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Posts Tagged ‘love’

Summer is hard everywhere.  My birthday is August 15th – when I try to find compassion, sympathy and understanding for my mother, what caused her to hate and abuse me, I figure she was not in the greatest spirits because she was in her last tri-mester in Summer, and flung me out in the dog days of August.

Of course, if I am to be totally honest about my severe dislike of her, I am glad she was in misery.

I guess we are both assholes. Although recently, on my end, there has been a change towards her.  It can be found on the “What Happened” blog.  This is Bobby’s blog, and he is  getting irritated that I am making it all about me, as usual.

For Bobby,  sumer is misery for him, also.  He molts in summer, and it makes him very snappy, angry, and unhappy.  Especially because he cannot fly, he molts more slowly.  I have been trying to come up with anything I can do to make him feel better, and nothing has been working all that well.  Although today, I just got a suggestion that is wonderful.  I am going to try it and will report how it goes.

In the meantime, however, please look at the picture below.  That is Bobby D the crow in August.

Robert-deNiro

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Two days ago, maybe?

The only good thing about humidity is it makes your skin look absolutely fabulous.  All of that moisture.

Otherwise, it is a misery, but the beauty is, summer only lasts for two months around here.

The forest that is our lot is so old, the leaves are really too big to fully understand when written about, so here are a few photos to have something to compare.

It is just past a year since Bullet died, and it is coming up on two years since my cat Monkey died.  I have not been able to write about Monkey, and I just got word that my friend Tara Zucker lost her cat Blanche.

Tara writes much more eloquently than I, and her life with Blanche is a beautiful chronology of how we come to love the four-legged creatures that speak so well, if only we were smart enough to understand.

My shoe size? Six and a half.  Ahem

My shoe size? Six and a half. Ahem

Hand?  Not much bigger than foot.

Hand? Not much bigger than foot.

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Bobby is asking the mom this question, being rather strident.

Bobby, the Mom would like to think so, but she has many conflicts on the issue.

The Mom’s question is – When did you hear that song, young man?

Bobby: “I heard it going through your head over and over.  Why was that?”

Mom: “I have no idea.”

Bobby: “There must be a reason.”

Mom: “When you figure it out, will you tell me?”

Bob: “I already have, but you have to find the answer yourself.”

Sigh.

Mom: “Would you like to play with an unshelled walnut?”

Bob: “Oh yes please.”

Mom: “I will mull this over while you pound on the walnut. It will be kind of hard, because I need quiet to think.”

Bob: “We will figure that out, don’t worry.”

Mom: “Since you are much smarter than I am, I believe you.”

Bob: “So we’re good?”

Mom: “We’re good.”

Bob: “Okay, I am going to poop now. Could you clean that up? I will be quiet while you think.”

Mom: “I will.”

The mom loves the bird.

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I could be paying attention to Bobby today, I took him outside a few days ago, and his bad wing bled a little again. I decided to put some Neosporin Triple Antibiotic ointment under his wing and on the crippled blood feathers that keep trying to grow back in, but fall off after they have grown to be about two and a half inches.

He did not seem pleased with this gooey business under his wing, and has not been quite so demanding of my “juh guh boy” scratch the head love love.

He has a new hobby, which is to meticulously tear off the paper glued onto a prescription bottle. Time consuming and challenging, plus, when I hear the plastic bottle fall onto the floor, it does not give me a heart attack like the tossing the rocks phase did. I go out and pick it up for him, he is happy, I am happy, and he seems to slowly be forgiving me for the Neosporin.

I miss him today. We have had an amazing phenomenon here in Los Angeles today – a full day of rain. We have not had a full day of rain in two years, and one thing the San Fernando Valley is famous for is the street flooding that goes on during the “rainy season”. Our last “rainy season” was Mid- November, 2005. For the global warming dissenters, sorry, this is not normal. Even my dear friend R., who had (until recently) lived in the Valley almost her whole adult life, admits it is “a little weird”. She and I would have strident debates about Global Warming, but, true friends can debate and stay friends on almost any issue, if they try hard enough, and the friendship matters enough. At least in my experience.

As usual, I have wandered off of the point. This would be a perfect day to have Bobby in the office, or to bring him into the living room, really give him some good indoor attention, not just a “hey buddy” when I walk into the kitchen.

I am tied to the office because I am waiting for the Motion Picture Television Fund to return my call.

“Why don’t you have a cell phone?” is the most common question, and a totally acceptable one.

Because I despise them, because they are too expensive, because the day I saw a homeless man pantomiming talking into a cell phone, my head swiveled like Linda Blair in “The Exorcist”. I admit, my head does that often, but this was a particularly memorable three-sixty.

The Mom and the Dad are trying to save money. The land-lines, (AT&T, Verizon, etc) are just too expensive, although in our experience, Verizon is a much better company. Unfortunately, in the San Fernando Valley, you get AT&T.

We decided, after too much fruitless dialogue with customer service concerning the phone bill, to request being disconnected and go with Internet Phone service. It does not work very well, and we cannot find a good hand held phone, so we have pulled out, brace yourselves, a telephone with a cord. Granted, it is a long cord, but it plugs into Tomas’s studio, and can reach into my office next door, to halfway down the hallway.

AT&T sent us a disconnect notice, then kept charging us for two months. Another dispute underway. This is so tiresome.

I, however, am waiting for a call from either the Motion Picture Pension Plan or the Motion Picture Television Fund. (MPHW – Motion Picture Health and Welfare; MPTF, Motion Picture Television Fund.).

I have over $21,000 in my Pension, and I am not allowed to withdraw it because I am “Vested” in my union, Local 700. Editors Guild. If you are even remotely interested in reading more on these special folks, go to my blog What Happened?!. It’s not pretty.

I need this money now, and they have been playing hot potato with me for the last week, the woman I spoke to at MPTF, Jennifer George, told me I was ineligible for financial aid because I had not made enough money.

Digest that for a moment.

I started to lose my temper on the phone, that great combination of crying and scathing rage, and she seemed to get a little bit rattled. She said she would look further into the matter, get my records from the Pension folks, and in the meantime, gave me her direct phone number. She asked if I was suicidal. She seemed concerned. And I bought it. I am a fool.

That was Nov. 8th. I waited and heard nothing, so I left Jennifer George a polite message on November 27th, as I did not want to interrupt her Thanksgiving holiday with my problems. My call was returned by Juan Oliva, who was now my social worker.

How did this happen? I am trying to withdraw money that belongs to me, and now I have a social worker. A social worker who keeps repeating “I’m sorry” and have I tried any other institutions?

I get sarcastic, saying, “No, stupid me, I went to my Union Pension Plan, Editors Guild, what should I do, go to the Teamsters?”

“You could,” he says, clearly bored.

I start to lose it again, accusing him of being condescending and placating, and does he have a list of what or who I call next?

No, he does not. I tell him he is in the wrong line of work, and he quietly hangs up on me.

These folks jobs were created by US, the workers that belong to the unions. And this is the quality of treatment.

I forced myself to calm down, and left a message for Jennifer George, telling her that being pawned off onto an inept social worker was unacceptable.

Mr. Oliva returns the call the next day, seemingly quite contrite. Unfortunately, I was out, and it was much too late to call him back.

So I returned his call today, left a message, and waited. I left another message four hours later, just to be more clear and leave my phone number in case I had forgotten to in my agitation.

So, what does this have to do with Bobby D, my Crow? Due to the Internet Phone funky service, I do not want to miss the call, and have to stay in my office.

I remember stories of teenage girls sitting breathlessly by the phone, waiting for the boy to call. I was not one of those teenagers, it happened briefly when I was in my thirties, but good old answering machines were reliable, and I did not mind missing the call, I could call back.

Not this time. I miss this call, I will be chained to the office again tomorrow.

It is now five thirty. Juan Oliva’s message states that he leaves the office at four-thirty.

I am holding onto my temper by sheer will, and as each minute ticks by, it feels as if cocoa butter is being rubbed onto my palms, and my grip on civility is starting to slide.

I could not have Bobby in the office, because if the call came in I would have to focus 100% on what was being said, and am sorry to report that I could not risk a Bobby distraction.

I am so happy that he is enjoying playing with the bottles, because I am kind of hogtied here.

This is no way to spend a day. This is no way to be treated. I am not asking for a handout, I am asking for money that belongs to me, and have wound up sitting by the phone, waiting for an uncaring social worker to return my call.

Well, for once in my life, I am not going to cry and scream and threaten to kill someone or try to kill myself – it is very strange, but I feel bone cold and icy, and am going to go head to head with the most impossible institution I have ever dealt with in my life.

If there is one thing I learned from my father, it is not to let that temper out – you will just get written off as a nutcase, and then the Pandora’s Box will have been flung open, destroying everything in it’s path, including the host.

I had a perfect day to spend quality time with Bobby, and this was how things went down.

What is that old, possibly Mafia, saying?

Go after me, fine. Fuck with my family……..I suggest you start getting your long term papers organized.

I think I made that last part up.

The funniest thing to me in this “gotta use the magnifying glass to find the humor” situation is – Bobby was mellow, doing his thing. I wanted to play with him. I wanted to work on the prologue of the novel, and get it up as a teaser on the web page, and I wanted him in the room with me so we could take breaks and play.

Well! We are not losing a good day to MPTF and this nonsense again, now are we?

I hope I do not wind up on the local news. The bird does not want the Dad to have the burden of being a single parent. Bobby informed me that they probably won’t allow him to visit me in jail.

Dear Whomever, help me not lose my temper.

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