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February 25, 2018, 07:05:45 AM
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 on: February 24, 2018, 01:42:39 AM 
Started by ER - Last post by ER

Random Dismal, Dreary, Depressing Things About Me (Or You!)

Bear in mind I am sleepy as I type this since I have INSOmniA tonight, so why should I be like, "Oh, how nice, I think I'll post about wholesome fairies that fly out of unicorns' butts!”

No! In my self-pitying sleep craving state I believe I'll kvetch at how unkind life has been here in a rambling new thread I call Random Dismal, Dreary, Depressing Things About Me. (Though by “me” I mean anyone who wants to humiliate and abase him-or-herself here before the eyes of all regulars and lurkers.) It also gives others a chance to really score payback hits on me if the spirit so moves any of you.

Sad things?

Starting with: Again, folks, I was nearly born in a hotel locker room! --> To a teenaged immigrant mother!

There is a teeny chance my “imaginary friend” when I was four may have been some adult male creep who broke into our house at night and came into my bedroom. Also a chance it was my grandson time traveling but I think that’s only 30% likely.

My earliest dateable memory is about a fatal plane crash up the road from where we lived that snuffed some FBI agents. We then had to drive by that smoldering ruin of a crash site all winter. Gee, why did I have an imaginary friend, I wonder?

I actually preferred New Coke when it came out in the eighties. Yep, that was me, I was the one.

My dad was constantly gone for weeks at a time in my childhood. (Or it seemed like he was, but it may have been rarer than I remember.) But damn the man was good at basketball for a high IQ type.

My two brothers died as babies! <--That one takes the prize.

In summers, when other kids were playing blissfully in their yards or going to Disney World or at the very least taking the season off school, I got stuck in accelerated learning classes----Catholic school accelerated learning classes!!---for two extra weeks! We weren’t allowed to wear regular clothes even then, and it does make Catholic girls legs sore to have to hold them together all day in school. If you haven’t been there you probably can’t imagine being a seven-year-old with chronic leg cramps.

Then the rest of summer I was shipped off to the most boring country on the planet, the Republic of Ireland. (Boring, yes, why you think a third of its people emigrated when they got the chance?) There I never got to kiss the Blarney Stone or tour Guinness, no, I went to bloody Mass---again IRISH Catholic Mass---ev-er-y morning at sunup with my more Kathuhlick than the Pope Irish grandparents!!! While there each summer, as a bonus, I also got beaten to a pulp by my obese cousin Magda, who thought Americans talked funny and needed a good thrashing now and again. I’d try to tell her I wasn’t American when I set foot on Irish soil, my other citizenship kicked in, but that only got me a harder beating. My mom insisted, “Oh, she’s just playing rough with you.” Yeah, no, Mom, she wasn’t. Say one thing for Mags, though, she sure would bust the everlovin' crap out of anyone else who tried to bully me.

Pay attention Bad Movie lovers, you’re going to want to weep at this next factoid. At eight years old I got cheated out of a chance to be an extra in the Pompilio's scene in Rainman. Let me say it RAINMAN! Not some B-movie nobody ever heard of. No, Rain-man. it won a gee-golly Oscar! Not one of those Oscars they give out at a beta site, no, Best Bloody Picture! I coulda bragged about that the rest of my life when my rich classmates got snooty with me because my dad was only a civil servant. I simulate said aborted bragging sessions down below:

It’s 1996 and some snooty b***h Posse Member sneeringly asks, "What'd you do when you were little?"

I reply: "What, me, b***h? I was in f**king Rainman, while you were collecting Pretty Ponies, so get outta my face and go wash my car!"

Yeah, that never happened because I got ditched from the scene because someone thought a child would be too distracting.

Sad fact thirty: My parents kept promising me a dog, and didn't get me one til I was in my teens!

In the “Me-Too Movement” Department: Some coke'd-up Yuppie pervert came onto me in a totally disgusting way, wanting me to do this...act I had never exactly heard of and thought could not possibly truly exist except maybe in California (sheltered childhood) in my own downstairs during my parents' party when I was thirteen, and his only excuse was he said he thought I was (wait for it!) seventeen. Yeah, like seventeen makes it all just fine since every thirty-year-old Yuppie should by rights have some stray “seventeen year old" innocently watching Adventures In Babysitting blow him, right? I was lucky that night that talk dirty was all he did. Bad situation.

That whole almost dying thing at fifteen after a fall on a tennis court wasn't swell either, just in case you’ve stopped crying about the no dog thing up there... You don’t EVEN wanna know the exact manner in which it almost killed me. You honestly don’t. Not pretty. Stop speculating and skip ahead….

Oh, and though it’s ibid, lest you have forgotten, the tutor I got when I missed a quarter of school after my accident, he eventually groped me in his car one evening in some sort of amateurish seduction, and later was one of my teachers in twelfth grade. What are those odds? God, men were always putting me in crisis mode in the ‘90s, weren’t they?

As a teen and, heck today, I also had to endure having a cousin who was absolutely the hottest, coolest human being God ever made, and she never let me forget because she'd get me in her car and take her sunglasses off all cool-like and yawn and say, "El, you are so lucky I let you ride with me, because I am, like, way hotter and cooler than you." I couldn’t even argue with her because it was true.

Speaking of “El” my name is Evelyn, but in some sad twist of fate, most of my family and friends call me “Ellie” and sometimes “El” because originally I couldn’t say my own name when I was a toddler and that’s what it sounded like I was saying. Evelyn came out as Ellie. Imagine being stuck with a nickname based on people making fun of your poor pronunciation. Toldja this topic was dismal!

My mom lost her s**t when I was sweet sixteen (right after I almost died, if you glance up above) and took off back to bloody Ireland, leaving me to either get raised by my dad (just what every adolescent female dreams of, uh, yeah, not...) or follow her over there, and I'd sooner have slit my wrists----down the street not across the road, kids!----than lived with her in the Holy Land where my grandparents lived with no other purpose than to shove me into Mass every day.

I was also across much of my mid-teens and later in this jailbait relationship which had the bittersweet prize in the cereal box of knowing Mr. Soul Mate O’Mine could because of me wind up breaking rocks while taking on the prison name of Shirley for his new boyfriend, Bubba of the Aryan Brotherhood. (They go for blondes in there, right?) All that made date nights really, um, extra exciting, if by exciting you mean nerve-twanging in an “Is that a police car behind us?” way. (Once time the answer was, “Yes, yes, it actually is a police car behind us, Brian.”)

I had a chance to go to a university every one of you has heard of in stories that begin with, "Oh, yeah, if I was that smart I'd go to_______." Yet for some reason, I turned the chance down. Hint, it had a lowercase "l" in its name and was in the east. Bet you’d get it on the first guess. (Yes, that one.) Backing out on that made my aunt, who already wasn’t happy with me because I called her (among other things) a “hypocritical c**t” in front of her priest and friends and the local newspaper editor, truly dislike me. In my defense I was using the Irish rather than the American definition of the unfairly reviled c-word. In Ireland it means more like….okay, still c**t. But it’s way less bad there. It's c**t-lite.

Hey, while I’m at it, why not tell the world this? I also had a miscarriage at an age when it's not entirely societally-approved for a young woman to be pregnant at all. If you’ve never had a miscarriage, imagine being one of those old fashioned ringer mops that get pulled through the squeezer on the side. No I wasn’t a minor but I wasn’t of an age where I was in any danger of being offered the wine list at a fancy restaurant without an ID check either. Until last year only one other person (wait, two) knew about that pregnancy. I said why tell when nothing good comes of bringing up bad memories, but the truth was, it was absolutely not in my best interests to let it be known I was ever pregnant at that age. Not when I was thought of in more respected terms. “You’re so nice, so smart, so sensible.” No I wasn’t but people thought I was. When I finally did tell this long dark secret I buried away, nobody much cared and my dad said, “Yeah, I always figured it was probably that because of how you acted that summer.” (Not that I was still living at home.) My dad is someone I’ve never fooled or beaten in chess. Ever. Not once. Try growing up like that.

At seventeen, God so young, I also started working a job that made me see tons of psychologists, give lots of blood, and lie in a wave pool in order to see if I could not drown. (Answer: I could.) I could not tell my friends about the job and I was also told to fill out a life insurance policy because there was a base 2% chance of on-job death that increased to 4% under certain circumstances. I shoulda said, “f**k that s**t I’m going to the prom.” Instead I said, “Hey, awesome where do I sign?”

Do I regret it? Sometimes.

Lest I fail to remind veterans of my past rants, I also ran away and became homeless at eighteen. Well, sort of homeless. Homeless-lite. And I guess it wasn’t “ran away” since I was not a minor, but it sounds better when I put it that way. Full disclosure, I ran away after that miscarriage, when I was engaged to be married, no less. My third worst deed ever. Surprised he still talked to me after that. Guess he loved me. (In your face, Bethany.) To this day I love him and sometimes fall off the deep end over the fact he's dead and unless there's an afterlife with a real generous God, I'll never see him again.

When I was twenty-one my grandpa died slowly of HCLC lung cancer and I was the last member of the family he agreed to see at his hospice. Why is that so bad? Um--> let's review, he had lung cancer? Ever seen lung cancer? OK. Made me want to go murder a tobacco executive, and Kentucky was only one state away. Grandpa left me.....close to everything he possessed in the world, and what happened? My drug addict cousins' ultra-wealthy dad sued me for years to get his kids a share of what Grandpa left me. They were filthy rich (and drug addicts) and I was neither, and boy was that a dirty court battle. Fun fact: he had me followed by detectives for months and in depositions had his lawyers ask young me such spirit dimming questions as, “Did you at any time have sexual relations with your grandfather?” (Can I get a chorus of, “Holy s**t, say what????”)  When I kept calm and said no, I was then asked, “Well you did something to make him cut his other grandkids out of his will, so what did you do?!”

Mean bunch those lawyers of his. My aunt is a lawyer but she never lifted a hand to help me. Oh, yeah, I guess I did call her that name in front of her boss, didn't I?

Skipping ahead.... Um, in Austin, Texas, where I ran amok for a while, I had this unconsummated thing going on with this guy who shared an employer with me, and his psycho ex-wife tried to hire someone to throw acid in my face. Kid you not, acid/face. Wow. The house in Barton Springs became my prison cell, the corridor of Sixth Street threatened an acid-hurling assassin in every alleyway. To this day Texas make my face tingle.

The night Ohio State won the national title in 2003, my best friend's brother, who was almost like my own brother we'd known each other so long, drugged me with what was apparently GHB for s**ts 'n giggles and I spent the night being walked outside barely able to breathe. (I have a creepy history of men I trust utterly screwing me over.) He swore he wasn’t trying for anything, just thought it would be funny, and I believe him, but it was still an utterly rotten and mean thing to do, much worse than when the guy in college slammed my face into a wall. (Damn, maybe I’m a victim…? Cool, about time I get to be a victim of SOMETHING.)

Which brings me to my husband. He slept with stacks of women back in the day. So many that in bashfully recounting his exploits in his college days alone he told me, "Is one a month over the course of five years, really all that much if it was always ‘safe’?" He said it charmingly too. He’s very charming, BTW, a total pretty grandpa would have wanted to kick his ass just for being so pretty. When you think of my grandpa, think of John Wayne, only tougher.

The first couple years we went out, we could not go anyplace, it seemed like, without running into a woman he’d….yeah. He worked at a TV station for a while and had something going on at the same time with two interns there and one of the weekend AM weather personalities, and they all knew and were okay with it. He had “things” happening with a squad of law students who had no time to date and so would call him up to see if they could use him for a bit if he didn’t mind. The man had a track record! Yet wanna hear something even stranger? I was only his second real girlfriend. (She died last year, poor thing, sad case, for real. Messed him up. She refused to marry him because she wasn’t sure she could trust him so she was the one who got away, me the consolation prize, I’m guessin’.)

This all made for some at first funny and later tiresome times out encountering all these past somebodies, but later they hit the age for marriage and when they were married they pretended they didn’t know him when we crossed paths, looked right past him which was slightly pitiful for him and which I found hilarious, but it made life easier for me anyway. (Is it sad or plain stupid to marry a man with that sort of carnal resume?)

My husband has no idea who is real father is, and my friend Mandy is 100% legit convinced it was Ted Bundy. No, she says that for real. She says Bundy was around where my husband’s biological mother lived. I “think” the timeline would be off, but if I found out that was true, million to one odds, I guess my kids would have all-time bragging rights on Grandparents’ Day. Can’t you see it? “Yeah, Justin, your grandpa drives a truck? Well MY grandpa went to the electric chair after bite-mark evidence showed he spree-killed a buncha sorority girls in Florida, so THERE…”

I’d also shoot myself at that point because I think that’s the social custom in that situation, isn’t it? Being responsible for giving your kids serial killer DNA?

The odds were high my husband would ever get me at all since I was insanely grief-stricken in that era right before and when we crossed paths, and I had been celibate as a nun for well over a year the night we met since the man I loved with all my heart had died in 2000, and I kept saying, “I don’t want any sort of relationship right now.” But it did flatter me that the man I eventually married seemed as smitten as he was. He waited well over another year just hanging with me in this sexless thing we had going on all the way from fall 2001 to 2003, so I got the impression he did care about me, and we do have a good marriage going on. He’s been an amazing dad…especially to the girls. Also when I finally bedded him it was like fireworks.

But wait, this is about dreariness, so there’s more!

When I was pregnant with our oldest daughter (and, um, not married, so cultivating Hell-fire upon death, might as well throw that in) there is a slight chance my future husband and my aunt carried on in our house, when I was letting her live with me/us when she moved over from Ireland with her two children. (One of whom, my little cousin Joshua, wants to kill our grandmother these days, that's all I can figure since he plans on converting to Judaism soon.) Well I now think the odds are that I was wrong all those years I spent thinking my husband and my aunt were intimate in a squirrely sort of way and in truth they never had anything going on. (My aunt is just three years older than me and looks dead-on for Naomi Watts, if Naomi Watts never had an off day.) But it was stressful to carry that suspicion inside for half a decade without saying anything.

Then years later, after we were married, my husband did actually cheat on me….with a twenty-four-year-old who worked at Starbucks. TWENTY-FOUR. He told me about it (he’s nothing if not honest) and I thought, “Wonder why I’m not getting mad now?”

I kept trying to get mad but I had a weird sense of disconnect like….huh, that really doesn’t make me mad? Seriously…no anger? And I let him get 100% away with it without me going out and revenge banging his archrival or making him buy me the collected Oxford English Dictionary (I’m a nerd) because two wrongs, etc. and we have children and I didn’t want to disrupt their lives, so I said, “Hey, I forgive you, honey, just don’t do it again.” Blah, I am so wussy.

Then I had wall-banging sex with him. True story. The closet wall shook.

I did sort of stalk the girl he swivvied, not with malicious intent in my heart, just out of some morbid curiosity, and I took my friend Clare with me and it got to be a ritual, “Hey, Clare, y’busy, wanna meet at Starbucks and watch the chick my husband banged make coffees?”

“Oh, sure, Evelyn, that sounds just as fun as it did the last seventeen times we did that!”

Loyal as a mutt is our Clare. Almost married her brother. Kind of let her spontaneously kiss on me once too. Long story. (Cliff’s Notes: we were freaked out mourning her brother. It made some sense at the time but freaks me out now. Weird night, from mutually bemoaning the cruelty of fate to realizing she was climbing up on me with her arms wrapped around my torso kissing me on the mouth with her eyes shut. And we’re both straight, honestly. Oh, don't look at me that way, we so are! I just...have this strange habit of letting people in that family do stuff to me and not reacting til later. Jeesh, just thought about that….)

Later I asked my husband why he picked that particular person to romp with, the Starbucks girl, and he explained he did it because he wanted to see if he could.

“Could what?” I asked, actually curious.

“Could still get some random hot girl to have sex with me even though I’m approaching forty.”

“You mean like how Johnny Cash’s unnamed antihero shot the man in Reno just to watch him die?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t shoot her to watch her die, just to see her writhe around a little gasping aimlessly about God.”


At least he’s never done it again…I think. He’d tell me, he’s like that, but there’s only one get out of jail free card, so I hope he never does again, we’ve got kids, for crying out loud, man. Also he never told the girl he was married, she didn’t know he had a wife and kids, so I couldn’t quite get p**sed off at her either, since hey, who hasn’t done it standing up in the kitchen where you work with some stranger who comes in and puts the moves on you like it’s 1996? She seemed kinda nice. Always smiled when she’d give Clare and me our overpriced lattes. Once I contrived to touch her hand, which made me feel weird.


So what else is dark and depressing about me? Um, well, if we had to pay for the house we live in (the one Grandpa left me) there’s no way we could afford it, and I swear the house condescends to me sometimes, and I even had a dream that it did. More of an abstract nightmare in which the house knew we were unworthy of it and wanted us out. The walls didn’t bleed like in Amityville but they did get lymphy.

As for our house, old as it is it doesn’t even have the good grace to be haunted. Sad, huh?

I also had two babies in a row in the same year, my littlest daughter coming eleven months after my son, kinda rough on the hips, and I had stretch marks, so I broke my no cosmetic procedure rule and had them lasered off, and then later found out the particular laser the doctor used is associated with a major increase in skin cancer risk. Thus someday my abdomen is going to rot off, I gather…? Anyone know? Skin cancer, it rots you? Or….?

Old news but I got stabbed by an ungrateful cousin who plotted to kidnap that aforementioned youngest daughter, and she hates me even though I could fill a topic with nothing but the nice things I’ve done for her, bringing to life that old Jewish adage, “Why do they hate us? What good deeds have we ever done them?” (You know, good deeds make people resent you?)

And all this is leaving out two things so dark if I told you none of you would be able to resist losing your minds. (Thank you for that line, H.P. Lovecraft!) One is about someone wanting to kill me, seriously KILL me, every day of my life, wants me dead, and the other….is even more off the scale. Like so bad it shocks me every day, sometimes every hour when I pause to think of it. It’s so horrible if it got out I think I’d have to move to Alaska, pretend to be French, and not carry a phone.

So, yeah, your turn if you want to add anything, but voila, my dark and dismal life. Have a nice day….if you can! Bwa-hahahaha! <-Evil laugh.

 on: February 24, 2018, 01:15:53 AM 
Started by RCMerchant - Last post by RCMerchant
I talked to Hallows for about 3 hours tonite. It was good to talk. My brain is f**ked. I feel better-we talked about watching old movies in the early 70's. I apoligize to ER and anybody else that I may have p**sed off. I have to stay. Where else am I gonna go?

 on: February 24, 2018, 01:08:10 AM 
Started by Chainsaw midget - Last post by Allhallowsday
I'll live.  it's just ... disappointing. 

I liked that job. 
I've been through losing a job I love.  Sux. 

 on: February 24, 2018, 12:50:56 AM 
Started by Allhallowsday - Last post by Svengoolie 3
You know this is like a case of life imitates art. In some early episodes of Capaldi's Dr. Who run he had problems with empathy and his companion. Clara, actually wrote out notes on cards for him to consult in situations where empathy might be needed.

No, I'm not making that up!!!

 on: February 24, 2018, 12:00:06 AM 
Started by A.J. Bauer - Last post by LilCerberus
ADHD- Why I would never trust a teacher with a gun:
I heard about some kids planning on cutting class to protest the school shooting in Florida, & it's still winter, & I humored the idea of them getting rained on.
ADHD- A large number of kids staged a walk out my senior year of high school, and they got rained on. Ya see, the radicalist christian school board in that tiny Texas community tried to ban Satanism, heavy metal music, long hair, etc.
This caused a few of the teachers to take up the mantle of antisemitism, because they apparently couldn't tell the difference between a star of David & a pentagram.
Naturally, this raised the contempt of a single Jewish teacher, who often took out her frustrations on the students.
I found out that the following year, she got one of the vice principles fired for allowing prayer groups to meet on campus after school hours, and the year after that, stole a donation can from some kids trying to go on some trip, and she hasn't been seen or heard from since.
My point?
They're not just "Human", They're stuck up and twice as crazy.
With age does not necessarily come wisdom. Sometimes, age shows up alone.

 on: February 23, 2018, 11:16:15 PM 
Started by Chainsaw midget - Last post by Chainsaw midget
I'll live.  it's just ... disappointing. 

I liked that job. 

 on: February 23, 2018, 11:00:38 PM 
Started by A.J. Bauer - Last post by A.J. Bauer

T-This... This is real?

This is real. How the hell...?

 on: February 23, 2018, 10:41:10 PM 
Started by BTM - Last post by ER
Sie schamte sich?

 on: February 23, 2018, 10:40:19 PM 
Started by Allhallowsday - Last post by Allhallowsday

 on: February 23, 2018, 10:38:29 PM 
Started by ER - Last post by ER
I was reading about a man in the 1970s who took gravel, put it into little boxes, and marketed it as pet rocks. He actually sold millions! For....for actual money!

He got rich! Then he died. But before he died he got rich!

I been thinking, enough time has passed for people to forget pet rocks, and Millennnials are kinda gullible after growing up on fake news and such, so what if I eliminated the gravel and just sold the empty boxes themselves, and marketed them as Pet Air?

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