I’m going to ask you: what recourse do you have when your GAL goes AWOL? I feel like I have a gag over my mouth right now…and yet so much bullshit is still leaking out of it. Have you ever tried putting your hand over your mouth while your body has other ideas, i.e., vomiting? It’s better to just vomit. Less spray that way.
Here is the scoop: we all met with her in August and September and gave our accounts of everything. We were assured we would receive the report very quickly, as trial was in October. It did not materialize. We filed for a continuance for November. The report did not surface again with no excuse and trial day came and went. We have filed for another continuance and she has not signed this next paperwork approving the continuance to December 10. This is, possibly, the most ridiculous fucking fiasco I’ve been involved in, and that’s saying a lot.
I estimate, and this is pretty close based on actual invoices, that these two continuances have cost me $500 in legal fees. For no reason that I can see, really. I panicked when the GAL finally made contact with my lawyer, since she told my lawyer she wants to craft a “communication plan” for the two of us. SeaFed spent about a month bothering me with the aforementioned “amateur Columbo shit” and ratted me out to the GAL whenever I fart and cough. Forch my lawyer is all over that shit and is like YO this is about transportation, Lady Jesse Pinkman OUT.
ANYWAY what else is happening? Good news, I suppose. I really wracked myself in September during the move, to the point where yoga seemed pointless because I could barely downward some dogs. My left shoulder got really jacked up. I saw a physical therapist yesterday who had the audacity to move the joint and make me do weird exercises, and I wanted to disembowel a motherfucker by sundown. I slept and did more wee little exercises and I tell you what, it feels better already. He thinks I have a pinched tendon. I think, fuck, how did I hurt myself basically sleeping? Anyway, when my shoulders get back on their…shoulder feet…I will be back to exercising. I have lost 30 pounds this year. Can you believe that? Bye, gravy.
On Sunday I took the girls to see a wee opera or a masque or something. John Blow is my absolute favorite (stuff that in your frock coat, Purcell) and I took them to see his first jam, Venus and Adonis. It’s only about an hour and it’s exciting to see something that was put on for a motherfucking king like 400 years ago. It was kind of sexy too, which I think is in the spirit of fluffy Baroque trash. “What did you think?” P. asked me. “It was a little over the top,” I replied, which is absolutely my best and only Baroque joke. I cannot think of one thing I dislike about the Baroque period. If some long-lost relative died and left me a fucking Fragonard I think I would stroke out, seriously. I’m certain my dining room is bronze for this reason. Whenever I see live music I really like cry through the first act, but not during the tragedy part. The last time I saw Les Miz I cried all through the prologue. Pathetic.
Saturday was less successful. Strudel was very excited about performing in a ballet at a concert hall downtown that she’d been working on for a few months now with her school. We rode down with her where I had to sit with one of her classmates, who was a total drip, I’m not going to lie. Pompous, annoying, quizzing Strudel on the definitions of words. “Strudel what is your favorite thing to do on the weekend,” he droned like a junior league Barbara Walters. “Shooting rats at the dump,” I chimed in. “WHAT,” he said.
“Yes, last weekend she hit TWO with one bullet.”
“I don’t think I believe that,” he said.”
“That is your choice,” I said.
Longer story longer, we got there and discovered Strudel had thrown out the tickets a week earlier and there were no extra and we were locked out. We hung out at Seattle Center as one does when locked out of an event. I was glad Strudel did not know we were not there. That’s sad though, innit? It’s like some O. Henry shit. “Mother I have boughten you some ballet tickets” “Child I have put my eyes out with toe shoes…for…reasons.” Maybe not like O. Henry.
Anyway I’ve snapped finally.
I had a panic attack for the first time in fifteen years. FIFTEEN YEARS. Maybe sixteen. That was fallout from living in the drug house then.
Now the last straw was some Lifetime sexual harassment type shit, I am not kidding. I don’t want to talk about it, and probably can’t.
I am crutching along on Xanax ["NO MORE THAN 2X A WEEK!!" says my NP.] which is ok, but kind of just blanks everything out and then I sleep.
I was never a fan of oblivion. I always embraced pain.
Now, it’s too heavy.
You should really read this story by Pamie. Manuel tipped me off. The only flat note is when a commenter says that Pamie and The Bloggess should get together. Yes, let’s mash up some real gangster shit with a white kid drinking Zima in a Ford Contour. BARF OUT. What is wrong with people? This will be on my headstone.