More for my own information than anything else ...

Yesterday and last night I struggled with MS related neuropathic pain.  It's left me with what I call a "pain hangover".  It wears me out emotionally.  My spirit feels deflated.  My resilience isn't in evidence today.  I'm guessing my body knows what it needs better than I do so I'm chillin'.

I need to find a better way to keep track of my symptoms.  I really hesitate to do it with a calendar because if I see several days of symptoms in a row, it can be distressing (stress will exacerbate MS symptoms) and can be depressing as well. 

Besides feeling beat up, I'm not feeling very communicative right now so forgive my silence and the absence of visits, tags, comments and hugs ... except for just this one group hug from me ...

(((((((((( y'all ))))))))))

I'm not really mad at Starbucks but the District Manager I spoke with today can kiss my sweet brown ass.  This all relates back to my post:

The Ides of March, a blustery day in New Orleans, Starbucks and me ...

After two weeks, two additional phone calls to Starbucks corporate offices and two conversations with two store managers that I'm friendly with, guess what ... no call from the manager of the store where I was attacked by a patio umbrella and no package.  Yesterday, I finally received the "package" -- a $30.00 gift card.  Very generous but I'm at a point now where I'm so digusted with the way this has been handled, I don't know if I even want to go back to Starbucks.  The problem is, as of yesterday, still no call.  I figured I'd wait several more days and at the three-week-mark, I'll call again.  What am I looking for?  I'm looking for someone responsible for that store to call me and thank me for making them aware of the problem and that it was definitely handled incorrectly. 

I received the long awaited call this morning from the District Manager ... let's call her Ms. She Who Does Not Know The Meaning of Customer Relations -- Ms. Relations for short.

Ms. Relations:  I'm sorry that happened to you, Ma'am.

me:  Thank you, I appreciate that.  My main concern was that it was handled so poorly and I thought someone should know.

Ms. Relations:  Well, the baristas are supposed to stay behind the counter while the manager is on a short 30 minute break, Ma'am.  [I forgot to mention to her that Meecie and I were there a good 30 to 45 minutes after the "incident" and no manager ever showed.]

me:  So no one is left "in charge" while the manger is on lunch break?

Ms. Relations:  No, Ma'am.  It's not necessary.

me:  And employees aren't informed of any procedure if an accident happens?

Ms. Relations:  No, employees are not trained to take incident reports, Ma'am.

me:  [don't think for one minute that I don't know that Ma'am means bitch.]  And they're not even told to get a phone number so someone in authority can call and take an incident report or just call period.

Ms. Relations:  [pause]  No, Ma'am.

me:  And, I'm baffled why it took over two weeks to receive a call from anyone -- a manager, a district manager, a regional manager ... anyone at all.

Ms. Relations:  [dead silence]

me:  Excuse me.  You sound a little distracted.  Are you distracted Ms. Relations?  I'm just curious because either you're distracted or your being condescending and I would hate to believe that a representative of Starbucks would be condescending to a concerned consumer.

Ms. Relations:  No, Ma'am, I'm not distracted.

me:  [dead silence.  I'm thinking ... "Did she just insult me?"]

Now it all of a sudden dawns on me.  This wench resents me because I talked to more than one person about it and she was obviously wrong for taking so long to call me.  She's probably had to answer to someone for that alone.  I get it ... now I suspect that's the reason for the Ma'am.  I also suspect that perhaps it's Starbucks policy to defend their employees actions to the customer no matter what, even if the employee gets reprimanded.  Or maybe she didn't want to criticize the employees of that store since she's responsible for the stores in the district?

I made it a point to let her know that I'm friendly with most of the staff at all the Starbucks in this area.  We (Meecie and I) are there nearly every day.  I buy gifts from Starbucks and we use Starbucks products in our home.  I was trying to make a point that I'm not some random hit and run disgruntled customer.  The staff at any Starbucks in our area can attest to that.  AND I tip well!  If I don't have the cash to tip, I've been know to go back later in the day to toss money in the tip jar.  I didn't get why Ms. Relations was being such a wench.

The conversation was deteriorating by the second.  We ended the phone call.  She ended it by telling me, basically, that she's sorry the wind threw that umbrella at me but what followed had nothing to do with the quality of service at that store. 

OMG!  How I wanted to let loose a tirade but, believe it or not, I have more class than that. Instead, I just called the corproate offices and tattled on her.  Neaner-neaner, bitch!  I know, real mature.  I actually did call the corporate Customer Relations number again and was told that they were very sorry for the way she handled the situation and that, no, it wasn't acceptable.  THIS time the Regional Manager, Steven, is going to call me.  Oooooo.

*sigh*

I know I seem like a little pansy sometimes, but don't underestimate the bark and bite of this Chihuahua.  I'm a believer in boycotting products and letter writing campaigns.  If it seems like I possess some sort of sense of entitlement, I do.  I think every single customer of any store of any kind, is entitled to pleasant service and concern if something goes wrong.  Free coffee is nice, but nothing will soothe an unhappy customer like "human" kindness.  Just throwing "money" my way isn't a solution.  There's too little human customer service in today's society.  I have news for Ms. Relations ... I'M not the problem.  Could I be if someone doesn't step up to the plate and admit it was handled horribly?  Yes, Ma'am, Ms. Relations, yes, indeed!

Of all the things that Multiple Sclerosis has taken from me, I think I miss heat the most. 

I love the feel of the sun on my skin ... but just a few minutes in the sun makes me feel like I want to lay down and die. 

I miss taking hot, hot showers ... as hot as I can stand it without it searing my skin off.  Taking a shower has become a chore ... something I have to do every day, not something I look forward too ... that something that used to rejuvenate me. 

I hate that my electric bill is sky high because I can't bear for it to be any warmer than 68 to 70 degrees.  It doesn't help that I can't run around half naked because ... well, because I live with someone I don't feel confortable around scantily clad.

I hate that even though I like my hair long, it's too thick and heavy on my neck to wear down most the time.  When the summer months come, I think I'll be very tempted to cut it.

Jazzfest begins the last weekend of April.  It's already warm here.  Last year when I went to Jazzfest I nearly ended up in the hospital with heat stroke.  I'm guessing I probably shouldn't go this year but I'm trying to figure out a way I can tolerate the heat.  I've even thinking of buying a cooling vest.  They're not very attractive, but who would want to miss a line-up like this?  (The acts in bold are the ones I'm dying to see)

The Neville Brothers, Stevie Wonder, Billy Joel, Jimmy Buffett, Tim McGraw, Santana, Maze feat. Frankie Beverly, Sheryl Crow, Widespread Panic, Dr. John, Al Green, Diana Krall, Keyshia Cole, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, The Raconteurs, Irma Thomas, Steel Pulse, John Prine, Elvis Costello and Allen Toussaint, Randy Newman, Bobby McFerrin and Chick Corea, O.A.R., Galactic, The Roots, Dianne Reeves, Michael Franti & Spearhead, Burning Spear, Ozomatli with Chali 2na, Rebirth Brass Band, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Tower of Power, Delbert McClinton, John Hammond, Cassandra Wilson, Keb' Mo', The Count Basie Orchestra feat. Patti Austin, Pete Fountain, The Derek Trucks Band, Richard Thompson, Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn, The Radiators, James Cotton, Cupid, The John Butler Trio, Del McCoury, Vernel Bagneris: Jelly Roll & Me, Terence Blanchard with the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra, Buckwheat Zydeco, John P. Kee & the New Life Community Choir, Cowboy Mouth, Byron Cage with Kim Burrell, Bishop Paul S. Morton, Sr. and the Greater St. Stephen Choir, Trinitee 5:7, Lizz Wright, Voices of the Wetlands Allstars, Dirty Dozen Brass Band, The Bad Plus, Carolina Chocolate Drops, Bettye LaVette, Trombone Shorty & Orleans Ave., Gene "Duke of Earl" Chandler, Preservation Hall Jazz Band, Davell Crawford's N.O. R & B Orchestra, Henry Butler, Beausoleil avec Michael Doucet, Leo Nocentelli's "Rare Gathering," Lee Boys, Harlem Blues and Jazz Band, MOOV of Martinique, Jackson Southernaires, Big Jay McNeely, Paul Porter of the Legendary Christianaires, Nicholas Payton

I went to go mutter but they could not be found.  No mutterings on Sunday leaves my mind quite unsound!

It's true, Unconscious Mutterings is missing.  Or I thought they were.  I tried a bevy of ways to access the lost mutterings.  Finally, after some relentless searching, I found them here.

Let's mutter, shall we?

1. Stuffed :: what I should have done to my bras in high school.  I might have had more dates then ... or maybe Paul would have been more interested.
2. Gills :: stuffed to the gills :: what I was after eating half a stuffed bell pepper last night ... apparently, I'm still stuck on stuffed.
3. Distance :: There's just too much of it ... between Deirdre and me, Candy and me, Paul and me
4. Panties :: OMG!  What a head rush that sparked ... here goes ... "Don't get your panties in a wad" "Day of the Week Panties"  "white grandma drawers" "Happy Bunny panties (what I'm wearing now)" and last but not least, "Where did these panties come from?  Who do they belong to and how did they get under the bed?  And don't tell me they're yours because these are five sizes too small for you."  That about does it, I think.
5. Checkered :: past .... *ouch*
6. Fill in :: the blanks
7. Taunting :: Nyah, Nyah, Nyah - Nyah, Nyah
8. Diner :: Twilight Zone / Season 2 / Episode 43 / Nick of Time .... "The hand belongs to Mr. Don S. Carter, male member of a honeymoon team on route across the Ohio countryside to New York City. In one moment, they will be subjected to a gift most humans never receive in a lifetime. For one penny, they will be able to look into the future. The time is now, the place is a little diner in Ridgeview, Ohio, and what this young couple doesn't realize is that this town happens to lie on the outskirts of [cue music - duh, duh, duh, DUH] the Twilight Zone."
9. Pizza :: double pepperoni or vegetarian
10. Best friend :: knows everything about me and loves me still

Wanna mutter?  "Rules are, there are no rules." There are no right or wrong answers. Don't limit yourself to one word responses; just say everything that pops into your head.  You can mutter there or mutter along with me in my comments.  Y'all know how I love it when you mutter.  ENJOY! 

Unconscious Mutterings courtesy of LunaNina

In sixth grade I remember covering one of my text books with, of all things, aluminum foil. Then I took a Tigerbeat magazine and cut out every picture I could find of the Beatles.  I glued (as best one can glue paper to foil) picture after picture of John, George and Paul all over the front of the book.  On the back, I glued only pictures of Ringo.  Don't ask.  I don't know why he was my favorite, but he was.  I then took cellophane and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d it over the entire book and taped it (again, the best one can tape cellophane to aluminum foil).  When I say all the girls in my class were jealous ... I'm exaggerating.  LOL  I didn't give a hoot if they liked it or not.  I'm was a crafty kind of a girl.  When I say crafty, it means I liked to play with glue, construction paper, etc -- not that I was crafty as in sly.  *grin*

In junior high and high school, we had to be serious about our studies and treat our books like we respected them.  I LOVE books ... I would NEVER deface a book!  However, I also loved Paul ... Paul of Forever Love Paul, not Beatle Paul.  By my sophomore year of high school I graduated from falling hopelessly in love with rock stars who didn't know I was alive to being hopelessly obsessed with real, live boys who didn't know I was alive.  Although, never once was I crestfallen because Beatles Paul or Ringo passed me in the hall and didn't notice me.  The only person who could achieve that sort of emotional wreckage was Forever Love Paul.

Anyone remember actually taking a paper bag out of the cupboard, cutting out the bottom, slitting it up the side and using it to make a bookcover for a school book?  There were four school aged kids in our house.  We FOUGHT for paper bags.  Ahhh, those were the days.  A stinging forearm and half a paper bag in hand -- the other half in a sibling's hand.

I don't know what year I did it, but at one time I covered a bookcover with different versions of "Paul" ... in cursive, block print, with flowers, dots ... you name it, I came up with at least fifty ways to write Paul.  I don't think I would have done this while I was in school with Paul because there was a very good chance he or his sister might see it.  I'm nearly certain I did it the year after I moved away and was at a different school.

Not long ago, I was going through some boxes while digging for more Paul memorabilia (of which there is much).  In one box,, I found a wax paper sandwich bag -- is my age showing?  The contents of the box had been joustled so much in several moves, the poor bag and it's contents was even more cumpled.  Inside the bag were several pieces of brown paper, kinda crumpled and torn.  I opened the bag and pulled out the pieces carefully.  When I turned them over, I was amazed to see what they were.  I pieced them together and snapped a picture.

Ahhh, love's debris.  Well, not really debris because although I tore and cumpled it up, I obviously couldn't bring myself to dispose of it AND I've held on to it for thirty-nine years!  Is that normal?

The title of this entry brought to you by The Sloganizer.  Excuse me?  Did the Sloganizer just dis me?  LMAO

About the last entry ... the response feels as if my friends have lined themselves up as a human barricade of love to protect me from those who would judge me.  Believe me -- I'm okay.

I'm blowing and going this morning so can't visit.  Had to drop in and fire this off.  Y'all are amazing.  Like Sol said, those who are unkind are suffering some sort of emotional turmoil themselves.  Maybe I also should have added yesterday my other mantra ... "The way others treat us says more about them than it does about us."  I truly believe that.  God knows, there are a plethora of girls who have and ARE still in the situation I was in.  I think about them nearly every day.

Y'all ... after reading Wednesday's post, you can't possibly think that a little criticism is going to get me down, do you?  I've handled so much worse.  The only people who could hurt me would be those who are totally incapable of it.

No worries!  Okie-dokie artichokies?

Later gators.

Another draft buried amongst my entries ... really buried.  It's actually post-Katrina.  I was too ashamed to post it then.  I'm no longer ashamed.  It is was it is.  I was what I was.  The key word being "was". 

At the beginning of this year, I promised ... no more hiding.  It was a promise I made to myself.  If I don't post this, as well as others like it, I'm only hiding from myself.

What is love?

Probably a strange question coming from a Friday's child -- loving and giving.  The answer is probably even more strange.

Is it possible I haven't a clue what love is, how to love or what it's like to be loved by a man?  One might think that a woman in her 50s would have had many loves by now.  But one would have to consider ...

• my father left my mother when I was still in her womb ... not a huge esteem builder when one is reminded of it incessantly
• the first man to touch me sexually was my grandmother's husband
• when I was 8 yrs old, left unattended at a park, I was molested by a stranger.  Without him even having to tell me not to, I knew from my grandmother's husband that it wasn't something I should tell anyone about
• the only boy who ever touched me, physically and emotionally, didn't even know I was alive and pretty much ignored me after two brief encounters.  It was to be the most innocent and real emotion I would have for many years.
• my mother's boyfriend's attempted to molest me, eventually his efforts escalated until his goal was rape -- he failed
• I ran away from home at sixteen to escape impending rape by my mother's boyfriend and was raped while on the run
• I attempted to get help at a teen crisis center.  My counselor and her husband took me in.  It wasn't long before her husband crept into my room one morning after she had left for work and forced himself ... may as well call it what it was ... he raped me.  He told me nobody would believe me.  I believed him -- nobody would believe me.
• I turned to the streets, got hooked on drugs and started turning tricks, having learned that the only thing of value I had was my body.  It was easier to choose to get paid than to have it taken by force and have nothing to show for it other than a shattered soul
• I tried to change my life by moving to a different city.  It turned out to be just a matter of geography.  Everywhere I went, there I was -- there was no running from me or the addiction.
• At nineteen, I married the first man to ask me, not because I loved him, but, well, frankly, "men don't marry girls like me" ... actually I believe his mother's exact quote the morning of the wedding was ... "WHITE men don't marry MEXICAN whores like you"
• Every day of our married life (with the exception of the days of our honeymoon) he beat me and belittled me, not because I had been a junkie or a whore, but because I was Mexican.  Why he married me, I'll never know.
• Two skull fractures and a year later, we were divorced.
• I found a decent paying job as a girl Friday.  (Don't think I missed the irony of that)  I tried to kick drugs by substituting alcohol.  I'm guessing going to work for a major whiskey manufacturer probably wasn't a good idea.
• I tried to kick alcohol and drugs by joining Narcotics Anonymous.  My stupidity was chronic.  When boss found out,I told him everything.  He began to sexually harass me.  Big surprise.
• He eventually became my pimp of sorts -- using job security as a means to "encourage" me to "entertain" execs from out of town.  It was at this time that I first remember truly feeling dead inside, without the benefit of drugs or alcohol.
• I met a man 28 years my senior who wanted to "take me away" from all of that.  I let him.  After 5 years with him, I married him ... not because I loved him but because I had invested every ill-gotten dime in "our" company.
• We became wealthy.  I turned my life around and became a responsible, productive member of society.  After eight years of marriage, I was too old to be his "trophy wife".  He started cheating on me. 
• I found out he was bi-sexual, which wasn't a big deal but it was unnerving to have to face off with his lovers --  female and male alike.
• I started using drugs again. 
• Much like Henry the VIII he was a serial groom -- he divorced me and married our young secretary.  He tried to leave me broke and broken.  He suceeded.
• The divorce proceedings lasted 3 years.  During the first year, I ended up homeless.
• I turned to drugs again. 
• With the aid of an old friend from Narcotics Anonymous, I returned to recovery.
• I met a man who saved me from a life of servitude -- which is exactly what the "old friend" was trying to do ... turn me into her Mexican maid.  Unfortunately, that man was her widowed father-in-law -- drama, drama, drama.
• I eventually moved in with him.  After three years, I married him.  Not because I loved him but because, if I'm being honest, it was what he expected and I didn't see any reason to deny him.
• When I had five years clean under my belt, I had a gastric bypass.  The healthier I became, the more confident I became, the more animated I became, the more attention I paid to my appearance ... the better I became, the more he hated me.  I didn't realize -- he needed me to need him. He hated me for no longer needing him.  We divorced.
• While waiting for my divorce to be final before I headed home to California to be close to my mother, I met a man.  He had no interest in marriage or much romance but was interested in a "relationship" -- one in which I would wait on him hand and foot (as that's how I was raised) and he would let me (as that's how he was raised).  We would hold each other at an emotional arm's length.  I lied to everyone saying it was the best relationship I had ever had.  I said he was the love of my life ... why wouldn't I say that?  Why would I admit I was with him because he asked little to nothing of me emotionally.  He didn't want my soul -- not even a piece of  it.  What I didn't realize is that everyone in my life knew it was more of an "arrangement" than a relationship.  I'm still with this man today ... six years and counting.  I care for him and for the most part it's comfortable.

So, considering all of that, how and when would I have had time, the opportunity, the trust, the emotional stability to find love or allow myself to be loved or learn how to love myself?

I recently admitted to someone ... for the first time in my life ... that all these years I thought it was my fault.  I thought that every molestation, every violation, every harassment ... I thought I was responsible.  I thought that everyone could tell I was damaged just by looking at me -- that somehow, some way, I subconsciously attracted predators.  I was told by a "professional" that I was made a victim when I was a toddler and predators can sense a victim from a mile away.  It's a comforting theory but is it true?

I don't feel sorry for myself and don't want anyone feeling sorry for me.  Much of what happened to me was my responsiblity.  I made horrible decisions and even when I tried to get help, I didn't have the sense to say no to people ... to men ... who would take advantage.  Being a victim became a habit.  Becoming a prostitute was actually a way of trying to take control.  It makes no sense to me now but made perfect sense then.

So, I asked myself last week ... what is love?  Do I really know what it is?  Have I ever had love for a man?  Have I ever been loved by a man?  Would I recognize it if I found it ... or it found me?  I don't know, but I do know this ... I ache to be loved with the power and purity that Bryan Adams sings of in, "Have You Ever Loved A Woman".

What I'd like to know is, does this kind of love even exist?  Will I ever be loved like this ...

My hope is that if it ever does happen, I'll love myself enough to believe I deserve it and I'll allow it to happen.

The Humpty Pup!

That's right!  Bid a fond farewell to the Hump Hog and say hello to Friday's Humpty Pup.  I told him this is the only kind of humping allowed on my blog.  *heh-heh*

Have a wonderful Humptylicious Hump Day. y'all!

The Humpty Dance mp3 player has been removed to preserve bandwidth.  The Humpty Dance will return next Wednesday.

How many drafts do I have in my admin section?  Too many.  Why don't I post them?  I dunno.  In the spirit of "no more hiding", I'm going to be posting all of my drafts, no matter how old they are.  This is a rant/vent I wrote last week. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When I was attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings, there were people who would share right behind someone (N'awlins-speak for right after someone) and in their sharing, they would intentionally say something condescending to make the previous "sharer" feel less than.  They would infer something similar to, "You don't know what you're talking about.", "You think you know, but you don't.", "I'm better at this than you.", I"m smarter, wittier, prettier, faster" ... blah, blah, blah, blah.  I call it a "slap down". 

I compare a slap down to someone seeing a bird flying, reaching up and just batting it out of the sky, into the dirt, stepping over it's corpse and riding away on their "holier than thou" horse.  Why do people do that?  Say what you're going to say, but why would you want to demean, belittle, minimize someone else in the process?  I don't get it.  I don't get mean people.  What's the point?  To make yourself look like a jackass?  My mother once told me I had to be tolerant because some people are born jackasses and they never recover ... take my jackass brother for instance ... always slapping someone down -- he's a master at slap down.  Unfortunately, I never learned to be tolerant of that sort of behavior.

I'm probably one of the biggest smart asses around and I admit it.  However, I don't do things to hurt people -- at least not intentionally.  I try to esteem people in life. That doesn't make me better than anyone else ... it only means that I follow my higher sense of right.  My higher sense of right doesn't allow me to be cruel and condescending to people.  I don't presume to know anything and I don't assume anything.  I'm not a bleeding heart, believe me.  Half the people I know wouldn't like who I'm capable of being which is a sharp-tongued, wicked-mean bitch.  Most people I know don't see that side of me because I'm rarely provoked to that point and never by my friends.  Mess with someone I love and I'll go from zero to bitch in a nanosecond.  And believe this ... I know the difference between joking amongst friends and genuine condescension.

Why am I so riled?  Because lately I've been witnessing it on the internet... on blogs, in comments.  So far, it hasn't been done to me but I hate seeing it done at all.  Just because we read a blog, doesn't mean we KNOW that blogger.  Just because we read a comment made on a blog doesn't mean we know that person or how they're related to that blogger or ... whatever.  Get a grip!  Get a life that doesn't discourage other people but instead encourages them -- esteems them.  Life is hard enough without being slapped-down by someone who doesn't know anything about you.

I wish we could express ourselves without feeling the need to tear down someone else.  I can boil it all down to two words ...

CHECK YOURSELF!

The stupid thing about this post is that I rarely get any  "slap down demons" on my blog.  So ... erm ... who's going to read this that it will impact?  Nobody ... but hey, I had to vent.  Okay, I'm done now ... *breathing in deeply through the nose and out slowly through the mouth -- breathe in, breathe out*  Only one remedy for the way I'm feeling right now -- Peeps and chocolate bunnys.

Exit -- stage left.

** the title of this post are lyrics from "Easy To Be Hard" from the musical "HAIR" **