Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Foot in Mouth Disease

I suffer from Foot in Mouth disease.  I am socially inept and have very limited human contact experience.

This does not stop me from opening my mouth.  What comes out---well, I am never sure what will come out.

I can talk to cats.  I am sooo comfortable talking to cats, verbally or otherwise.

But people-----noooooo!  No practise.  I don't even understand humans.

I'm not ready for the counter.  I say something.  They say something.  Mind goes blank.
Mouth blurts something out.  Inside I'm stuttering, but I don't stutter outside.  Makes it worse.  People might understand an outer stutter.  But the inside kind----no.

My ineptitude comes with a basic cause.  No practise.  I have lived virtually my entire life void of human contact.  How sad is that?  Well, it's really sad.  I love people!

The contacts on my phone are all cat contacts---vets, shelters, various rescues, clinics and people who need cats fixed.  Nobody on my phone I could just call up and talk to, for no reason.

My history in a terrible system is the cause.

Try being labeled a nutcase and thrown into a group home then a low income hotel to live your life.  My friends there mostly died, suicide (nine of those) and of various diseases or psyche drug interactions. My life was a vacuum.  It was nothing.  Four walls and nothing else.  Then after I left the damn brutal system, inside which I lived my entire life to that point, I left everyone I'd known.   I have no family to speak of, that I ever see that is.  How would I ever make friends now, at my age, with no job and no family and no connection to anything?

I had a few friends considered normal when in the system.  But those friendships were severely tilted to the patronistic side of the scale.  It's not like we were equals.  Sometimes one would invite me over to watch them do their shit, yard work or whatever.  Yeah.  I could sit there and watch them do whatever they had already planned on doing. It was supposed to be a big deal for me, an outing like that, I think. I couldn't even help, because they didn't think I'd do it right, I guess.

You don't come out of the life I've had with many people skills.  Mine are all imaginary.

I like people but apparently nobody likes me.  Not enough to actually want to be around me or do things, that is.

I want a bike.  I need to get exercise.  Yes, I'm scared of getting pavement squished.  I've been hit already three times on a bike by cars.  I am scared to death of cars when on a bike as a result.  Just like I am dog shy now, after getting bit five times.  I have scars from two of those encounters.  Left me with a mindset.  About cars, when on a bike.  About dogs and shit hole owners who don't train them or confine a dangerous dog.

I think dogs sense I'm ready for them, expecting them to come at me, if I turn my back.   Sets them on their heels about me.  Didn't used to be, but after the Year of the Dog Bites, well, I'm not as laid back around strange dogs.

Same with cars when I'm on a bike.   I see any car as THE ENEMY---Serial Killers!   Out cruising for a victim.  Practising their judge and jury trial excuses by texting, talking, eating, combing their hair, rushing to work, as they drive carelessly, edging into my fragile riding space, ready to kill!

Pavement hurts.  It's hard.  It hurts to look at it now after three bike wrecks.

Nonetheless, given the totally flat landscape of this town, which makes for walking without workout,  and lack of any parks for hiking, I'm willing to risk the ride.

I like speed.  Did I mention that?  I like speed a lot.  I would love to have become a race car driver or downhill ski racer.  Once upon a time.

Ok, I never would have become a downhill ski racer.  I've never once down hill skiied.  I went cross country skiing a few times.  I owned a pair of cross country skiis once.  Cross country skiing is a nerd sport.  You go for the scenery, the quiet, the ambiance, the company of nature, the crisp cold air billowing your breath.  I've never heard anyone say they go for the rush of speed.  Never once did I hear anybody say that's why they cross country ski.  I took to cross country because I like snow and the out of doors and who could afford a ski lift ticket?  Nobody I knew.

The closest I ever came to car racing was when I house sat for this guy.  My sorry car was failing.  So he loaned me his Corvette.  A CORVETTE!  Really?  That's like putting candy in front of a four year old and expecting that kid not to touch the candy.   I took it out and opened it up.  120!  I had to.  I knew never in my life would I again sit in the driver's seat of such a car.  I loved it!  I didn't tell him either.  Why would he need to know?  No reason.

I'd driven a Vega wagon.  Oil had to be added every hundred miles.  Caliper pin had to pounded back in too, tire off, about every 300 miles.  Top speed---50, on a good day, with the wind at its smoke clouded back.

Maybe I'll become a bike racer. Maybe one day, old as I am, I'll be riding down the road and see that nasty liar Lance Armstrong up ahead.  I'll remember how he demonized the women who told the truth about his little doping problem, and I'll kick into such a competitive frenzy that I will pass him, on a hill, peddling my three speed to beat the band.

"Heya, Lance," I'd say, giving a half salute off my Goodwill bike helmet.  Then I'd reach out a foot and kick him over.  I would.  Well, ok, probably I wouldn't, because I'm just too nice and maybe I couldn't really catch him.  I have a very good imagination.

So I been reading up on bikes.  I've been calling craigslist ads but I'm so paranoid I'll buy a stolen bike then have to return it and lose the money.  I've been told most of the bikes on craigslist are stolen.

So I find one I can't live without on craigslist.  That after seeing a bike at Target I almost bought before stopping myself because it's a crappy bike for too much money.  I could see myself on it though, in my mind's eye, coasting down a long hill, no cars anywhere, wind blowing my hair, breeze caressing my face, not too hot, not too cold, legs not tired, deer in the fields I'm passing, maybe some horses, no sheep though.   I'm living this vision and I get an urge to jump on that bike, pay for it, and ride out of the store.  Laughing, happy.  I shake it away and make myself walk away, even though I keep peeking back at it, through the aisles.  I rarely lust over any "thing".  This was unaccustomed.  Wow!  I liked the feeling!

I called a craigslist ad, my self-confidence jagged and raw.  I wanted that bike I saw in that ad, but I could not overcome my paranoia that it was a stolen bike.  The second time I asked the man if it for sure was not stolen, he said he was going to have to say no, to selling it to me.  He hung up.   I was jubilant for only moments.  He was a thief, I knew it.  But then I searched his number online and he's one upstanding character, even has an ebay account, with good reviews.  OMG.   What have I done?

Foot in Mouth disease had set in.  I blew it.

The only riding I'll do in the near future will be in my imagination.

Because this is supposed to be a photo blog, here are some photos:

Raindrop in the highly popular carrier shelves.

Alexi enjoys the new hanging cat basket.

Daisy in the cat basket.
Basket cats Vision and Meesa.  The trap bed is beneath.

The basket cats.

Starry Gazing.

Daisy Face.
Cat Tree project.  I painted two cedar shed doors, given me by the Slurpy colony caretaker, to use as shelves on the new cat tree bed.  I bought four four-ft long 4x4's at Home Depot, from their flawed wood bin, for $.51 cents each, which I used for the legs.

Lower shelf.

With cat beds, although its far from done.

With cats.

With Miss Daisy--exiting.
Drying catnip.

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