The Bird Lady

She use to pull Tent Caterpillars from her trees and squish them in her hand.  (Please google tent caterpillars to truly relish how gross and abundant they are.)  It reminds me of one of Meg Ryan's rom-coms where she describes a dog her grandfather had.  The dog got worms and was most reasonably going to die.  Her Gpa dug each and every one of those worms out with his pinkie.  That dog outlived the man.  That's the Bird Lady.  On second thought, she'd probably take the dog out, shoot it, and get a puppy.  She was old school.

A lady from a time where every meal was meat and potatoes and all of your own food is grown by hand, canned with love and baked with care.  She was a marvelous cook.  I pulled out her biscuit recipe just the other day then talked myself out of it...too many carbs.  She never feared carbs or calories for she ate whole foods.  Apart from the stash of turtles I found in her side table and the fact that the woman made her own, out of this world caramels, she was very health aware.  Our treat when visiting was a small bowl of unsalted and unsweetened popcorn which we furiously scarfed down.

The Bird Lady loved puzzles and tile rummy.  She'd lovingly call my sister and I, "You little buggers", when we won and would then whip up some cookies.  She could sit for hours watching the array of birds that visited her window.  Then head outdoors to tend to her many flower beds, expansive garden and fish pond.  The woman loved her some animals.  Canaries, finches, dogs, cat, fish, horses and cows too.  Then she would immortalize them in cloth and thread when one passed.

I stole from The Bird Lady once.  She had these elegant swan soaps on display in the bathroom.  I took them to my room to play with them and when finished, did not put them back.  The Bird Lady found out and talked me into tears.  It's not that she was mean or angry.  She was hurt and disappointed and that brought out the waterworks.  I apologized and she said she wouldn't tell my mother.  To this day, I don't think she ever had.  The following Christmas, my present from her were my very own swan soaps.  That's the kind of gal she was.

There was a story told where a bird fell down her chimney.  Having the soft spot that she did for our little winged counterparts, she scooped him up and set him free outside.  A short time later another bird fell down the shaft and thinking it was the same daft bird, she knocked his head on the brick stating, "if he's dumb enough to do it a second time, he doesn't deserve to live."  That's the kind of gal she was.

We were allowed to stay up late and watch the news.  She introduced me to what dignity and integrity look like in the media.  This was well before 24hr news cycles.  She would be knitting or sewing or crocheting something creative while we dozed and watched Lloyd Robertson or Sandie Rinaldo unfold the raw details of some scandal or current event.  Then we'd be woken up early by the sounds of silver dollar pancakes being flipped and homemade syrup being readied.  We were spoiled rotten.    

She remembered every birthday, every year well into my twenties.  A card would show up, somewhat miraculously as I moved around a lot, with a cheque and some well wishes.  That's the kind of gal she was.

She use to tell me this story every time I would return for one of our week long visits.  I was just a baby...barely walking and still in diapers.  I was in perpetual revolt of sleep and on this particular night, would not lay down.  I crawled out of bed and would come into the living room where Bird Lady and her husband were trying to relax.  Finally, she picked me up, carried me to the room and laid down beside me.  "Go to bed", she said sternly and gave my bum and smack.  I got up, crawled to meet her wrinkled face and planted a big ol' kiss right on her lips.  She said after that, my bedtime was whenever I wanted it to be and brought me out to watch tv.
 

I miss and love you Gma Neal and I'm sorry I was a shitty, self-obsessed grandkid these last few years.  In your ninety-eight years you've seen it all and I can only hope that I can live as long and as well as you did.  Thank you for being my Gma.  As much as I bitched and moaned about visiting you as a kid, you were integral in forming the best parts of me.  I watch the hummingbirds and think of you.

A+ For Effort

It's been said that to commit to making the same errors in judgement time and time again while expecting a different result, is the definition of insanity.  Hi, my name is Rhandi.

I went out drinking/pubbing/gallivanting around the town last night.  Again.  I know what will happen when I do this.  I know how I will feel the next day.  I know I will tell myself that next weekend I will be a changed individual who will not fill my body with toxic substances that leave me euphoric, than progresses to a free fall of loneliness, despair and shame.

It's always the same:

The evening begins well enough;  Maybe with a bite to eat, a pint and some female companionship.  I meet a few people, we get our cardio in by walking from one pub to the next and completing silly, half-in-the-bag tasks along the way.  Like karate kicking the air for an entire city block.  Why not?  We're alive, we're buzzed and it feels good to be accomplishing something.  What, exactly, that is...I have yet to determine.  I'll meet a few people and bond with my ladies in the washroom.  All of the worlds problems get solved there over funny urine streams and the inadequacy of the washroom itself.  So many shitty shitters out there.

Music will also be had.  Glorious revel in man's greatest service to himself.  Then, I'll end up with the rest of the wayward souls at the only place left open at that forsaken hour and things descend from there.  Some laughs, more booze, many more trips to the bathroom to save the world...and men.  This is the witching hour of finding a hook-up before things get sad and sleepy.  I will engage those that I know are 'safe'.  The Gays mostly or fellow females.  Then one particularly determined hetero will attempt to stab his flag into my fertile soil and shit gets low.  I refuse the advances made which begin innocent and amicable.  Fifteen to thirty minutes later, my refusal of advances confuses the poor boy and he begins to degrade me to the entire bar.  I think he's either burning the land so no one else can grow there or he believes this to be a brilliant plan to win my affection by appealing to my insecurity and Daddy issues.  Like I don't see through his act.  Through all of the games people play with one another to get a piece.  He'll call me names and attempt to break me down.  I'm already broken fool and there is no lower I can reach.  I will either ignore his childish and deplorable behavior or, level him.  Sometimes I don't have the energy to achieve the levelling an individual male needs in any given situation so I usually choose the former.  Also, the humans around us have labelled him an idiot so I've succeeded in cock-blocking the moron for at least another eve.  This results in insults to my intelligence, character or body.  Then he leaves and I am done with humanity.

At this point, I will guzzle the remainder of my libation and stumble home with one eye on my back.  Some men think a lady at three am is fair game.  Not cool.  Safe at home, I will cook something that should not be cooked so late and set off the fire alarm.  After displacing the smoke from my cooked dinner, I will watch something mindless while stuffing my face with spaghetti with bread and butter, cookies and a bag of caramel popcorn.  Once I've satiated the need to feed, I'll pass out knowing full well the shitty sleep I'm about to endure.  Then the morning comes far too soon and I spend the day regretting the majority of my actions, the amount of calories I consumed right before bed and the fact that I did it again.  I've poisoned my brain and my body for a few brief connections and the feeling that just for a moment, I'm where I'm suppose to be.  

So this is me, writing it down in the hopes that it will be in my brain to not repeat the same behavior that has not served me since my early twenties.  My goal is to take this awareness and slowly chip away at the reason behind my actions so that I can choose more wisely.  I'll let you know how it goes, next Friday.

The Day The Language Failed

I HAVE NO ONE TO TALK TO.  Do you guys find this, or is it distinctly a Rhandi phenomenon?

I have to censor everything I do or do not say to appease the ones whose company I am so keeping at any given time.  It.  Is.  Exhausting.  I have yet to find a person to whom I can be completely real with on one or more levels.  I do admit, I can be somewhat complicated.  I think that is ok.  What I long for is one who can relate to me on more than one level during a conversation without me having to don a Rhandi Façade to get through the dialogue.

Can anyone relate to that?

This evening I wore so many different faces to fit in long enough to not be alone that it tired me to such a degree that I simply walked away.  I left a conversation that I could no longer stomach for the sanctity of my currently quiet abode.

When I was in college, I felt like my most self.  I was always sharing my 'most' thoughts.  Now, I must withdraw my truthiness from those who instantly take offense and run.  They do.  That's what the world does now when you call them on bullshit.  They flee like a flock of scavenger birds at a carcass that is not quite deceased.  Fear compels these poor, vapid souls.  Fear of being found out for the scavengers they are.  It's cool.  Be a scavenger.  Once you're cool with the fact that you're near the bottom of the food chain and have little to offer the world except you're ability to consume rotting flesh at an alarming rate...we'll all be better for it.

I miss the days when shitty people knew deep down they were shitty and just fucked off after a while to the nether regions.  Now?  They wear glasses with no lenses in them and jean jackets that they purposely ripped up to look like they had been thrown from a moving vehicle when in reality they just cut up some clothes their mom bought them.

Where has authenticity gone?  Where has having a legitimate cause gone?  We care about the most inane nonsense now that my stomach hurts after listening to only a few minutes of it.  I try to be a good sport and give my full attention to the subject matter but after a time...I just want out.  Like, throw me from that same moving vehicle that 'pseudo made your jacket', out.

Fuck being single in a world where the art of conversation has died and no one has anything to say.

Best Sleep Ever

I'm tired of not having anyone. 
I'm tired of being so strong all of the time. 
I'm tired of the empty, shitty pit in my stomach
and the yearning in my throat for words that will never come on their own. 
I'm tired of being the only one who makes any effort
to communicate. 
I'm tired of crying. 
I'm tired.

He Went From...

"Hunni, where's the bathroom?"  ...to

"Hey, BITCH!  Where's the shitter?"  ...in seven point two seconds.

Was it the alcohol or the release of his neocortex to produce the trueness of his amygdala?  The lizard brain shone so brightly it hurt my eyes and my heart.  I wonder what is it truly in liquor that diminishes the ability to be sensitive to others.  Perhaps he is the most wonderful individual when sober.  Loving father.  Productive co-worker(guaranteed he is not the boss).  Tax payer.  I don't know.  What else makes a decent human being.  Oh yes.  I know.  Not relating to a perfect stranger with a sexist and antiquated term and then graduating to outright rage within a few mere seconds.

My place smells like fish.