The Charity of Christ Urges Us On, Just Not Today

The battery on my (not even) Obama-phone was nearly dead Wednesday when I called him. I apprised him right off that the battery was @ 20% and if we were cut off, that would likely be the reason why.

Conversed quite a bit, but when I felt things were winding down to the point I said I had to go, he parted with “Send your mother a Thank You card.”  I was so fucking stunned that my response was nothing but pure childlike honesty: I DO NOT SEND THANK YOU CARDS FOR $150.

In addition to being a bilateral breast cancer survivor, I HAD NO HEAT UPSTAIRS FOR THE 2022 WISCONSIN WINTER.  I am cold in the Summer and require 2 comforters in order to fall asleep. Having a stroke is a real possibility, as I have no thyroid and/or temperature regulation much like the Psycho-Tropic types wearing a parka in August.

But I digress..

I had no heat thanks to my mother’s 2022 birthday gift: A whopping personal check for $100 that she insisted I OPEN while on the phone with her.  For a fucking MOMENT, I honestly thought she was giving me some REAL money. Money so I can eat decent food, minimally.  I take zero medications out of the 5 I used to take daily, so I’m surely back to being deficient in 5+ vitta-mins and minerals (though I’m eating expired quinoa today. with a chopped sweet potato I’m roasting before it goes bad. It may be from April. It’s now July).

Last Year This Time...

When I saw today is June 1st, I thought back to what I was doing last year. Was it mania?  I thought I would use $40 to purchase stamps and contact people/businesses/Tom Wopat to relay they are listed on the California Unclaimed Property website.

Not wanting to cum off like a starfucker, I contacted people regardless of whether they were owed $300 OR $30k, giving added attention to farmers and people I thought could really use it (addresses in wildfire areas). Most of this was done via USPS, but if I could track down a working email address or professional/business address, I sent it there.

Found lots of money for numerous large companies, where I thought MINIMALLY I would receive some coupons for free salad.  Or wine. Or a hotel stay.

I did not get shit!  I’ve revisited this episode a hundred times and can not figure out why a single person/business did not contact me to say “Thanks.” I found insurance health claim money for doctors and clinics, old stocks and securities for celeb types, money for foundations and goddamn egg farms.  NOTHING!

Was it my hand addressed envelope with a Wisconsin postmark and Homie Homestyle letter with ACTUAL COPY/PASTE OF INFO from the California Unclaimed Property website?! Is that what had Nigerian lothario-identity thief-some type of scam where “Julie” is squatting in my laundry room ala Randy Quaid-literally & figuratively. 

Look me (and my 12 Friends) up on Facebook or google my name to see only my divorce and brother’s obituary are listed. It doesn’t get any more fucking real than that, but I’m sure these folks are walking over homeless people daily while holding a Pink Drink.

 I just thought some money for my birthday would be nice.  That was last year.  This year, I just went through a Wisconsin winter with no heat in my bedroom and no money to pay an electrician. I ended up abandoning the bedroom mid-March when an animal making sawing noises (like a Flintstone’s cartoon) was busy within the walls all night like a fucking horror movie.  I’ve not had ANY medications at this point and I noticed every time I shoveled I would experience a pain in my right rib area. It’s never been ‘right’ over there--I’ve had SHARP pains behind my implant just from rolling over in bed and that was 5-6 years ago. And that’s the non-problematic pritty implant. If I had to guess, I think a tumor or 2 have knitted their way into that area.  I’m easily fatigued now--especially the past 3 weeks.  Thought some of it was Penelope dying (13 year old German Shepherd), but I am kind of relieved she is gone. I didn’t have the money to take her to a vet and that will always trouble me.

My 60 year old sister (of Kitchen Appliances of Many Colors; Dollyweird Remix Ft: Lil Sister Crying) sent me illegal drugs, cash and disgustingly scented wax melts from her local Dolla General store. 

I did not know she did this nor did I ask her to do it.  I honestly think she was trying to help, in a misguided retard way. Her way. After-the-fucking fact, once it was snatched from the USPS mailstream, she tells me via my AT&T supplied tragic cell phone (it’s 5G now, bitch) that she chose the wrong mailer @ her small town local post office (I’m sure it was the Overnight Express one that the elderly & illiterate always select from the bevy of options at MY small town local post office) and had to open/repackage into a $10.80 Priority Mail option inches from the steampunk looking clerk.

AND THAT IT REEKED SO STRONGLY OF MARIJUANA it filled the entire compact lobby of her small town local post office on a busy holiday mailing day.

Yet, she cuntinued on...

Never in my life has she sent cash. She is my only support. My lifelong trashy parents only believe in giving money to casinos and bragging “we have more money than we know what to do with.”

EXCEPT GIVE IT TO YOU. I lost both breasts/nipples/da works due to cancer--my narcissist mother gives me her used bras and I’m supposed to be grateful. She will wait for that thank-you, stellar catholick that she is.  I guess my sister felt bad after hearing about my Grey Gardenesque downstairs bathroom PIT TOILET, cracked ceramic floors due to a creature that emits SAWING noises late into the night and the washing machine & dryer that have been inoperable the past 3 years. That’s just ONE ROOM, inside!

I have no working heat upstairs, so I sleep on the couch downstairs. The upstairs toilet does not work. I can not afford an electrician to address the electric baseboard heat issue nor can I afford a plumber. I broke the valve where I used to be able to shut the H2O off 13SEP, the morning after my dog ran into the road and caused a local eccentric (ha! more eccentric than I) man to fall from his bicycle @ 10:08PM CST.  Rendered unconscious and now sporting a white man’s version of a Michael K Williams scar across his fucking face. 

Local police were on the scene FOR HOURS.

I’ve been on the stress diet ever since and combined with being off all my medications and “physician-free,” I can literally feel tumors percolating in my chest. Something is touching nerve endings and it hurts. I have implants, but over the past 7 years, things have ‘settled’ and the corpse flesh that patched everything together due to poor margins must have come from dead or destitute Indians, because there are dark patches among the lumps/bumps (cysts? cancer?) that give the illusion I’m wearing a brown bikini top.  I had 2 surgeries last year and ever since a hysterectomy (2nd surgery), there is a stop u in your fucking tracks bone stabbing pain to the right of my vag that can happen at any time. When I mentioned that to the GYN during a post-surgical visit, she made eye contact and said with concern “I’ve HEARD of that.” 

I wasn’t provided any.  I’ll fight you over the notion of No Child Left Behind--I’M THAT CHILD.  It makes no sense, especially when I compare and despair vs others.  By no life skills, trust that I mean from zero self care on up. Zero street smarts and on the spectrum when it comes to making friends.  

Though full disclosure would have helped!  I’ve made poor decisions, mainly based on thinking THEY BOMB FUCKING IDEAS due to lack of facts and/or outright lies.  I don’t live that secret agenda type life, but I obviously DO emit some kind of Marilyn Miglin PHERoMONE that lets the predators know they can treat me any kind of way.

I never see their little “tests” until well after the fact.

Below is from an email.  I’ve never saved a draft before on Tumblr, but I did with this post. I wanted to wait and see what type of Fuckery 14DEC would bring.

When a person only has 4 followers, yes I’m going to notice 1 is missing.  Was it my comparison of TLC to a trio of MKE zombie shoplifters, or ‘boosters,’ if you will?  Duly noted, I’ll turn it down a bit. 

Was it the Patti LaBelle bomb threat?  Again, don’t see where that could be offensive other than to the person who CALLED IT IN and the odds of my lost Follower being that bitch is Powerball ratios.  Unless she is an Usher (not the musician) or Concessions (not UAW) worker @ The Riverside Theatre--yeah, okay, I see u.

I don’t think I’ve yet to mention nor describe a trio similar to the one above that I encountered as Spring In The Ghetto neared in 1984--my first.  Real DAFFODIL shit here, if daffodil is a Code Term for a trio of Zombie Prostitutes from the NW Side (an exotic, faraway place for us Center Street types) who were at my boyfriend’s house off of Sherman (Helmsley) and Burleigh when I decided to ‘drop in’ unannounced with my friend’s youngest along.

We did not know the ParkLawn or WestLawn housing projects world.

I always wondered why dude had a PADLOCK on the chest freezer in his tiny Bonny Place kitchen.  I mean, what kind of lifestyle is a motherfucker living when you have to lock down your meat?!  I didn’t think to ASK questions like that at the time, I was busy proving my value as a girlfriend by cleaning the pink & black ceramic tile in his filthy bathroom and trying to figure out how a pressure cooker filled with neckbones works.

Editor’s Note: Do NOT try to remove lid on pressure cooker.  I was met with resistance, so I really put some muscle into it...Then it BLEW THE FUCK UP and those neckbones became projectiles far more dangerous than any chinky chong kung fu STAR.  I meant to file that under INTRO TO SOUL FOOD, but I’ve been lax in sharing culinary memories this week.

Over the decades, I’ve retold that pressure cooker story and have been informed what I described CAN’T BE DONE.  Yeah, okay. “Idiot Proof” they say, but not White Girl Proof.  And I know those NECKBONES weren’t part of that coveted freezer loot, but after meeting the Appleton Avenue Mary Jane Girls, I learned some folks will steal anything that’s not nailed down.  Even then, give ‘em a few minutes!

My plan that early afternoon, since my co-pilot was in half day kindergarten at the time was for us to joyride, roll up @ Bonny Place and then go to McDonald’s.  First off, I was NOT expecting 3 females there when I arrived--one of whom opened the door (iron ghetto door, also locked from the inside--scary shit that came to light one night when I was about to get my ass beat; no not over those neckbones).  James was no where to be found, but I noticed 2 other hoes milling about.  The house was less than 700 sq ft, so relatively easy to make a quick assessment.  I opened the door to the only bedroom and dude ‘appeared’ to be sleeping.  When I began to SPEAK, one of the hoes sauntered into the bedroom, matter-of-factly RETRIEVED A CLEAR LUCITE STRIPPER SHOE and walked out.  I was DED.  I grabbed my purse from the dining room table (one of the few flat objects in that general dining/living room area that wasn’t encased in plastic, though I believe the dining room chairs were).  Signaled Tawanda and we left.  I was processing it all as I drove to McDonald’s.  We ordered and when it came time to pay, ALL MY MONEY WAS GONE!!  Yep, Ye Olde Zombie Hoe Trio doing what they do best--hide yo kids, hide yo neckbones!  I went without anything at McDonald’s so Tawanda could eat and that was only after mining every last errant quarter-penny-nickle from the bottom of my purse.

I called his house from the payphone at work later that night about being cash poor--I could hear one of those hoes in the background, she repeated “Ask da Baby, Ask da Baby.”  Like a 5 year old would be aware, when even I wasn’t!!  Then again, Tawanda possessed both street smarts (favorite Summer outside game: Rapist Man--not a typo, it involved running) and home bartending skills, in addition to unrivaled Hospitality when it came to making the sofa up when I stayed over.

Brought to you by the city (close enough!) that had to rush Patti LaBelle off the stage due to a bomb threat--”On myyyyyyyyyyy ohhhhhhhhh-nnnn fuck-wait-what. Motherfuckers, don’t u know I got DIABETES?!”

But I digress...

I just discovered TLC 2.0

If we were playing $10k Dolla Pyramid and you guessed I’m watching Netflix’s Ghislaine Maxwell: Filthy Rich vs Roddy Rich, we need to become friends.  My god, what a waste of dough. The very same thing happened to me at least 5 fucking times, it’s called being a woman. And it absolutely did NOT help that I came from a creepy background.  I think all the Center Street pimps, players and preachers could smell that about me.

Men anywhere can smell that about me and in one instance, a woman.

That said--young lady in this doc, I know exactly what you were feeling as you sat on that sofa when Maxwell/Juan Epstein emerged from the bathrobe sporting robes. The thought process behind trying to NOT be raped transcends all socio-economic groups, apparently.  Up until now, I always was dismissive of the college girls, the long pretty blonde hair girls, the ...

One incident that comes to mind was a Smoove Brutha with a seemingly endless collection of silky polyester shirts that were rarely buttoned, ala Center Streets answer to Al Green.  He seemed fun and exciting--I was too young and naive to recognize certain signs. With no Magic 8 Ball (GO HOME BITCH) nor decent parenting skill set to guide me, I started getting my feelings hurt. A lot.  Then, the junior narcissist in me didn’t want to let this dirty motherfucker go because then I’d be back to nothing. Pathetic and who is gonna tell me otherwise--in addition to this dude being The Dope Man, he was also my best friend’s cousin. 

I lived on the East Side in 1984 and I can no longer recall (chemo brain+time) what type of rotary dial phone call made it happen, but this nigga arrived in his Volkswagen Scirocco (stick) and for a brief second I thought this could be a nice outing. Then I noticed his creepy ass brother, Richard, in the compact back seat, all scrunched up like a leather clad rat, even though it was mid-August.  I immediately wondered why he was along and it will always bother me that such conspiracies exist between brothers or against me in general, it’s just so fucking feral.

All I knew of Richard was that he had recently been released from PRISON.  I learned that from my ‘frin’ when we were drinking at Haywood’s and Richard, attired head to toe in a black leather suit, was in the company of a female.  My frin says “He just got out of prison but must be pimping because that GIRL bought her LAST PIMP the same motherfucking suit.”  She didn’t say it to be funny, but to me it was funny as hell.  All the more reason having Richard’s slithery ass in the back seat of that Scirocco was not.

It’s nearly 3PM and I’ve decided to make the turkey that’s been stored in my vehicle the past 10+ days.  Today it’s raining and the previous few days were ‘warm’ enough to thaw the bird. Do I feel like such an undertaking--no, but I don’t waste food.  I had to spend $50 in order to get this Jennie-Oh @ .49 cents per pound, lol.

While I wasn’t feeling particularly motivated after addressing Tom Wopat in a previous post, I now have time (while the neck and giblets simmer in their journey to become dressing) to reference my hillbilly spreadsheet and name names.

If I’ve offended any Vegan California Unclaimed Property letter recipients, let me know and I’ll cross you off the list.  For the record, this endeavor began May 30.

David & Christine Gondek--$1767.42

Colonial Coachworks--$709.33

James Sigler--$167,657.02  (an attorney whose letter was returned, but what about that Money In Limbo)

Hindu Temple Malibu--$308  (expected more from such a place, not even a marigold petal nor email that I’ve been blessed)

Guy Campochiaro--$2341.86 (email returned, along with physical letter)

C&L Silver Brazing--$1000 (really thought a Working Person would say ‘thanks’)

Iron Eyes Cody--$4785.56 (I sent a message via Facebook to his son, Robert Tree Cody.  I also ended up veering down the Iron Eyes Cody path, since I often reference that single tear from the pollution commercial.  Much like the Indian cheapskate @ the Hindu temple “We owe you nothing, now go pick fleas off an upper caste member of our group if you wish to be helpful”, I’m disappointed by the Sound of Silence. Five grand is five grand--at first I thought he was busy on the PowWow circuit and such...)

Sophie Arquette--$12,117.57 (Sent letter to son, Mark, in Evergreen, CO   Yes, I put time and effort into this)

Jane Kardashian, MD--$4820 (No fucking need to be this rude, unless the Medical A/R Clerk at this clinic kept the money for herself!  At one time I did medical billing and/or medical A/R, this was like a fun PUZZLE for me as I arrived at this near 5 grand the hard way--all SMALL health insurance checks that somehow never made their way to the doctor.  It happens.  In this case, some non-Kardashian schmuck resolved it.  Jane doesn’t care, must prefer the CA$H aspect of Juvederm. Couldn’t even send a LOTION sample, frozen-faced Armenian.

Susanne Gibian--$1258.23

Karen Frank Johnson--$891.93

Ellen Tower Spalding--$29,165.02 (minimum, this may have involved stocks/dividends, my notes neglect to state)

DePalma Farms--$190

Let’s see, along with Tom, there’s roughly the 50 other people/businesses I located long lost monie$ for after stumbling onto the California Unclaimed Property website in late May.  While looking for my relatives, friends and friends of friends, something clicked with my OCD (funny-not-funny).  With my 58th birthday right around the Gemini corner and knowing in advance I wouldn’t be getting shit, I didn’t see the harm in sending out letters to what/whom I thought would be grateful (in the case of a Fresno farmer) to amused AKA Tom Wopat.

Always resourceful, always cautious, always below the poverty level--I purchased 2 sheets of 1st Class USA postage to mail afore(skin)mentioned letters and told myself I would STOP once out of stamps.  That would have been my birthday PIZZA money, but what would I know about treating myself well after a lifetime of zero self-care nor parenting?

I’m lonely, I live alone. Have lived alone since my 2014 divorce & subsequent breast cancer diagnosis. Had an Oncologist whom basically PLAYED me and was proud of it, I guess one can be that way when grateful folks treat you like god. I didn’t--was that your ‘problem’ with me?  I wasn’t indifferent, it was just that after my BROTHER hijacked MY Aurora Cancer Clinic Oncologist while keeping his Stage 4 Melanoma a secret, this clever ass so much smarter than the rest of us doctor thought nothing of having us not only scheduled for the same general time, there was an incident where my brother was in THE NEXT EXAM ROOM (and in replaying the event after our INFUSION ROOM DUST UP) I’m sure his lil ole Golden Boy rage issues surfaced.

WHO knuckles up in the infusion room of a fucking cancer clinic?!  I found a new doctor after that, angry that he used to equate me with a PHOENIX (and I ate that shit up).  Objective met by Any Means Necessary, well fucking played.

I stopped going to the replacement Oncologist @ the Vince Lombardi Cancer Clinic.  Maybe he would have been acceptable had he had my case from the onset, but this pointy-oxford shoe University of Lahore grad did not click with me. Mainly I saw a nurse practitioner--COVID didn’t help, but I’m done. Have not refilled the Letrozole. 

Back to the pizza money investment:  I also thought it would be a good way to use some nice (Leaning Tree, others) cards.  I started going through the California Unclaimed Property listings and would research deep into the sativa filled night.  I didn’t go as far as to create a spreadsheet, but I did jot down the basics.  Nearly 6 months later, I’ve not received a single thank you.  My mind is blown by that.  Are people just that wary of being scammed?  What would it be about my HAND ADDRESSED and hokey wholesome return address in the left hand corner that could be such a turn-off?

Me, I would love to open a card or #10 envelope to learn I have money/property/etc listed on the California Unclaimed Property website.  Maybe I got ahead of myself--sure it would be easy to look up celebrities, but most of them HAVE money.  I have a soft spot for the people who feed me and let the farmers know this when I sent their notifications!  CRICKETS.

Is it the Controller, Betty Yee or Betty Lee or Betty Bee who advises potential claimants via the website NOT to pay heed to hand-addressed envelopes from some down and out breastless woman in rural Wisconsin behind all this?  I don’t want to go all BLACK HELICOPTERS and wonder if I’m on some kind of misguided WATCH LIST, but I sure the fuck would like to make that PIZZA MONEY back, Tom Wopat.

Would a Nigerian scam artiste be using Windows 97? Sending greeting cards purchased at Fleet Farm 15+ years ago?  Be satisfied if they received even FIVE (5, V, cinco) percent of a person’s FOUND money-stock certificates-etc?

Full disclosure:  I wasn’t like my (no pun intended) SISTER, hoping for a positive outcome in that movie.  I didn’t adore the St Mary’s Hospital nuns like she did and for a person who has felt the need to diagnose me for 40+ years, how many 8th grade girls do YOU know that asked Santa for a black cardi & suitcase so she could join the convent?

I only know of one and she was driving a vatican pre-owned Dodge Colt station wagon with faux woody wood panels. 

She wasn’t driving it as a NUN, she was driving it as the 19-20 year old daughter of the kiss-up employee that bought this ugly fucking car from the nuns!  I’m sure our dad OVERPAID (with his nun loving ass), just to stay in their good graces.

As a kid, it made me angry that these broads weren’t seeing through his act. Our lives were interwoven, but in the most dysfunctional of ways--otherwise, maybe a lil olde tyme (machine) spiritual magic could have went down.  Instead, let me nosey around this rectory for a box of hosts to nosh on.

I’ll save THAT story for the chapter on PRIESTS.  This one is for the nuns.

In the Summer of 1974, I was 10 and we moved to Milwaukee so my dad could spend more time next door at St Mary’s Hospital where a major build was taking place. Sounds like an awesome career move if one was the General Contractor, but he was not. Or, a hospital Administrator overseeing the project.  He was not.

While I knew at age 10 my family wasn’t like others, it really hit me my final few months in 4th grade where my parents were on again-off again with the move. I was always high anxiety (teeth grinder-nail biter) and felt this major move needed to be better executed.

Is it being off all my meds for X months--why am I having such an emotional reaction to Paramount channel's Yellowstone? Is it because I never experienced the love of a ride or die fambly like that or is it because I knew a girl in high school (possibly mentioned previously) with that same squinty eyed pinched Irish girl face and coloring as Beth?

Or is it that a tv marathon of ANY type or genre is catalyst for life changing shit to happen--it was during the 2014 Thanksgiving marathon of Breaking Bad that I was so tuned in to the series that I was ignoring glaring signs my longtime spouse was cheating. The scenarios he was presenting as reason to have to leave the house (Ex: Helping Glen Schinker move furniture so he can clean the carpeting when he gets off work @ 11PM...Wait, what?) were akin to the ramblings of a crackhead, but I wanted that Axe bodywash smelling motherfucker out of the house so I could watch Breaking Bad without interuption. Like that bodywash & follow-up bodySpray (like something a fucking feral SKUNK or other male mammal would do) didn't raise any marital flags.

Is that the vibrator--to the left of the loafer & instapot? I'm feeling burned out in regards to shopping after negative experiences with both Land's End and Sierra Trading Post.

This entire row clearly states I NO LONGER HAVE SEX