Just the Facts, Ma’am

Deadly Delivery

Blondes, redheads, brunettes – bitches

I was going to write about the above — and perhaps I shall still. Certainly, it involves a bitch of the redheaded (bottle) and old (truly) variety. A quality moment to be sure and worthy of filing under “no good deed goes unpunished.” We have a delivery, two dames, and a what would be viewed as a crime only by the paranoid.

Okay, maybe we’ll do it like this for now. A paragraph on that nonsense and a little about life back on the planet, which I regret to see as I write this on a beautiful Sunday morning on the last day of May, is not looking too well. Nature is happy for the respite, but mankind is losing its collective mind. America is drowning and burning and I can’t help but think this is a deliberate evil plan orchestrated by monsters.

Perhaps this is where these two seemingly unrelated topics intersect. The redhead, a neighbor, let’s call her Mary since that’s her name and we only protect the innocent. She (and what happened) is a microcosm of the present situation. She is a monster. And like all good monsters, she doesn’t look like one. The old lady thing is a genius cover. She’s aggressive, bullying, insincere, devoid of empathy, a liar: like her larger counterparts who make the news.

This morning brings more footage of protests and strife in major cities. There is a great deal of assigning of blame and righteous anger. I get it. I also can’t help but wonder if this is precisely what “they” want — to have us at each other’s throats, to start a civil war in the midst of a horrific pandemic that winnows people out. I pray to God that was not part of the plan…

To return to Micro Mary: she utilizes the same methods – blame, pitting people against each other, dining on the drama of other people’s problems. What happened was that I, by accident, received her delivery of groceries, which I returned to her once it was sussed whose they were. Here we can bring in a giant of industry: Jeff Bezos who owns Amazon and Whole Foods. The groceries, inside and out, had nothing to indicate whose they were. There was just the Amazon “smile” and the Whole Foods logo. Top secret. I opened the bags to see if there was a receipt with somebody’s…anybody’s name on it. Not even a number for Amazon/Whole Foods. Oh, I forgot we should have that memorized or on us at all times. Anyway, who cares right? I certainly didn’t. The deadly delivery was sorted out in minutes.

Yet, among this sad pokey grocery order were — wait for it — pantyliners! Again, I don’t care. But I do think it was these pantyliners and the sad pokiness of Mary’s things that revealed too much of her miserable self to me, which is what lead to her lashing out a day later. By the way the resemblance to Pennywise is not that much of an exaggeration.

The secrets, lies, the fragile ego under all that brash — sound familiar? Seems like just another day in America. And, having the goods on people. I don’t mean merely a Twitter storm; I mean the real goods. Can’t appear weak — God only knows what would happen! People might think you’re human. So, these crafty monsters deflect and maneuver.

The next morning, before I began remotely working, Mary calls me. I have to say framing the accusation by positing a hypothesis was quite skillful. She begins by saying that she was up all night wondering about the grocery affair. People are dying all around us — terrible painful deaths — and this is what keeps her up at night. I won’t bore you with the details but she indirectly accuses/blames me. I ask her what she’s getting at because I want her to come out and say it. Coward. Did I mention that characteristic of all of these monsters? She says, “You take care.” Which I know is, “fuck you.” Fine.

As we are spoon-fed propaganda and bread and circus, those in power don’t seem to care too much about the death toll, the hate, the anger and destruction, I noticed yesterday afternoon that they launched a rocket. Courtesy of Elon Musk who is another very important monster from another planet. The timing is interesting, isn’t it? Good way to distract people, if only temporarily, from the fighting in the streets to watch money go up into space. And it worked. SpaceX it’s called. For a soi-disant genius that’s not the cleverest name for whatever all this is.

Regarding Mary and the other big fish: I swing from fury, resignation, and disgust. A dear friend of mine tells me to write it down — but just the facts. Don’t editorialize. My brain has a hard time with that one.

Here goes nothing. We’re being duped, and while being duped we are dying, our society is crumbling, monsters are stealing us blind…but I do believe we can rehabilitate the world and ourselves. However, that’s a lot more work than tearing it down.

Mary, well she’s a malevolent c*&t.

And that’s a fact — Jack!

Clare

Baby You Can Drive My Car

It’s the time of the season when I turn in my leased car and endure what I regard as the torture of visiting car dealerships with their attending salespeople…I’m beginning to think it’s a special kind of moron who does this work. After that exercise in futility…I pled insanity and fobbed it off to the men in my life.

I get it! This is a luxury problem and I deserve a nosebleed from being on my high horse! But…yes, here comes the but…it is irritating on many levels. First and most significantly is the cars all look alike – half the time I can’t tell them apart. There are no color choices except for what my friend calls the mud slide – with a couple of hideous new colors that car companies push.

Here in the nouveau uber-burbs the car that is everywhere is Subaru. I am beginning to think all housewives or middle-aged women are issued one upon arrival – a new twist on the Welcome Wagon. There are the upper-end cars which don’t look that different from one another either, except maybe Maserati, Porsche and Jeep. Then to find one that isn’t driven by an asshole you know or see driving one – no options remain! Ever since it was pointed out that the Tesla logo looked like a diagram of a woman’s cervix in a medical textbook…I can’t take it seriously.

Don’t get the wrong idea  – I’m working within a budget, which is fine because I’d rather spend, or save, money on other things. Someone once asked me, “If money wasn’t  an object what car would you want?” My answer was, “One with a driver in the front seat!” Not that I’m channeling my inner diva…well a little…I don’t care what kind of car it is…I don’t like driving. I’ve been driving since I was 15, but I’m not a comfortable driver – especially in the congested area where I find myself living.

If I were asked that question now my answer would be the same but also different. My dream car is a vintage truck that I drive off road most of the time. I’m sitting with the windows open, my dirt-kicked cowboy boots up on the dash (?) whistling with two fingers – or even better no fingers – (a skill I enviably I wish I had), for my junkyard dog who jumps into the bed of the truck or the passenger seat, and we drive off into the sunset. That is what I would like.

Where did I get such a notion? Nevertheless, I find it attractive. The end result is that I will be the owner of a VW…not of the original incarnation, but a newer, sportier…whatever: marketed to Generation Z – a coveted group. And, it’s white! A color that I envision for retirees in Florida or places like Orange County, California. This VW is a year old and has 5,000 miles on it, so be grateful, right?

…”There’s one more thing, I got the pink slip daddy!”

Happy Driving, 

Clare