New Year’s Eve With Sandee and Company

I escaped spending New Year’s Eve in the emergency room.  My neighbor had a bleeding growth on top of his balding pate.  Oh I can talk about him here – I’m 99 percent sure he won’t read this.

I love him.  He’s eighty-something.  He has a computer – he doesn’t look or seem to be the age that he is, but when you’re eighty-something, you don’t have time to troll the web for random blog sites.  When he gives me a site address he says the entire www dot-whatever-the-hell-it-happens-to-be-dot com – cute!

I’m his secretary when he goes to Ireland.  I mind his apartment, get his mail.  I call him twice a week in Ireland to read it to him.  Piece by piece.  He gives me all kinds of instructions.  I’m on the phone with him for an hour.  Another elderly neighbor from Ireland used to mind his apartment for him.  When she found out I was doing it she says, “Oh God bless you Sandee!  I’m done with it — he thought I was his fucking secretary!”

When he called and told me that his head was bleeding, I ran down there.  Turned out the bleeding happened during the evening.  He thought he should go to emergency to check it out.

“I’ll get dressed and be back in half an hour,” I said – I had just thrown some slop on to run down there.

I felt guilty fluffing my lashes with mascara while he waited downstairs with his bleeding growth, but one half hour later exactly, I was ready.

I get there — he’s still in his robe, holding a tray of food.

“Come in.  Have a seat Sandee,” he says.

What?!  I almost choked wolfing down my food, and suffered guilt for putting on mascara, and you ain’t even ready — I put off my morning jog for you!

“Why don’t you just call me when you’re ready,” I said, and went up to change for a jog.”

I got back.  No message.  Haha!  He did call — two hours later!  Some emergency.  I headed back to his apartment thinking, Maybe he changed his mind.  Yay.

While he was dressed this time, he says all leisurely again, “Come in.  Have a seat Sandee.”  He sat in the reclining chair.  I stood over his head to see the wound.  It appeared fine.

“You’re not in pain?”

“No, it’s just the damn thing bleeding last night is all,” he says in his slight Irish brogue.  He wasn’t bruised and wasn’t in pain.  I suggested he wait till the day after New Year’s Day, when his doctor would be in.

“If an emergency happens in between, call me.  But you don’t want to be going to emergency unless it’s really an emergency – we could be there hours.”

“Hours?  Really?”  He’d never been to emergency it turned out.

I had an angle then, while he still teetered on the idea of going.

“Yeah, trust me,” I said.  I told him horror stories of the emergency room that we might see sitting in there so long and got him to change his mind.  Brilliant!  I’d seen some pretty horrible things in emergency, heard awful things.

He thought he’d be seen right away.  Aha.  Au contraire mon frère, I told him.  When I was done with my horror stories, my buddy was turned off by the idea of going, and while I successfully angled for this to happen, I’m still taking brownie points.  Dammit. But sure, I’d do it all again.  He’s my buddy.

It’s my blog and I’ll say what I waaaant!

Ahhh…  Young people.  They’re energetic with wide eyes, velvet skin, and taste dee-licious.  They have the pabulum of hope, feeding them along a journey of dreams.

They are meant to breed then.  Their parts are unused, well-oiled, with the aroma of moss and dew.  They don’t stink.  They don’t have bad breath, seepage, fart issues – oh don’t even ask what seepage is.

Think of a new car – that new car smell with all the parts working, ready to go!  My parents married young.  My mama was seventeen.  I’ll bet my 21 year old daddy was quite the howling wolf chasing after mama.  They were healthy, creamy.

Old women having babies – more power to you.  To be fair there’s technology, but me, I’d have a heart attack running after a two year old.  I’d be dead by the time it was in junior high.

While it’s not wise for teens to breed, I believe it’s probably the time when you’ll get the most energetic and pleasant smelling mother.  I remember mama flipping around, rolling, and singing songs, everyday!  She had so much energy left over that she taught me how to read when I was just three.

We were kids together, mama, daddy, baby brother.  We all played ring around the rosies – ha!  Problem is that when my brother and I became adolescents we all had fist fights – nah just jivin’!

I think women are meant to breed at 16 – yeah I said it!  This is why they don’t smell and have so much energy.  They are rosebuds admired for their vibrant color and emollience.  And boys the same.  They are firm and smell like spearmint and fresh cut grass.  They are strong and can chase girls for 32 miles.  I know this to be true from my own experiences in the last century.  They are fiercely attracted to each other because of these qualities for the purpose of populating the planet.

I say all this to say, what?  I don’t even know.  But I’m not drunk!  My conclusion doesn’t have jack shit to do with breeding.  It’s just that — as an old woman – and this is just for, me, crazy Sandee – while I’m still horny, I don’t know if it’s meant for me to be fucking anymore.  I look fine for fifty — I’ve been hit on by a few youngsters.  But I’m in this weird stage in the past couple of days where I’m thinking sex is unnatural for me now.  Oh I’ve got stamina and I’m in shape.  But there are tingly things happening in my body and I have fibroids.  I think that nature maybe dries us out and makes us wrinkled because it’s saying your cootchie time’s up, unless you’re already married to another old person.

Please pay me no mind tonight — I’m sorry.  And in case you’re wondering – I don’t have bad breath and I don’t stink.  But I do have farting issues.

Me vs. Me

There’s an old lady who lives on my avenue in that odd house lined up amongst apartment buildings.  She has fairies, gnomes, trolls and wind chimes in her yard.  She patrols the street in front of her house like lord of the manor.  When I jog she stares with her forehead wrinkled.  Once, when I jogged by she put her hand out to stop me.  She was hosing – she’s a controlling little bully.

Today she had workers in front of her house.  There was enough space for me to jog, but she charged out with both palms facing me and stomped, “Stop! The sidewalk’s wet.”  I looked for wet cement, but it was only water.  She shrugged as I moved forward and said “Okay, but if you fall.”  “Thanks for your concern,” I said.  When it rains on the sidewalk you don’t slip – ridiculous!

On my way back there was a cement chute from a truck blocking the sidewalk in front of her house.  I ran up a few yards from it.  I prepared to run around in the street because this time there was no room.  Frankly I wanted to confront her.  “You can’t go this way,” she yelled.  I told her she needed to put a sign up saying there was construction going on.  I told her she didn’t have to yell and that she shouldn’t be ordering people off the sidewalk.  Then it came, roiling out of the space in my brain that I’d been saving for her, “I don’t know who you think you are with your cheesy little house with all that tacky shit in the yard, but you don’t own this block!”

Why didn’t I just let the woman continue thinking she was mistress of the manor? Well, somebody had to let her know that she doesn’t own the sidewalk, that’s why. See it was my job to tell her that she can’t bully people.  But what would it have cost for me to have simply gone around the area by walking in the street without saying anything?

When I’m tired, stressed or haven’t eaten enough I have to watch myself.  That’s when I might be looking for people I can easily use as targets for the anger I have about my own situation. I reminded myself that this is how bad stuff happens in a split second, when you let your temper fly.  I’ve been training myself to think and move slowly when I’m weak but I didn’t have a handle on it today.  I thought I was okay but issues were floating around back there in my subconscious so I wasn’t immediately aware of the stress.  But I admit telling the woman that her house wasn’t shit felt good.

Lust, Dementia and Depends

The gnarled branches of a majestic, ancient tree with veined leaves telling tales of — shit!  I wanted to say this, poetically, like Unfettered BS or Boomie Bol in their renderings – I wanted to be classy, but I just can’t do it.  I was trying not to tell you straight up and crass the tale of ancient old ass people damned near fucking at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale.  “Look at ‘em — look!  They do this every damn day,” my ninety year old grandma said as we were leaving the TV room.  I turn around and holy shit, these two, gray bird, lovey doveys were a gnarled intertwined, unabashed hump-fest, tonguing away, arthritic hands pawing, ripping at each other from their chairs, with their walkers just inches away I tell you.

Vantastic, I say!  I told you I wanted to recruit 90 year olds for my “outer-limits” porno movie.  Well I think I found my leads.

My first installment will be called “Lust, Dementia, Decay and Depends.”

Outer-Limits Porn

I’m thinking of writing porn.  Everyone’s doing it.  But mine would be “outer-limits” porn.  My movie would have canned goods (But absolutely NO can openers!), Brillo pads, coffee filters, extension cords (naughty, eh?), and the entire cast, except for me, would be ninety years old – excluding my grandmother – how dare you imagine that I would allow my grandma to be in such filth!  You might have guessed that I cooked up (cooked up – ha!) this idea while in my kitchen.

I watched a snippet of Don Juan DeMarco with Johnny Depp, Marlon Brando and Faye Dunaway.  Marlon Brando and Faye Dunaway are old in it and they’re married.  There’s a scene with them in bed.  They kissed.  It got me horny.  That’s right — I think old people are hot — forget y’all!  I was mad they didn’t get butt naked.

I’ve written about my WWII veteran friend who’s one sexy bastid.  He’s eighty-six.  He raps, old school, and he killed bad people.  You can’t touch that.

I respect him too much so he can’t be in my movie even though he’s muy hotto and I know he would blow it up.  I just can’t see pimping him like that.  Plus he’s too young.  But I’ll interview some of his friends and some people from the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale – that’s where grandma is.  And I know oldsters who visit the gallery where I work.

It’ll be a problem if they don’t want to get naked.  But there won’t be animals in this movie for those of you into that kind of thing – blech!  I’ll keep you posted if I decide to do it or not.  Oh yeah, and no oxygen tanks because I’m using blow torches.

I’m going to be a zombie

 

I am so damn lame.  I entered a contest to win a free funeral but haven’t checked to see when the drawing is.  The contest is part of Zombie Run.  I wanted to be a zombie in their race in Boston last May, but the spaces were all filled.  There were plenty of openings for anybody who wanted to be a regular person in the race however.  Ha ha!  When you do things online, fill out forms for this that and such, expect to get googobs of other crap from the organization.  But I like zombies, so I don’t mind getting things from Zombie Run and I was excited about the funeral.  I need to see if the drawing is over – who won it.  I’m really superstitious about it though.  Like if I win the funeral, I’ll be dead soon.  If I win – it’s $5000 worth of funeral expenses – yeah!  But besides the funeral contest, Zombie Run is a great opportunity for people to become zombies.

Everybody wants to be a zombie.  Now everybody’s all into them.  But I was into zombies way before everybody.  Karen Cooper from The Night of the Living Dead, she’s my background image on my computer.  She’s the little girl zombie.  I know almost the whole script to that movie.  I’ll get to be a zombie someday.  But I don’t want to be one of those cyber zombies, the fast running ones they have in movies nowadays.  I want to be old school, with one foot sliding on the ground, dragging around real slow – the kind that creep around but pop up from behind the wall and take a chunk out of your head.

23 Skidoo!

 

What’s that age where it’s okay for women to talk about how hot they used to be or to talk explicitly about sex in mixed company?  There’s an age where nobody gives a crap anymore, like that crazy old lady at the barbecue who takes her titties out and says “C’mere, suck on these!”  She’s the life of the party, the quirky old drunk broad. She’s not a threat to any of the women and nobody wants to fuck her so it’s okay if she says “I used to be a beautiful woman long ago who’s had sex with many many many many men, and boy what I would pay to suck your dick!”  “Oh boy, your Auntie Sandee’s a riot T!  She must have been something else back in the 20^th century!”  “Yeah, we know.”  23 skidoo!

A Pot of Boiling Oil in the 9th Circle of Hell

 

Some of you may have read my post about the shriveled bat that I tried forcibly helping down the steps.  While I actually didn’t force-help Methuselah down the steps, I should have backed off when she said she could crawl to the banister by herself.  To give a summary of that post, ‘blibbity, bop, clop, cloppity, clack, crack’ is the sound we made when we both fell after she linked her arm into mine to accept my ‘forced help’.  I had asked if she was hurt, if she needed an ambulance – no and no she said.  Frankly I thought the shit was kind of funny.  Eh.  But it seems now that this woman is blaming me for her fall — yes, one might perceive that it was my fault, if they want to look at it that way.  This woman had become friendly with me, told me all these stories– so I was concerned when I saw her trying to get down the stairs.  A few days ago I helped another old woman off of the bus — I will never help another old person again, unless they beg!  This old woman is indeed a devious person who will in a matter of minutes, as she’s 200 years old, die and be relegated to a pot of boiling oil in the 9^th circle of hell.  This is all I’ll say.

On a day of hormonal fluctuation and premenopausal body morphing issues, I feel like a big fat dumbass who should have known better.  But guess what?  I was the only one who got the final Jeopardy answer — Taj Mahal bitch!

This is the last time I offer to help an old bitch down the steps!

She was hunched over, frail and carried a cane.  At the edge of the steps about to walk down she looked so teeny, susceptible to an unhealthy tumble.  “Sure you don’t want to take the elevator, Methuselah?”  I said.  “No, no, I’ll be fine,” she warbled.   That lying wrinkly twat!  I’d seen her before.  We’d had the loveliest of chats — she’s 200 years old, she is, and had some stories to tell from the days of yore, as you might imagine.  But the last time I recall she had taken the elevator, as I had suggested.

Well, I just couldn’t see it, her getting down those stairs in one piece.  I ran to aid her.  “I’ll help you — here,” I said offering my arm.  “Well, I could just hold the banister,” she said.  But it was two miles away from where we stood in the center of the steps.  “Here, let me,” I said again.  “Oh, o-okay,” she warbled taking my arm, and blibbity, bop, clop, cloppity, clack, crack – we both fell!  “Oh, oh, I told you I wanted to hold the banister,” she bleated – “You meant well, but you don’t know how to hold a person,” she scolded.  What the — why, I orta!  We finally got her old ass up off the steps, she went to her car and drove away.

From here on end, any half-dead, dried up raisins I see who need help crossing the street, or stepping off the bus can kiss my ass!  And I’ll be good goddamed if you get my seat on the bus – no, no, I’ll continue to do this – so people can see how magnanimous I am.  But other than that I mean well, but I just don’t know how to hold a person — so fuck off and die!