicling his journey.

And sure, there are always gratuitous sex scenes to fill up a few dozen pages, but I admit to being a virgin to writing those from a man’s point of view. (Hell, I forget how they happen from MY angle — I could use a refresher course or 20.) Oh, Inspiration, did you get my Change-of-Address notice when I moved a few months back?!?! Help me through this odyssey in any way you can!!!