Sincerely Ty

For those of you who’ve been keeping up with my blog/life/weekly ramblings, you know that I’ve been contemplating checking myself into rehab. So far, I haven’t had the urge to kill anyone,  take a hanful of pills, or jump off any tall buidlings–guess it’s safe to say the storm has passed. This weekend I came to find out a few things about myself that just make me the person I am and ultimately rule out my need for rehab.

Throughout the weekend, I have truly become in touch with myself–thanks to the 2 1/2 hour flight delay. I am the quintessential VIRGO and I love it! Coming to grips with all that is Ty has helped me to realize that I really like myself, and I appreciate all my family and friends who put up with me day after day, year after year. So, I say thanks for putting up with my madness for 28 years (today’s my birthday), and thanks for keeping me out of rehab for at least one more month.

 Sincerely, ty!

P.S. “Joyeaux Anniversaire. Joyeaux Anniversaire.”

For the last month or so, my life has been a haven for boredom, ho-hum, and nothingness. No matter how many parties I attend, no matter how many cute boys I kiss, the blandess of my life always seems to return. At this point, nothing impresses me. Any and everything gets a double thumbs-down. I’m torn as to how I should alleviate myself from this slump. Other than a week or two in rehab, I see nothing. What to do, what to do?

Not only have I become bored with my own life, I’ve become overly confrontational with others because their lives’ suck as well.

ME: “You’re going to work again? What a bore!” Or even worse, “TIVO night again? Oh hell no! This friendship between you, me, and the t.v. is just not going to work.”       

Things are starting to get so bad that I have officially changed my weekday bedtime to 10:00, and I don’t even get excited about birthday cake day at work. I’m usually the first one in line for our monthly dose of sugary happiness. These days I’m more like, why put myself through the sugar rush just to return to the nothingness.  I refuse to let the sugar taunt, tease, and put my emotions on high just to let me down. How depressing.

Why am I so bummed out? When I tell others of my woes, most have the same response, “At least you have your health—your family—your job—your friends.” So for them, my grounds for feeling drab aren’t condonable because:

1. I’m not deathly ill–True, but boredom=depression=justifiable medical condition.
2. I don’t have a dysfunctional family–True. I’m the only “off-beat” one in the fam. Well, me and Aunt Sammie.
3. I’m not a social hermit–True as well, but the whole party scene is beginning to bore me. Remember boredom=depression=justifiable medical condition.
4. I have a job—True, but considering the pay and the low-competence level, my current job may very well be the main source of my mundane spirit.

In actuality, I’m not totally void of happiness. Each day I try to find something that I consider the “highlight of the day”. This little piece of happiness is spread amongst my dearest friends…I like others to be happy as well. Last week, I was blessed with a double-dose of happiness in one day. First, I witnessed my 8 month-old nephew brush his first two teeth. Not impressed with that? Well, go to hell too bad. I have to take life’s bits and pieces of excitement as they come. Then I laid my eyes on one of the juiciest blogs of all-time: ABenjaminirby. I don’t know if it’s his writing style that draws me in or the fact that I feel I’m doing something naughty when I’m reading it. It’s addictive so if you have a desire to be shocked an awed by a young, hot tender, then you must read. But do so with caution. ABenjaminirby delivers a blog that is a little less Broke Back Mountain, and more like Sex in the City meets Sodom and Gomorrah. Sorry A, but you know your drawers are always on fire.

In closing, I’d like to let everyone know that I’m not totally consumed in nothingness. I am grateful for what God has done for me in my life….VIOLINS PLAYING…and how he has indeed blessed me…MAHALIA JACKSON SINGING…and all the other things I’m supposed to say to show I’m not completely ungrateful. So, I decided to compose a daily list of 10 things I’m thankful to God for. Here’s today’s list:

1. Giving me today—As my mother says, “You could be dead.” Boredom beats death any day.
2. Mother, father, brother, family, friends—Somehow friends and family usually find a way to brighten my day.
3. Health—Even with the depression, I could be far worse off.
4. Sense of humor—If I’m not laughing at myself, then I’m probably laughing at you.
5. Second chances—We all should be thankful for these.
6. Male models—Eye candy is the best cure for the mean reds.
7. Sephora—Who doesn’t love this place?
8. Caller-ID—Why doesn’t he just lose my freakin’ number?
9. The little crunchy ice at Sonic—I refuse to put that deep-fried crap on my debit card, but the Cherry-limeades are to die for.
10. People like you who continue to read this madness—Thanks honies.

Sincerely,

ty!

 P.S. I’m going to make an extreme effort to keep this blog updated. I know you hate clicking on it day after day just to see the same old crap. With that being said, I’d like to thank Mr. Jake for finally giving me something to look forward to at work.

 Still haven’t made it to rehab. Thank God! Speaking of Him, I’ve decided to hand my troubles over to the Lord and let him work them out. Of course, with me being the impatient one, I have decided to weigh out my possibilities while he does his work.

Options

• Rehab–Obviously.
• Percocet–to ease the pain
• Acceptance–Just accept the fact that I’m nuts and move on
• Prayer–this would be the “hand it over to the Lord” option

While my heart is not set on going to rehab, my mind is definitely set on sending me straight to HELL. Hell? Why would hell be an option? Let me explain. The path to the cross is a tumultuous journey. You can’t do this anymore…you can’t do that anymore. Basically, you are confined to “Christian friendly” activities, thoughts, and actions. For me, all of these are basically hell on earth.

So last week, one of my best friends invited me to her VBS. Just as well, my mother, who actually has fun at church, reminded me that our church was also having a few mid-week activities. Does anyone see the problem? For the hellions like me, going to church during the week means that you have to practice all that Christian-like behavior that you’ve been praying for: “Lord help me to be patient…Lord help me to be kind.” Patience and kindness are not allowed in my work week! I like to boss people around at work, I thrive on my daily dose of online gossip, and I refuse to give up my rush-hour cussing.  I agreed and amiably attended a few of the events. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it to each event on each day; somehow a nap after work sounded so much better.

Day One: Don’t worry, this won’t be very long. I only made it to two events. The first event was VBS at my friend’s church. Good news-dinner afterwards. Bad news-My friend couldn’t make it. Therefore, I was forced to sit alone and make slight fun of the members (in my head of course) instead of giggling with her in the pews. In all, I guess that was actually good news because I was able to concentrate on the delivery of the bible lesson. NOT! Being without her company actually made it easier for me to concentrate on anything that I found hilarious. Unfortunately, in the end the joke was on me. I found not one thing hilarious, and didn’t get anything out of the lesson except for “blood is thicker than mud.” To make matters worse, no one told me that I had a huge pudding stain on my shirt. I realized the nickel-sized atrocity when I turned to speak to someone behind me and got a whif of chocolate. So, I  sat in the class the entire time intending to laugh at someone else, and everyone’s staring at this huge pudding stain. I guess God decided to punish me for my cruel intentions. Being the VP and life-time member of the Exaggerating Club, I immediately freaked out, said my good-byes, and headed home.  See how the devil tries to ruin your day. Bastard!

Ultimately, I didn’t have a bad time. The speaker, who was able to keep me awake with his witty puns and animated behavior, got an “A” plus from me. He should take his act on the road. I can see it now—”Victor’s VBS Does Vegas”.

Day Two: The trauma from day one forced me to renege on any church-related events until later that week. I figured I’d give my mother a chance to see that I am devouted to walking a righteous path. But righteous like Bob Marley, not Jesus. That would be too much pressure for me. Maybe I should take that back. Too late….what’s done is done. Oh damn! Okay, I don’t want to go to hell for blasphemy so I guess I’ll go with Jesus’ righteous path instead of Bob Marley’s. You see why I should be in rehab?

So I leave work a few minutes early just so I can get a decent seat. The event was supposedly a really big deal, so I had to be there on time. My mother, who insists on being a servant of the Lord until she dies, was standing at the entrance passing out programs when I arrived. The moment she laid her eyes on me, she did that damn fake shouting that I hate. If you have a black mom/aunt/granny, then you know what I’m talking about. The little dance they do (without any music) to celebrate the small miracles in their lives’. She always does that little dance when I  a)make it to church on time  b)when she slides her nosy eyes on my offering envelope and notices that I’m paying my tithes, or c)when I come to church on any day other than Sunday. That shit is so damn embarassing! Because she’s my mother, and she usually gives me a big hug and kiss after her impromtu dance solo, I forgive her and will continue to allow her to embarass me.

After the little dance, followed by the hug and kiss, I noticed another atrocity. Somehow, somebody decided to turn the church foyer into a flea market. The nice tables that were once decorated with lovely flower arrangements were now covered with knock-off accessories—shades, purses, belts. There was even a table where you could make your own perfume. To alleviate the distractions, I went into the ladies room to prepare myself.

Okay, so here’s me prepping in the mirror: “Don’t cuss! You can do it. When someone gives you good news, don’t say ‘Are you fuc**ing kidding me?’. When you accidentally drop something, don’t say ‘Shit!’. “

For some reason, I think people who cuss are extremely tacky. However, although my mind despises cussing, my mouth tends to like it. My mind and my mouth are always in constant battle–further reasoning as to why I may need to check into rehab. Yes, I’m going nuts. Yes, I’m knowledgeable of it. No, there’s nothing you can do for me except pray. Hopefully your deepest prayers will lift me out of my ailment. Until then, I’ll be contacting a street pharmacist for a good deal on some percocet.

Sincerely ty!

P.S.

If you’ve come to realize that I am indeed a nutcase and should seek treatment, let me know your thoughts. Which option do you think would work best for me?                        

A)Rehab  B)Percocet   C)Acceptance   D) Prayer

Sincerely Ty on hiatus for the summer? Not ideally, but apparently I’m a nervous breakdown waiting to happen.  How is that you say? Let me count the ways. During my 2 month long (and counting) departure from my usual routine, I encountered quite a few obstacles. Most of them I successfully defeated; however, there are still a few simmering as we speak. Read further for details:

Cutie With a Crutch: “What the HELL is wrong with my foot!?!?!?” That was me eight weeks ago. Somehow all the nastiness from hogging the treadmill (read “Back to Being Black” to get full details) caught up with me. Just as so, my year long stint of marathon and 5k training gave me a life-long sentence of speed walking via plantar fasciitis. Damned you foot! Before actually being diagnosed with the phalangic disfunction, I was subjected to tootin’ that thang up on crutches. Yes, a cutie with a crutch.

Due to my new friend (the crutch, aka Peanut), I was limited to a few activities.  Because Jesus loves me, this I know, he spared my right foot and only diseased my left, therefore I could still drive my ass back and forth to work. So where else could I go? Mall? Nope. Night on the town? Why bother? Walmart? Nope, no grocery shopping for me! After fighting it for a week or so, my supply of necessities began to dwindle.

ME: Can’t go to Wal-mart, so what are my options?

1. Write a list and give it to dad. This would only work if I didn’t mind getting everything off brand. No go on that.
2. Write a list and give it to mom. No worries, only if I need everything in bulk. ”Girl, I got you the whole case. It was on sale!” Sorry Mom. I love a bargain, but there is no reason anyone should ever have a case of deodorant.
3. Write a list and give it to my brother. You know what, this will never really be an option for me.
4. Write a list and give it to one of my best girlfriends. They would definitely get everything on the list, but then I’d have to hear, “Girl, you gone go broke spending $18 on hair conditioner.” Not in the mood.

So the best option was to head over to Walmart on my own. Before leaving my bed of rest, I informed my father that I was going to the store. Usually I’d ask if he needed anything, but not today. I planned on making this trip short and sweet. He had the nerve to give ME a list. WHAT!?!?! Dad, I’m crippled. I can’t be hopping from isle to isle. So he gives me the list and I’m thinking, “This must be something he really needs.” Lo and behold, as I unfold the paper, it’s lunch meat. Lunch meat!?!?!? Why do you need the damn lunch meat now? And why me? Being that he would most likely be contributing funds to future doctor bills, I held my tongue and bid his ass adieu.

As soon as I hopped out of my car, I was greeted by another crippled person. Her ailment—-broken foot.

CRIPPLE LADY: M’am, do you need my scooter. 

Okay, I hadn’t even thought about the scooter. I can’t be scooting along in WalMart; that’s not even my style. Not wanting to let her down, I accepted her offer.

CRIPPLE LADY: You might have to get it recharged. The battery was trying to die on me.

GREAT! Thanks for pawning this raggedy ass cart off on me, lady. Now I have a dead cart that may or may not DIE on me during my shopping. I hop on the scooter anyway and zoom in regardless of how I look.

Wanting to get his special, unwanted request out of the way, I headed to the deli section to get my father’s most important lunch meat. EEEEEEHHHHHHH! EEEEEHHHHH! (Sound of scooter). I make it to the meat counter and literally have to stretch my neck just to see the attendant’s face. She’s looking down at me over the counter, and of course wants to know the full details of my injury-HOW, WHEN, WHAT?? Damn lady! Can I just get the meat and be on my way. I wouldn’t mind her being concerned if she was giving me the meat for free, or if she was massaging my aching foot, but all she was doing was slicing, weighing, and packing the meat that I wasn’t even gonna eat.

ME:Thanks.    LUNCHMEAT LADY: No problem   SCOOTER: (Silence).

The scooter doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t budge. Stuck at the meat counter, I attempt to beckon the lady back for assistance. Not being able to see me over the counter, nor hear me over the rumbling tone of Walmart, I am forced to hop off the scooter, crutch in-tow, and plop myself onto the counter to ring the bell.

ME:M’am, can you have someone bring another cart? This one’s dead.

The lady oblidged me and about a minute or so later, another cart arrived. Of course the person to bring my cart was some young employee who had a job like cart round-up—basically something that alloted tons of free time. The young man arrives and you guessed it, tries to mack. Before he even got a chance to asks for the digits, I zoomed past the cupcakes, through the fresh bread, and onto the next aisle.

Scooting along, I successfully make it through the aisles getting my things. That is, until I remembered the deodorant. If you’ve ever been in Walmart, you know that the food and the body products are nowhere near eachother, therefore I had a lot of scooting to do. The journey towards the deodorant was not so bad, but getting trapped behind a family of Mexicans almost killed me. Before I go any further, I mean no harm, but I must vent. Why does everybody have to come to the store? Can’t somebody stay home with grandma and the kids, and your sister’s kids. I couldn’t zoom past them because they were crowding the path. The real torture was speed—–extra slow. These people were walking like they had all the time in the world to spend cruising at Walmart. I’m on a fu*&^%$ mission! Get your asses out the way!

Finally, I made it past the entire family, and thought, “You know what, I’ve already been here almost an hour, might as well get a few more things.” So while picking up my crap, I was encountered by another fellow scooter user. This lady was probably the oldest person in Walmart. Unfortunately, her scooter had died on her too. She probably got the one that I had early.

LADY: M’am, are you heading out?  ME: Yeah, in about 5 minutes. LADY: Well, can you have somebody come and get me? My scooter’s not working.

WHY ME?!?!?! Was I the only person who’d come down this aisle in the last few minutes? Who drove her here? I know she couldn’t still be driving! Luckily, I had made a committment that hell is not my final resting place, so I felt obligated to help her. Now I had to get my stuff, find somebody to rescue her, and all while on a scooter.

Overall, I completed my mission….kinda. I’m not 100% sure that the cashier checking me out sent someone to save the old lady. I felt bad about it for a bit, but then I thought, “Who wouldn’t notice an old white lady hanging around the greeting card section all day?”

Please stay tuned for more premonitions of how and why I ended up in rehab. Not there yet, but I can feel it coming on.

Sincerely,

ty!

P.S. Thanks to all the parents shopping at Walmart who refuse to contain their children. One day, some cripple like me will accidentally run over their bad asses just to prove a point–kids and dogs should always be kept on a leash.