Posts Tagged ‘karma’

Yes, I do, and I am sick of it. I had been saying for the last seven years that I wanted to visit my long-ago mother-in-law, Barbara W., who was not doing well. I kept saying it, and kept not doing it. I guess whatever I was going through was more important than visiting someone who is one of the kindest, gentlest people I know, a person who treated me better than I had ever been treated in my life, and I kept putting it off.

Thursday, I just got sick sick sick of myself and my poor-me bullshit, and my guilt that this houseful of animals and man won’t survive a day without me because I seem to think I am so important! It is the Irish Guilt at play, and although guilt is guilt, every background has a different delivery, I am guessing.

I used to brag that no one could guilt me. Look back to the Instant Karma post for that one – this time the Karma was not so instant, it is making up for lost time like it has a death sentence.

I went to the Motion Picture Country Home, which has expanded greatly since I was there, and refused to give into feeling bad about not loving up Bobby D. for the day. He was in my office today and he is fine.

Barbara is suffering a rare form of Alzheimer’s, but she remembered, due to a little bronze kitty keychain she gave to me 23 years ago. The reason I still have it on my keychain is because I lost the key years ago! Otherwise I would have lost the kitty. I told her she was going to have a roommate soon, and it would be me, do not worry.

She focused, remembered me, and we had a few good laughs. Then she would drift, then come back. We spent about 40 minutes together before she felt she should go back to the bingo game.

I went to my car and cried. I got home and refused to feel guilty over anyone here. Especially Bobby D. the Crow. He is Italian, and his ability to guilt far outweighs the Irish version.

I will be visiting her again, and again, until she is gone.

And no damned Irish Guilt is going to stop me.

Got it, Bobby?

(mean mother mean mother mean mother mean mother mean mother)

I can HEAR you……..

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written by Bobby D.  Article re-printed by permission of the author.


Okay, that last post was the bird’s mother trying not to lose her mind.  She complained quite heavily about the Motion Picture Television Fund taking a day away from us hanging out, but, she could have hung out with me in the early evening, instead of blasting out that angry post.  Try telling her that.

So, the weekend was okay, it was really cold for us Southern California Crows, and the mom spent a lot of time making sure that the rabbit, Wullith, was not freezing, and she made sure I was not, too.  This was very thoughtful of her, but she still spent a lot of time in her office, trying to juggle her idea of priorities.  Poor thing.  She just makes herself crazier every day.  But, she did watch a movie the other night that seemed to vindicate some of her crazy, and it rocketed to her personal top ten.  It had a weird name……

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstein are Dead”.  Something based on “Hamlet.”  Whatever, she woke up in a good mood but had had weird dreams. So did the Dad.

Anyway, back to her Karma – she was in the shower this morning, and had an idea – the mother, like most of you humans, seem to get your great ideas in the shower, but mostly when you are on the toilet.  Good Gods of Flight, if I had a great idea every time I pooped, I’d be a genius.  Well, I am sort of a genius – after all, we are the smartest wild birds out there.  Not to brag, just saying it is not because we poop so much.

She decided to give Mr. Juan Oliva one more call, kind of like “three strikes you’re out” – and after all of her ranting and raving that he was an idiot,  that the lady Jennifer was horrible, on and on, either out loud or in her head.  I can tell when it is in her head because she does not blink and a muscle in her jaw jumps.

Mr. Oliva called back within an hour, and they wound up having a really good talk, she got some answers she needed, it turns out that he is just as confused as she is on this Pension issue, that both he AND Jennifer went to their supervisor, both pretty flummoxed.

He was a great help, and she apologized for being so cranky and sarcastic with him on the first call.  He was very gracious, and heard her point about just needing to hear some information, that being ignored was driving her up a tree – she had no idea that they didn’t know either, and they did not want to call her saying, “This makes no sense.”

I am kind of proud of the mom, because her instant reaction after the good phone call was to delete the angry post.  My best guess is, she is owning up to when she screws up, rather than pretend it doesn’t happen.

I hope her ego doesn’t kick in, because she really does have instant karma, and she will get her ass kicked within 48 hours, trust me.

Bobby D. the Crow

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“Bobby,” I say, exasperated.  “It is not a gambling game, it is a writing game. You are many fantastic things, but you are not a writer.”

His look, coupled with his “tell it to the hand” attitude, suggests I go to my FInder folder, pull up pictures, and get back to him.

“Fine.” I answer, making it clear with my retreat that he can tell it to my ass.

Well, I am busted, he gets to play.


 First of all, the rules, sent to me by the SO cool Sherri Cornelius, who “tagged” me to play this game. Being a newbie here on wordpress, I have no idea what being tagged is, but I think it is a badge of honor.
Learning, immediately forgetting, learning the same thing over and over….AHH, the GREAT circle of life! (The first person who recognizes that film quote wins…something. I will figure it out later.

BACK to the task at hand.

First, the rules:

1. Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself.
4. Tag seven random [?] people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

We are now on Rule Number Three. (Rule number 1a is the mom gets to go first).

Sixteen years ago, when I was twenty nine, I went to the UCLA psychiatric facility to seek help for depression. I received ten minutes of interaction, and was sent home with a bag of antidepressants. I was misdiagnosed. These medications – prozac, wellbutrin, too many to list – have helped many people, but in my case, they caused my heart to stop. I was in my apartment, luckily with a sort of ex-boyfriend, as we were trying to work things out. He called 911, and the paramedics applied the paddles over and over, until one of them said, “Well, it’s time to bag and tag her”.
(Mind you, I have no memory of this – this was told to me, in great detail).
My boyfriend pleaded for them to try one more time and viola! – heartbeat.
My heart stopped again in the ambulance, but the got ‘er going again.
However, all of this insanity left me in a coma for a week, and when I came to, I had brain damage. I was a grown woman with the brain capacity of a six-year old. The family were discussing what facility I should be shipped to.
I woke up in the UCLA psyche ward with two weeks of my life absolutely blank, and it has stayed blank.
I woke up to a team of psychiatrists standing around my bead, charts in hand, asking me if I knew what I had done.
That is an unsettling question.

“And you have the nerve to call me a three year old. I am going to snap at you when we are finished.”

“Bobby, it is your turn to tell us something about yourself.”

Well, besides being the real writer, I have become a vegetarian. At first I ate beef, McDonald burgers were just the best, I ate chicken, yeah, yeah, I know we are related, don’t start. But I find that I like dry cat food, cheese and egg whites. I believe the egg whites come from living in Los Angeles. I have been bombarded with donated magazines that I shred, but I do read them, and it is very, very important to stay svelte.

“Bobby, dry cat food is fattening.”
“Shut Up – your turn, Dead Zone.”

When my father died, five years and three months ago, I divorced the rest of my family. Mother, sister, brother. I have chosen to have no family. Tomas and you, Bobby, along with the cats and Wullith the rabbit, are my family. I like my in-laws, but they are on the east coast, so whenever we get to see them it is a real treat.

“Why can’t I go with?”
“I smuggle you into the house, how do you think I can smuggle you onto a plane? I can barely get on a plane.”
“Point taken.”

I love to have my head and chest scriched by the Mom. I demand it, by pounding on my condo, then putting my head down and waiting. She always complies, she cannot resist, and I make her do it until her arms hurt and she has to quit. It makes her feel guilty, but I cannot help it, it just feels so good. I think she is getting some kind of Karma for always wanting backrubs from the Dad.

“You dont even know that I get backrubs, brat.”
“Mother, you have no idea what I know.”

I went to the DMV to renew my I.D. and was informed that I was on the suspected terrorist list. I use that fact whenever someone is working my last nerve. You might want to remember that, Robert.

“Oh puh-leeze. You SO scary when you call me Robert. See? I am shaking.”
“You are shaking because it is cold out here. Want the heat on?”
“Can I say one more?”
“NO! the game specifically says SEVEN! God!
“But how about seven for you and seven for me?”
“Honestly, I really cannot tell which one of is the most self-centered.”
“Well, everybody knows the world revolves around the bird. How ’bout hitting that heat?”

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