ass-up

 

Preface:

 

Nothing really to point out but the obvious…we have become a stagnant nation.  Living life in quotes.  Enjoying our bling while poising for…none other than…ourselves.  Selfie nation with no idea of how bad the shit really is.

Towanda knew my secret, long before I had any idea of what had occurred.  I am not a philosopher, I am a bad poet and I have been told that…living with me was like being a participant in a Three Ring Circus.’

However, I am a lesbian, therefore, fully schooled on how life really is when you are an outsider.  This read is for the freak.  The uniquely agile person practiced in the art of ‘I choose to embrace difference…for indeed, it is all that allows to stand out from the pack.

Enjoy, participate, and above all, believe that there is a little Towanda…and a big, Stella, in all of us.

the tabby & the tiger

“I like being myself. Myself and nasty.”
Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

 

 

 

 

If there had been any other way to get my point across,  let’s assume that I had already tried it.  I attempted the ‘out of court’ mediation.  That proceeding lead to my being falsely accused of having looked at a two hundred fifty pound woman with a page boy haircut through a bathroom window.  Other options that had been looked into?   The silent treatment, a vow to myself, stating non-verbally, I will not let that Jehovah hick ruin my day, again.  And/or I will not let that wanna be religious Rosanne Barr rent space in my head, again.  That chant became my daily reflection.  Spoken hourly, sometimes every minute and often every second, those were,  long term kind of days.

Nothing, absolutely nothing fit the glove.  No tune amused the psychotic band.  And, if you haven’t guessed by now, I hate my neighbor!  My neighbor is the embryo to the sack that encompasses puss on a scab that has gone and got itself infected.  Linda Lou Sweetland is the handmaiden to Lucifer’s Higher Power. There is no nice way around it.  The woman is a bitch.  And, this last time, this last, Pow Wow for persons with ‘not’ diagnosed brain disorders, had sent me over the edge.

         

How in the world could that have been, someone else’s cat?  I had heard the faintest meow.  I had been encouraged, yet somewhat dismayed, by the scratching that located itself outside my interior support wall.  Encouraged because I had just recently misplaced my precious calico, Towanda.  A difficult thing to do since she had been an indoor cat.  I looked in the breadbox, the crisper and the ancient hat box that houses my used batteries.  T-wa, as I playfully called her, had gone and disappeared.  Though saddened, I did what any good mother would do.  I called 911 and left a description with an obvious animal hater.  I posted T-wa’s selfie on every leftover phone booth I could find.  I cried and played, Angel by Sarah McLaughlin over 1000 times.  Literally, no stone or cat box, had gone upturned!

Had the scratching at the interior wall been a bad flashback from too many times passing ‘Go’ during Bongopoly games in college?  Well, duh, that is always my first consideration.  The visual hallucinations are less intrusive now that I consider them real.  After all, everything is real as long as the internet tells you so.  Web MD is a wonderful little helper when it comes to those little delusional dilemmas.

However, this noise had not shown itself.  It was not the pink cloud that often hangs above my thoughts.  It hadn’t been the shadow of Bob Marley.   An illusion that only comes out when I am playing slot machines at the local Belmont-Not Really-Stakes.  This sound had been more consistent and somewhat annoying.  Not only that, the meowing began shortly after that peck, peck, peck, scratch and tear, at the wall.

Hence,  I had quietly resolutely asked Linda Lou,

“Hey, have you seen my cat?”

  No worded response had been gurgled from the two legged upright Neanderthal woman.  The friggin’ bitch did grunt something, though.  A distinct groan between the sounds of hmm, and Ha, Ha!  I did what the local Scanklin P.D. had politely,  but with little belief, asked me to do.

“When she gets in your face, call us.  It will take two days, but we will get to you.”

Two days had come and gone.  48 hours of knowing in the pit of my stomach that Linda Lou Who had kidnapped my cat.  49 hours went by.  55 hours, 7 minutes and 56 seconds went by.  No P.D., no squad car of clowns in drag.  No nothing.

On the 56 hour I made my own law.  I aptly called it, Stella’s Revenge!  The plan had been simple. Wait until Linda Lou goes to her weirdo Wednesday night meeting of even weirder religious beliefs.  When she puts that fat ass in her neon sea-foam green Sentra and tucks, All along the Watchtower,  above the visor, I will slip in via her broken basement window.  Recently broken due to a bizarre windstorm where large rocks flew about the lawn.  I only know this because I share a Condex with Linda Lou.  An old Carriage House divided into two.  Each section unto it’s own island.  A good deal during a short sale.  A bad deal during Linda Lou’s moments where she does not believe medications are for the taking.

Long story short, some J.W. took it upon himself to flush a rainbow flag down the commode.  The whole temple looked, from what I am told, like a family of ants in polyester running from God.  Needless to say, as soon as I managed to pry myself up off the basement floor, I Frankensteine’d my way up to the first floor.  Just as I spotted my little four legged bitchy diva,  the lights went on, the curtain goes up. I say, curtain because she kept my poor cat in her awful bathroom. The beady- eyed female Satan came at me with a whisk broom.

Somewhere I had learned that if you hit someone in the throat, there are no marks.  There is no bruising.  The pain is maximum for the minimal effort put in.  With a punch to the throat, lard ass fell like a bowling pin after a strike has been made.  It is kind of sad to see. She did bounce though. That made me feel a little better about the ‘leaving evidence behind’ concept.  With Towanda wrapped in a decorative dish towel, I took a quick Linda Lou ‘selfie’ and got the hell out!

My mother has always told me, ‘Stella, it will be your pride that gets you in the deep shit!’  My mother had her own box of psychological diagnosis.  My mother was always good at pointing out the obvious.

I had mistakenly put the “ Linda Lou Takes a Tumble photo on Instagram.  It became an overnight sensation.  Tagged and re-tagged. It was uploaded and sent to friends of friends of friends of the chief of police.

I have been in the ‘program’ for 19 years.  14 of which were and are continuous sobriety.  I had heard that same old Stepford Wife saying, ‘self will run riot!’  Chanting without thought and brainwashed via cliches, ‘do not think less of self.  Think selfless.’

Yeah, right!  Those weird little old school sayings were fine back when people called dollar bills folding money.  That shit does not work in today’s world.

Caught red handed, had been how one cop put it.  Another cop, we told her we were on our way.  Really?   Had they planned on taking a slow boat from China?

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