Archive for the ‘fun? what is that?’ Category

April sours bring May flowers?

May 1, 2010

April 2010 was perhaps the roughest month of my life. Ever…people! Ow! Can I get a winning lottery ticket now? Or a hug from a hunky guy wearing a Speedo. It mostly had to do with  cancer, of course. I went through 12 days of radiation which nearly burnt the lower half of my face  off. Good news….it did shrink the tumor in my chin and neck. Doesn’t mean I’m cured however, since  I will be  starting “Cancer: The Musical Part 2” with some heavy duty chemotherapy in two weeks. And it could well mean Bald witty. Can I make that look hot? Maybe. I’ve already lost almost 20 pounds this month.  I mean I’m already almost on the verge of being hot as it is.

Did I miss any school? Hell no. I’m a tough Irish chick, although  many of my co-students were shooting these semi-frightened side-ways glances at the weird chick with the bright red chin and wondering “What’s up with that?” You know how 18 years old are though.

I did try to punctuate all the doom and gloom with some occasional fun, so besides painting and drawing for school, I also participated in the  uber cool bi-yearly Goth-Dead People-Big Boobed Women’s art show. Had two paintings and a photo of me in my much more photogenic days….

I’m ready for my close up, Mr. De Melbrooks.

It was a fairly fun night, if you count the transsexual (Marny) who ran around the bar yelling and screaming and eventually ending up in the alley, face-down in her own puke. Thank goodness my friend, Sci-Fi Guy  noticed this rather Lindsey Lohanesque incident and made sure he flipped her over so she wasn’t inhaling crusty bits from her incredibly liquored up stomach.

And you think I’ve got it bad!! I actually made that  into my mantra recently.  Like I’ll see a dead possum on the middle of the road and say “See witty, it could be worse. You could be a squished possum!”  

As mentioned, I did attend school the whole month. Fortunately things are going better in that arena. My artwork isn’t necessarily the first one people look at during our class critiques anymore . But it is, indeed difficult to maintain a high level of awesomeness when you’re taking morphine to blunt the worst  pain in your life.

Squished possom. Squished possom. Squished possom.

 But like wow, have I everbeen  able to draw clouds on morphine. I felt like all I really needed was to cue up some Grace Slick music, stand on a hilltop in a halter dress with the wind blowing blowing through my hair as I watched the dancing pink rabbits do the watusi around me.

My mom has been freaking out every time I drive though. There was only one day I was driving home from her house  when suddenly I didn’t know where the hell I was. And I NEVER get lost. I’m like a human GPS instrument. As a kid, my mother would even look down at me at nearly every corner and say, “Which way?” Naturally, since I was only 5 years old, I didn’t know my left from my right, so I’d just poke my arm up and point in the apparently correct direction, since we always got home.

But yeah, that one particular day I looked through my front windshield and pretty much saw an Impressionistic version of reality and couldn’t quite place where the hell I was. It was a little unnerving. I actually think perhaps it was more the pain than the drugs.

Lets see, what else? Oh, there was “The incident” where Tall Skinny Guy totally trashed my writing ability. Can you imagine? Me? My writing ability? What? Really?

My art group is having a conference next month and I was going to write a press release for the event,you know,  since Tall Skinny Guy writes like a squirrel on Metamucil. Naturally there was a slight delay from me,  since I was dealing with a lot of junk and needed a few days to finish up my radiation treatments and do mountains of homework. He knew this. I told him both in e-mails and in person.  So what does he do a mere hour after I specifically told him this? He sends out a frantic e-mail to our board members telling them he needs someone to write a press release ASAP. Help, help!  This really ticked me off, but since I know he’s kind of a dweeb, I let it slide.

So the very next day, as promised, I finally sat down and wrote the damn press release. I used quotes from our artists. I indicated that our two day event was tied together, so yes, sign up for both classes, not just one. I did everything correct. And then I sent it to him. No response.

Then two days later I see him at the Goth art show. For some reason he has this incredibly heavy duty crush on me. I’ve never encouraged it any way, that’s for damn sure. So he plops down on the couch next to me and starts jabbering about something. A rock band was playing so I couldn’t really hear him that well. I then hear, “By the way…the press release you wrote? It would  really only appeal to little old blue haired ladies”.

WTF???  WHAT-T_T-T? I can write circles around you. I’m like Elvis the King to your cook at Denney’s. WTF??? He then added a few more offensive things like wondering aloud if it was okay to submit my homework  as my artwork for the show.   I finally just got up off the couch to go talk to “L” the Hippy chick. I didn’t tell her what he said since she’d probably go kick him in the balls.  He then later found me again  and told me he was leaving and could he walk me to my car.

In your dreams, buddy.

 So I steamed around for a couple of days and then I did the worst possible thing. I suddenly believed him. Yeah, like  maybe he’s right. Maybe it did  totally suck. And it was just about the same time I had to write an artist statement about my upcoming solo art show in May. I had the worst problem writing it. I had written another one for my last show and was trying to find it in my new computer (yes, the sale of two  paintings in April happily afforded me the ability to finally buy my own new computer. Yay! Thanks art buyer, you know who you are. 🙂

He finally wrote me a note two days later saying he was a jerk, but somehow managed to sling off yet another insult (he said my press release read like a stale newspaper article). And he then had the audacity to ask  me to write something up on our website for an event we had just had. No.fucking.way. I ignored his e-mail.

So tonight I attended a friend’s art show here in the Village. My decision to walk down there and back was possibly one of my worst ever. I now have a really bad cough right now and coughed so severely going up the hill, I almost threw up.

Anyways, Tall Skinny Guy comes  in all smiles, like there’s witty, my goddess. Oh how stunning  she looks in that red thrift store sun dress (and I did dammit!). Naturally he cornered me and started talking like crazy, something he’s usually incapable of. I guess he just started seeing a shrink (probably regarding penis envy. Just a guess though.) Unfortunately that is my favorite subject. Shrinks. I’m like the ultimate expert on shrinks, since at one point I was seeing  two of them simultaneously….you know since how in the hell could only one person  handle the 3000 feet deep swirling caldron of wittykitty angst.

So yes, I gave him a few pointers on how to handle shrinks. Like never say “You’re right. I should put an ad in”.  Stuff like that. It wasn’t until he uttered the word “sex” in some context, that I kinda recoiled in sudden horror  and walked out on the porch of the gallery to knock back a few glasses of Diet Coke with some old dude who told me that the Belgium beer tasted like codeine.

… But like Eeew! Sex. Tall Skinny Guy…. sex? does not compute, does not computer, does not compute. Eep!

Lets just say, it was just slightly more creepy than when Guardcat excitedly hauled ass over to my desk tonight with a live mouse in her mouth….the one she  dropped abruptly at my feet and it ran under the couch that I sleep on.

Bad kitty …Eep!


fifty two chances to be awesome

February 21, 2010

365.4/21 AlohaThursday

I turned fifty two last week. Its such a dull number. I mean there’s no movies named after it like -“Ten” or musicals  like “Nine” or even TV shows like ’24’.  And its not even like 50, which was one big fucking deal. I had three birthday parties that year and I’m not even popular.

Nope, it was just boring little 52. Yawn. What? You want us to notice you? You better at least lift your shirt or something.  Okay, I was pretty damn popular on Facebook. I think I had close to 40 birthday greetings. They didn’t know about the boring number part though. I just pretended it was something fabulous like 46, which is what my neighbor guessed I was. Of course I do live at the Crazy Hilton and she might have just needed a medication adjustment. I also had some nice gifties from my awesome diaryland buddies (yes, diaryland still exists…I think)…the sexy cast of “Nine” all rolled into one… Ms. HissandTell, my secret penpal AnnaNotBob, the hilarious Poolagirl, who shares my birthday and the lovely Bluey from Canada.

Life has been crazy if not stressful lately though. The birthday thing included my yearly birthday party at my aunt’s house. She makes pretty little cakes and my mom sits and talks about herself endlessly.  Hey! Sorta like the last 52 years. She forgets that I’m the guest of honor. I usually eventually wander into my aunt’s living room and play Broadway musicals on the piano, you know, briefly living out that fantasy I had of being in show business many years ago. My first few jobs were actually  in the theatre field…playing the piano for musical productions. The last one was playing the piano in a whorehouse…for a show of course (heh!)  and getting fired. Can you imagine? Me getting fired from a whorehouse! It was a travesty!

But I got my revenge, dearies! I became a theatre critic for newspapers. Ha ha ha! Off with their heads. Slash, slash, slash! If there was one thing I learned from my mother was how to criticize people!  🙂

After cake and some Broadway musicals, it was off to see “A”. I haven’t seen him as my therapist for a really long time. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, you see. Cancer. School. Mothers. Did I mention Cancer? Oh, and 300 days in a row of snow and gray skies which tend to cause depression. We had a good session though. I didn’t make “A” guess my age or anything. He wasn’t overtly medicated like the lady at my apartment complex. And I didn’t want him guessing 57 or something.

Anyways, last Friday was my actual birthday. It was pretty low-key. I had freaked out “A” when I told him I had a massage scheduled the next day. He immediately thought I had hired Married Guy. Would I do that? Well, almost. I’m not perfect, ya know. I’m wittykitty. I had written Married Guy a lengthy emotional e-mail the weekend before and nearly hit “send”. What can I say? When I was sitting here feeling lonely, thinking about how good his hands used to feel on my ass, I guess you can say, I experienced a 45 minute lapse of nearly regrettable behavior.

Fortunately there were no blizzards the next day (sending love and kisses  down to Washington DC for taking all our BIG blizzards this year. Thanks, guys!!!), so I drove over to my cute little Eye-talian masseuse. This was our second session. He talked a little more this time and he’s definitely from Jersey. It was so nice getting a no strings attached massage from an Eye-talian.

 The rest of my birthday was pretty uneventful. Didn’t I just mention how boring 52 is? Are you listening?

School has been limping along. Evidently I have something called Chemotherapy-Brain, which is making it difficult for me to remember much of anything, which is like totally perfect for going back to school. Yay!  I’ve yet to do any of my homework correctly yet. Every week I either forget some sketchpad with my homework in it or I can’t comprehend what I’m reading  in one of my textbooks or I paint something completely wrong.

Our first assignment was to paint a “virus”. I might have mentioned this. Anyways, the day we were supposed to pin them all up on the wall to critique them I almost fainted. Everyone’s work was in black, white and gray. Mine? Mine looked like some freaking multi-colored Mardi Gras cat vomit. After the first week’s comment from the teacher about how my work was not something  anyone wanted to copy,  I really didn’t want to put it up. I mean really. But there it was…looking like Liberace in the middle of a bunch of nuns. Eeep!

Homework #2

The teacher just looked at it and said, “You’ll have to do it over, but don’t destroy it.”  Which I think in Teacher Talk, at least this Teacher, might have possibly been a vague compliment. And like duh! Like I would destroy any of my artwork. I like my Mardi Gras cat vomit virus. Wouldn’t you want that on a birthday card? Maybe by my 53rd birthday, it will be.


November 5, 2009

I am so profoundly proud of the people who come searching for my blog. People across the planet sit down at their computers, possibly unzipping their pants for a moment and then typing such things as today’s oddities:

Search Views
go to hell hats 1
gangsta whores 1
boob squisher 1
british guy standing in the park 1
crackhead monopoly game 1
crackwhore phone numbers 1

What???? I guess its always inevidible that I will have the word “Crackhead whore” in my internet Googles, you know, since my life is so obviously awash in debauchery and British men. (Where??) Although sorry to disappoint. About the only action I get is when Guardcat jumps up on my chest, blocks the TV screen  with her big furry ass and  then tries to give me slobbery cat kisses.

The drama of my last blog entry has calmed down somewhat. I did have a somewhat fun visit to the local hospital. It was a planned visit. I was to get what they call fidicial markers clamped to the cancer thingie in my lung so they can eventually direct the radiation treatment to the exact location it needs to go and not wipe out any healthy parts. Right doctors???

Since the hospital call was so early,  I decided not to bother anyone and make actual use of a Medicaid cab for the 7 a.m. appointment. The hospital is a mere 20 minutes away but for some reason the cab company wanted to pick me up at 6:15 a.m. Ok. Whatever. Better to err on the early side, I guess. So I set my clock for 5:45. Basically all I had to do was get up, put my clothes on, feed Guardcat and walk out to the front for the cab.

5:44 a.m.: Riiiiinnnnnggggggg!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! “Hi, it Dependable Cab Company. We’re here to pick up a wittykitty for the hospital….”

Me (Still in bed): What???????????????????

Dependable Cab Company: “We’re out in the parking lot….Waiting. ”

Me: “But you’re a half hour early. I just woke up. ”

Dependable Cab Company: “Sorry M’aam. We’ll wait.”

Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!! (me jumping out of bed, running around insanely, probably dropkicking Guardcat over the coffee table.  And worst of all, I was unable to find the keys to my apartment. I mean I NEVER lose my keys. Ever! I finally had to make the somewhat nerve-wracking decision to leave my apartment unlocked since I live in a pretty safe area and what the heck, I’d be home in about 5 hours!! Right?*)

*Ha ha ha. Oh wittykitty. You so silly.

So I got to the damn hospital at 6:15, 45 minutes early, or as it turned out….an hour and 45 minutes early. I know I wrote it down correctly, but the nurse said I wasn’t due til 8 a.m. So I just laid in a hospital bed and listened to some really loud obnoxious women talking to their apparently deaf mother in the next bed.  

They finally put an IV in my hand and then lots of nurses came in and out talking to me about what was going to happen. And then some lady from the American Cancer Society came in. As we were talking she seemed OK, but then she got this really weird look on her face. It was kinda like this…

Apparently, I had laid against my IV and dislodged it and my entire hand was dripping in blood and there was blood all down the front of my hospital nightie and all over the sheets. In other words, it was like the scary part of horror movie, “Saw Part 12”. Yay me!

They did clean me up before the procedure. This one actually hurt a lot more than my cancer biopsy a month ago. Lets see…maybe because I knocked the IV out, and wasn’t quite medicated enough? Ya think?

They kept me on a stretcher in the hospital room, I guess for good reason. Why? Because apparently Mr. Doctor Guy punctured my lung causing it to partially collapse during the procedure and then I had to keep going back downstairs to get x-rays.

When I was telling my artist friend Professional Artist Guy this story he came up with the best and most calming explanation I could ever hope to hear. He said, “You’re getting all the bad stuff out of the way first, so you can have all the good stuff happen later.” I could have just hugged him for that, because when you’re in the middle of all these seemingly insurmountable things and you’re just barely handling things, its nice to hear that good things are on the way.

So I unexpectedly ended up spending the night in the hospital that night, since I didn’t have anyone at home to keep an eye on me and my partially collapsed lung. And so it was just me and some Filippino nurse who came in and did a lengthy rave about how prejudice white people are about Filipinos. Oh, if she only knew how I felt about them myself.

Anyways, the next morning I went down for yet another x-ray and my lung was still partially collapsed but they decided to release me since it hadn’t changed (gotten worse). Naturally my Medicaid cab had canceled itself the day before. I called my mom from the nurses’ station but she was in terrible pain and couldn’t come. My aunt was having a luncheon. shit! Who could I call? And then I thought about Charlemagne. He had thoughtfully left me with an open offer for medical rides (he likes flowers too-ha ha, inside joke), so I called him and since he lives near the hospital, he was there within a half hour or so.

Almost as soon as I got into his car he asked if I liked Run DMC. I really don’t know their music other than it being rap. So I said, great! And since it was such a nice Autumn day we rode through the university area blasting RUN DMC being total bad asses. I really needed some fun and that quite possibly is Charlemagne’s middle name.

Since then, its been a mad whirl of either doctor appointments or art shows. The Saturday after the lung puncture thing I went to my favorite Goth/Big Boobed Women/Monsters/Alien Art show. I was pretty worried because the dive bar where the show was, allowed smoking that night. And I knew it and my friend Sci Fi Guy felt bad about it, but its a tradition, and I knew my risks. The first hour wasn’t bad. I’d step outside to get a breath of fresh air when needed, but by the second hour I felt pretty queasy, so I finally left. But my artwork for the show did garner some funny comments. It was called: “My mother was a Serial Killer Super Model”.

 See what happens when you stop going to therapy.

And then I had another art show at the premiere art gallery in town. I had submitted a piece to this local organization back in July and they had accepted it to be published in this book called “Unique”. And then they had an opening. It was the same night I was supposed to co-host with Charlemagne, so I had to miss my hosting duties. And I felt pretty tired. Too tired perhaps to do much Schmoozing.

And then my art class had our annual Halloween party last week, during which weirdness ensued of course, since artists are known for weirdness. I mean we eat weirdness with bologna on rye.  Sci Fi Guy and Johnson brought in a bunch of weird creepy props in for maximum weirdness, so people were scooping chipote dip out of skulls, chatting with skeletons and then there was the weird chick looking for a new photo to put on…

Someone rudely speculated that it looked like I had a penis. Oh dear! Definitely not. I WANT one. But not attached to me. Oy! Guess I was just really showing off my weight loss. That’s one phrase I haven’t gotten sick of hearing, “Wow, you’ve really been losing weight.”

I’ve finally just stopped using my not-so-funny “Yeah, its the lung-cancer diet” Ha ha ha ha ha. For some reason that joke has just been totally tanking. Oh well. Some people just don’t have a sense of humor.

poetry at a thruway rest-stop

October 17, 2009

The last five days, minus my night at an art show hosted by Charlemange, have been some of the most stressful, not to sound like a drama queen, but like ever. I’m sure its the cancer speaking. The events aren’t THAT bad…except maybe my trip to the Buffalo Cancer Center Tuesday, but fucking hell, why am I being tested so much? You know I can’t handle things. I mean, I’m the person who yells in my car if I see a person talking on a cell phone at a stop sign.

“Fucking idiot! Drive, why don’t cha!!”

So let’s start at the beginning, shall we. My car. My dear delightful rust bucket of a car bought on 6/6/06. Its been a pretty decent car, other than costing over a $1000 in repairs last year. But in the last month its been having trouble starting. How many times have I had one of my many, many doctor appointments, gotten in the car and it wouldn’t start. A lot! And then last Wednesday after my art class I sat in a church parking lot (it probably didn’t like my 6/6/06 car sitting in its holy parking lot) and it wouldn’t start for over 10 minutes and then sputter-sputter…cough.

In the meantime I had been talking to my neighbor Freaky Eyebrows about her car. She’s 57 and owned a ’96 Toyota Camry and never drove it because of driving anxiety.  So she decided to sell it. I decided to buy it after a test drive out to my cousin’s house who pronounced it in excellent condition. So yay! What I didn’t see coming was how incredibly wanky Freaky Eyebrows was going to be about absolutely everything.

OH MY GOD.  Is murder legal in New York? Quick…could someone Google that for me? She nearly drove me insane in the ensuing couple of days. Calls filled with rapid nervous talking about the car and the money filled my answering machine.  Especially the money part. The most important thing!!! As in  ” YES!!! YES!!! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ” (that’s her having an orgasm over receiving a somewhat large sum of money…only large because we’re poor. I had to borrow money to buy this of course).

Naturally I had to fuck things up by not getting the money to her on the correct day. Thursday, witty…not Friday!! You would have thought I had kidnapped one of her cats and taken porno shots of it or something. She called and whimpered and moaned and complained and reprimanded me last Thursday, as in bad witty bad.  It suddenly seemed like a really bad idea…buying a car from the woman who lived right across from me.

Anyways, I guess she was so desperate to get her mitts on the money however, she abruptly decided to take the day off from her 4 hour work day at the yuppie grocery store sweeping the floor, to do the transaction with me. Unfortunately on Friday, I had one of my myriad of doctor appointments. A brain scan.

Great news! I have one! Although it really hasn’t been working much this last week. Bygones.

So I had to go to that appointment at 12:30. Naturally Freaky called me just seconds before I was leaving. Frankly, I don’t remember what she said. Probably something about the fucking plastic screws in the license plate. She talked about those a lot between Thursday and Friday.

So I went and got my brain scan. And then made several money stops. And then  away we went. During my doctor appointment, she had found out that the DMV in the north side of town was closed and that we’d have to go to one on the west side. Naturally my insurance company was on the north side. This was just the beginning of the psychotic OCD  Freaky Eyebrows that nearly drove me to murder- part of the day.

I attempted to get on the freeway for the first time in about 4 years that afternoon. I have anxiety about driving on the highway, but I figured with the purchase of a  “new” car that wasn’t ready to drop a muffler, I’d be ok. But no…Freaky Eyebrows never  stopped talking and was doing all these nervous twitchy things like looking at her watch every 34 seconds , which made me so uptight I missed the on ramp.

I’ll just edit the rest of what happened, since it was mostly about me wanting to hit her in the fucking head with a tire iron because she talked so much, but by 5 p.m. Friday, her 1996 Toyota Camry was now mine. Booya!

Monday was going to be the day I sold my old car. I always loved my old Subaru. It was rusty. It sometimes didn’t start. It  recently flunked all 5 of its inspections, but I still loved it. But I also had to sell it quickly because I have an asshole landlord who had told Freaky Eyebrows (because she called and told me how many times over the weekend??) that he was going to have it towed since it now didn’t have any license plates on it.  

My aunt had suggested junk car dealers, who usually start at about $250. Guess what? That’s a lie. I had started calling people the Friday before but nobody was calling back. One guy I called back, had even blocked my phone number. WTF! Its not like we went on a date. So by dark and after 3 calls from Freaky “reminding” me that the landlord was probably going to tow  the car like momentarily, I was stressed out to the max. Why? Because the next morning I was leaving for Roswell Cancer Center in Buffalo.

I finally called my mom at about 5:30, crying. We did briefly conspire to tow it over to my uncle’s to “hide” it, but AAA wouldn’t tow anything without plates. I finally just said “FORGET IT. FORGET EVERYTHING!” and cooked a microwave dinner. Just then the phone rang. It was the guy who had bought my last car, who works at my mom’s apartment complex. By then it was dark out. Him and his wife were out in my parking lot. So I ran outside.

Blah, blah, blah. My mother had told him not to cheat me out of my $300 asking price. His wife handed me $150. I took it. The end.

Don’t you wish you were me?

Anyhoo, the next morning I went over to my Art Friend “J”s house at 8:45. He had agreed to take me to Buffalo since, as mentioned I’m afraid to drive on highways. The trip was fine until we heard a very quiet…ding…ding…ding. “J” got off at a rest stop and checked under the hood. Everything looked fine. We got back on. ding…ding…ding. WHOOOOOSHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  A sudden huge cloud of smoke blew up from behind the car and then some billowing smoke  started to curl up from under the hood.


“J’s water pump was a goner about 25 miles outside of Buffalo and we were still about 40 minutes from the Cancer Center. “J” was incredibly level headed about the whole thing, but not me. I was having a meltdown inside. Neither of us had a cell phone, so he walked over to the side of the thruway where everyone was going about 85 mph and amazingly flagged down some trucker within about 5 minutes. We used the trucker’s cell phone. I called the hospital and he called a tow truck and I did something I probably wouldn’t have done five years ago. I accepted a ride from a total stranger.

Thank god he wasn’t like Jeffrey Dahmer’s brother or something.

So I got to the Cancer Center about an hour late. It didn’t really seem to matter. They just dovetailed me in.

The next part I’m a little embarrassed about. This world famous cancer doctor came in to talk to me about their chemo program and I was really rude to him. I didn’t know that that was  the reason I was there. A commercial for a chemo program. Why couldn’t they just have told me about it over the phone, god damn it. Don’t you know what I’ve just been through??? He smiled kindly and shook my hand and thanked me for coming to Roswell. And then two other chemo sales types came in and I was rude to them too, so much so that they called a social worker, because apparently I was having some kind of meltdown.


So I did talk to him for quite a while. I guess I felt guilty about my friend’s car breaking down, because by then “J” had called from the garage and they were going to keep his car over night and he would have rent a car to drive us home and then back to Buffalo the next day and I felt like the worst, blood sucking friend in the universe. The doctor told me I must have a lot of power to create so much chaos.

Ha ha ha ha! Yes, I do. So don’t piss me off, Republican Party.

“J” finally picked me up just after the hospital closed at 5:30. Did I know what he was driving? Hell, no…We didn’t have any cell phones! Remember?

(Incidentally, I am joining the Cell Phone Nation. My uncle is putting me on his Family Plan after hearing about my nightmarish adventure. So I guess I can’t make fun of people with cell phones anymore. 😦

We finally got on the Thruway to come home. I hadn’t really eaten anything since a bowl of cereal at 7:30 that morning, so we pulled off at a rest stop so I could get a sandwich. I had previously bought “J” a gift for his efforts…a little something long before I knew it was going to be such a sucktacular day. Since we’re both writers and artists, I had found him a used book called “Love and Art” with artwork and love poems. I made sure he knew it was for him AND his wife. (ahem)

Anyways, I was sitting there utterly exhausted, eating a sandwich,  as he  gingerly unwrapped the book. His face really lit up when he saw the cover. As he leafed through it, suddenly stopped, looked up at me and started reading me poems across the table. I felt so utterly touched, I almost started crying. I’ve never had anyone read me poetry aloud before. It felt so personal.

Thank you “J”. That made a really horrible day, just a tiny bit better.

Guardcat writes another note for witty’s ambivilent blog behavior

September 13, 2009

Dear Ms. Blogenstein:

Guardcat here again. I turned my back on her for one minute and then witty skips out on her blog for yet another 26 days, cheating on you with I believe,  facebook since, well, you know, she has a very short attention span these days and prefers writing only one sentence updates instead of lengthy whine-fests, since funny can only go so far when your life  makes the movie “Titanic” look like a Seth Rogan Sex Romp (witty made me put that in there. I didn’t think it was particularly funny, but what do I know, I  sleep 23 hours a day and chase imaginary pieces of lint). So the minute I decided to take a nap, witty was off doing stuff like trying to get an inspection sticker for her rusty old pile of crap car which she bought on 6/6/06, (no mistake on what that means I tell ya), because she brought it out to this garage by a lake to this mechanic who looks like a bad-ass Billy Joel with tattoos all over his body and what do you think happened? Well, we are talking about witty and her crap car….the car failed the inspection of course, but the guy said, well, if you go drive it 50 miles maybe the emissions (garbled word) will reset itself and then I can give you the sticker, so witty got in her car and started driving around this lake, like  la la la, I’m on vacation in my piece of crap car, la la la, and then she even stopped at this old antique store with scary clown dolls and NASCAR tee-shirts and really wanted to do one of her weird self portraits amidst the antiques, looking all wacky like she does in her photos until she realized there were video cameras everywhere and all the old people up by the front door were watching her on their panel of TV cams, snickering saying things like, “Ewww, she’s weird, she must be an artist or something”, probably because witty was also crawling around on the floor looking for frames because she’s like totally obsessed with buying every single frame in New York state, you know, in case she paints a painting that size and can buy it for $1.50 in some crazy antique store with Stephen King clown dolls, but unfortunately now she has so many frames in OUR apartment, its starting to look like that TV show, “Messiest Home in America” where that gay guy and his crew makes you throw out everything including that piece of material you sucked on when you were three and then they  re-design your whole house in two days while you stay at a really nice hotel and get a massage, I mean, I really think she has an ulterior motive with this escalating frame problem, but now I actually forgot what I was talking about, oh yes, witty having to drive 50 miles to reset the emissions thingie, so she did do that and came back to the gas station where Mr. Bad Ass Billy Joel Jr. clamped his machine to witty’s little box (the most action she’ll probably evah see–heh heh) and guess what happened? Go ahead guess!  It flunked again and then again and then again and then again and then again…No, not all on the same day.. she had to drive the 20 mile round trip 5 more times trying to reset that goddamn emissions thing and nothing was happening so now her car inspection sticker has expired, so she’s trying to be invisible to the cops, which she’s really good at, since she actually thinks she’s invisible….no really….like she’ll think she’s hiding from me in the kitchen  when she should be feeding me and then I’ll bite her ankle. Heh heh.  Silly girl. Anyhoo, witty has had lots of other stuff going on, like the stalker chick showing up at her art class and wanting to hug her for no real reason other than re-enact a scene from “Fatal Attraction”  or some weird thing.  And then some guy worked on her computer and decided to switch her computer tower for another one and then pretend he didn’t, so she ended up going to the police but since the computer was a gift from her brother and she had no proof of what brand it was, not much happened, although she did feel somewhat vindicated when the cop totally tore the thieving asshole a new arse during his interrogation on the phone, since the computer he returned to witty was totally wiped clean of over 1200 photos, including those, well, you know pseudo-Playboy ones witty likes to do (Officially called Identity Theft in legaleeze). And then for the grand finale nee: witty summer ’09 wallapalooza  just when things were going especially groovy, fate decided to give witty yet another ride on the cancer merry-go-round it seems. Of course witty was momentarily horrified all excited when her hot oncologist called last week, that is until he actually started talking and she knew it wasn’t good since he usually  has his physician’s assistant call. Sure I was in sleeping on witty’s bed, but I think I heard something like: “The nodes in your lung have doubled in size since your last scan in May. I’m going to be sending you to a Thoracic Surgeon in the next few days. He’ll talk to you about what we’ll be doing” I let her rub my belly a few extra times that night, since she seemed pretty upset about everything. So witty went to meet yet another new doctor on the Tuesday after labor day and they got to watch the video scans on his computer, kinda like DEATH WII. He told witty about the node doubling in size and the two options that were available. If its minor they’ll do something called razor radiation. If its major it’ll be a full fledged surgery which would keep her in the hospital for 7-8 days and out of commission for 6-8 weeks. Yeeks! Who is gonna buy me cat food? So witty of course wrote to “A” and told him and he was very concerned and then on Wednesday, when she co-hosted with Charlemagne at her art class, he was very upset too, especially when she suggested that she put off the possible upcoming surgery because she has a bunch of art shows  in October including one in which one of her paintings just got published in a book and she really wanted to go to the opening, but Charlemagne was aghast and said he would not allow his friend to die because she wanted to go to a….now what did he say? I think it was something like “a fucking art show”, yeah, something like that. He also offered to drive witty to the hospital on Tuesday for the lung needle biopsy. She had hoped “A” could do it like last time, but he had another commitment, although strangely right after she hung up from “A”, Charlemagne called witty up  saying he was taking her to the hospital but they’d have to talk Sunday or Monday about times and directions. Naturally she was worried because he is perpetually late, so she said, “Are you sure?” and then he handed the phone to his girlfriend who is in charge of him and she said she’d make sure he’d be there, which is good because witty had sat for about 2 hours the night before looking at Married Guy’s photo in Facebook trying to get up the courage to write him a note asking for a ride to the hospital which of course would have been really stupid but what’s that saying? “Desperate times call for desperate measures“,  but then Charlemange called, probably because “A” got my subconscious ESP message that witty was considering calling Married Guy. So she is really scared and really tired, but she’s been trying to keep busy, in fact tomorrow she is going to her favorite artsy/hippie festival to cavort with like souls and then on Monday, she’ll be joining some of her art friends at the local university to draw in their art gallery….an event she was originally going to miss because, well, she was going to go back to school, but that is all off, unfortunately. With all these unknown factors, medical procedures, and possible major surgeries all falling in the first three weeks of school and possibly affecting a large postion of the semester, witty figured she better just drop out of school and NOT lose  the government funding she worked so hard to procure. That however, made her very, very, very sad. It was the first thing she had really looked forward to in many years. In fact she’s been like a five year old looking forward to the first day of kindergarten for like the last two weeks. I may have to let her scratch my belly again.

Sincerely, Guardcat.

a note for my teacher

July 22, 2009

Dear Mrs. Blogenstein:

Please excuse wittykitty from her blog for the last 25 days. She’s been a little under the weather and yet suddenly overwhelmed by popularity, but also depressed, and yet hanging solo art shows, registering for school, acting like a poser while standing in the line at the yuppie grocery store (ha, ha, I just added that one), not to mention exhibiting an extreme addiction to home makeover shows since she got cable in June, bumping into people she’d rather not see,  exhibiting extreme road rage thereafter, eating far too much chocolate, still nursing a sore knee, taking naked photos of herself and then deleting them from her digital camera, running into her shrink and making an appointment with him after almost a year (all I have to say about that witty is OY!), spending way to much time Twittering and Facebooking, staring at her male neighbor across the complex who walks around naked in his apartment, celebrating the fact that Garden Hacker is gone, being so manic that she painted three paintings in one week, talking to strangers, joining a women’s writing group, going to nearby nearly abandoned carnival and riding on a ride called Laffland which she accidentally thought was a new diagnosis for her mental condition, drinking vast quantities of caffeine, not sleeping, plotting the murder of her next door neighbor who leaves her loud bathroom fan on for hours and hours and hours including 3 a.m. in the morning which makes witty so angry she wants to take an exacto knife and carve “redrum” into her  planter, listening to my mom’s endless stories about her new kitten who she named after witty’s deceased cat which makes her really sad, like why did she have to name it that, and who cares if her cat jumps up on top of the refrigerator 12 times a day, there are worst things happening like all the government offices witty had to go to this last week whilst dealing with the 1,020th sinusitis infection in the last six months, like wtf, no wonder she’s all grumpy and depressed all the time, sniffling AND seeing former people she was in love with and logically knowing it would be stupid to go to their house, and yet having that stupid tweaking emotional gland near the chocolate intake gland which is obviously malfunctioning saying hey, remember all the fun you had “being part of the family” and all the good massages he gave you, but then all my real life people are saying, you idiot, you’re such a fucking idiot, and I’m like back off, I just had to  buy my 300th package of M&Ms as a way to console myself, but of course I also had to go to my cousin’s wedding this weekend, which is exactly the place witty would want to go, given her state…a wedding…like whee, two people in love, two loving parents there to see their beautiful blonde daughter joined in happy matrimony and she absolutely didn’t hold anything against them, but having to sit there for four hours looking at all these happy people in the name of love just seemed to hold a giant magnifying glass up to witty’s miserably solitary life even though, my god, people have been absolutely flocking to her, but she just doesn’t see that, you know, or understand why people are trying to be her new friends and offering her help and the head of a local arts organization actually coming to her little eentsy apartment and looking at all her artwork and acting all bubbly and excited like she had just found a lost Michelangelo or in witty’s case maybe an Andy Warhol and then coming a week later and taking them to a fancy beauty salon to hang, although naturally witty forgot one, since her brain has gone on strike indefinitely its seems (which is exactly why she’s going back to school! Yay!), so then the poor lady had to come back to her eentsy apartment and pick up the missing painting and discovered another painting of Johnny Depp which totally demanded to be hung in a beauty shop full of women and gay men, so off he went, and yet the demure and extremely insecure witty is still nervously waiting for the opening but what does she expect, this woman is important and witty is just someone who dabbles and has little self esteem and thinks going to college will really help her and she even had to lie to the government agency helping her, because they kept asking and asking, like what could YOU ever do with an art degree you silly 51 year old woman with cancer and low self esteem and a funny looking chin and she then blurted out, almost like a brave person, “Well, since I’ve been mentally ill since 19 and I can suuuuure paint perty pictures, i wanna be an art therapist!! Ha! Ha! You know instead of working at McDonalds like you suggested last year, since I can’t stand the smell of rancid meat, but I do love me some snorting of pastel dust.” but the woman just looked at me like she always does, like I’m a statue of a transvestite hamster with a disco ball, you know, since she doesn’t realize that almost every single thing you look at in the universe was probably created by an artist including a stop sign. So Shut the hell up. Right?

Despite everything, including witty’s rather low mental health state at the moment, you really can’t keep her down. She did all her paperwork for college. Got all her damn shots including mumps, fercrissakes. She’s going back to her shrink for the first time in almost exactly a year. Will it be good? I’m not sure. I just think she needs someone who knows her, to say its ok.

Sincerely, Guardcat

(s)he’s just not that into you

March 4, 2009

I’ve now been 51 years old for a little over 3 weeks and its been…


better than sex with Johnny Depp

…so fucking boring that I haven’t had neither the strength nor inclination to write a blog entry about it, so shut the fuck up….

Oh sure, I have left Casa de wittykittyon a few occasions, like taking my mom to the ER on Sunday night thus missing “Celebrity Apprentice”, a show I was going to review for my first column at the newspaper. But our E.R. has this little problem, ya see. You go in at 6:30 p.m. and you tend to not leave until 3 a.m., you know, since the  staff is out in the hallway laughing and talking to each other and there wasn’t  exactly anything ER-worthy wrong with the patient.  So I missed the TV show, the time to write the brief 150 word newspaper article and the deadline. I figure they probably think I don’t want to write for them since I was MIA on the very first week of publication. Yay me!

The previous week had been far more exciting. I actually went on a date. You know, I always am required to go on at least 1 to 2 dates a year or  my Vagina License is revoked. And you know how hard it is to renew the damn thing. The long throbbing masses slamming against the single window at the DMV. Its hideous. I basically just have a photo ID, so I don’t have to act like I’m interested when the guy at the window asks me questions like “Where do you live” (wink, wink) and “Is this your correct address?” (wink, wink).

Dude, you’re bald and you’re wearing polyester. Back off!

Oh! My date! So like the day after my surgery I had gotten a note from a guy on I think we already went over this. He said he’d  wait until I healed up from my surgery. I thought that was pretty decent of him. We wrote back and forth about every 3-4 days. He called me on my birthday on February 12th. I think we talked about 35 minutes. He was going to be picking up his daughter at the airport in my city and said, “Oh, I should have taken you out to dinner for your birthday.”

Indeed! So many missed opportunities! Free meals are always heartily accepted by starving artists, but it was already like 6:45 and he lived about 45 minutes south of here. So he asked me out the following Friday, the 20th. I said fine. He said fine. I think we even possibly saluted the Beatles somehow, since that was something we had in common, because we were both really old and remember seeing the Beatles on something besides YouTube.

The Wednesday before my date I started feeling a little angsty about it.


Yeah, I know, its hard to believe. So when I went to my art class I was hoping to see “L” the Hippy Chick because she’s my only real female friend I can talk to. Unfortunately she wasn’t there and instead I made a really huge mistake. I talked to Zue….the biggest expert in the history of the universe on absolutely nothing everything, but especially on things. Why? Because before she found her current boyfriend she probably dated every dude in a 800 mile radius. For a while she was even attempting to toss me her leftovers (criminals, child molesters, banks robbers, Bernie Maddoff). I, of course, never took any of them.  I mean, I don’t want to ruin my 1-2 dates a year thing and I especially am not going to date Zue rejects.  That would be like eating what raccoons won’t eat out of  garbage cans.

So I told her about my impending date and she asked who he was and I stupidly said three words: his first name, the fact that he was Jewish and his city and she’s like “I dated him!” And I cringed inside. Ugh! Zue cooties! And then she did a true disservice to both me and him. She said some things that weren’t very becoming about him. They weren’t terrible, but just discouraging to someone who only dates minimally and always hopes for the best (I bet you didn’t know that about me, huh!!! Neener!!!).

The next day I just decided to make the best of it. It was sunny and nice all day and then blam, around 5 p.m.,  a really  severe snowstorm blew in. I was worried about “M” driving 45 miles, up through the hills because there were traveler’s advisory in effect. But he arrived exactly on time. 7 p.m. He got out of his car and walked up and kissed me on the cheek.

Really? That was sure a first for a date. Must have been because we were in the middle of a blinding snowstorm and he thought I was Angelina Jolie or something.   

Dinner was good. Conversation was better in person than on the phone. He was not exactly my usual “type”…..dark hair, dark eyes…but he was pleasant enough. I was very well behaved. No ribald jokes about sausages or anything.

But when we walked out of the restaurant it looked like the final scene in “The Shining”. The snow was horrific. I felt somewhat stricken. What do I do? I would feel bad if he drove over 80 mile round trip for a 45 minute date in a blizzard. He asked me about the art opening I had mentioned to him earlier. But I felt stressed….what if Zue was at the art opening. She had told me she was going to see her boyfriend in a nearby city….but….here we were in the middle of a massive blizzard. And I just knew she’d be there and I didn’t want to subject him to her or me to her or anyone to her without our rabies shots.

So here we are driving around in circles in a mall parking lot and I was like, “ummm, ummm. I….ummm….well….” Can we see why I don’t date much? I finally told him to turn right at the mall exit and we finally headed out towards the art gallery. It was a pretty treacherous ride and the route I took him was really dark and twisty. Fortunately he was a good driver. So we pulled into the place and we were running pretty late, as in the opening was actually officially over. 8:30 p.m. But there were still people there of course. And who is the first person I see? Zue.


I don’t know how I managed it, but I introduced “M” to about 7-8 of my art friends, looked at the art and somehow got him out of there without Zue ever seeing us. And it was a small place too. I was astounded. She had her back to the door and I just worked around her.

When we finally got back to my apartment, “M” ran around to get the car door for me. I figured he was just going to say goodnight or “Hey scarface, I didn’t feel any spark, so why don’t we just save a little computer time and end it here”, but instead, suddenly he had his arms around me and was kissing me and then his tongue was darting around in my mouth.

Who are you, The Bachelor?

 Of course I almost didn’t realize it since my chin and lip are still completely numb from my surgery and you could probably hit me with an anvil and I wouldn’t feel it, but mini-ick. Our date wasn’t going THAT well.  I guess he finally realized I wasn’t returning “T-T” (The Tongue) and walked back to his car. I did tell him to call me when he got home so I knew that he was safe in the storm, which he did.

Geeze, I’m such a nice date. Slurp. Slurp.

The next morning Zue called me to see if I was “okay”. Or something. (“Hey “M” its Zue, she wanted to see if I got laid!”) I told her I was fine.  What I wanted to tell her was to “Butt the hell out”, because her pre-date “warning” had put me on alert in such a way, that hadn’t really been fair to him or me.

He did write me a brief friendly note the Monday after our date. I was expecting the “I didn’t feel any spark” thing which I usually get on every single date, but it wasn’t there. Unfortunately I got spooked and never wrote back.


gangsta scarface chin girl

February 9, 2009

Needless to say I’m a little sensitive about the 2 large, prominent scars on my face and neck from my skin cancer surgery on January 19th.  Fortunately the pain is about 97% gone. My chin itself is still really numb though. I can’t feel anything from my bottom lip to the bottom of my chin. Its weird. I feel like I’m wrapped in duct tape and  Andy Roddick could probably hit tennis balls off my chin and I wouldn’t even feel them.

I did get my stitches out early last week. Under all the bandages, I was like totally convinced Dr. Mohammed would probably be snipping stitches for like 10 to 15 minutes, you know since I could barely open my mouth and have now lost 10 pounds (yay!). But all he did was go “snip…snip…snip“. DONE. Three fucking stitches. I was astounded because I still couldn’t open my mouth and I still felt like a rhinoceros was sitting on my face…but not in a fun way.  Yes, I realize there must be those kind of stitches that dissolve on their own, but still, I had been looking forward to some kind of instant physical relief. 

The doctor then handed me a mirror. I really wasn’t sure what to expect…A huge horror movie gash down my chin and a Zodiac Killer slash across my neck? Yeah, that was about right. Plus there was also this really odd little pea sized bump just under my chin. So I innocently asked and it really was a legitimate question: “Will this little bump ever go away?”

His reply? Well, I should probably go back and re-introduce the guy. I have never mentioned our conversation right before my surgery. Oh, it was a knee-slapper. He had come into my little cubical with his clipboard, all official and stuff. You, of course, always want the doctor to be on your side, especially if they’re about to 1) take cancer out of your body and 2) be cutting your moneymaker  stunningly adorable 50 year old face. So I rather charmingly recounted a conversation I had had with a woman who had gone to him for some plastic surgery and had been very happy with his work.  Without looking up, he said, “I pay people to say things like that” and then went back to writing. 

WTF? Now I realize you’re reading someone’s blog who’s like the biggest smart ass in the universe. But for some reason, whether it was the IV feeding me hyper sensitive feelings glucose or what, but at that particular moment, I felt very…distressed by his tart remark.

God damnit! I KNOW I’M SARCASTIC EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE….but you don’t say that to a patient who’s scared out of their gourd and doesn’t have anyone there to hold their hand.

So anyways, as I was looking at my “Friday the 13th- the Aftermath” face in the hand mirror, I simply asked him if he thought the little lump under my chin would go down in time….a legitimate question if you ask me. I wasn’t being critical. It wasn’t like I started screaming  and running around smashing bottles of Botox in his office or anything. So he slowly turns to me and says, “People pay me to have chins like that.”


Anyways, after my appointment, my friend “J” took me out for lunch at a local foo-foo yuppie pastry shop. I was fairly successful at slurping some French Onion soup sideways off a small spoon. But then  I started noticing was how everyone (a.k.a. “The Beautiful People” as my brother used to call the people who frequented this place) were all suddenly staring at me. I’m sure there was a lot of “Who is that hideously scarred girl slurping her soup sideways and why is  she making us look at her whilst we’re typing on our cute little pink iMacs and drink lattes”. Although I’m fairly certain that maybe a few of the older women were probably going, “Gee, I haven’t been to Dr. Mohammed for a while. Maybe I better call his secretary for an appointment”.

Nevertheless, I felt very conspicuous, especially when I was not even aware that droplets of soup were streaming down my numbed chin in rivulets and I looked like Patty Duke in “The Miracle Worker.  I later went with “J” over to Target and while he shopped for clothes, I inexplicably tried on teenaged boy fedoras. “J” said I looked like a Black Irish Gangsta. For some reason that made me feel a little better about my scars. Or at least menacing enough to make a yuppie drop their iPhone and have it smash into a million pieces in the home furnishing department.

Since then, I’ve had two people ask me if I slipped and fell on the ice. And I’ve had three people look at me rather sorrowfully and ask, “Will you be able to get plastic surgery to (cringe) fix that?”



Doubtful…..but thanks! 🙂

Of course after a two week hiatus from my art class, I was finally able to return to my class this week and I have no idea what Charlemagne announced to the class. Not that I wanted anything announced, but evidently something was said since some people I know looked at me like I had a terminal disease or something . Oy!

It was just good to have some social contact. I’ve been really isolated during this whole thing and isolation=depression for me. And also thinking I look hideous=depression too.  So I’ve been struggling mightily.

And did I mention I met a guy on Why not add stress to your life when you’re healing from cancer. I didn’t mean for that to come out that way. This last month really proved that I could really use a person in my life. My own person, I mean. Sure I managed to convince three friends to  help get me to appointments and surgeries up at the hospital, but the real proof of how alone I felt became quite apparent as I was lying in the O.R. cubical just before the surgery. I looked around at the other three people in the quad waiting for surgery and they all had people with them. Me?  I was just lying there alone with no one. It was really then that it hit home.

So we’ve been writing since right after the surgery. He knows about the surgery and the scars and says he’s willing to wait. He seems very bright and thoughtful. He does have a sense of humor (essential) and he’s Jewish, which is not essential, but I do like Jewish men. I did think a good first date would have been  to go see that new movie “He’s Just Not That  into You” this weekend. HA! Oh, witty, you’re such a kidder!!  But we haven’t quite got things together to go out yet. So we’ll see. There’s always this coming Thursday when I hit my 51st birthday and then I’ll be even  older and MORE scary looking. Woo hoo!

Thanks again to Stepfie for caring about my love life. And also thanks to Xat for the lovely hand-knitted hat she sent over the weekend. I lost my beloved beret about 3 weeks again and have had a cold head ever since.

the day before the rest of my life

October 23, 2008

Dear witty’s body:

WTF? I’m finally going to have some fun this weekend and you decide to make me so miserable I could barely watch “The View” today. I mean, I’ve been aching for years months and yes, the fibro has been particularly bad in October, but what is with this sudden severe allergy thingie. My eyes are so  red that I look like I just drank an Alaskan logger under the table. Again, WTF? Why now? You know I’m going to see my best friend in a nearby city while he’s touring in a Broadway show.

I had thought I was taking care of things yesterday. I got my first massage in like almost a year for some pretty fierce sciatic nerve pain. Considering I used to see Married Guy every week or two, that is a long haul without a guy massaging your ass. Or anything. Married Guy has been gone for over four years now. Hard to believe. If you ever make friends with a masseuse, first make sure they’re not married and second treat him as nicely as possible because the benefits are plentiful.

So I went to a new masseuse yesterday. I’ve been to about 5 different ones since my Glory Days of OPM (own personal masseusedom). Some have been great, some have been truly terrible….like the guy who insisted that I put my leg up over his shoulder while he massaged my kneecap, making me feel somewhat (cough) “exposed”.

Yesterday though was my first gay masseuse. He kinda looked like he had just fallen out of an episode of “Project Runway”. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My best friend is gay, so snap. But he had me so tightly tucked into these thick, luxurious sheets and blankies on the table,  I even wondered if he was going to make skin contact. Because everytime I had to give him a body part, he’d spend like three minutes tucking everything in with the precision of an OCD nanny. tucktucktucktucktucktuckTUCKTUCK.

OK, Martha Stewart, I think the sheets are tucked in now.

I don’t mean to say there was anything wrong with the massage. It was perfectly nice, although once he got to my calves,  he squeezed the wrong muscles. You know, the ones that walked 12 miles this week and like OWWWWWW(screaming in agony)WWWWW!! I tried to be brave, but calf muscles are particularly nerve wracking.  So then he stopped. I was laying there face down with this guy just standing there. I couldn’t see what he was doing. Was he “gettin’ down” with the zen massage whale music? Why do massage therapists always think that Anya and whales having sex is a good musical choice?  Anyways, I was like, hello? Anyone there? Hello! I could still see his ghetto Soho white sneakers through the hole in the table. He later told me he was curing my legs with Reiki. Oh!  Drrrr!! 

I was super relaxed afterwards.  I usually walk around all hunched up like comedian Richard Lewis. My body isn’t used to that. “Mark” even hugged me afterwards. Ha. Married Guy used to do that too! Of course that was usually after a massage which included flimsy single sheets “accidentally” falling off parts of my body and him talking about explicit sex scenes from “The S0PRAN0’s”. Unfortunately I kinda fell for that at the time and still think about him everytime I get a massage.

I went to my art class afterwards. I was co-hosting with Charlemagne. I don’t think he believed that I zonked out when I got home from my massage. I haven’t had much energy since the Four Art Shows in Eleven Days thing. I have a lot going on though. I am thinking, considering, ok, preparing, ok, ummm, I think I’m going to go to the local university to get a bachelor’s degree in painting. I’ve already met with both academic and financial advisors. There! I spit it out. Why? Because what the hell else am I doing? Except possibly laying around on my bed with Guardcat in the sun wondering if having a life without purpose or love or large sums of money is really such a great way to spend the rest of my life.

Not surprisingly, the answer has always been a resounding “NO”, but my self esteem has always been so feeble and certain people in my life have always repeatedly  told me, you’re mentally ill, that’s your life. THE END….that I never realized I didn’t have to listen to them and that what they were saying, probably wasn’t true or didn’t really matter.

 I’m a lot more than that and I’ve been proving it the last couple of months. Going out and having art shows? WTF. Not everyone can have an art show! Have you? (and Art Gnome, you can’t play on that one!) I’ve been published hundreds of times. I’ve had art shows. I’ve had photos in museums and national magazines. Have you? I just think that being constantly told you’re mentally ill (i.e., not of value) by someone is probably the biggest disservice you can ever do to a person. They make it sound like a freaking death sentence. That’s just plain stupid. You’re put here for a purpose. And I’m tired of ignoring it and also tired of being scared of making mistakes. I went through some really extensive mistake making periods in my 40’s and I just sort of retreated for the last 5 years, not wanting to even ask for a Diet Soda at McDonald’s fercrissakes. But constantly falling back on the “What if’s” has really just been a sorry excuse not to have a life. If you make a mistake, you make a mistake.

So I called my doctor’s office this morning and told the receptionist what my ailments were. She said my doctor didn’t have any appointments today. I was really disappointed because I wanted something for what is either allergies or sinusitis before I leave tomorrow.  So I slowly said, “Oh, ok” and then she says, “So can you come in today at 5:40?”

I always fall for that old “The doctor doesn’t have any appointments” thing.

duuuude, you’re blocking my art show

September 19, 2008

This was the scene in front of my art show opening last night. Utter chaos. Lines of people way out into the street. People on cell phones calling their friends to come down and see witty’s cool paintings. People destroying stuff. Kids in mohawks chanting something.

Ha ha ha. Okay, it was really just people waiting for a frickin’ punk rock concert down on the first level of the community center. Evidently they had run a promo saying the concert started at six, but it really started at eight and then there was pandamonium bordering on a minor “lets trash this place because we’re the Fuck-You Generation and we don’t have any video games to occupy ourselves while we calmly wait for the doors to get unlocked” situation.

We eventually tossed them this ugly sculpture that some artist had never picked up from another show. I yelled out over the noisy throng, “This is art. Look at it. Enjoy it. Destroy it.” I’m not really sure what made me say that last thing. Was I a little angry? Maybe. Was I ready to join their tribe? Sure, why not! Because it was kind of thrilling when some girl immediately broke free from the crowd and jumped on the damn thing and broke off the ball and started kicking it….something I’ve been wanting to do with that sculpture for months.  

Did I mention that up until that point I had no idea that the doors were locked to the place where my art show reception was taking place and I was sitting there all alone feeling like an abject failure with absolutely no one showing up? “L” the Hippy Chick had come right when I got there at 5:15. She could only stay a couple of minutes since she was on her way somewhere.

And I had also had a conversation with a woman running a yoga class in the room next to the gallery with explicit directions bordering on militant, that I could not send anyone through her room to use the restroom and disturb their “Quiet Time”. She only had one person in her class and was playing really loud Anya music, which, of course, had me digging my nails into my leg, since I hate Anya, you know, ever since my Married Guy massage days.

But I should probably start at the beginning. The Hanging of the Art Show. I did add in a few new paintings and had a lot of trouble coming up with good frames. When my car broke last week, I was actually on my way to have a friend either help or give me advice, since she owns a framing shop and has been very generous with her time and an occasional free frame. But then all that stupid car stuff happened and nothing ever got done- frame-wise and I cried alot. But bygones!

I finally got everything to the gallery though and it being in a community center, I had to deal with some woman teaching a Spanish class in where I was going to be hanging my art. Fortunately she was nice about it, but evidently the Center was going to be losing some money on her “rent”. NOT.MY.FAULT. Big Blondie (the woman whose been my liaison with the gallery and asking me to write Third Person essays, etc.) was a little late. But she has a real job, of course. Now, please don’t think I dislike this person. Or ANYONE I MAKE FUN OF…I don’t. Right Charlemagne, my favorite ol’ Frenchman? I mean she’s a very nice young woman. It’s just that I’m a grumpy old woman. OK?

And for some reason after I unpacked everything and it was just laying on the floor, I suddenly felt totally intimidated. This woman is over 6 ft. tall and very very energetic and outgoing and I was just standing there feeling somewhat terrified to say anything. And while it only took about an hour to put my show up at the bakery with “J” back in July, it took three freaking hours here. Ugh! And unfortunately I don’t think it looks that good.

She’s evidently has put up many shows and knows certain rules like they have to be at 5 ft. height and can only be at odd numbers on walls. My work, unfortunately, is all different sizes and shapes and frame colors. There is absolutely nothing uniform about my work, so applying a formula to it, may not necessarily work. And to me it doesn’t. It sorta looks like a thrift store.

Fortunately or unfortunately, during all this, depending on how you look at it, she was very very bubbly about how great my work was. Yes, its nice to get strokes to your ego and Lord knows my ego could use a few thousand, but after a while of “Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, this one is so awwwwwwwwwwwwesommmmmmme!!!!!”, it started to lose its potency. Plus now that we’re starting to get to know each other a little better, we’ll be sitting there talking quietly about something and suddenly she’ll yell “Duuuuude!!!” and scare the living shit out of me. Like last night when she said it really loud, and I jumped and then turned towards the door thinking “J” had finally gotten there. But no, he hadn’t. I was, in fact, Dude…and was Dude for the rest of the evening, and possibly will be Dude forever. Dude “witty” McGiver.

She’s also interested in writing me a grant for an art project. I had mentioned I did this thing where I shot a self portrait of myself every day for a year. I mean artists ARE narcissists after all, so why not? But now that I’ve mentioned this, she totally wants me to do a show of all the self portraits.

Even the nekkid pictures? Eek.

So I sat for almost an hour in the gallery waiting for the crowds AND the masses to come. I had brought food and some CDs to play. Although I was now afraid that the Yoga Teacher might come over and dispense bad karma on me if I played Billie Holiday any louder than Anya.

By then, I was feeling rather depressed, and went down the elevator to see the huge crowd of rocker kids and two people I knew. JS from my art class and another person I know from the community. When I opened the door, they told me they had been locked out for a while. So they came up and stayed briefly, since JS was out Art Trail hopping with his wife, I believe. 

I also started getting people coming up in the elevator for the “Talk to the Lawyer” thing that usually happens on Thursday night. And Jesus, the reaction from one guy when I said the lawyer thing was cancelled. Oy! He flipped out! He was swearing, stomping around, saying he had gotten off work early to see the lawyer and why wasn’t he there. Again NOT.MY.PROBLEM. Although I was sitting there in my head going, you better not knock that painting off the wall, dear sir, otherwise you might really need a lawyer. Fortunately, there are security cameras in both rooms but I’m sure it would look like I was attacking him, rather than he was attacking my art.

Just don’t call it “fun”, buddy.

Zue finally stopped in. I try so hard to like her. She was fairly well behaved at the gallery and didn’t try to sell Big Blondie any real estate, so that was good. She also insisted on taking some photos and had her hands all over me. Hands around my shoulder and neck, trying to do funny photos with my art. Thanks.

The “show” finally ended at 8 p.m. and not a single person from the Art Trail thingie had come through. Not one. I had even had my name listed in our main newspaper on Sunday. I was somewhat thrilled being called a multimedia artist, although to be honest, I was more even thrilled to learn that my name was included for the first time on the promo poster for the Sci-Fi/Monster/Big Boobed Woman Art show coming up October 4th. My name on the “****” poster! Woo! They’re like collector items. Now that’s something I’m proud of.

Me…waiting for somebody…anybody  to arrive….Look at those chips! Yum!