(I have NO idea why this is posting with my husband's name on it, but I'm sure someone will bitch about it. I specifically put MY name/NN on it when I created it, but not, his name is on it. Shit. Anyway, this is SSK not KAM,)
I've been through hell, back, taken a sidetrip through pergatory and then ended up back in hell for a bit, and am currently clawing my way outta there.
Why am I hanging around such skeeeery places?
Good question. (You get a cookie.) Some years ago my relatively young husband, because we were both non-complaint blood pressure patients, and our diet was hideous, had what one would call.... hmmmm... yep, massive Stroke (I cap that word because I have an extremely healthy fear and respect of and for it). If someone gave us a plate of salt to eat? We'd salt it. We played tennis an hour, about 5 times a week (more like "whack -a-ball) but we got good enough that tourney people approached us and asked us to join them.
Ha ha, we laughed. We didn't keep score. We just ran after and hit the tennis ball.
That was our exercise, we non-compliant BP patients.
Thus, when we left LA (a whole different story) and moved here to his home town of Itty Bitty, Racists Come Here to Rant-Ville. and he had his stroke?
I had no one. The night of the day of the Stroke, I went home. Alone. I had cats and birds to feed, and a massive gin and tonic to make and tell myself "If I do NOT take even one sip of that drink, he'll be here tomorrow." And I called my "best friend", back in L.A., (a well-off lawyer with a home-husband), whom we shall call "Narcissa".
I told her what had happened. And I cried. And I begged her to come out, just for a few days, to help me, I had nobody, there was not a friendly face anywhere on my horizon.
We'd been through quite a few things with Narcissa: her first divorce, being there for her when boyfriends came and went, her 2 1/2 year old reacting to the divorce, her shot at being a lesbian (and watched her break her lover's heart when she met what we both call the man she married less than 2 years later, "The Leech"). You get the picture. We'd been extremely supportive of her for many years.
So, when I asked her to come out to Itty Bitty town to help me, just for a day or so (we had no insurance, military service, or unfound Rembrandts in the attic, and the people who's job it is at these institutions is to turn you upside down and shake until any pocket change falls out, and they were terrifying me already), I didn't expect her to say "No."
"No?" I was flabbergasted.
"No," she repeated. "I have too many things going on here to waste my time coming to be with you (WTTE)."
Her, I hate. I even wrote a book about my husband's Stroke and made her name "Narcissa" (those HP followers will know what I mean). She and I had been "best" friends for over 30 years, and now it turns out she couldn't be bothered to come help me, to hug me, to battle the money people with me, just to be here.
So, fuck you, Narcissa Feelman, and I hope it happens to you.
I've been through hell, back, taken a sidetrip through pergatory and then ended up back in hell for a bit, and am currently clawing my way outta there.
Why am I hanging around such skeeeery places?
Good question. (You get a cookie.) Some years ago my relatively young husband, because we were both non-complaint blood pressure patients, and our diet was hideous, had what one would call.... hmmmm... yep, massive Stroke (I cap that word because I have an extremely healthy fear and respect of and for it). If someone gave us a plate of salt to eat? We'd salt it. We played tennis an hour, about 5 times a week (more like "whack -a-ball) but we got good enough that tourney people approached us and asked us to join them.
Ha ha, we laughed. We didn't keep score. We just ran after and hit the tennis ball.
That was our exercise, we non-compliant BP patients.
Thus, when we left LA (a whole different story) and moved here to his home town of Itty Bitty, Racists Come Here to Rant-Ville. and he had his stroke?
I had no one. The night of the day of the Stroke, I went home. Alone. I had cats and birds to feed, and a massive gin and tonic to make and tell myself "If I do NOT take even one sip of that drink, he'll be here tomorrow." And I called my "best friend", back in L.A., (a well-off lawyer with a home-husband), whom we shall call "Narcissa".
I told her what had happened. And I cried. And I begged her to come out, just for a few days, to help me, I had nobody, there was not a friendly face anywhere on my horizon.
We'd been through quite a few things with Narcissa: her first divorce, being there for her when boyfriends came and went, her 2 1/2 year old reacting to the divorce, her shot at being a lesbian (and watched her break her lover's heart when she met what we both call the man she married less than 2 years later, "The Leech"). You get the picture. We'd been extremely supportive of her for many years.
So, when I asked her to come out to Itty Bitty town to help me, just for a day or so (we had no insurance, military service, or unfound Rembrandts in the attic, and the people who's job it is at these institutions is to turn you upside down and shake until any pocket change falls out, and they were terrifying me already), I didn't expect her to say "No."
"No?" I was flabbergasted.
"No," she repeated. "I have too many things going on here to waste my time coming to be with you (WTTE)."
Her, I hate. I even wrote a book about my husband's Stroke and made her name "Narcissa" (those HP followers will know what I mean). She and I had been "best" friends for over 30 years, and now it turns out she couldn't be bothered to come help me, to hug me, to battle the money people with me, just to be here.
So, fuck you, Narcissa Feelman, and I hope it happens to you.
