Archive for the Narcissisim Category

[I, Petunia] Not for sale; Decency II

Posted in Documentaries, Honesty, I Petunia, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Love Thy Fellow Man, MANNERS, Mockumentaries, Narcissisim, Non-Selective Empathy and Compassion, Petunia, Philosophy?, Regretful Human Behavior, Thoughts with tags on July 20, 2013 by Admin

A work of fiction, by Petunia Jablonsky, to be presented in serial format, a few sentences or paragraphs whenever… our attitude is the difference between an ordeal and an adventure.

 “The important thing is to write and to keep writing…for when you start you won’t stop until your story has been told, and you never know what you might find along the way, or at the end. You have a gift. Certainly all the money stolen from you — from “family” no less, and including the man you’d called “dad” who kept the money your Grammie left for you, excusing it by saying, “I’m keeping that money; I earned it by being stuck with a sick woman all my life”, and the brother you’d always protected and who’d stolen well over half a million dollars for you because his life is devoid of the things that matter more than money” — means you bought and paid for these stories, so write them and don’t stop for a minute. Do not edit, do not re-read, just write forward and never look back” 

I, Petunia, often think of the good times, the hilarious times, the great times, regarding both of these aforementioned situations and peoples.

When we first met at the wedding of a friend we clicked immediately, in a good way and a true way, not a heat-driven or cheap way. We laughed and danced and smiled and laughed again. I left with him and his friends, a hilarious couple, all of us exuberant and unwilling to let the evening end, and my friend K drove back alone, without minding or worrying, as these were all friends of friends. On the way to an after party of some unknown shape or destination they suddenly pulled over to the side and so we pulled over behind them. They got out, so we followed suit. We all looked at each other, still laughing, not knowing or caring why we’d stopped, and because our radio was blasting Brick House we all began to dance on the sidewalk as cars drove by honking and staring. After a few minutes of this we all, without a word, got into our two respective cars and simply resumed the drive as a mini convoy, still laughing. The days that followed were heady, hilarious, epic, swoonful.

I digress… I promised to just write and write and this is easy for me as I, Petunia, do not write so much as let my three typing fingers do their jerry-rigged thing, loudly as I am often told, on the keypad. There never seems to be any communication between mind and fingers; they just go, seemingly of their own accord. After years of promising that today is the day I will get back to my blog, I, Petunia, have begun, and I will honor that promise and neither rein in my fingers or look back. Editing is not an option.

… So, according to the 48 year-old ex-brother (8 years older now than in the title of that aforementioned Steve Carell movie that I shamefully snickered about)  who, until he got the/our father, incapacitated by stroke, (it was in the newspaper, as such things are) to sign over the house that the martyr already half-owned in addition to his half-ownership of all the bank accounts and funds (he is not very bright but he is crafty. My mistake was never seeing the crafty side and believing a diligent church-goer would never lie, steal, or chat) by way of legal maneuvering,  was reportedly couch-surging, yet I always had my hand out. And he finished that fabrication up with, “Ya know?”, as if anyone “knew”, or would ever believe that I was anything other than what they knew me to be, and saw for themselves, all along.

I get reports from… let’s see.. (counting), 5 states. I pretty much hear most of they say, though they likely believe I am universally ostracized as the results of their efforts toward that end; that the wife is “openly-loathed” to the south and “barely tolerated” to the north; that her husband, my ex-father, is not allowed private conversations and she is often on the other line listening; and that of all the family friends who’d loved my mother (may she RIP, and who would be utterly-appalled at all that has transpired since her passing), and who’d attended her funeral and wake and all the parties over the years that only 2 friends and 3 relatives were at the wedding. The Mole (the new “stepmother”, who the martyr had once called a golddigger, pushy, manipulative, and not at all a nice person) calls herself a widow, but sometimes, after her 4th or 5th drink, she refers to her deceased husband as her “ex”. Once friends of mine had offered to pay for a private investigator, sure that something other than a lie about widowhood would turn up about the woman whose being made the hair on my arms stand up from the first meeting when she’d smirked at me upon introduction, but I declined. It doesn’t matter any more. Or maybe some day I will accept. I prize my clean conscience above all for I, Petunia, cherish my untainted integrity above all. Money can’t buy shit, beyond material things.

“Oh, he (the martyr) stays at the house when they let him and sometimes he stays at her place” (her being The Mole; the misogynist new wife and perhaps, hilariously, my stepmother, who once followed me to a place out of earshot and asked, faux innocently, if I saw a dermatologist for the “rosacea” that I had no idea that I was burdened with, and them smirked at my shocked expression) — “he just flits about. The two of them are thick as thieves, always giggling over things and buying each other gifts for each others’ homes (this from back when he had a home, where he paid actual rent, rather than sponging) and talking decorating, like a couple of old queens”.

A hilarious, and highly ambitious, lie, that of me having my hand out, considering the source and considering that I have supported myself all my life, in my own apartments, since I graduated from high school, including paying my entire college tuition and rent at the same time, working two jobs till I cut down to one at age 35 which is, coincidentally,  the age at which he finally moved to his own apartment, after finally growing tired, in his own words, of his friends calling him a “Mama’s boy”.

At around this same time he began his scheming with the estate lawyer — “I can take a day off work and drive out from Boston to go to the meetings if you like. But I have already used all my days watching mom while you and dad took vacations so if you don’t need me then I won’t bother. I trust you“. Fucking hilarious last words, now — to not only get the big prize, the house, but also to get every penny meant for me.

“Mom always made the shittiest steaks. They were so thin and tough.”

“WHAT?  The Martyr, can you possibly not know how poor we were? Did you think the whole, “Hey! Let’s have breakfast for dinner” thing was because pancakes from a ready-made mix with fake syrup were so delicious and healthy? Why do you think dad always worked two jobs and we didn’t eat in restaurants and every vacation was spent in tents a short drive away? Do you not remember all the talk of medical bills killing us and being why Grammie and Grampie slipped mom money, because dad was too proud, then, so he said, to take their money? Were you that self-absorbed?”

The Martyr is a bit obtuse and self-occupied, but I guess I don’t blame him. I will get to the why of all this.

One night, late…

“Dad, can I talk to you? I am wondering if you can maybe tone down all the talk of ____’s kids living in McMansions (my word/take, given the size of the houses as compared to the little lots they were built on) and making so much money? The Martyr has told me that is greatly upsets him and makes him feel like a failure so I am wondering if, for his sake, you can sorta tone it down. He has talked to me about this and so I am asking you on his behalf. He is very sensitive, as you know.

Also, WHY don’t parents ever brag about how their kids turned out to be such kind people, or brag about the volunteer work they do? Remember the time Nate (not my older brother’s real name, may he RIP) came to you and suggested that you become a contractor since you do construction in your part time anyway, and because you would make so much more money? You blew up at him, you were so very angry at that, and lectured him on how money is not as important as doing what you love, and how you love teaching so much regardless of what it pays and will never worship at the altar of money. I totally do not get how that aligns with all the mentions of whose kids are making the most money and what fancy material things they have, as if you are in awe of that.”

“Dad, can I talk to you? The martyr is freaking out because you are suddenly using The Mole’s name in every sentence and he is having trouble adjusting to the fact that you are dating someone other than mom. Can you just try to sort of ease him into the situation? I have no issue with this woman and look forward to meeting her — and my philosophy is the more the merrier — but TM is freaking. He is till not over mom’s death so maybe just try to be cognizant of that and try to scale it down? there is nothing wrong with it and we all do it but in this case it is causing him to jump up and run out of the room a lot, lip trembling. Could you do that?”

NEXT: THE “HILARIOUS’ JOKES ABOUT THE FUNERAL PLOTS, AND MORE…

I, Petunia, will be back.Every day, as promised to my therapist, whom I will call Theresa, bc she has been my Mother Theresa.

PIXY103.com

[I, Petunia] Not for sale; Decency

Posted in Communication, Confusion, Fellow Human Beings, Honesty, I Petunia, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Love Thy Fellow Man, MANNERS, Narcissisim, Petunia, Philosophy?, Regretful Human Behavior, Schemes, The meaning of life with tags on July 19, 2013 by Admin

A work of fiction, by Petunia Jablonsky, to be presented in serial format, a few sentences or paragraphs whenever… our attitude is the difference between an ordeal and an adventure.

I, Petunia, am not angry. I no longer feel anger, at anything; I am angered out and logic has prevailed. I am flattered in some cases and proud in others. The common denominator of what I, Petunia, feel is pity. I am absolutely content. I always survive. I have me to thank for being that smart, that logical, that strong, and I am that grateful for these gifts such that all I can muster is pity.

They say we teach others how to treat us, that we seek that is what is most familiar, that the first 3 months of a person’s life are the most important in terms of early childhood development, that we make our beds. I, Petunia, believe all of this. I believe I am the common denominator of all interactions i have in life and thus I merit some responsibility for my part in them. I did not choose my adoptive family but I did choose my partners in life and I taught them how to treat me. Once I realized this I set about changing. I’d always been working toward change, struggling to evolve, but it often seemed like shoveling against the tide. Sometimes if you cannot beat the mouse infestation you need to burn down the barn. My barn was burned down when I was robbed, emotionally beaten, and left for dead. It took a complete breakdown to rebuild where effecting change was unsuccessful. Thus, I would not change a thing that has ever happened to me and with me, because it is how I got here — to complete contentment, however modest.

“She always had her hand out”, explained my ex-brother regarding my years-long absence to one of our relatives in the state to the north, who listened and nodded, filing this tidbit away so as to tell me later.

greedIt was an absolute and absurd lie as he, the ex-brother, the “martyr”, had schemed and plotted over a decade or so to steal my inheritance because, as he’d reminded our entire family ad nauseum since the day he arrived as an inexplicably grasping, greedy, and sad infant, that he was “the good one”. He got off on being “the good one” as he had an empty life and so money and material gain, the reward of attaining all of these empty means, became both void-filler and lover of sorts. I used to be angry about it but after many years of rumination could muster only pity, though there was a time when I was all too aware of the fact that his daily walk from home to office meant having to walk past the huge marquee announcing the movie, “The Forty Year-Old Virgin”, during it’s run at the little theater downtown. Now I feel shame for snickering at that, and can muster only pity.

I’d never coveted money — preferring to spectate as others shamelessly and transparently fall all over each other, selling their souls and yet believing themselves absolved by way of a weekly trip to church or whatever justification they fabricate — and had let this happen while never believing it could happen, just as I had politely turned down the lawyer who had insisted I sue another ex, the sole ex boyfriend (of a list I can count on one hand) with whom I am no longer friends, for Malicious Prosecution, after he’d unsuccessfully sued me (not his first or last visit to that rodeo) in a case the judge had thrown out while shaming the DA for even daring to present such a travesty in an actual courtroom, though it had cost me $4800 to hire a dense lawyer; a criminal defense lawyer at that.

Lrainater I was told that the window clerk who’d allowed the bitter ex to even file the criminal complaint — an expansive and sad girl “not impervious to flirtation” — had been reprimanded, as had the clerk of courts who’d nervously allowed this farce to proceed from complaint to trial, and the DA who’d blushed when the judge had forced him to repeat the charges aloud, so as to emphasize the taint now blighting his career record.  The judge had later insinuated that he might feel inclined to award treble damages should I wish to pursue damages for the time and money I’d spent, but I declined, finding the idea unseemly.

220px-40-Year-OldVirginMoviePoster

I’ve forgiven both exes since, on my own and in lieu of any sort of apology or reparation though I have reached out and provided the opportunity, and have unloaded that baggage in a metaphorical dumpster, content to have my integrity intact, yet I feel the stories are forever mine to tell, as I am a fictional character and this, of course, is a fictional tale…

It was 2 am as my dog and I walked the dark mountain road through a monsoon reminiscent of the ones Tony and I had experienced in Chaing Mai, with rain of the sort that was not made of raindrops and did not fall, but rather drove and it pounded in sheets,  punctuated by thunder and frequent lightning which seemed to hit the ground dangerously close, and we were terrified. A car rolled up and I heard my name…

THE KEVIN SERIES: American Kevinstand

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Exhibits, Important Social Issues, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Love Thy Fellow Man, Narcissisim, Obsessions, Philosophy?, Photoshopping Kevin, Popular Culture, Profiling, Science?, Special People, The meaning of life with tags on November 26, 2012 by Admin

Kevin’s wife Juli is my biggest supporter.

THE KEVIN SERIES: Intricate Polychromatic Art Speak for Incongruous Fun Torturing Kevin

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Being a Virgo, Communication, Confusion, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Narcissisim, Pest Control, Philosophy?, Photoshopping Kevin, Special People, The meaning of life, The Process of Art, Therapy, Thoughts with tags on November 26, 2012 by Admin

An old image I found years ago:

which was then modified for an old blog post:
https://benigngirl.wordpress.com/2008/04/05/intricate-polychromatic-art-speak-for-incongruous-fun-and-conflative-prophet/

recycled for THE KEVIN SERIES.

THE KEVIN SERIES: Dissecting The Projectile Photshopping Opus Of My Muse, Kevin

Posted in Activism?, Adventures and Interludes, Being a Virgo, Communication, Confusion, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Literary, Narcissisim, Pest Control, Philosophy?, Photoshopping Kevin, Special People, The meaning of life, The Process of Art, Therapy, Thoughts with tags on November 26, 2012 by Admin

This is part of a new series I have only just realized I have been working on for days and which I shall post here as both intellectual fluff and bloggerly filler, as I slowly find my way past the crushing pain (I live with NINE herniated disks/sheer pain, daily) and back to the habitualities of blogging regularly.

This blog has been untended for some time yet I realize that with this sort of Spy vs. Spy relationship I have going on Facebook with my pal Kevin, I have created a series of artwork which should be shared with all, for Kevin says and does the craziest things.

After a grueling day spent posting about politics (which hurts my head, even to simply post that which I have observed, for posteriority) my brain needed an exorcism of sorts and so I made ART. I have a new muse, Kevin who, much like Dwight Shrute, is a farmer. Kevin is my muse. Kevin pretends to me angry about this, he rants, he raves, he threatens, and yet if I miss a day he starts baiting me which I smartishly recognize as begging for more.

Also, this is how my brain works:

And so, I present the new and ongoing series (until I become apathetic), Photoshopping Kevin. It begins with random photos stumbled upon in the interwebs and takes on a life of it’s own. So each opus shall include the before image.

I call this one, Dissecting the Projectile Photoshopping Opus Of My Muse, Kevin, With Identities Blurred.

Before:

After:

Suisse Miss Meltdowns, Adventures, and Garlicky WTFs?

Posted in Communication, Confusion, Home remedies, Learning Spanish, Life is like Christopher Guest said it was, Life Performance Art, Narcissisim, Philosophy?, The meaning of life, Therapy, Thoughts, Travel with tags , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2010 by Admin

Note: Since I can never finish anything here, so it seems, I am just going to hit publish for this mess, and update it regularly. So, MESS warning… I will fix this when I FINALLY have enough time to myself. Maybe tomorrow…

One walks through this fountain to get to the pool at lac de Geneve. We waded through, but swam only in the lac.

So, today I snapped.

The ridiculously tiny shorts I was given/circumstantially-forced to wear while awaiting the arrival of my equipage, a day later, after my day late arrival. From the closet of a 16 year-old girl. Ridiculous at my age.

I partially melt down, here and there, because there is so little that is easy, comfortable, or painless, though everything is beautiful, glorious, exotic; a roller coaster adventure in Nounou-ism, de la maison et le chien, en Suisse. It took me days to figure out how to use my mobile phone because it is in French, and it navigates counter-intuitively, like the Blackberry I tried for two days and returned. After taking a picture of the washing machine dials and then sending them to a friend who is fluent in German, I finally did a proper load of laundry.

We had dinner in Carouge on the night of the world cup and when we found that Spain was a point away from the inevitable mayhem regardless of who won we scram-aised. But only after a feast of gastronmie galore.

But I exaggerate only un peu; mostly it is Shangri-la here. I made a new song last night — when I had a meltdown-ette over the big, BIG, inexplicably huge and very loud, frog that now lives in my house; the tick I stunned with dissolvant (nail polish remover) and wrenched from Leon’s face; the giant hornet in the house which sounded like a helicopter; the broken ‘Insekt Tenschroter’, which means I now cannot kill the bugs and hear the popping sounds when they explode anymore (one of my favorite sounds); the big FROG in the house, redundantly rattling around somewhere in the pots and pans; the screaming cat who won’t eat her food… and etc —  so my song, “I’m fou-uuuuu, fou for feeling so blue…uuue.” sung to Patsy Cline’s ‘Crazy’. Fou is crazy, in French. I am not really blue, just at times overwhelmed about everything that prevents me from getting sufficient rest.

Smoked salmon with dill, Shrimp salad, terrine, avocado, melon with port wine (which was the simple surprise gastronomie) and more.

Today I receive hope for all good times and no more discomfort, from the stars:
Hi Mo! Here is your Daily Horoscope for Tuesday, July 13
You’re feeling a little overwhelmed with all the crazy action going on around you, but there’s good news as well: you’re reaching the climax of this insane time. Things should be settled by tomorrow.

On the way to the BBQin Gruyere, in those Alps, we passed this chapel of indecision or whatever it is. the Alps were spelndiferous! I was floored.

Adrianna, Creo que puedo encontrar la manera de llegar a mi casa desde aquí, así que está bien si usted desea ir a su casa desde aquí. Voy por mi cuenta. No quiero que usted tenga que caminar padre que es necesario porque hace mucho calor y una tormenta está llegando ahora. Eres tan dulce. Le doy las gracias por ayudarme. Estaré encantado de verte el sábado o el domingo, cuando próxima vez que vengas.

translation: –> “Adrianna, I think I can find how to get to my house from here so it is fine if you wish to go to your home from here. I go by myself. I do not want you to have to walk father than is necessary because it is very hot and a storm is arriving now. You are so very sweet. I thank you for helping me. I will be happy to see you on Saturday or Sunday when next you come.”– my note to the housekeeper, who helped me find the market, for the first time, after weeks of “going” there every day to get food.

I take a lot of pictures of fowers here. I envy them for being able to be outside yet not being covere with bites. I am being irrational and elusional. A sign of bug poisoning, so they say.

It had all been leading to this juncture in the journey. Fortunately no one I knew was there to see it, well, except Adrianna, but she was not entirely listening and she does not speak English. (I didn’t actually yell any of this, I internally-musttered [love that typo! Mustered + muttered; keeping it] it, but for the sake of this post let’s say I quite firmly spewed it). <– Oh, the tangled grammatical webs we weave, when at first we set out to… relieve….? (what? my conscience? MY God says it is not so much a bad word, but rather a word that means, “exponentially, whatever I just said, like, to the
googol (aka, ten duotrigintillion, which is how many mosquito bites I have, to date, more or less, which the garlic tablets, evidently made of gold, are for)”, though it does have a naughty, naughty, angry sound. I mean it endearingly and frustratingly, and not literally.

The chalet in Gruyere, where we went to the BBQ.

And then, everything was fine. Hilarious even. The calm after the storm. By the way, a real weather storm is moving in and I am la-de-da-lighted! It is finally cool! I am comfortable! I am wearing jeans! socks! and even my Bearded Lady Piercings Sweatshirt! I made her a blog in exchange for swag, which is now the property of a few Genevans, and they will now send in photos of themselves wearing them in Columbia, Paris, and wherever they go, as a favor to me, because I talked my amiee Amiee (the Bearded Lady) into this blog, saying of course people will come and comment and send in their pictures! I digress a lot.

My favorite photo at lac de Geneve. I made certain to try not to accidentally capture any speedos.

Anywho, the breaking point for me was, “Eighteen Fucking Francs for Garlic Tablets?! 50 FUCKING garlic tablets? For… 18 fucking francs!? FUCKING FRANCS!? GARLIC FUCKING TABLETS? CHINGANTE TABLETAS DE AJO? Putain 18 francs pour les comprimés d’ail!?” (I had made my shopping list in both Spanish and English, as Adriana helped me shop today. Usually I make it in English and French, but then, I come home empty-handed as I rarely actually find the market). As opposed to… whatever!? It – the opposite of anything — does not need any opposition; it is my illogical, ludicrous, POO TO THE GAZILLIONTH, Naughty Swiss Miss MELTDOWN. I forget what I am saying. I am losing it, un peu, a veces. Soon I will be staying at Belle Idée (Hôpital for Adultes Difficulté Sociale et Psychologique)!

Sunset in Confignon, at the end of the Alp-ian BQ day.

I am not even certain off the top of my imploded head what a franc equals in American money; I just know that my entire groceries — including pate de whateverthefancyfuckingshmancykindofmushrooms that I had just bought — cost 70 francs, and NOW the pharmacist with her poo of english (“peu” is little, and is actually pronounced “pueh”, like a short burst of garlic breath. When I asked if she parlez vous anglais she replied, “un peu”. My french = 1/2 a poo, literally, and one of my pet peeves is how people say “literally” when they mean “actually”, so when I say “literally”, I generally mean literally, but all’s fair in an actual meltdown. I might not even be spelling peu correctly but at this point I am on a roll and will NOT stop to look it up. I am sicksicksick and tiredtiredtired of looking everything up. THIS is a meltdown; THIS is a situation we have here), sigh I no longer have any idea what to do to complete that pile of illiterate lint/”sentence”, with all it’s horrible, jaunty grammar; a reckless disregard for the structure and formality of language, and I am languaged-out. I lost that one. I have lost a lot lately; pints of blood, my way, the ability to sleep well, the ability to do laundry, the ability to figure out how to use my mobile phone…

Walking back to my Fiat Punto HSD, after dinner with Claudia in the old town of Geneve, at Malakoffs. I Genevois-ian had escargot.

So, to start at the very beginning (“a very good plaaaaace to start….”, a la Doris Day, which I am singing aloud as I type (have I mentioned that this is really a meltdown?). BTW, I know every word to every song on that album. IN ENGLISH.

The clouds over lac de Geneve, approx 7 PM.

Oh, and then the pharmacist said, sweetly, helpfully, “You take two tablets, three times a day!”

WTF?! I can do that math and it means I will be spending more on garlic tablets than pate during my month here.

So back to go, (or, Doh! — a deer)… Today I arranged for Adrianna (the housekeeper here) to go to the market with me, and to only do a perfunctory job of cleaning the house, because every day I take my Fiat Punto HSD out to find places and I circle endlessly till I get home, often empty-handed.

Oh, by the way, I am house and dog sitting in Switzerland. I don’t speak French. I speak some Spanish and am fluent in English, Spanglish, and jaunty grammar. I am in Loëx (pronounced Looh-AH), population 48 + me, and likely 4 dozen illegitimate puppies fathered by the unfixed, randy, Leon, but we’ll get to THAT part of the meltdown later.

My view from the front yard,the 'Lignon' of Geneve. From the back yard is all farms and vineyards and cows.

Sweet, sweet neighbor cows, whose bells I hear tinkling all day and all night.

I was (e-motion-ally) sick of driving in circles and sick of craps (the crepes I taught myself to make, which are actually pronounced sorta like that) and of living off the eggs from the hens and whatever I can pick from the gardens, so, as Adrianna comes on Mondays, I arranged for her to have a field trip with me as opposed to actual cleaning, and of course she agreed, she is being paid. Mutually advantageous. I think at first she was not terribly psyched as she was on her cell phone while she swept and mopped and I could swear I heard, “Americana Estupida”, followed by giggles, but I have learned to enjoy being paranoid here and as I call myself that, she is free to do so as well, with my blessing. Fair is fair. I love Adrianna. I look forward to Mondays.

The boats - none of which are mine - at lac de Geneve.

We got in the car to go and at first it was awkward; I had only spoken a few paragraphs to her over the last 2 weeks and I am not exactly sure what tenses I had used and what I had said. I believe I said most things correctly but I might have skipped around tense-wise. I might have even said, “I am going to be so hungry last week so I thought I would have needed more food for my tomorrow day, and some killing things for the very evil swimming, which I had liked to have swum in yesteryear, which is part of the razor why I come here and kill mosquitoes, as well as grand batteries for my tenshooter.”

Gruyere, what a delight, especially to buy fresh local gruyere cheese and double cream for my crazy-strong morning coffee!

I have a tennis racket thingie that they gave me which is a bug electrocutioning thing and it says, “Electrk Tenschroter” on it. Swear. True, that. My favorite sound here — over the constant tinkling of the bells which the oh-so-sweet cows in the yard wear; over the myriad birds, including the one who does a wolf whistle, even when I am not in my bathing suit, every day; over the roosters; over the hens that make a sound like they are laughing hysterically at me when I tiptoe into the henhouse; over the crows that sound like horses whinnying; over the actual horses that go by, authentically whinnying; over the wind flowing through the wall of bamboo between my front terrace and the trail beside which I live, which so happily reminds me of riding an elephant in Chaing Mai in August of 1996 — as I have developed a bloodlust for revenge.

Posters, as you enter the part of lac de Geneve with the bathouses.

In actuality, I only have 200 or so bites. They hurt like bee stings when they happen. They then spontaneously combust into bleeding scabs. The crows have it wrong; I don’t look haute in my bathing suit, I look ravaged. Some of you have seen the pictures I sent privately. I’ll NOT be posting those. Many people can attest that any comment like, “Oh, they love me too!”, would be insensitive and irrelevant at this point. Anja – the woman who owns the house with her husband — presented me to the chemist the second day I was here, who Frenchly gasped. Aloud. And gave me sprays and lotions. It took only one day (in the Alps, I am actually having the time of my life) to get over 100 bites. Chemists/Pharmacists here seem to be mainly female, in my limited experience.

More posters

I had accepted this gig thinking many things, one being that I would swim in the pool every day. But it has since been abandoned and is now symbolic of my pain. It is very very hot here, we do NOT get a breeze from the Rhone which is like 50 feet away, and the pool sits rottingly, stagnant, full of standing water, where the “mozzies” breed like uber-bunnies. There is also a pond where they breed, which is fittingly Estanque, in Spanish. There are also no screens but for two of the windows in the entire house. There is also no air conditioning. No fan. Nada, zip. They are in the habit of leaving the door open all day to go in and out and to also let Leon — the swiss chocolate lab I am responsible for — in and out as is his wont or whim. Inside there are almost as many bugs as outside. I battle them. I had cleared out the house for the most part, with great effort, and then Anja’s teenage daughter came by to get some things and… left the door open. I almost sobbed.

Foreshadowing...

So I have been waging an heroic war against the mozzies. I wear bug spray all the time and constantly refresh it. I take shots of apple cider vinegar as often as I can override my gag reflex, to change my PH balance. I have made traps in and out of the house out of two-liter plastic bottles so they go to lay eggs and die. I pick fresh rosemary from the gardens and boil it into a tea, and then soak in it. I spray every drop of standing water in the house with bleach and water. I make traps of vinegar, covered with foil, with a tiny puncture and they go in and die. I put antihistamine on the bites and never, ever, scratch. I keep all windows but for the two with screens shut tightly. I cover all empty wine bottles with foil with a single puncture so they also go in and die. I put tablets in the stagnant pool to kill them and stop the breeding. I wear a vitamin B1 anti-mozzie patch. I soak in baking soda and ginger powder to remove the toxins from the DEET and reduce the swelling. I mix pure Calendula with moisturizer lotion and slather myself till they fairly drown on my skin. I wield my Tenschroter and delight in the ZAP! which means they are fried. Before bed, I go around the house turning on the lights and then kill anything that gathers and/or moves around the lights or anywhere. I keep a double-broiler on the stove all day long, keeping honey-vinegar-water warm, with that aluminum foil with that good ole puncture in it so they go in and…die! And I take million-dollar garlic tablets.

A house in Fribourg with a painting on the outside.

So today Adrianna and I went off to the market! On the way there I gained courage, lost stage fright, and after a while we were chatting — me mimicking bilinguality — and she began to laugh with me, a sign to me of success with a foreign language. We combed the stores for tablets to put in the pond (Estanque, in Spanish, coincidentally, redundantly) which is safe for pets and fishes but kills mozzies and their eggs, to no avail. We scoured stores for gluten-free foods. We made fun of pissy salespeople. We had a lot of fun actually!

Watching planes land from my back garden at 1030 pm

And then I felt bad because a storm was coming in and while she had offered to accompany me back to my casa, I did not want her to then walk farther than usual to get to her home in the city. So I said I am certain I can find my way home. I insisted she go home from there. She said, “Remember, to get home you just keep turning right; Derecha, derecha, derecha!” and I said, yes, I CAN do it! I will do it! and we kissed cheeks three times, as one must in Suisse, she left to wait for her bus.

This guy seriously passed us in Fribourg (land of the free).

So I drove home, turning right, and right and right, and then I was back at The Coop! I giggled, thinking Adrianna can likely see me from her bus stop and is likely thinking again, ‘Americana Estupida’!, and I quite delighted of that image. So I tried again, driving around the impossibly narrow swiss roads, grinning in the aftermath of my garlic tablet meltdown, and even laughing aloud, and again, I found myself at… The Coop! At the third arrival at The Coop, I was hysterical. On the fourth try I found myself on a dead-end street at which I often find myself, so I pulled a now-habitual, highly illegal U-turn and then, I noticed a car also U-Turning. I kept trying different streets and everywhere I went, this car was behind me. I studied the occupants, at a red light, in my rear-view espejo and they were two men in white shirts. I wondered if they had matching pants

We crossed lac de Fribourg on a viaduct.

Earlier I had said to Adrianna, in Spanish, “As I drive around in circles each day, talking aloud to myself in Francaislish, I often wonder if one day they will take me to Belle-idée!”, at which she looked at me to see if I knew what I doth said, and then she laughed and laughed. Belle-idée is a mixed-use geriatric and psychiatric hospital in Geneva. ;-)

The men in white shirts following me in endless circles looked young and clean-cut, so I pondered if they might be Jehova’s Witnesses. But they both had such a mad and intent grin on their faces that it reminded me of the creepy cover of an issue of Wallpaper I had at home.

So they keep following me and I keep over-imagining paranoid scenarios. It hits me that they are probably Scientologists! Because of course I have failed their usual, handy-dandy, “personality” tests which they give to potential converts, as reason to tithe away all their future earnings, and now I am hysterically laughing-afraid. So now I start turning only left (“Be like a Marxist, if you keep turning left all the time, you will find the market”, Claudia had advised me on my first day driving here) and they do as well. Finally I lose them, I find my house, and just get inside in time to beat the storm, only to find that the wind had blown my last roll of papel de toilette into the toilet; the one thing on my spanglish shopping list which I had failed to purchase. I can not even accomplish a shopping list with a minder in tow to care for me.

The better option I wore to the BQ in Gruyere which might have looked more dignified with real underthings, rather than the borrowed pink thong.

The better option I wore to the BBQ in Gruyere which might have looked more dignified with real underthings, rather than the borrowed pink thong. With a bow. Thong. At this age. Bow. Pink. 46.

En route (literally. HA! Get it? PET PEEVE: Whenpeople say

Ok, I am off to get lost in my Fiat Punto and eventually find the Pharmacie in Old Town, and get some Caladium Segium pills which Claudia has them holding for me – the only batch they have — which her co-workers say I must have, after she told them, “I have NEVER seen anything like it; the way the bugs attack Mo, you should SEE her”…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Flowers of the Alps

Fribourg, Bulla line. Stop and smell the prayers along the way.

And smell the Lacs along the way. Oui.

Le mépris Condensée/The Condensed Contempt

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, Confusion, Literary, Narcissisim, Obsessions, Philosophy?, Poetry, The meaning of life on January 26, 2010 by Admin

I watched Contemp, so you don’t have to.

Contempt (French: Le Mépris) is a 1963 film directed by Jean-Luc Godard, based on the Italian novel Il disprezzo (1954) by Alberto Moravia. It stars Brigitte Bardot.

Le Mépris

American film producer Jeremy Prokosch ((image below, in red convertible, looking smarmy) Jack Palance) hires respected Austrian director Fritz Lang (Above, right: playing himself) to direct a film adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey. Dissatisfied with Lang’s treatment of the material as an art film, Prokosch hires Paul Javal (Above, middle: played by Michel Piccoli), a novelist and playwright, to rework the script. The conflict between artistic expression and commercial opportunity parallels Paul’s sudden estrangement from his wife Camille Javal (Above, left: played by Brigitte Bardot), who becomes aloof with Paul after being left alone with Prokosch, a millionaire playboy.


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