For a long time I've watched my life unfold as if it were a Hollywood blockbuster or even a cheaply-produced Indie. It's time I re-evaluated it. My life is certainly no million-dollar mega thriller with a mixture of hot sex, car chases, and tender scenes of supportive, loving families. If anything it's more of a bad joke that found its way into one of those Bruce Willis-Arnold Schwarzeneggar-adventure type movies that never make it to the big screen and go straight to video.
I know it sounds like I'm whining, and it's true. I am. But even though I 'm surrounded on a daily basis with heartbreaking newspaper obituaries and upsetting media stories of injuries and deaths from floods, fires, and other natural disasters, I'm still an ungrateful wretch who fails to count her blessings. I'm even a little proud of that since it means I'm not just settling for a crappy life. I want the real thing--fame, fortune, and an invitation to the Kennedy Center. But I don't think this is going to happen since the sands of time are beginning to sink to a new low. In fact, I'm not sure my so-called blessings are not the result of some evil genius seeking revenge on me for not having ironed any article of clothing for nearly 45 years. (Before that, my mother and her assistant housekeeper--that's code for paid slave, like in the movie "The Help"--kept up a steady pace of pjs and handkerchiefs, but I never asked them--I consider ironing one of those fabric fuckups that got past the manufacturers.)
I mean what is a greater waste of time than ironing? There are more important things to do like count the questionable moles on my body so that the dermatologist can gasp and slip out the word "melanoma" so I can worry for two whole weeks while the biopsy is sitting on some lab tech's shelf taking up space and deciding whether it wants to be cancerous or benign.
The truth is if it weren't for my pet children, my life would not be only a big joke, but also a bad joke. Here's what I mean: I got a marriage proposal only once in my life, but my sister, as she shared a blanket on the San Diego sands with me during a rare reconciliation period, proceeded to tick off the many proposals she received when she was, of course, young, pretty, and flaunting an Ivy League degree. Now I don't talk to her at all (I'll keep you in suspense about why so you keep reading this blog), and she's fat, older than me by four years, and addicted to bridge. If you had to sign up for opioids to enter a bridge tournament, she'd be first in line. That's how crazed she is about bridge. Along the way she also became mean spirited and a domestic abuser, but that's my judgment call. Maybe as you read some of this blog, you'll think she's ok. And if you're so stupid to think so, I can't help you. So I can't count Sis as one of my blessings. I have a few friends, but I usually pick the wrong ones for long-term relationships. I unconsciously seem to gravitate to narcissists who "converse" with me by detailing in excruciating length what they've been doing for the past few months. They never ask how I'm doing or what I'm doing, for that matter. No, that would be too much like a healthy conversation. Instead they drone on and on about their minor accomplishments as if that's what keeps the world spinning. I can't really count them as "blessings" because I wouldn't wish some of these boring conversations on my worst enemies (of which there are countless, but I mean that only in an exaggerated sense so don't get on your high horse and think I have zero friends but 100 enemies). That would be really wrong and really nasty, but I wouldn't put it past you since you are a human being with flaws and not one of my pet companions, who are perfect.
So back to my pets. As you know, I got really unlucky with Tulip (may he rest in peace) and I had to beef up my antidepressants for an extended period of time. Since my friends never ask how I'm feeling, they never knew I was reviewing suicidal options. They just figured I was unusually quiet and busy, busy, busy, so that explained why I seldom answered the phone and when I did, I just breathed like my yoga teacher taught me and said goodbye after a pause in the one-sided conversation that lasted more than a nanosecond. I never came up with a good suicidal plan, and that's only because I'm a woose when it comes to guns, ropes, or Samurai swords. Robin Williams, may he rest in peace, did it right, but since I'm no where near Robin Williams in talent, looks, or courage, I don't think my follow-through would be good. By good I don't mean pretty like stretched out in an elegant negligee on a designer comforter with a quiet smile on my face, just enough to distract from the frown lines; no, I mean good like succeeded in the true sense of the word death so that the husband had to call 911, the coroner, or anyone else who'd take my body away before decomposition takes place and the maggots start giving recitals. (Note to myself:I've seen too much of Netflix's "Forensics" series--guess it's time to get back to some dumb-ass comedies.) The one good thing about this blog is that I finally get to gush over my pets and tell all their funny little quirks and stories like the time Chauncy swallowed an onyx chess pawn and I had to drag all the other dogs into the vet for x-rays because at the time I didn't know which pooch did the crime. It all ended okay, but not before I imagined a worst-case scenario of abdominal surgery, an inhalation fuckup causing breathing problems, and me sitting by my deceased yellow lab with tears in my eyes and anger in my heart for the vet who screwed up. I've got more of these stories, so hang in there. J. Arenofsky, author of five books, 798 magazine artices, 10 resumes, and this blog
I know it sounds like I'm whining, and it's true. I am. But even though I 'm surrounded on a daily basis with heartbreaking newspaper obituaries and upsetting media stories of injuries and deaths from floods, fires, and other natural disasters, I'm still an ungrateful wretch who fails to count her blessings. I'm even a little proud of that since it means I'm not just settling for a crappy life. I want the real thing--fame, fortune, and an invitation to the Kennedy Center. But I don't think this is going to happen since the sands of time are beginning to sink to a new low. In fact, I'm not sure my so-called blessings are not the result of some evil genius seeking revenge on me for not having ironed any article of clothing for nearly 45 years. (Before that, my mother and her assistant housekeeper--that's code for paid slave, like in the movie "The Help"--kept up a steady pace of pjs and handkerchiefs, but I never asked them--I consider ironing one of those fabric fuckups that got past the manufacturers.)
I mean what is a greater waste of time than ironing? There are more important things to do like count the questionable moles on my body so that the dermatologist can gasp and slip out the word "melanoma" so I can worry for two whole weeks while the biopsy is sitting on some lab tech's shelf taking up space and deciding whether it wants to be cancerous or benign.
The truth is if it weren't for my pet children, my life would not be only a big joke, but also a bad joke. Here's what I mean: I got a marriage proposal only once in my life, but my sister, as she shared a blanket on the San Diego sands with me during a rare reconciliation period, proceeded to tick off the many proposals she received when she was, of course, young, pretty, and flaunting an Ivy League degree. Now I don't talk to her at all (I'll keep you in suspense about why so you keep reading this blog), and she's fat, older than me by four years, and addicted to bridge. If you had to sign up for opioids to enter a bridge tournament, she'd be first in line. That's how crazed she is about bridge. Along the way she also became mean spirited and a domestic abuser, but that's my judgment call. Maybe as you read some of this blog, you'll think she's ok. And if you're so stupid to think so, I can't help you. So I can't count Sis as one of my blessings. I have a few friends, but I usually pick the wrong ones for long-term relationships. I unconsciously seem to gravitate to narcissists who "converse" with me by detailing in excruciating length what they've been doing for the past few months. They never ask how I'm doing or what I'm doing, for that matter. No, that would be too much like a healthy conversation. Instead they drone on and on about their minor accomplishments as if that's what keeps the world spinning. I can't really count them as "blessings" because I wouldn't wish some of these boring conversations on my worst enemies (of which there are countless, but I mean that only in an exaggerated sense so don't get on your high horse and think I have zero friends but 100 enemies). That would be really wrong and really nasty, but I wouldn't put it past you since you are a human being with flaws and not one of my pet companions, who are perfect.
So back to my pets. As you know, I got really unlucky with Tulip (may he rest in peace) and I had to beef up my antidepressants for an extended period of time. Since my friends never ask how I'm feeling, they never knew I was reviewing suicidal options. They just figured I was unusually quiet and busy, busy, busy, so that explained why I seldom answered the phone and when I did, I just breathed like my yoga teacher taught me and said goodbye after a pause in the one-sided conversation that lasted more than a nanosecond. I never came up with a good suicidal plan, and that's only because I'm a woose when it comes to guns, ropes, or Samurai swords. Robin Williams, may he rest in peace, did it right, but since I'm no where near Robin Williams in talent, looks, or courage, I don't think my follow-through would be good. By good I don't mean pretty like stretched out in an elegant negligee on a designer comforter with a quiet smile on my face, just enough to distract from the frown lines; no, I mean good like succeeded in the true sense of the word death so that the husband had to call 911, the coroner, or anyone else who'd take my body away before decomposition takes place and the maggots start giving recitals. (Note to myself:I've seen too much of Netflix's "Forensics" series--guess it's time to get back to some dumb-ass comedies.) The one good thing about this blog is that I finally get to gush over my pets and tell all their funny little quirks and stories like the time Chauncy swallowed an onyx chess pawn and I had to drag all the other dogs into the vet for x-rays because at the time I didn't know which pooch did the crime. It all ended okay, but not before I imagined a worst-case scenario of abdominal surgery, an inhalation fuckup causing breathing problems, and me sitting by my deceased yellow lab with tears in my eyes and anger in my heart for the vet who screwed up. I've got more of these stories, so hang in there. J. Arenofsky, author of five books, 798 magazine artices, 10 resumes, and this blog
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