I am fighting off a migraine. Took Imitrex, which should work soon. Meanwhile, of the best things to do is to lie down in a quiet place and wait. Unfortunately, the quiet hasn’t been cooperating.

I was awakened about 45 minutes ago by meowing. VERY LOUD meowing. It didn’t sound like Ripley, but ya never know. Cats are creative. Pad-pad-pad. Nope, asleep on the couch. Pad-pad-pad. Maybe it’s stopped. (Five seconds later:) Nope.

wait-wait-wait *call Animal Control?* wait-wait-MEOWWWWW *alarm clock a lá Tom & Jerry* MEOWWWWW!!!!

jammies(no, don’t sleep in ’em)-pad-pad-open balcony door

Mr. Cat is on a windowsill two buildings down. He is patting and meowing at the closed window. Poor kitty!! What bastards! How dare they rent some other cat to violently tear out the screen and leave its shreds open to taunt you?

I know how destructive cats roll, and I can just picture the day-in, day-out scratching and pushing at that screen. My God, there’s a whole world out there! The damn thing’s just nylon! I have claws! I have beaten my owners into submission! Mwah-ha-ha-meow!!!

ME-OOWWWWWWW! MEOW! MEOWW! (lather-rinse-repeat at regular 2 second intervals)

Perseverance got him out; he is convinced it will get him back in.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch: Unfortunately and unfairly, the lady upstairs is très ghetto. MEOWW!!/I’ma fuck yo fuck-ass up!!/MEOWWWW!!!

This woman really does have the limited vocabulary our teachers told us about. I’m fuckin’ serious. That fuckin’ woman says “fuckin'” every other fuckin’ word. Fuckin’ drives me fuckin’ crazy! And she is fuckin’ loud. I’m serious. I can fuckin’ hear her fuckin’ screaming from her own fuckin’ apartment; outside on the fuckin’ stoop (where she is joined by people who mercifully listened to their teachers). She fuckin’ yells at her fuckin’ kids; she fuckin’ yells at the fuckin’ neighbors–

You get the point. I have never put “fuckin'” into command-V before. She is also audible through the bathroom vent. She does not just use the “f” word. She uses four f’s: fuckin’ forte forte fortissimo. She just doesn’t quit. She perseveres in her attempt to subdue her surroundings and make herself known and heard.

MEOWWWWW!!!!/(unintelligible and peppered with “fuckin'”/MEEOOOOOWWWWWW!

So much for retreating to the living room. No quiet choices here.

MEEOOWWWWW/Go get yo’ fuckin’ cat!!!! Fuckin’ asshole!!!!

*Eh?*

MEEOO-

*hmm*

quiet/quiet/fuckin’/quiet/quiet/quiet

Fuckin’ awesome.

The nice thing about the Plinky prompts is that they’re at the very least a workout to keep muscles limber–and it really does nudge me further along the path of what I actually more or less planned to write about. Although it still is tumbling on the dryer, pretty much. I’m sort of on Damascus’ heels, but now that Terry’s narrative is going to go back to being more than just a frame for the Damascus backstory, I must check in with my 6’7″ pain in the ass and see where he’s at. I realize that I’m ducking Terry. I strongly suspect that’s because he has Something To Say to me.

I’m a tad less depressed today. At least, I think I am, considering that today I found out that my therapy time is going to be cut to a standard hour at the end of the summer, because I’m getting transferred to a staff person when my fellow leaves.  So I was bummed. Change, grr. It doesn’t help that the prescriber I picked because she actually laughed at my jokes is also leaving. I feel therapeutically Unloved.

On the other hand, I was wearing my 360 achievement shirt “Left the House,” and so this nice fanboy and fangirl started talking to me at the bus stop. “Ooh, story!” she caroled, when she saw the manuscript in my paw. I felt simultaneously shy and gratified. Well, yes, it is a story. It most certainly is.

. . . My mother used to say to me . . . "In this world, Elwood, you must be oh, so smart or oh, so pleasant." For years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

–Elwood P. Dowd, Harvey (Mary Chase)

I couldn't think of an answer off the top of my head, so I (duh!) went to my Facebook info page. I have a bunch, but *wham*–this one was it. And it's surprisingly hard to talk about.

The first time I heard this as a kid, I felt sad and hurt. "Smart" was once again being dissed. It was made really clear to me that I was a freak in grade school, and it took a long time for me to stop resenting that But when I ran across it again, I finally understood what Mrs. Dowd was saying.

I'm wickid smaht–oh-please-*yawn*-oh-go-away-you-Mensa-asshole smaht. It's screwed with my life substantially, because it intimidates people.

"You sound like you think you're smarter than everybody else." Well, um, ah, if you really want to go there, for the 99% majority of "everybody else," I *am* by some common standards. But I never, ever mean to sound like that. It's just that there's nothing I can do about it–except be pleasant. I have agency there; I can choose to be pleasant; and I do.

Fortunately, I am also wickid nice by nature. Sweet, cheerful, funny, you name it. I *like* being pleasant. It's easy for me; it's my default. Mind you, my default is also to talk in complete paragraphs, or so I've been told; but what really matters is what one says and why one says it.

I tend to meet people where they're at, if at all possible. It's kind of a sociolinguistic thing, in a way. It drives my daughter insane that I pick up a "fake" Boston accent when I talk to blue-collar Bostonians. (Bear in mind, by the way, that my daughter calls me Mawm, and frequently pronounces 25-cent pieces as quotas.) But it's not fake.

I do it automatically–and I do it in a number of different regional places. Its jargon term is codeswitching–and what it means is that people are happier when you speak their language; and your life is easier as a result. The Hahvahd PhD language is swell–but I can speak many others.

I like people a whole lot. As Ruth Gordon says in Harold and Maude, they're my species. Being pleasant encourages people to let you in, not keep you out. And I've found that to be a wickid good thing.

First of all, Mr./Ms. “how to eviction somebody,” keep your illiterate-ass searches out of my “homelessness sucks” blog. grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

*ahem* I’m getting scarily close. I’ve finally decided (ok, for this week) to just shove all the serial killer’s backstory to the front of the “past” narrative. I’m also returning a chapter of the good old ultraviolence, because it’s character development. (“Adventures in Peru” goes in there; I’ll have to move it from its current slot.)

And I’ve laid out the final several chapter outline–before now, it was too not-done to even think of a realistic outline.

I’m frustrated right now, because I’ve been on a roll for the past couple of days, but I’m now at a point where I need to let it tumble around in my creative dryer-mind for a while–think I know what Aria has to say to Damascus, but not what he says to her; I need to get Terry’s poor head in gear in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a reactive manic version of myself. sigh

I have to go call the friend I am actually going to socialize with tomorrow; meanwhile, please send me glowing warm psychic dryer-quarters of love.

I know that Child Protective Services can be demonic. One afternoon, I came home from work to see a nice lady patiently waiting at my door.

My then-7-year-old son, whom I’ll call Coatikit, has top-of-the-chart ADHD (which admittedly he got from me) and he has always been what can charitably called a drama queen (see last answer, sigh). He had been crying when he had gotten on the bus that morning, claiming that he was afraid his mother would yell at him (why, not even he knew by the time he got home) or maybe give him that dread punishment: A (single) Whack On The Butt. And they really had to check it out. Of course, I was terrified beyond belief, as the nice lady had the power to walk out with Coatikit and Tigercub that very afternoon.

Luckily, the nice lady got Coatikit’s number immediately, (and, completely off the record, validated The Whack On The Butt.) But scared as I had been, in a way I was glad she had checked it out–and the following explains why:

Lonely child

Tiger lived in an ongoing nightmare at home: no heat; no hot water; food availability was random at best; and her abusive parents were mentally ill and alcoholic. She would have immediately have set off modern alarms; but in 1975, when she came to school unkempt and in dirty clothes, the other kids mocked and the teachers sneered.

One afternoon in 7th grade, one of the nuns took her aside and, in a kindly way, attempted to help Tiger out.

Bathing and clean clothes, she said, were essential things. She was immediately completely embarrassed, and tears came to her eyes. She flinched. Sr. Katherine was nice; in all Tiger’s school career, she would be the only teacher who cared enough to even address the issue. Despite wishing she were anywhere else in her shame, Tiger became hopeful. Surely this nice grownup would scold her parents; make them fix it.

“We don’t have hot water, or any heat for that matter. But I can take showers in the summer when it’s hot.” Their boiler had broken a few years ago and never been repaired. Tiger felt horribly guilty, because it had been “her job” to watch the water gauge, as she played in the basement. She was too ashamed to admit this to the nun.

“And we never have money for the laundromat.” Cigarettes and booze, yes; but not non-essentials. Her father ate at his drinking buddies’ houses, and her mother ate anything and everything she could get her hands on. Plain grits and rice were fine; anything to fill her up.

But Tiger was a growing eleven-year-old guilt, and she herself was always hungry. As she brought some of the grits out to feed the dogs (who eventually starved to death from protein deficiency–mercifully, Tiger usually had peanut butter) she sympathized. There was one weekend where there was some cabbage to fry up with the grits, and Tiger felt she was at a feast. Once a month, when Tiger’s father got paid, he would bring Tiger home a Whopper from Burger King, and she would wolf it down in ecstasy, keeping an uneasy eye out for her mother, who would wheedle some of it away.

Similarly, she was sometimes literally “on the rag.” But not all the time; when she went to pick up the cigarettes, she could usually ask for a little extra for Kotex.

She made it sound pathetic, which was easy, as it was all true. *helphelphelp,* she thought. But it was the ’70s; the nun had grown up in the ’40s; and Tiger was dirty.

“Well, you can boil a pot of water on the stove, and wash in the sink,” was the prompt answer. “And you can wash out your clothes the same way. You’re a very bright girl, Tiger.”

Tiger cried. She felt hopelessly inadequate. She was very bright, and she knew that what the nun was suggesting was quite doable. But as she sobbed, she was angry.

“But that’s not my job. They’re my parents. They’re supposed to take care of me.” Wasn’t that fair? All the other kids had hot water, food, and clothes.

“Well, I understand that,” said the nun. And she did; but what worked for the poor in the ’40s would work forever. It didn’t occur to her that for a child of the 70s, surrounded by ordinary assumptions and expectations, her advice was akin to suggesting that Tiger could solve her food problem by fishing in the polluted Hudson and laying wires for squirrels in the Park. “But you have to take care of yourself.”

There was nothing Tiger could say. Her cheeks burned, but she knew the nun was right. It was her job, and it was her fault that the boiler had burst. She could have done this all along, and it was her fault for whining. Her father washed in the sink himself, as he had to go to work; he had occasionally scolded Tiger when he randomly noticed her state. But after all, as he would continually remind her, it was her fault the boiler had burst.

Bad enough, thought Tiger miserably, that the nuns were disgusted by her obstinate failure to come to school in the same crisp cleanness of the other kids, with their pressed clothes and shiny hair. But she nervously covered her forearms, hugging herself. Sr. Katherine was the nicest nun in school. If she saw the bruises from her mother’s cane, she would know that Tiger was actually a very bad girl to deserve to be beaten like that.

She was completely humiliated. Every time she saw the nun after that, she averted her eyes. Sr. Katherine knew one of those horrible secrets: It was her fault she was dirty. But at least she didn’t know the other one.

She was bad; she was lazy, and she was greedy. It was always Tiger’s fault.

Coatikit is 19 now, and he did eventually learn how to swim. And no, of course Coati had done no such thing, and never ever would have. But dying sort of short-circuits parts of the brain.

113/365 Drowning

After several hours in a hot car with two preschoolers, Coati and Tiger were looking forward to the motel pool. It was unlit, but both parents swam, as well as Tigercub. But Coatikit was only three, and so he and Tiger played horsie in the shallow end.

As Coati stayed with the ecstatic Tigercub in the deep end, Tiger happily bounced around with Coatikit on her shoulders. But instead of the usual gradual rake, this pool's transition between shallow and deep was a steep and sudden fall. Tiger couldn't swim with 30 pounds of kid on her shoulders; and down they both went under the black water.

She struggled frantically. Coatikit had reflexively tightened his grip for literally dear life, and she couldn't dislodge him. She could hear him scream desperately for help: At least for the time being he was above water, and she held her breath as well as she could; but it took too long and too much energy, and she breathed in water. She intellectually noticed her lungs' outrage at being filled with non-air.

This is drowning. I am going to die. Oh God, Coatikit is going to die too. Oh no no no no. She flashed on a future news story: It was on the bottom half of page two of some local tabloid: Mom and Toddler Drown in Tragic Motel Pool Accident. She could see their blurry pictures from some happier time. Coatikit was as usual joyously showing his dimple. His ringlets were Coati's dark blond; his eyes were Tiger's dark brown. Oh no no no. Not my Coatikit.

Where was Coati? Couldn't he hear Coatikit scream?

Finally, she shook Coatikit free just long enough to surface and give one desperate yell for help–and down she went again in despair. But Coati came and grabbed Coatikit, and she was able to choke and paddle her way to the side of the pool, where Coatikit was howling hysterically.

Back in the motel room, Coati was wrangling the two frantic children (Coatikit was blessedly completely fine) while Tiger coughed and cried alone on the edge of the bed. She felt abandoned and frightened.

"Why didn't you come earlier?" Tiger gasped. Coati logically explained that Coatikit yelled for help ALL the time–for imaginary dangers; that it wasn't until he had heard Tiger's own plea that he realized that it was for real; and that he was just about to head back to her when Coatikit was safe.

But even the breath of Death puffs away reason, and for a long time the terrifying thought slithered in the back of her head: Their marriage was less than perfect. Had he left her there to drown?

Weirdly dumb people. Like the ones who circulate urban legends on FB and get people all fired up. Before I changed it, my name was "Honor," and I had it on a nametag in the store where I worked. A lot of people commented on it, but then there was this perfectly normal-looking (American) lady who said it was nice–and then asked me what it meant. How do these people shamble through their days?