I should start off by confessing that I committed a murder.
No, not Mamzer Guy. I assume he’s still alive, although there are so many pins stuck in my Mikey Voodoo Doll, he’s probably having trouble walking and talking. And peeing, hopefully.
Nope, it was the newest resident at Rede Court…the goddamned plant. I guess I shouldn’t have stashed it in the broom closet. Apparently it didn’t like the dark. And it expected to be served beverages in there. Hey, I’m not the maid.
Another friend from shul popped in today, with another pressie. Fortunately, it was decorative soaps for the loo. I get soap. And after all, I have a Power Shower and you don’t.
Thanks for all the emails and suggestions of really vindictive things to do to Mamzer Guy. I have that situation well in hand. It’s his birthday in a couple weeks. What better time to make him wish he’d never been born?
Yes, ‘You Done Stomped on My Heart and Mashed That Sucker Flat’ is a real song title. When I was surfing the Net, I jotted down some others until I made the final choice. I had a date with BPeter, and I read him the list when we came back to mine for coffee. He thought they were hilarious.
So, I’ll share a few:
*If the Phone Don’t Ring, It’s Me.
*You Made Toothpicks Out of the Timbers of My Heart.
*We Used to Kiss on the Lips, But Now It’s All Over.
*I’m So Miserable Without You, It’s Just Like Having You Here.
*Still Miss You, But My Aim is Getting Better.
*Get Your Tongue Outta My Mouth, ‘Cause I’m Kissing You Goodbye.
*You Stuck My Heart in an Old Tin Can and Then Shot It Off a Log.
*Don’t Believe My Heart Can Stand Another You.
*I’ve Been Flushed From the Bathroom of Your Heart.
And the one that sums up most relationships these days—
*I Shaved My Legs for This?
Fine songs all, I’m sure. The end of a fairy tale romance simply screams for a country song to make sense of those feelings of betrayal and anguish. Not to mention the low self esteem it engenders. So I thought I should write one. Don’t worry; I won’t be singing it. I thought maybe Martina McBride or Wynonna Judd.
I’m shitkicking around (got to get into a ‘country’ state of mind) ‘I Knew You Were a Varmint, But I Didn’t Know You Had Distemper. Thank Jesus! At Least It Weren’t Chlamydia.’ Too long, you think?
Another catchy one is ‘Does Your Partner, Karen Tait, Know That You Tell All the Women at the Roadhouse That She Ain’t Given You Any No More?’ Yeah, I thought that one had a definite ‘je ne sais quoi’ too.
But moving along to happier topics, we won the Quiz this week! Our name was ‘Less a Bitch’ which has subliminal messages and deep, poignant philosophical undertones. (Nobody could actually think of anything.)
I should fib and say we were In The Zone. We weren’t. We were crap as usual. But fortunately all the really good teams were even crappier. And we stumbled, or guessed, a lot of answers right. We won decisively, by 5 points.
Next week it is Red Nose Day in Jolly England. I’m a bit confused about what this means given that most people in England always have a red nose. Either from spending hours in a pub every single day, or blowing it a lot.
Anyway, Pinkie had a brill idea. No, not about getting back at Varmint Guy. I mean Mamzer Guy. Wow. I kinda like both; I can’t decide. And Sister did have some diabolical suggestions on that subject.
Nope, she suggested to the Quiz Nazi that for Red Nose Day, we put all the quizzers’ names in a hat and draw teams. So we’re all playing with people we’re usually bitching about and calling names. And then the pot will be yanked away from the proud winners and donated to Comic Relief. This event may require a blog of its own.
Since I start and then stop writing the blog as other commitments interfere, this part is not as lighthearted and humorous as usual. But, tragically, it is true.
Stuart rang at 4:00 in the morning, his time, to tell me that my step-daughter Aileen had died.
He was sobbing so hard I could barely make sense of what he was saying. I’m not going to talk about the details; some things have to remain private – for the living. Suffice it to say that since her husband, Francis, died tragically last year in a boating accident, she’s been on a downward spiral.
I can relate to losing a beloved husband. I can’t relate to how she chose to deal with it.
As I’m not a hypocrite, I won’t say that ‘we were so close’ or ‘I loved her so much’. But I am devastated and my sadness is for Jay, Ira, Stuart, Marina, and even Dori, whom I really dislike. And her mother, Anne. It is a terrible thing to bury your child. This I know. And Heather and Chris, the children she left.
Ha-makom yinakhem et-khem betokh she-ar avelei tzion veyerushalayim. May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
This, of course, precipitated a slew of phone calls back and forth. Should I go home for the funeral? Jews, of course, bury the next day, but there had to be an autopsy. The funeral couldn’t be on a Saturday. Would they sit Shiva, since Aileen wasn’t observant? On and on.
I ended up deciding not to fly home, for a variety of reasons, including finances. And yes, I feel incredibly guilty. And yes, Jerry has been uppermost in my thoughts these last few days. And Matthew.
I will say Kaddish, the Mourners’ Prayer and just deal with the whole thing the best I can.
And then I’ll carry on with the life I’m trying to live for myself.