Tag Archives: Family

Dating Sucks.

Posted on by Standard 9

Recently, I went on a date. This isn’t all that newsworthy, except that I ventured a little out of my comfort zone, and went out with someone who has an upper-class career,

This is a little crass, but frankly, I totally felt this way. I'm now the slummee that Slummer's go slumming for!!!

This is a little crass, but frankly, I totally felt this way. I’m now the slummee that Slummer’s go slumming for!!!

and the pricey perks that go with it. We occasionally do business with each other from time to time, and we’ve always gotten along fine for the whopping 15 minutes we’ve been in each other’s company. Of course, when he asked me out, which I did not see coming, I suddenly lost my ability to look him in the eye, and my voice got about 709 octaves higher. I’m sure at one point, only dogs could hear me when I spoke. :-) There’s something about being right there engaged with someone who is dressed better, driving a better car, and probably didn’t even look at the prices on the menu, that made me feel poverty stricken. I suspected he didn’t want to drive the fancy car to my apartment because he didn’t want a car-jacking to spoil our evening, but the truth of the matter was, it was my idea to meet him somewhere. See what I mean? A poor guy driving a 1985 Ford Pick-Up truck that backfires every 3rd mile wouldn’t have had his motives scrutinized so carefully. I felt…. poor. And not just the regular, “no-money” poor either. Nope. Poor like “you-should-have-made-better-choices-like-me-and-everyone-I-know” kind of poor.

Note: He did NOT do this on purpose, for the record…this was all me.

I make a lot of jokes about living at The 61 ghetto of south Tulsa, but until that one dinner date, I never really felt like I could be described as “ghetto”. Compared to him, I felt like a gangsta. If I ever go on a date with someone from that side of the tracks again, I’m going to embrace my inner gansta and dress like I’m working the street corner of Peoria and 61st street. It couldn’t be worse than this was!!

Johnny, as we’ll call him here (Warbucks…lol) went out of his way to either pretend he couldn’t tell I was a nervous mess dressed in the best Target had to offer, or maybe all the dogs barking when I talked was distracting him. All I know is that when I’m nervous, I tend to make jokes and giggle nervously. Maybe that crap was cute when I was eight, but at 44.9999 years old, it’s just plain humiliating. I’m sure he was wondering how this girl he’s been seeing off and on through his office for a while now suddenly became a weirdo dog whisperer, randomly trying to hide little outbursts of nervous laughter, and hiding behind her hair like Cousin It…

What was I laughing about, you ask?

Yeah. Only poor people say stuff like this...LOL!

Yeah. Only poor people say stuff like this…LOL!

All night, I kept wondering if I was on a date with a guy who was technically “slumming it”!! I think by all measurable standards, he was!! I’m poor, living in the Slums of Tulsa, and he is not. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only without the happy ending, if you know what I mean. Only all night, I felt like Julia would have if she’d had to wear those thigh-high boots, skanky white top, and horrible blonde wig the entire week.

I did not like my date. Poor Johnny! He was so nice, but he did NOT get my humor at all. I certainly did not tell him what I was laughing at, and there was just nothing going on that I could say was funny at all. Maybe he thought I was laughing at him!! He probably is still trying to figure out what the hell!!

It made me laugh the entire week, and not nervously either. I think I might be a little bit of a snob! I have no idea why it made me laugh that much and that long, but I’m pretty sure Johnny won’t be driving through my parking lot in a limo with flowers any time soon!

I freaking hate dating. I really do.

– Bird

Three Days in Never Never Land

Posted on by Standard 9

judgeOkay. I’d like to clarify something. Saturday, I received a call from Chef saying he had been released until Tuesday, at which time, he was to report to the VA to be entered in to rehab. For about 4 hours, I refused to answer his calls/texts. I had his wallet and telephone, so he basically had no identity and no one else’s phone numbers. :-) I found out from the hospital that he’d been released, but nothing more, and of course, I immediately assumed the worst. Finally, after hours and hours, I gave in, picked up Chef, and demanded he show me in black and white that he had not just signed himself out. When he did, I shot him a quick apology, and then lectured him on the consequences that come from lying through his teeth to me for over a year. And some of you thought Chef was lucky still have me…tsk, tsk. I’m not so sure my help is worth it to the poor guy. Everything he says or does is run through this mental “How will he hurt me this time” filter I’ve erected around me, and that is just making me feel awful.

Tonight, he and I attended a Celebrate Recovery meeting, and he gave his life to the Lord. I am happy he did this while sober, but again,wndy that B******t Filter kicked in, and I have a wait-and-see attitude. I just hate myself for that. I really do, but I’ve just seen too much when it comes to him. Still, I think God takes those prayers seriously even if the pray-er doesn’t, and I’m resting assured, God can handle His business with Chef.

What I’m learning this last few days, though, is rather humorous. First of all, the do-or-die junkie life is a whole culture unto itself. Don’t get me wrong. There are addicts on every rung of the financial ladder. I’m a firm believer that Bill Clinton did indeed inhale, probably more than once. Personally, I have mad respect for people who tell the embarrassing truth. I’d have been blown away by the guy if he’s have looked at the camera and said, “Hell, yes, I smoked a bowl!! You trying doing this job and then come back and tell me you couldn’t use a little dubage, smart-a**!!”  He, and others like him, would be what I would call high-functioning addicts. They keep jobs, are able to restrain themselves from spending the mortgage money on dope, and maintain a flimsy bit of control over the drug of their choice.

bed and breakfastI’m not talking about the high-function-ers. I’m talking about the people who move past being recreational users, sail by the drug abuse category, slip past the high-functioning crowd,  and crash-land into being completely lost in their addictions.

These lost people always make me think of a warped Peter Pan & the Lost Boys, with Bernice in the role of a deprived, evil little Tinkerbell. The little set that hail Chef as their Peter Pan are a rough little lot. None of them have jobs, yet they seem to always have a way to pay for a date with Bernice. They move about town on foot, sad little clumps of humanity, each bearing the invisible stamp that marks them as the truly addicted. Each day seems to start off with a tally of Bernice-worthy possessions to sell in order to secure a date with her. This usually entails stealing….. from each other. There really is no honor among thieves!! Invariably, a skirmish will break out between members of the Bernice Fan Club, tempers will run high, and there’s always a ton of smack talking going on. Once money has been had, next comes tracking down the dealers. This is all too easy, in my opinion. Finally, Bernice will make her appearance, and everybody becomes friends again. It’s crazy.

Another thing that I’ve noticed is that each of the ones with a real address become host/hostess to a kind of whacked-out  Bed & Breakfast. Wherever the motley little group lsdrun out of steam, and Bernice, is where they crash for some long needed sleep. The first time this happened at Chef’s house, I all but came unglued. I could just see the cops raiding his house, and Chef trying to convince the law that this twitchy group of misfits were just having a sleepover at a 55-year-old man’s house. I just don’t believe any cop is going to buy that, and given the ages of some of the girls, I’m inclined to think Chef could have bigger problems than Bernice if the law stopped in for a visit. Best to avoid giving the appearance of evil, I’m thinking.

The thing that just makes me shake my head is that they will text/call/drop by for a little chat at literally any hour of the day or night. Chef’s phone had gone off all night long those first couple of nights he was in the hospital. When I finally couldn’t t stand to hear that stupid Sons of Anarchy ringtone reminder go off, I got up and checked the phone, figuring there had to be an emergency or something for someone to be so very persistent. But, no.  Without fail, they all were the dumbest reasons to be texting someone at 3am. “Are you awake?”, “You up?”, “I’m at your house. You in there?” and my personal favorite, “This is Tiff. Remember me? Are you still going to buy me a new tire?” The first three I texted back, “No.” but the last one I just ignored. The next morning, Tire Tiffany, started calling and calling Chef’s phone at the un-Godly hour of 6 am and every 10 minutes again after that. Finally, I answered, grumpy from being woke up by Chef’s Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black ringtone. There’s no need to go into a lot of detail. Let’s just say, Tire Tiffany understands now that she won’t be getting a new tire from Chef and there are polite times to call  people and times that frankly, are dangerous to a person’s health, and should be avoided unless it is a dire emergency like bleeding from your eyes. I voiced my curiosity that Chef had promised to buy a tire for some random chick whose phone number he didn’t even have programmed in his cell or may have reason to not even remember of her existence.  But, as a member of Chef’s Lost Boy’s, Tire Tiffany didn’t seem to think this was odd at all. She’d given him a ride once, and he’d promised to buy her a new tire. I cancelled the verbal contract, and sent old Tire Tiffany on her way. Still,  I find it kind of sad.

I know that I’m sounding snobby, but that isn’t what I feel for these people at all. I know they are of equal value to God as much as anyone else. But given that I feel I’m engaged in a battle for Chef’s life, these people are his enemies, and I have to treat them a bit harshly at times in order to make my point clear — Chef isn’t going to be your Peter Pan much longer. If Chef should emerge from rehab and pick up where he left off, then I’ll dust my feet and walk away. But he will have this one chance.

I just wanted everyone to know what the circumstances were that made him leave, and what I’m learning about this weird drug sub-culture. I appreciate all the support we are receiving from you guys, and hopefully we’ll have even better news pretty soon!!

– Bird

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So, A Chef, His Wife, and His Girlfriend Walk Into A Rehab…

Posted on by Standard 32
everyone 2

Everything came to a head last night, and I’m sitting here both laughing and crying because I think that I can see an end of some sorts in sight now. A real end, this time.

Now we're gonna do it my way... :-)

Now we’re gonna do it my way… :-)

greenThis whole story began and has now ended, with a lie. A lie that is called meth. Meth promises its user an escape. And, like most of the promises from hell, it is seeded in the truth, but it is warped and twisted, deceptive, and evil. Meth makes you forget about your problems; it gives you some added strength to get things done (you think); it bestows a sense of happiness (ignorance), power (over absolutely nothing), and hope (in getting your next fix). And then, like only a true enemy can do, it seeps out of your body, taking with it all the gifts it had lent you, and leaving in its wake even more chaos, destruction, problems, and hopelessness than you had had before.

In October 2011, Chef had a friend die in a motorcycle accident. Chef had struggled with drug addiction as a younger man, and except for a brief skirmish with it when we first got together over 23 years ago, he had remained clean all these years. But coupled with some health issues, a midlife crisis, and a general dissatisfaction with his career choices, he succumbed to the temptation to just use a little pick-me-up to get him home from a very hard funeral. Unlike the first time, the drug took a firm hold on him almost immediately, and he was simply unable to stop.

All prayers are appreciated; so will the rehab.

All prayers are appreciated; so will the rehab.

Throughout the time since then, I’ve been completely dumbstruck by just how different the man seemed. While he had flaws all along, it was terrifying to see those same flaws turn so completely confuse themexaggerated. I’ve always thought that he was a bit selfish, but meth would take that flaw and magnify it out of all proportion, and some of the things that I watched this man do and some of the words that have come out of his mouth have left me struggling to comprehend how someone could ever justify it to themselves, no matter how strung out they were. I was even more dismayed when he completely stopped even bothering to justify himself to anyone at all anymore. Bernice was what Chef called meth, and the affair that Chef & Bernice had was tantamount to a very warped Gone With the Wind, with Chef announcing that as God as his witness, he’d never be sober again, and Bernice announcing that “Frankly, my dear Bird, I don’t give a damn”. Bernice ruled his every word, thought, and action, and over the year and half I watched them, I learned a great deal about the verse : Out of the heart, the mouth speaks. Every slimy, crappy, evil thing that can be laid up in a person’s heart came pouring out of Chef’s mouth, and after months of allowing it to hurt me, I was finally able to look Bernice in the eye and let her know, I’m on to you, beeotch. I see you. More importantly, God does too. It ain’t over till it”s over, babe.

The Bible tells us that God works all things to His good, and this story is no exception. Since the split up, T and I have come to understand, forgive, and then to work together, to try to help Chef. Where I came so close to hating this girl for the pain her part in all of this had inflicted on me and my family, I’ve now come to rely on her as a partner who cares about Chef too, and she’s been invaluable as another soldier in this war against this horrible drug called meth. It would seem that our efforts have finally paid off, and today I can happily and hopefully announce, Chef is in rehab!!!

shadow of deathAfter a particularly nasty week involving Chef, I had pretty much withdrawn from wanting to see, hear, or even think about, him at all. I had heard all the same rhetoric from him about getting the help he would need to stop a million times, and yet he’d never followed through. I’d already lived through his affair with T, and the roller coaster ride of him saying all the right things to people, including me, that we so wanted to hear, but yet were in direct conflict with what he told someone else. He would tell T she was the love of his life, then come to my apartment and call her names and say he was stuck but was trying to find a way to come home again to me, the only love of his life. But my hope in him had eventually withered away, and it had become much easier to accept that he was truly gone. The more I pulled away, the more he would fight to keep me. And he was doing the same to T. It would seem that once we were both gone, that would have left him truly alone and desperate enough to finally get the help he needed. Ah, but no. Instead, he started a relationship with Sassy (not her real name) the Drug Dealer, instead, and when I found out he was getting the crap for free from this winner, my head about exploded. At least T was clean, if naive. But a drug dealer for a girlfriend, though?

Over.My.Dead.Body.

If you read my last post, you know what my opinion of this person is, so I won’t bore you with all the details. Let’s just say that it took me about 4.2 minutes to trash that happy little budding romance, and I don’t feel a tad guilty about it. I know there are now a few human beings on earth that say my name with contempt, but frankly, I couldn’t care less. You mess with the bull, you get the horns, my friend.

Last night, I got a panicked message from Chef saying he was dying. I didn’t freak out or anything. He’s always telling me that. But this time, I felt like something was actuallyother white drug wrong, and I headed over to his house. After meth-induced psychosis drama, I was able to get his schizo butt to the hospital, and because of his suicide threats, I was able to get him committed involuntarily to treatment, for a whopping 3 days. Both T and I prayed, and held our breath to see what the psychiatrist would determine. If the psychiatrist recommended he stay longer, he would have to. Sure enough, he was told today that he’s in for the long-haul.

T and I are working frantically getting his home packed up and his affairs in order so that once clean, he can walk out of the doors to a well-managed, well-organized life that won’t overwhelm him. After speaking to him today, I feel even a little more hopeful since he sounded somewhat more like himself, and while sad and ashamed, he was able to crack a weak joke here and there. I feel a lot of sadness for him right now, knowing myself how hard it can be to laugh again. But he will.

In the meantime, Sassy has been broken up with via text message from Chef’s phone, kindly but firmly. I doubt ole Chef is going to thank me or T any time soon, but he did let Sassy down gently and kindly, yet firmly, thanks to T. :-) Today, another dealer and I came to an understanding about how things will be going down next time someone offers him a free date with Bernice. I figure by the time he gets out, T and I will have cleansed the leeches and junkies out of his life permanently. Man, I love technology…Thank you, Mr. Alexander Graham Bell!!

I want to ask everyone who prays if they would keep Chef in their prayers, and thank you all for hanging with me. Hopefully, we’ve finally arrived at how this story ends.

Sincerely,

Bird

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You Can Take the Girl Out of the Ghetto…..

Posted on by Standard 29
Not if you lose my truck, I don't!!

Not if you lose my truck, I don’t!!

There are days that I am just in the mood to write, and I’ll sit staring at my laptop, perusing different memories, looking for something that might be interesting. Sometimes I find one, sometimes I don’t.

Today is definitely not one of those days. Today, I know exactly what I want to write about, and yet, I’m over-run with a plethora of different angles that I can steer this story-ship towards. In a warped way, I’ve hit the jackpot, and I don’t know where to spend my first dollar. This day was the gift that just keeps on giving. :-)

My mom used to tell me it wasn’t polite to laugh at the misfortune that befalls others, and I agree with her 100%. But I do have to ask,  what if it’s funny?  I mean, what if you are genuinely sorrowful for the complication that has landed on someone’s life, and yet your warped gene pool gave you this dark sense of humor, and you just can not help giggling at the absurdity of the situation? I am trying to see this through the stern, adult eyes of a grown woman, but the writer in me is just going insane!

I pondered this little ethical dilemma all day long. Should I write about it, or not. Back and forth, back and forth….

Hey. What can I say. The story is awesome... and I’m only a mere human. Let it be noted that I did wrestle with the decision.

By the time I left work, though, I had stumbled upon a technical way to tell you the story without actually telling you  the story….Below is my letter to the Story Wrecking Company, who handles all towing of vehicles for the City of Tulsa. This isn’t even a fraction of the whole story, which, let’s face it, is going to be magnificent when its been played out. Seriously. Maybe I should wait for it all to play out, but I just can’t.

It’s making my brain bleed not getting to tell you all the whole thing yet!

Let’s think of this as a little appetizer.  :-) Enjoy!!

Why, yes. I did send it. I was grumpy from lack of sleep and the fact that Chef's newest squeeze LOST his truck.

Why, yes. I did send it. I was grumpy from lack of sleep and the fact that Chef’s newest squeeze LOST his truck.

Are You Prepared For Being A Friend of Mine?

Posted on by Standard 4

Here’s something I’ll bet you didn’t know about me.

I’m extremely fearful, to the point it is an actual phobia, when it comes to going to the hospital. It has something to do with the way they smell and sound. One whiff of fear of spidersdisinfectant and the sweat of fear, coupled with some feminine, bored, muffled intercom voice communicating life and death in rainbow-colored codes, and I have been known to incapacitate myself with a full-blown panic attack.

A rumor that someone I know might be going in to the hospital for something is enough to make me hyperventilate and avoid Facebook, pigeons and voice mail for a week.

Because of this crippling effect on me, there is a kind of process I go through mentally before I’m going to step one foot into these sinister, stinky hubs of health. I’ve established an Is-It-Worth-It Checklist that I complete in my mind before I commit to visiting someone at the hospital.

Well, there are actually 2 lists – one for whether I should go for my own health, and the other for being a supportive, good friend.

The one for me is really just the one line of questioning – how bad does it hurt and will they give me excellent drugs to make it stop hurting?

The other, though, is kind of more complex, and until they start giving out the excellent drugs to the visitors, I’m probably always going to use it. It goes something like this:

Bird’s Is-It-Worth-It Checklist

1. How serious is the condition my friend is in the hospital for?

a.Could they possibly die? (Here I calculate the odds of survival, and adjust accordingly.)

Floating Petri Dish of Disease

Floating Petri Dish of Disease

b. Not life-threatening? Like plastic surgery or a mild heart-attack? (See you when you get out, dude!)

c. Odds are, this could be the end of the line for them. (What are the chances I’ll be seeing them in heaven? Just kidding! This one is unflinchingly rigid.)

2. Just how angry or hurt will they be if I just call them on the phone instead of physically going to the hospital?

a. Really, really angry? (Are they prone to kicking butt when displeased, and if so, can I take them down? Also, how bad will it hurt?)

b.Indifferent – (They’re super popular; they actually begin their recovery after they return home. The hospital visitors actually sign a guestbook walking into the patient’s room. $5 and a broke friend, my name can be there, too.)

c. Hard to tell – (They might act like they don’t care, but last time you did find a stuffed animal of yours boiling in the kitchen…It seemed like it was some kind of warning.)

d. They get the really cool drugs and won’t be lucid for weeks after they get out. (I’ll photoshop a picture of myself in front of the hospital, and presto! I’m a good friend!)

e.They hate visitors – I’d being doing them a favor! (I’ve never met someone I could use this one on.)

3. If I buy them a really cool get-well gift, can I get off the hook?awesome me

a. No. They’re flush with stuff, and a gift isn’t going to go very far with them unless I had to take out a loan to buy it. (Not likely these days.)

b. They practically live in a cardboard box. A gift certificate to Taco Bell will buy me a pass for the next three hospitalizations. (God bless Taco Bell’s Dollar Menu!)

c. Depends on the kind of gift. Am I willing to go to the mall (another phobia of mine, though to a much lesser degree) and spend the ridiculous amount of money they charge for something from Hot Topic or Victoria’s Secret? (I’ve never answered yes to this one. It’s included because eventually one of my friends will get a boob job, and this one will finally come into play.)

d. No. This friend isn’t superficial or materialistic. Next time, be pickier about the kinds of friends you want. :-)

4. Is it in any way possible to pretend I didn’t know they were in the hospital until they get out?

a. Yes, if I pretend I’ve just been super busy. Once upon a time, I could actually get away with this one. I’m notorious for being hard to get ahold of most of the time. These days, though, my friends all know me pretty well, (or I’ve already done this the first couple of times they were hospitalized), and this doesn’t fly anymore.

b. No. They ran ads on every television and radio station in Tulsa, left text messages and voice messages on every telephone I have, sent a telegram, two pigeon carriers,hilarious a note on my windshield, sent a note from my mother to my boss, and paid to have their name and room number written in the sky over my apartment. My presence is requested, and my absence will be noted and unhappily addressed when they are released.

5. How important is this friendship to me in the long run?

a. I can make new friends; giving me one of your kidneys doesn’t make us sisters under the skin, right? Actually, I find it pretty nerve-wracking to try to even talk to someone I don’t know, so this is a stupid thing to even be on my checklist. Still, it does cross my mind…

b. Will they quietly be hurt, or will I find a dead fish wrapped in newspaper on my doorstep? Quietly hurt, in my opinion, can actually be worse than a threat from the mafia that I’ll be sleeping with the fishes, especially since I live in Tulsa, Oklahoma. 

c. Friendships are pretty important, and I really love this person a lot. Oh, fine!! I’ll go to the stupid hospital, but I’m not promising I won’t pee myself on your floor when I smell alcohol swabs, spray you with snot when I can’t breathe because I can mentally see the needle in your IV stabbing through the walls of your vein,  or puke in your trash can when that horrible intercom voice blares through my head. Hey! It’s what you wanted!! Still want me to be your friend??

I wanted to take a minute to thank the fellow bloggers that nominated me for some awards. I promise, I’ll try to get to those some time this weekend. Thank you so much!!fear of trust

– Bird