Big news of the day is the woman in North Dakota who intended to pass out letters (instead of candy) to children she deemed “moderately obese”. I can’t think of a meaner way to harm a child on Halloween, except for passing out real poison, rather than just “poison pen”.
I was one of those chubby children, who, between the ages of 10-12, got rather “obese”. I’ve seen this happen with lots of children. It’s called “puberty”. It’s hormonal, not the overeating of candy, or lack of exercise. A few years ago, I was taking dance lessons at a studio where 2 of the children that performed one year (short and chubby) at the recital, came back tall and lean the next. I hardly recognized them! The boy went from being shorter than me, to towering over my head! The girl not only “leaned out”, she was even prettier!
I was “Mind F*cked” as a child by other children, relatives, and random adults who made unkind remarks about my weight. I was compared to my female cousins (Who I later found out, weren’t even blood related to me, so my genes weren’t even the same as theirs), while adult relatives had no qualms about saying things in front of me like “I’m only going to let MY daughter have about 1 candy bar a week, so she won’t get FAT, like you!” or “I hope (Female Cousin’s name here) doesn’t get FAT, like Debbie!”.
Remarks like this were so scarring, I can’t help but wonder if it is part of the reason I didn’t turn out to be more successful in life. No husband, no children, a less than successful career, an under-achiever. Perhaps I never felt “good enough”?
In spite of the fact that I “leaned out” in Junior High, and was even below the normal weight for my height, I was always trying to “lose weight”. Of course, back in those days, the only way we knew how to lose weight was to either starve ourselves, or drink TAB (The diet soda of the times) all day, and nothing else.
During my 20’s, I fluctuated 10 pounds. In fact, I could drop 10 pounds in 2 weeks. Not good for one’s metabolism, I’ve since learned.
Even Doctors are guilty of “mind f*cking” me. A few years ago, I was going to a woman doctor, thinking she would be sympathetic to my weight issue, but she just told me (Condescendingly, no less) “Now Debbie….START exercising!”. I SCREAMED at her over the phone: “I have 2 gym memberships! When I’m not at 1, I’m at the other! I’m a tap dancer, bike racer, race walker, equestrienne, martial artist….what kind of exercise would you like for me to START doing?!!!”.
Another woman doctor, refused my request for the “saliva test” to determine if I had a hormonal imbalance. She was one of the few doctors in my City that does Bioidentical Hormonal Replacement Therapy. She told me to cut back on my eating. She didn’t even know what I was eating…or not eating. She couldn’t tell me what I should be eating, just that “healthy foods are fattening, too”. Brilliant.
I’m still flogging the dead horse that happened to me just a couple years ago, when my roommate’s friend stayed at my house for a few days. She went on and on about an old photo of me on the wall, and how it was “A shame you don’t look like that anymore!”. People have no manners.
Back to this horrid woman in ND that intends to hand out poison pen letters to children she deems obese….she needs a psychiatric evaluation, in my opinion. I’d be willing to bet she has had a weight problem in the past. Like a reformed smoker, they are the worst about judging others who have the same problem they had. All I can say to this poor (evil) woman is: GET A LIFE and leave other people’s children alone! If you don’t want to pass out candy, DON’T! And if you insist on giving out treats, give out something healthy, like apples.
Picking up Strays
Picking up Strays
A few years ago, while I was on a walk through the park with an old friend I’d known since I was 20, she told me “You’ve got to stop picking up strays”. She wasn’t talking about dogs or cats, she was talking about people. People who had no friends (I would always find out later why they had no friends…usually due to some psychosis).
In college, I had a friend named “Kym”, who I met through the other horse enthusiasts at the local University. We were actually “thrown” together by other girls who didn’t want to hang out with us, because we wore make-up, curled our hair, and dressed up to go to functions while the other girls wore their old jeans, cowboy boots, and basically had hay in their back pockets. God forbid the guys pay attention to us and not them!
Kym was a pretty girl, 5’8″, blonde hair, and blue eyes. She looked like she had the world at her feet. Kym didn’t come from a family with money, in fact, she came from a broken home (Which was a little more unusual back then), and she talked about her Mother being so tight, she’d turn down the hot water heater temperature to save money (I do this now!).
Kym always managed to get kicked out of her apartment about 3 weeks before the end of the semester (Not paying her rent?) and she’d move in with me, lock, stock, and barrel. It drove my Mom crazy, with all of Kym’s stuff in the living room. Looking back, my Mom never should have allowed it.
Kym was always criticizing me, as though she was trying to “help” me by pointing out my faults. According to her, I didn’t dress right, wear the right color of lipstick, etc. Kym had the power of manipulation. She knew how to work her way in.
After she’d moved home (A small town in Northern California), she got a job at a Credit Union, and was doing pretty well, until they found out she hadn’t gotten her Bachelor’s Degree. So, back to the local University here to finish up. She got a roommate, who happened to have a cat. The roommate insisted on leaving the Air Conditioning on all day, for the cat. Kym told her she could pay 2/3rds of the Electric bill, then. The roommate didn’t like that idea, and told Kym to leave.
This time, my Mother put her foot down, and said Kym was not going to stay at our home. It wasn’t the “Lock, stock and barrel” that bothered my Mom, it was the way Kym tried to manipulate me.
Kym called me one day, and was saying that a certain department store’s models in the TV commercials were “Ugly”. I was a model for that store, and in the commercials. Then, she had the nerve to ask if she could move in with me the last few weeks of the semester. I didn’t say a word. She went on talking about how she didn’t have a place to live, and couldn’t afford a hotel room. I remained silent. She finally said “I’M HOMELESS!”. I didn’t say a word. I also never heard from her again.
When my roommate first moved in, it was a temporary situation where the apartment complex she lived in was being upgraded, and she didn’t want to stay in the complex everyone had been moved into. The second night she was here, one of her “strays” came calling. The “stray” is sort of a Hippie-mountain-chick who works a seasonal (State) job in the mountains, and collects unemployment the rest of the year.
Ms. Hippie-mountain-chick offered to give me a massage in exchange for letting her stay on my couch. While giving me the massage (She is a licensed massage therapist, otherwise, I would not have agreed to it), she spotted an old photo of me on the wall at my “fighting weight” (That’s after a woman has had a bad break up, be it a divorce, or other relationship, and basically starves herself thin), and said “You were in such good shape in that picture, it’s a SHAME you don’t look like THAT anymore!”.
I should have asked her to leave right then and there, but not wanting to make my new roommate uncomfortable, I just let it go. Ms. Hippie-mountain-chick ended up crashing on my couch for SEVEN nights! After three nights, I should have either asked her to leave, or started charging her rent! On the last night Ms. Hippie-mountain-chick was here, she repeated her insult to me about how it’s a shame I don’t look like I used to (In a 15-some-odd-years-old photo), only this time, my roommate heard her say it, too. I went down to my room, and the next thing I knew, Ms. Hippie-mountain-chick came right into my room, uninvited, and wrapped her arms around me from behind. I ignored her. She left the next day. I let my roommate know, in no uncertain terms, that her “friend” is not welcome here, anymore.
Recently, I ran into an old school chum I’d known since the 7th grade. She was one of the “popular” girls, a cheerleader, swimmer, dancer, etc. I was at a coffee house trying to have a conversation with a friend, when she came walking up and invited herself to sit with us. She dominated the conversation, and finally, my other friend left. The old school chum turned to me with tears in her eyes, and said she was “Homeless”.
I got that “Uh Oh” feeling, and explained that I didn’t have any room, as I have a small house, and a roommate. That didn’t phase her, she said “If I could just sleep on your couch, if I could just put my head on a pillow for the night…”. I could see she was desperate, and wasn’t going to give up. I felt trapped.
So, she followed me home. Then, she unloaded her suitcase from her car, and proceeded to use my laundry room to wash everything in her suitcase. As we sat and talked (until 11:00pm, and I had to get up early and go to work the next morning) she talked about her church. I asked her why she couldn’t go to her church for help. She said she couldn’t let them see her like that. ???? Isn’t that what churches are for?
I finally went to bed, and she slept on the couch. The next morning, I gave her $10 to get some gas in her car, a cup of coffee (for the road) and she told me “I’ll leave at 10:30”. I explained that she would have to leave at 7:00am, the same time I did.
That night, she came back, just like the stray cat you make the mistake of feeding. So, I let her in, and this time, she walked right down the hall to my roommate’s room and flopped on the bed. I told her she would have to sleep on the couch again, in case my roommate came home (my “roommate” was actually living at her boyfriend’s house, she just kept her stuff here).
The old school chum refused, and said “If she comes home, I’ll go back on the couch”. Now, who argues when being offered a couch when they have no place else to go?! This woman was starting to scare me.
The next morning, she was talking about how I had a “fortune” in old record albums. She had been going through my stuff in the middle of the night! And….I noticed that a $20 from my wallet was missing.
I got really scared, and talked to a friend about it. My friend informed me that I was a “prisoner in my own home”, and not to let the woman back in. I had to call the police the next night when she came knocking. I told them that she was homeless, and I feared needed medication, but couldn’t afford it.
They showed up and told her to leave as she was banging on my door. She sent me a furious text. I deleted it before reading all of it.
I don’t think I’ll be “picking up strays” ever again!
Adult Bounce Houses
My Chiropractor once said to me “Any time you fence in an area, and pour alcohol down the middle, you have an adult bounce house”. He was referring to the events that occur around here every Spring and Fall, sometimes known as “Springtini” or “Falltini”. You buy a ticket for $20 (or $30 if you wait until the day of the event) and the event usually starts around 5:00PM. It’s held in a large shopping area parking lot, and is fenced in by hurricane fence. Local vendors set up booths, some serving alcohol, some serving food, some giving out free samples of their wares, such as shampoo or earrings.
I’ve gone to some of these events, usually on a “comp” ticket, because I’m not really into alcohol, nor am I into bumping into (or should I say “being bumped into”) by a bunch of barely turned 21-year-olds, who either yell at me for being in their way, or try to start a fight, or puke in front of me because they’ve had too much to drink.
While standing in line waiting for the gate to open at one of these events, I started talking to a group of youngsters (big mistake) about why people in this town think they need to ride around in stretch limos. In LA, most people take Town Cars, not STRETCH limos. One of the smart-assed b*tches with the group (without looking at me) said “Well….this isn’t LA!!!”. No Sh*t, Sherlock. I had that figured out before you were born!
One of the local restaurants has a limo service from the restaurant, so that you’ll have some place to park your car (as most of the parking lot, where the event is taking place, is taken up by the fenced-in area). I was fortunate to have the limo all to myself on the way over, but when I called for the driver to come and pick me up, a couple of women (older than me) jumped in ahead of me.
The bleached blonde old broad grabbed the door handle on the passenger side for the front seat, and then made some slurred remark to me. I told her “That’s OK, the important people always ride in the back, anyway!”. She slurred (loudly) all the way back to where our cars were parked. I hurried and got out of there, before she had a chance to get into her vehicle and cause danger on the road.
I’m at the “age” where I like to go to lounges, early in the evening, for one drink, while talking with friends. I think I’ll leave the “Adult Bounce Houses” to the kids….
Doctor Damages
If you run into someone else’s car, you’re expected to pay for damages. Does the same go for a Dermatologist that leaves a deep scar on the side of your face from a totally unnecessary “surgery”?
A few years ago, I went to a Dermatologist for a routine skin check. He noticed some plugged sebaceous glands on my face, and asked if I wanted them removed. These are the little “doughnut” shaped bumps that sometimes appear on your face from build up in your sebaceous glands. Not knowing what was going to happen, I let him take one. Thank God I didn’t let him do more.
Thinking that I heal very quickly and have rarely had a scar from anything, I figured the little “hole” left by the removal would eventually “fill in”. Not so. Here I am, with a disfiguring scar on my face, which not only causes me to be self-conscious, it has had a negative affect on my social life. (What guy wants to be seen with a woman that looks like she’s had an ice pick taken to the side of her face?).
I really noticed the scar when I started making my TV show, and the HD cameras made the scar look like the Grand Canyon. I can’t sit on the guest’s left, where I should be sitting, so that I can see the clock and tell when it’s time to wrap it up. My left is also my “good side”, or at least it was, before the hideous scar.
What would you do if you were in my situation? Would you go back to the Dermatologist and ask if he can-or is willing to-do something about it? Would you let him try to do something, or insist that you be sent to a plastic surgeon? What can you do if he’s not willing to attempt to do anything about it?
If he doesn’t at least try to “make good” on it, should I just blast him all over the Internet, so that it doesn’t happen to some young woman, ruining her chances for marriage and children? What is my responsibility here?
Wrong side of the tracks….
In my town, I live “On the wrong side of the tracks” which is south of Shaw Avenue. When my parents moved into the house that I now live in, it was as far north in town as you could go. In my hometown, North is good, South is not. So, as the city grew to the north, “South of Shaw” because less and less desirable.
Never mind that there are lovely neighborhoods South of Shaw, such as “Old Fig”, The Tower District, Sunnyside, and Huntington Blvd. to name but a few, for the most part, pseudo snobs say things like “I NEVER go south of Shaw!”.
Recently, I was invited to a party for a friend of mine. She happens to have a twin. The twin invited friends from her church. The party was held in what might be considered (by some) to be in “a bad part of town”. The house itself was lovely, and although you may have to go through less-than-desirable parts of town to get there, once you arrived, it seemed fine.
One of the guests from the twin’s church loudly annouced to her that she (the twin) was “lucky” that she (the guest) even came, because….she NEVER goes “South of Shaw”. I was appalled at this woman’s rudeness. I wouldn’t consider myself “lucky” at all in having a friend like that. The hostess of the party was a friend of the family who offered her house for the party to be held. If I were her, I might have asked the offender to leave…
I was personally offended, because….well, I live “South of Shaw”. I wonder where and what kind of house Ms. Snob-a-roo lives in? Perhaps she’s living above her means. Perhaps her house isn’t paid off, and someday, she may have to move “South of Shaw” herself.
While I may not live in a great (newer) neighborhood, I really do live in a good location. By freeway, I can get downtown in 10 minutes, and to the “North End” in 7. I live near “The Village”, which in this City, is our version of a cross between Carmel and Rodeo Drive (pricey little shops in a quaint atmosphere).
Some people have referred to where I live as a “Ghetto Neighborhood”. A rather rotund woman I knew from high school, who’d gone into business for herself (a clutter shop in the far north party of town), loudly asked me if I was “still living in THAT neighborhood” in front of a store full of people, when I went in to offer my congratulations on the opening of her new store. A few years later, her business folded.
Of course, these are people who make these rude remarks are probably not homeowners, and just might spend the rest of their lives throwing rent money out the window, never “owning” anything.
Another reason I stay here, is because I’ve been told that eventually, the City, or Private Industry may want this neighborhood, due to it’s ideal location. If not, I can always use it as a rental….
“Before you embark on a journey for revenge, dig two graves”-Confucius
One of my favorite TV shows is “REVENGE”. It’s about a young woman whose father was framed, and she has vowed revenge on all those responsible. Not only was her father sent to prison, she had to spend time in a juvenile facility.
She keeps important documents in a box with the symbol for “Double infinity” (Two “8”s) on it.
In the latest episode, her finance’, who happens to be the son of one of the enemies responsible for her father’s ultimate death, finally gets her to agree to a wedding date. She not-so-randomly chooses “August 8”. Now, I know that next Summer, August 8th falls on a Friday, because that’s also my birthday. I wouldn’t think that a Friday would be a popular day to get married, unless it was a Friday the 13th, and you were doing it for the purpose of the superstition (As a friend of mine did, over 20 years ago, and she’s still married).
I’m one to look for omens, and I took her “August 8” date as a message to me, personally. Double infinity, Revenge, August 8, all fit me.
An old friend I’ve known since high school was the one to turn me on to the show. She said I had to watch it, as it would give me some feeling of gratification to see someone else get their revenge on people who’ve crossed them, just as the Citibank 13 (as I refer to them), crossed me.
I would love to have a photo of all of them together, and draw a red “X” through their faces (just as the character on the show does) as each one of them is done in by their own undoing.
I personally don’t have to have done anything to my “enemies” to get that feeling of satisfaction when I learn that they have gotten their comeuppance. It can be something like learning that they lost their job, or their spouse, or their home, business, or whatever.
It would be like running into the woman who said to me “It’s a SHAME you don’t look like THAT anymore” when referring to an old photo of me when I was younger and thinner, and seeing that she had gained a considerable amount of weight, lost all of her hair, or worse.
Running into an ex-boyfriend who “raked you over the coals”, and seeing that he’s gotten very fat, bald, and in general, very unattractive, but you still look great, that’s “revenge”.
The drug dealer living in the rental next door, on Section 8, while he drives a new SUV and does drug deals, gets shot by the police, goes to the hospital, LIVES, and is taken directly to jail from the hospital. That’s revenge. It’s seeing someone else get what they deserve. Karma.
The wheels of justice grind slowly but surely.
I’d better get started digging those 14 graves….
Famous People
What is the price of fame, and why is it like an aphrodisiac? Fame itself, to some, is the aphrodisiac, while to others, simply being somehow “connected” to a “famous” person is the aphrodisiac. (What’s ironic, is when I go to the Awards shows in Hollywood, I hardly recogize half the “celebrities”).
I recall a few years ago, I knew of this young woman named Melissa, who seemed very “normal” at first, but a few key phrases gave away the fact she was actually mentally “unstable”. When talking about a friend of mine who is a somewhat semi-well-known MMA fighter, she shouted out “Heck, I’m more FAMOUS than him!”. I thought “What?”. What was she talking about that she was “famous”? And…”More famous than him”…he wasn’t exactly “famous” himself, either.
She then sent me a link to some silly website, where your friends vote for you, and depending on how many votes you get, determines how “famous” you are! Yes, she did indeed have more votes than my MMA fighter friend. Whoopie. There was also another little local “Attention Whore” who had many votes. She was a little Britany Spears look-alike, who was in a few local commercials, and thought her you-know-what didn’t stink.
I just rolled my eyes. I wouldn’t lower myself to play the “Fame Game”, by voting for Melissa, or anyone else, especially in a local contest.
I also recall about 10 years ago, when a neighbor of mine wanted to get into acting, and was asking me for advice on how/where to get training, and representation. His little teenage buddy piped up and said “He’s going to be FAMOUS!”, as if he was excited to know someone who someday might be “famous”.
Well, my neighbor never got famous, in fact, he never even got into acting. The last I heard, he was unemployed. God knows where his friend is, perhaps looking for others who might someday be “famous”.
What’s sad, is when you are famous, you have to be careful where you go, worry about your kids being kidnapped, make reservations (at hotels and restaurants) under fake names, worry about lawsuits (people automatically presume you have money if you are famous), etc.
Here’s what’s funny, while some people are busy looking for those who are “famous” today, they may be looking right passed someone who might be “famous” tomorrow. I was talking about this to a friend the other day, and she told me of a story that happened a long time ago, when a photographer she knew was down in Hollywood shooting some photos of then-famous people. There was a young man standing nearby, whom the photographer ignored, because HE wasn’t “famous”. Well, HE turned out to be…Brad Pitt.
Years ago, when Tom Selleck had the role that made him famous, Magnum P.I., he was on a talk show, and said “Before I got this role, no one thought of me as a “Sex Symbol”. I guess “fame” really is some sort of an aphrodisiac….
Citibank Banksters
Some people are offended by remarks that I post concerning my issue with Citibank. Maybe they have friends or relatives who work there, and my apologies to them. I know not all employees of Citibank are BAD people, some just work there because it’s a job, a paycheck, and they have bills to pay. Most of the people that I’ve met who work there, the ones with a conscience, eventually get out of there. They go on to work for Property Management companies, or law enforcement agencies.
The others are the ones I feel sorry for, the ones who cheat, lie and steal from customers, just to keep their jobs. If one believes in Heaven and Hell, well, they know where they are going. Cheating, Lying, Stealing, I believe are all addressed in the 10 Commandments.
Today is Sunday, the “Day of Rest”. I’d love to be able to rest, but I can’t. I work 3 jobs during the rest of the week, in order to pay off a debt that never should have been. A debt that an 85-year-old woman with documented dementia was booked into, encumbering her house. The house now belongs to me, and if I don’t pay off that loan, I lose the house.
I have to take care of a house and a yard. I don’t have automatic sprinklers. I COULD have, if I didn’t have this huge debt to pay off, pissing thousands of dollars away per year, paying off a debt that was never proven.
I can’t afford a gardener, so I have to do it myself. I do not have a green thumb, and my lawn is shrinking. Should I just let it all die, and just have patches of dirt in my front yard? I can’t even afford to plant cactus and have rocks, like a desert scene, because that costs money, money I have to piss away each month, going towards nothing.
I have to buy my food at warehouse stores. “Organic”? Ha Ha…what’s that? Buying “‘generic” and lower quality produce (i.e. exposed to chemicals) probably has a lot to do with the fact I can’t lose weight, and am having liver problems….my body is full of toxins.
Weekly trips to the “Dollar Store” where I buy my generic cleaning products and laundry detergent. I “brown bag” it to work. Going out to lunch-or even coffee-with a friend, is a “splurge”.
I often think of those Citibank employees, driving their new cars, and riding their Harleys (Like Mr. Rogers), while I have to plan routes to work and stores, so that I don’t waste gas.
A friend recently asked me “What do you do for entertainment?” meaning “How do you afford entertainment?”. Easy. I just go to things that are free, or stay home and watch DVDs I check out from the library. Finally, someone bluntly asked me “How do you afford to go to the Emmys?”. Well, that’s not “entertainment”, that’s a “business trip”. It’s not exactly a “write off” (yet!), but in hopes of selling my script about my Citibank ordeal, I go to the awards shows, because everybody (producers, directors, other writers) are all there.
I’m hoping and praying that someday, someone, somewhere, will make Citibank “pay” for what they’ve done, not only to me, but to probably hundreds of thousands of people. I’d love to be a witness for the prosecution. Every one of the evil people I had to deal with in my Citibank issue would be implicated. It would make “Operation Rezone” look like child’s play….
Free Appraisal of your Looks
Twice a year, a local Medi-Spa has an event I’ll call “Girl’s night out”. It’s where they offer great prices on things like Botox, Facials, goop that makes your eyelashes grow longer/thicker, and expensive skin care line products. I go to this spa maybe a few times a year for facials. I have never used Botox, thought I’ve been bluntly told “You’d look more youthful if you got Botox”.
As I look around at many of the women who work at this Medi-Spa, I notice that they have seemingly “plastic”, expressionless faces, or the skin on their faces doesn’t match the rest of the body’s skin tone, because they’ve been using products to lighten the “hyperpigmentation”. (Think Michael Jackson).
As I passed by the Laser hair removing machine, an Asian man attending the machine asked me if I’d ever had Laser Hair removal done. I looked him squarely in the face and said “I’m part Asian, and I’m part Native American…I don’t have excessive body hair” and I walk on.
Next, I pass by the longer/thicker eyelash serum. Again, I get the pitch “Have you ever tried….?”. Yes, I have. Loreal’s version. It costs about $6, where your’s costs around $200. Thanks, but no thanks.
The Botox lady is beautiful, but she looks like a mannequin. Her face looks “tight”, and her nose is pointed. She just looks “Unnatural”. She reminds me of the Blonde woman in the store on Rodeo Drive in the movie “Pretty Woman”. Sure, she’s “gorgeous”, but something seems “off”. I move on.
Finally, I come to the Indian (As in “From India”, not “Come to my Casino” Indian, like me), who has a ghosty-gray face against the rest of her otherwise brown skin. She asks me if I’ve used the product. Well, yes, I’ve used some of the products from that particular (and very expensive, I might add) line. She doubts me. She tells me I have “hyperpigmentation”. I tell her I’ve just come from a swimming pool, as one of my jobs is teaching Aqua Aerobics. I don’t have make up on. She goes on and on about my “hyperpigmentation”. I sigh out of frustration with her, and said “Look, I’m a redhead, are you sure it’s not freckles?”. She gets huffy and very snidely says “It’s hyperpigmentation….from the sun”. No kidding? From the SUN? Go figure! I storm off.
I refuse to be bullied into buying a product that is way overpriced, and makes your face look freakishly unnatural. Sure, I’d like to have perfect skin, and a perfect body, but being closer to 60 than I am to 50, I think I look pretty darned good.
dbrgdmn 