Readers Weigh In: Creepy, Touching, or Both…?

      Do you think this video is disturbing, or touching, or both…?   The first time I watched it, I was frozen in morbid fascination, but the second time I thought it was funny and quite nice.

      What do you think?

      P.S.  As I finish grading the midterms, it occurs to me that the next time I’m at the doctor’s office I ought to have my kidney examined.  I think my kidney crayons are gangrenous, and I need nice healthy red crayons…


Let Us Join Together in Prayer

Verily, we are gathered here today in the presence of the Almighty to pray the hollowed prayer of Castigation of Entitled Teenaged Scholars Who Do Not Do The Assigned Readings.

Help me, Lord.  Guide my words so that they provoke shame, regret, and personal reflection in my ungrateful teenage scholar.  Guide my hands so that they falleth true upon the teenage scholar’s hair to rip it out, and not upon my own.  With your help, O almighty and benevolent Lord, I will meet the teenage scholar in my office hours without fortifications of scotch and vodka.  Humbly do I beseech you, Lord, that the wrath of the dean’s office will fall on the teenaged scholar’s broken shoulders at the time of my teaching evaluations, and not on my own.  

A plague upon the houses of those who text message as I lecture.  May their lineage be destroyed.  May their homes by destroyed by a fire sent by thy divine justice, Lord, and may the ground upon which they stood be sown with salt, so that nothing will grow there henceforth.  

A plague also upon those who use large fonts to take up space, and who think I do not notice this.  May their conceit and sloth ramify through their lives. 

I ask this in the name of Mary, our most good and holy Mother, and all of the angels and saints. 

Amen.

Mistress C sez: Drink Your Juice

      My affection for Mistress C is well known.  My (healthy and completely well-founded) fear of her is also well known.  She is volatile.  And she is a bully. 

       She’s been on a big pressed juice smoothie whatever-the-fuck kick recently.  You know, those $5 potions you can buy from juice bars that have cucumber and wheat grass and valarian root and rhino horn and honeybee powder?  She drinks them all the time.  And they are disgusting.  

     (To be fair, though, she must be doing something right, because her figure is rockin recently.  She’s always had a great body, but she’s lost ten lbs and she’s getting totally cut.)

       So I was asking her what her workout routine is like, because I’m trying to lose another 5 lbs.

        She got a gleam in her eye and I instantly regretting the question. 

         Mistress C ran off and returned fifteen minutes later with one of her disgusting vegetable health food shake concoctions.

        “Here you go, Red!  Drink this!  It’s really good for you.  Drink one of those every day and don’t eat junk and you will definitely lose weight.”

          I cautiously took it from her and sniffed it.  It was green.  Dark, muddy green.  And it smelled foul.

         “What’s in it?” I asked.

         “Don’t worry about that.  Just drink it.”

         “How about if I just eat a salad?”

         “Drink that drink.  It’s good for you!”

         I sipped it.

         I swear to God, I almost threw up.  It was gross.  GROSS. 

          “I don’t think I can drink this, C.  This is really bad.”  I tried to hand it back to her.

          She got a stern look on her face.  “That juice is all fresh and cold-pressed.  It cost $6.”

          I stared at her, beseeching.  

          “Drink your drink!  Just down it and get it over with.  It’s going to be a lot nastier once it warms up.  Drink it while it’s cold.”

          “I really don’t want to.”

           She glared at me, and her voice got cold and hard.  “Drink it.”

         What could I do?  I felt like I was back on the playground in grade school, being picked on by the mean girl!  But what could I do?  I didn’t want her to turn on me!

         I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and started chugging the juice.

          My friends, it was disgusting.  I mean, vile, gorge-inducting, awful.  The only thing remotely normal about it was the faint aftertaste of cucumbers.  And I don’t know about you, but I don’t fucking like to drink cucumbers.

         I couldn’t drink more than half.  I burped and thought it was all going to come up.  I actually went to the sink to see if I would vomit.

        “You better not puke up that juice, Red,” C said.

         Yup.  It was like a session, except that I wasn’t getting paid for it.  Weird.  I don’t think I’ve ever been dominated by a chick before.  

         I returned to the chair.  “Let me let it settle for a minute before I drink the rest.”

         She got a sly smile on her face.  “I’m watching you, Red.”

         I eyed the rest of the juice…half of a huge glass.  My heart sank.

         For the next half hour, she kept looking at me, and then nodding at the juice.  I was trapped.

         Then: delivered!  The receptionist had a guy on the phone to talk to C.  She had a phone session!  YAY!

         She went to get the phone and I hid the juice.  I couldn’t pour it down the sink because someone had just put in their stockings to hand-wash.  

           I hid the juice in the back of the fridge behind some OJ and leftovers.  

         After the phone session, she asked me if I finished the juice, and I lied.  I said that I had.  

         Five days later, I came in to work the day shift.  I’d totally forgotten about the juice. I was getting dressed in back when Mistress C peeked at me around the door of my locker.

        “Hey Redhead,” she said.  Her eyes were twinkling.  She was smiling.

          “What’s up?” I asked.

        “Did you forget something?”

        “Forget what?” I looked at her, honestly clueless.  I had no idea what she was talking about.

         She moved her right hand out from behind the door.  She was holding the awful juice.  The half-drank juice!  Fuck!

         “You forgot to drink your special cold-pressed juice!” she said.

         I groaned.  “C!  No!”

        “DRINK YOUR JUICE!  FINISH IT!”

        “I can’t drink it!  It’s old now!  It’s probably rotten!”  I wailed.

       “FINISH YOUR JUICE!”

       I looked around frantically for someone to protect me.  Nothing doing.  At the Studio, C is my protection. 

        Then she started laughing at me.

        “Ha!  The look on your face!  You nerd!  Relax.  It’s totally spoiled.  I’m not going to make you drink it.  I’m just fucking with you.”

        I exhaled and started to smile.  Whew!  It was just a practical joke!

         “I’ll buy you a fresh one.” 

        Note: she didn’t actually buy me a new one.  Thank God. lol

Guest Message from the Surgeon

      Guest Message from the Surgeon:

       Hey!  I’m not sure what you assholes think is going on here, but I am going to explain what is happening for you.  

        I am going to win this thing, because I must win at EVERYTHING!  Even a “Biggest Jerk” contest! I am not going to lose a ‘Biggest Jerk’ contest to some bush-league philanderer MATH GEEK who wears L.L. Bean and tasseled loafers.  

      His first wife ran off and left him.  How pathetic is that?  If a woman did that to me, she wouldn’t make it out the door–because she’d be dead!  NOBODY dumps me!  I always dump her!  Preferably in a painful and devastating fashion.  I do it because I hate my mother.  Revenge.  It’s all about revenge.  

      Anyway…you losers need to change your votes.  I am not losing this contest to the math geek.  As a gesture of my appreciation for your support, I will give you $0.50 off any surgical procedure.  No, I don’t take Medicare or Medicaid.  Are you out of your fucking mind?  What’s next?  Are we going to eat lunch at McDonald’s?  With the Math Geek?  

      What, do I need to persuade you?  Do you know who you’re dealing with?  Okay, fine: one time, in Miami, Miss Margo watched me get a valet driver fired from his job on the spot because he irritated me.  He cried.  It made me feel happy inside.  Triumphant! And the car wasn’t even mine, lol.  It was a rental. 

       When Miss Margo weighed 110 lbs and stopped menstruating, I thought that she looked great!  I encouraged her to get skinnier!  And you know that what I say goes! She was on a whiskey-and-pineapple diet for 2 years while she was in a Ph.D. program.  She’d pass out at school.  She looked beautiful and the sex was fantastic. 

        One time, I had her seduce my enemy at the major annual conference of my profession.  This made me feel very powerful.  I also humiliated my enemy’s protege when I was reviewing his research as a panel discussant. I savaged him mercilessly in front of two hundred people.  It took three people to mop up the blood when I was done. 

        Change your votes, people!  I am not going to lose to the Math Geek!  What is it going to take to get this done?  Money?  Do you need to hear from my lawyer?  What?  $0.50 off any major surgical procedure! 

        …..I will concede, however, that borrowing the cockatoo to bring over to Margo’s apartment was an idea so slimy and shameless that not even I could have come up with it.  So kudos on that one, Pythagoras.    

       Did I ever tell you that when I got tired of him, I dumped my Amazon parrot at the pound? 

        Change your vote.  I must win.  What, do I need to make you cry?

        Best regards,

       The Surgeon

       Miss Margo Note: The above was, of course, penned by me and it is satire.  A big joke.  Might be in bad taste.  I can’t tell.  The Surgeon really would sound like that, though.  I can channel him very well.  

      Me, I’m rooting for the Mathematician.  Or myself.  I am surprised that I haven’t gotten any votes, because I keep picking these assholes.  

       The Surgeon gave me money for tuition and textbooks when I needed it.  He also took me lots of places.  He could be nice.

Scenes from My Drunkalogue: Sake and Salmonella

    When I was drinking and decided that I wanted another drink before went to bed (alone! all alone!), I would sometimes call a local sushi restaurant for delivery.  I would have to call the sushi restaurant because I couldn’t go back to my neighborhood liquor store–I’d already been there once that day, and I never went more than once in a 48-hour period, lest the cashier think that I drank “too much.”  

     Such is the absurd paranoia of the alcoholic.

     Delivery from the sushi restaurant was my way of circumventing  this from happening. 

     Such is the idiotic cunning of the alcoholic. 

     I always thought that the sushi was pretty mediocre–I often wouldn’t even eat it, because calories are calories, and when one is very concerned with one’s daily morning weigh-in with Tanita, one has to choose: Eat or drink.  

     One or the other.

     I would call the sushi place and order a tuna roll, a bottle of sake (sometimes two bottles), and a diet coke.  I always had to order the tuna roll, even if I seldom ate it, because if I just called and asked for the sake, I was worried that I might look, you know, like some sort of scumbag with a problem.  

     Once I got sober, I stopped eating at that sushi restaurant because there was better sushi in the neighborhood (other places did not offer sake delivery, but that no longer mattered).

     Well, when I relapsed, I decided that I wanted some sake delivered to my door.  I went to go call the restaurant, but found that I’d taken the number out of my phone.  

    So, I had to get on the internet and look it up…

   GUESS.WHAT.I.FOUND????

   (Get out your barf bags!)

    New York City Food Sanitation Inspection gave the sushi restaurant a C rating!!!!  Oh my gawd!  Fuckin RAW FISH from a place with a C rating!  I hadn’t eaten the sushi every time…maybe not even half the time…but I’d still eaten it plenty of times.

    I almost hurled right there in my computer chair.

    I almost feel like I should post the name of the restaurant as a public service…but the delivery was always prompt, and the Chinese delivery kid was always good to me.  One time, when I was too drunk to count change and I accidentally over-tipped him by like $22 (I’ve always been a generous tipper, but that was more than the food itself), he insisted that I’d made a mistake and gave almost all of it back to me.  I’m sure he could tell that I was wasted.

     I wish that I couldn’t remember the expression of concern on his face, because the memory makes me cringe.  Just a drunk, frightened young woman so divorced from humanity that I might as well have been a Martian.  Little Martian Margo, all alone in my Martian apartment, surrounded by books I couldn’t read and half-written manuscripts I couldn’t finish.

     Good times, eh?  God, living like that was a nightmare.  Heh.  “Living.”  

      Despite the tragi-comic tone of this post, I am doing quite well tonight.  Two meetings today, lunch with a friend.  The birds are fed and watered and their cages are clean and disinfected.  I wrote 1500 words, edited ten pages of a manuscript someone is paying me to edit, and now I am going to do laundry (it. never. ends.) and stop by the Nice Lady’s apartment while it’s washing.  Remember Nice Lady, with the cats and the computer problems?  I set up an email address for her?  

     She called me, concerned.  She is confused by the email box.  She seems to think that it can only hold one (1) email at a time, and she is trying to “get rid” (delete) an old one in order to “make room” for a new one.  She is concerned that a “new one” can’t “get in” because the old one is, I dunno, taking up all the space. 

    Did I mention that she is pretty old? I’m not making fun of her, I’m really not.  

     Tomorrow…rested and fortified…it’s back to the Studio.  I have two appointments with regulars.  I will not stay for the rest of the shift, however.  Management won’t complain; they’re still too caught up in Teh Krazy. 

And the Oscar goes to Miss Margo for Her Performance as….

Read More

  UPDATE 6 PM:

       Am home…safe and sound and wealthier.

       French Fry was a gentleman because he graciously coughed up a tip, even though I know tipping is not part of European culture.  Euros almost never tip, but this one did.  Cool beans.  When in Rome, Frenchie!  (I did give a tip-worthy performance, though, IMO.)

      We talked about European politics.

       “You really know about many things!” he said.  I liked him, but this did, indeed, invoke the punching response, even though I have never actually punched anyone in my life and I hope I never shall.

       Why so surprised?  Are sex workers really that uneducated?  Even the ones in my specialty and price range?  And how clueless does one have to be to not know that Edinburgh is an important finance capital?

       We were not even discussing obscure high-brow stuff.  This was not New York Review of Books material.  It was not even Economist. 

          He complained about Muslim immigration.  I sympathized. We talked about how they almost took over Europe back in the day.  They came very close.  Who knows if they could have held it…but it’s an interesting historical question to speculate about, like WHAT IF?! the South won the Civil War or the Axis Powers won WWII.

        Then we talked about Russia.  Russians are scary shit.  They are the country LEAST worth screwing with, outside of maybe North Korea and China.  And Pakistan.  Pakistan is a ticking time bomb.  It’s run by a bunch of tards with no real control and they have nukes and our government keeps GIVING THEM FREE WAR MACHINES.

      But that is neither here nor there.

       Here are photos from the hotel:

     

  I almost never do role-play when I practice sadomasochism in my private life.  Probably because I don’t have to.  Readers of my blog will know that I, sadly, have awful taste in men.  Left to my own devices, I tend to gravitate towards the ones who are wildly inappropriate.  When you enter into a relationship where there are significant power dichotomies and imbalances from the start, it’s not necessary to play make-believe in the bedroom in order to get your kinky rocks off.  

         Many clients enjoy it though, for whatever reason.  I got an email for a role-play session this morning, and after my experience with Prisoner 39, it made me think about the roles I have been asked to play at my Secret Job.

       Here they are, in no particular order: 

        Executioner, Wonder Woman (or other comic book superheroine), Pimp or Madam of a brothel, police officer, Stasi Agent (he actually wanted me to be an SS agent, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Pretending to be a Nazi is a hard limit for me. Not that the Stasi were champions of human rights, but damn…a Nazi?  Really?), kidnapper of small children, White Supremacist (black man with a Ph.D. asked for this, but again, I could not do it.  I am too much of a guilty polite liberal), step-daughter, teenage babysitter, stepmother or aunt, mean bully girl in school, leader of a “girl gang,” librarian from hell, cruel sorority chick, epileptic, Customs agent at the airport, college instructor, undertaker/mortician, corpse, cuckolding emasculating bitch of a wife, ex-girlfriend, and femme fatale neighbor lady who kills you by poisoning your drink when she invites you over to her apartment (you thought you were going to get laid.  NOPE!!!  Get out the Black Heftys and the axe!).  

        Oh yeah–hypnotist!  Evil hypnotist!  And a psychiatrist/psychologist.  

       I’m sure that there are more.  Those are just the ones I could think of off the top of my head.  

        When it comes to clients who want role-play, the least imaginative–by far–are the male doms.  They are even less imaginative than the cross-dressers/sissies (if a sissy rolls into the Studio, I can tell you EXACTLY how the session will go.  EXACTLY.   Is there some sissy script software out from from which they all download their kinky programming, or what?).

       The male doms always want me to be one of two things.  Can you guess?  I bet you can guess.  Come on, this one is easy.  

       Errant secretary.  Or co-ed/schoolgirl. 

       Secretary.  Schoolgirl. 

       If you are plan to practice professional switching, those are the uniforms you will need.  The only variation is: are you a sexy secretary, or a demure conservative secretary?  Do you want the authentic Catholic uniform, or the slutty adult version you can buy at the Halloween Store?

       I will know that society is becoming more feminist when a male dom wants me to be a Female CEO who needs punishment. 

        Secretary.  Schoolgirl.  God, you guys, could you shake it up a little?  

         Anyway, this afternoon, after I spend a thrilling hour or two at the laundrymat, I’m going to come home and get gussied up so that I can play the part of…..sexy secretary!   Wheeeeeee!   Hair down!  Dangly earrings!  Why sir, I had no idea that my pencil skirt was too short and showed my stockingtops when I sat down!  These red heels are inappropriate to wear at this law firm, sir?  

         I didn’t know that my blouse was unbuttoned too far!

         What would I do to keep this job…?  I would do anything to keep this job!  Anything!  Even…a spanking! 

         You know, I would find the eroticization of blatant sexual harassment offensive if this roleplay were not also so cornball.  I mean, picture it from my perspective.  Do you know how hard it is to keep a straight face sometimes when you’re playing sexy secretary?   It’s even harder when the dude is taking it really seriously and isn’t, you know, having fun with it.  And it’s hardest of all if Mr. Serious Domly Dom is also kind of a jerk in the bargain and I’ve sized him up and know for a fact that I have at least 40 IQ points on him (but then again, he’s the one with the big bucks to hire me for an hour, so maybe my intellectual snobbery is just sour grapes).

         This is basically the email I received to book the session:

           Dear Miss Margo;

     Hi, my name is Well-To-Do French Businessman Cog in the Capitalist Machine.  I would like to have a session with you this afternoon.  I would like a roleplay in which you are a sexy secretary who must be punished for teasing the men in the office.  I enjoy red toenails and nice soft feet.  Do you have red toenails and nice soft feet?  I am happy to meet with you at the hotel bar and prove that I’m not a cop. These are my references.  Again: soft feet, red toenails.  Black stockings are also ideal.  And I love high heels!

    Thanks and I look forward to meeting you,

   French Cog in the Capitalist Machine

        Well, I guess this male dom is actually shaking it up: sexy secretary…and foot fetish.  Riiiiiiiight. 



    
And now, because I was wearing flip-flops all day yesterday, I have to go spend some quality time with the Ped-Egg.  Excuse me.  

     Ped-Egg.  Laundry.  Sexy Secretary with this French Fry.  AA meeting.  Gym.  Call mom.  Keep it simple, don’t pick up.  

      Frenchie says I will recognize him in the lobby as he is French and also doesn’t have much hair.  Well, that sure narrows it down!  Must consult the internet and make sure this guy isn’t Dominique Strauss-Kahn.

       Speaking of sleazebags, if you ride the NYC Subway, you can’t help but notice the grotesque and cheesy ads for Dr. Zizm*r, cosmetic surgeon.  I mean, these are some really bad ads, and they are ubiquitous (if you want the scoop, the Surgeon told me once that the guy is really slimy and shakes down younger doctors, but this is coming from the Surgeon, who is not exactly Mr. Rogers himself.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the Surgeon writes negative, scathing anonymous internet reviews of his competition).

       Someone did a parody of Dr. Zizm*r’s subway ads.

        I laughed till I cried.

Tortured by Neighbor’s Awful Sex Soundtrack Mix Tape (Cutting Crew)

      One of the reasons I like my apartment building is that I usually don’t hear a peep from my neighbors.  The street four flights down can get a little noisy on late Summer nights, but my neighbors are typically quiet.  The walls in this building must be solid brick or I must have exceptionally quiet neighbors.  

     That changed this week.  

      Some English guys–two or three–moved in across the way.  Not the hallway, but the way between the bedroom window and the apartment across…well, a bricked-in corridor of nothingness.  It’s difficult to describe.  I’ll try to post pictures so that you can see for yourself. 

      Anyway, one of these English guys is disturbing my serenity with his SEX SOUNDTRACK.

      I’m not picking on him for his sex soundtrack.  I have a sex soundtrack myself–I  have multiple soundtracks, in fact…different soundtracks for different partners.  You probably have a soundtrack, too.  Lots of people have them.  

      The English guy across the way has a very…unlikable sex soundtrack.  It is starting to make my life, ahh, unpleasant.  At first I thought it was funny and I spammed all my friends with email about it, hooting with laughter as I typed.

       It’s not so funny anymore.  The joke is on me, I’m afraid.  

       Can you guess what his soundtrack is?  Quick!  Think of the worst, cheesiest sex soundtrack music you can imagine.

       NIN “Closer?”  Anything by Tool?  

       NO!  It’s even WORSE!  (And God, did I just date myself?)


          “I Just Died in Your Arms!” by Cutting Crew!  Shoot me now!

           It’s not even part of his Sex Soundtrack Mix Tape!  It’s the entire soundtrack!  He puts the song on repeat!  He had his girlfriend over the other night and I heard “I Just Died in Your Arms” six times! 

          Why?  Why, God, why?!

          (And, inexplicably, this video has 6,020 ‘likes’ on YouTube and only 59 ‘dislikes’…well, 60 ‘dislikes’ now that I’ve added my contribution.  WTF approves of this music?  Like Arab terrorism and the post-Industrial economy, I have been subjected to this awful fuckin song my entire life, and I resent it.  When am I not going to have to listen to bad 80s Baby-Boomer pop in the grocery store?)

Surgeon ‘waterboarded’ his mistress and ‘stuffed her head down a toilet over offensive Facebook post’

(Miss Margo note: This guy is NOT THE SURGEON…but if the name and photos were withheld, I’d totally believe it was him.  I want to forward him this article, but I’m still hiding from him.  I wonder if he knows this guy…?  I guess it’s possible; Llorente worked in a burn trauma center…

I find domestic violence to be the least funny subject ever…but I have to admit…this article made me laugh and laugh.  OMG.

And check out the lawyer-speak: The attorney for the defense, Marcos Beaton said in an email statement: ‘I don’t see anything within the narrative that suggest that Dr. Llorente prevented the alleged victim from leaving, either by threat, by force or by implication of force.’

I hope my readers aren’t too disgusted.  I think this is one of the more questionable things I’ve ever posted.

Take him to the cleaners and get him off the street, Ms. Sauma.)

Plastic surgeon ‘waterboarded’ his mistress and ‘stuffed her head down a toilet over offensive Facebook post’

PUBLISHED: 10:08 EST, 9 May 2013 UPDATED: 12:35 EST, 9 May 2013

A cosmetic surgeon is facing charges of attempted murder and kidnapping after he allegedly waterboarded his mistress in a bath tub after becoming enraged over a Facebook message posted on her page.  

Dr Orlando Llorente, 41, from Miami, Florida is said to have pushed Leanne Sauma’s head down a toilet and then forced a rag into the mouth of while pouring water over her head.

According to the affidavit, Dr Llorente subjected the victim, 36, to almost 16 hours of abuse and torture in an apartment before driving her to a CVS where she escaped from his car.

The horrifying ordeal is thought to have been sparked by a post on Ms Sauma’s Facebook page last month though details of what the message said or showed has not been released by Miami police. 

According to the police report, Dr Llorente, angered by the post, grabbed his mistress by the hair and dragged her into the bathroom on April 21st.

There he is said to have repeatedly struck Ms Sauma’s and threatened to kill her before banging her head on the floor and subjecting her to the vicious torture tactic while straddling her in the bath tub. 

The police report reads: As the defendant bangs (syc) the victim’s head on the floor, he demanded that she tell him the truth about the Facebook message.’

It continues: ‘The victim advised that she had to play along with the defendant and make him believe that she would not tell anyone for him to let her go,’ the report revealed.

Finally releasing Ms Sauma from the bathroom, the couple drove to a CVS parking lot in Pinecrest where according to Ms Sauma’s statement, her ex-boyfriend began ‘coaching’ her on what to tell people about her facial injuries.

While the victim attempted to record Dr Llorente telling her to tell her mother she slipped in the bath tub, he allegedly grabbed her by the neck as she managed to throw the phone out the car window.
In a tussle outside the car, the doctor then seized the phone and smashed it up. 

When Pinecrest Police arrived at the scene, Ms Sauma was alone in the parking lot.

Dr Llorente is vehemently denying the charges and attorneys say he is resolute that he will clear his name. 

Miami Police have confirmed that the doctor is in fact married and did ‘once upon a time’ have an affair with Ms Sauma.


After Ms Sauma’s allegations surfaced earlier this week, he turned himself in on Tuesday and was presented before a judge on Wednesday who denied the doctor bond. 


The attorney for the defense, Marcos Beaton said in an email statement: ‘I don’t see anything within the narrative that suggest that Dr. Llorente prevented the alleged victim from leaving, either by threat, by force or by implication of force.

‘Dr. Llorente voluntarily surrendered to authorities yesterday and is resolute on clearing his name. He reached out to law enforcement, through his lawyers, when these false allegations surfaced. 

‘We are disappointed that our requests for more time in which to present a thorough and thoughtful examination into the source of the allegations and the facts surrounding them was declined.

‘In fact, the City of Miami Police Department ignored repeated phone messages from Dr. Llorente‚Äôs attorneys. Had we been given that opportunity, we would have been able to show that Dr. Llorente is absolutely not guilty. We look forward to vindicating him in court.’

Llorente, who is also facing charges of robbery, battery, tampering with a witness, false imprisonment and criminal mischief in the April incident, was ordered to have no contact with the alleged victim.

Ambien (Mis)adventure & Return of the Vermin II

UPDATED AGAIN

I complained to my brother about the Midnight Mouse Massacre.  The smartass punk emailed me this, with the note “Get real, Sis.  Mice carry hantavirus.  No mercy!” 



   He is such a smart alec!  It did make me laugh and laugh and cheered me up quite a bit, though.  lol.
UPDATE 4:30 AM:

     I was awakened around 2 AM by the desperate, pathetic wailing of mice.

     I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep.  Because I knew why they were wailing.

      Nothing doing.  They would not stop squeaking (and I can’t blame them), and I could not ignore them.

      Time to do the deed.  It had to be done.  

      I sighed wearily, rolled out of bed, and put my glasses on.  Then I donned a pair of latex gloves and grabbed a flashlight.

      There, right outside my bedroom door, were three little grey mice stuck in the glue trap I’d laid down for them.  

       One of them appeared to be mostly dead–suffocated in glue.  The other two were quite lively.  They were freaking out.  They were making quite a racket.  

       I sighed again and took off my glasses.  Now my vision was blurred.  

       I fetched three plastic grocery bags from underneath the sink.  Then, quickly, I picked up the glue traps and their hapless captive mice and put them into one bag.  I tied it shut, and then put it into another bag.  I tied that one shut and then put it into the third bag.

       I thought about just throwing them away into the garbage can outside like that…but that would be wrong.  They would be terrified in the garbage bags for who-knows-how-long?

        Then I thought I could put them in the freezer.  That would be faster…but still fucked up.

       Big sigh.  The mice were making the bag rustle a bit.

       I grabbed a heavy skillet from on top of the fridge and stepped out into the hallway of my apartment building, so that my birds couldn’t see The Awful Truth.  Margo, simian. 

       I scanned around for neighbors–nothing.  

       I crouched down, laid the bag on the floor, averted my eyes, and brought the skillet down hard.  Twice.  Twice, to make sure.  Two-bullet minimum, as the hit men say in mafia movies.  

       I couldn’t see any blood or gore.  Too many layers of plastic.

       I pitched the bag outside.  Then I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t.  I don’t think I’ve ever killed a mammal before.  Personally, I mean.  

       I don’t feel terrible about it…it had to be done.  It was still distasteful.  And I am so tired, and I really want a drink right now.

       I wish I wasn’t sleeping alone tonight.

       Or this morning…it’s 5:15 AM.  Rise and shine, sunbeam. 

                  *                    *                    *                       * 

 I’ve been unusually stressed at work recently (regular work, not secret job work) and consequently, my insomnia came back in a big way.  It’s terrible.  I hate it.

    I was complaining about it to a friend, who offered me 2 of her Ambien.  

     “Is it safe?  Does it work?”  I asked her.

      “Yes, it works great.  Just be sure to take it at bedtime.  If you stay up and watch a movie or TV, you won’t remember how it ended the next morning.”

        Seemed harmless enough!  I took the Ambien and hid them in my jewelry box for a last resort (and yes, I know it’s not right to take drugs that haven’t been prescribed to you).  

       A few days later, I found myself looking at the pills with red, bleary eyes.  My carpal tunnel was making my hands hurt.  My students were making my head hurt.  This degenerate scumbag I’d been researching was making my heart hurt.  

        I shot off a text message to my pharmacist friend in California: I have ambien 10 mg.  Is it safe to take?

        He responded: The Surgeon should give it to you the next time he wants to induce amnesia in you! (note to readers: don’t ask)  You should probably take benadryl instead.

         I already eat so much damn benadryl that I ought to buy stock in the company!  

        So anyway…you see where this is going: I ate it.  One pill.

        NEVER AGAIN!

        Never.  Ever.  Again.

        First of all: the dreams.  Vivid, epic, technicolor dreams.  I guess that wasn’t all bad, in and of itself, but towards the end I started having obsessive, unpleasant dreams about the Mathematician coming to my apartment, and I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or awake, and that wasn’t so hot.  I kept trying to wake up from it–you know how sometimes you realize you’re dreaming and can pull yourself out of it…?  Well, I would wake up and hear the sound of a mouse rustling around in my room, because those damn mice came back and I’ve been obsessed with exterminating them recently.  I don’t know if I was dreaming about the mouse rustling around or what, but it was very intense and unpleasant and it upset me much more than it should have, and then I would be dreaming about Dr. Cheating McLiarpants again and it just went ON and ON….UGH!

       So, I finally wake up annnnnnddddd……

      (cause you knew there was more!)

       Hmmm!  Well, look at this!  Looks like someone’s been doing things in my apartment last night–which is really weird, because I was the only person at home! 

        I have almonds in the freezer that I keep for Parrot.  

       Well, someone ate them all, and it wasn’t the bird.  

        The empty bag was in the sink.

        There was a bottle of vinegar and a bottle of vanilla extract taken from the very top cupboard and left on the countertop.  I have absolutely no idea what I would have used either one of those for.  

        Hmmm, what is this…?  Is this an uneaten salmon sushi roll on my coffee table?  How did a salmon roll get here?  Did it grow little legs (fins?) at the sushi restaurant and run over here of its own accord?

        In a panic, I checked my phone.

       I had the sushi restaurant deliver food to my apartment.  I do not remember making the call.  Or paying for it. 

       Cold terror, then, as I realized other possibilities…

       Oh God, tell me that I did not DRUNK-DIAL ANY OF MY EX-BOYFRIENDS!  PLEASE!  PLEASE!

        I scanned my call and text history.  I was in the clear.  Oh thank you, Jesus.  No calls to anyone except the sushi place.

       I dug around in the delivery bag for the receipt.  FRIGGIN $42 of sushi!  Who the hell was I buying it for?  A platoon of marines?

       I found the rest of it in the fridge.  At least I didn’t eat it.  Gawd.

       The birds were okay, and did not seem afraid of me, so at least I know I didn’t mess with them in my inebriated state.

      Finally: I guess I did my nails.  Or tried to do my nails. I should have taken a picture of them before I took the polish off, because it was the worst manicure I’ve ever had.  It looked like I let a 4-year-old do it.  Or someone with a major neurological disorder.  It also seems that I got the clear base coat confused with the clear quick-dry topcoat, because in addition to the atrocious quality of the paint job, there is polish in my bottle of basecoat.  Uhhh…..

        I consulted my computer.  I hadn’t emailed anyone.  Lucked out there. (Tangentially: In AA, you hear amazing stories of what drinkers do to prevent themselves from sending drunken late-night emails.  Some of them are actually pretty inventive.  I heard one guy say that he set up a program on his computer that required him to do a math problem before he could send an email.  I myself used to have every email sent after 10 PM forwarded automatically to a special folder.  The next morning, I’d read the emails in the cold, hard light of sobriety.  It they were, you know, cogent, I’d forward them on to their intended addressees.  If they were, ahhh, not, I would delete them.  I used to congratulate myself on my clever plan to outwit my drunken self-sabotage.  Tell me that’s not junkie thinking at its finest.) 

      I know all of this might sound comical, but it really didn’t feel that way at the time.  Blackouts are scary, and those vivid dreams weren’t so great, either.  

      No more Ambien for me.  PASS!

                *                      *                  *              *                  * 
    Next: these mice and driving me crazy.  I managed to vanquish them for many months, but last week I noticed that they’d gotten into some food in the pantry.  Then I saw one running out of the corner of my eye when I turned on the light in the kitchen.  

       New York City living, man.  Welcome to the Big Apple, Chump!

      Back to the routine: bleach and scrub the bird cages.  Store all the food in the fridge.  Vacuum and bleach the floors.  

       I put down traps.  Eight traps.  

       I hate the snap traps because I’m a wuss and I hate to see their bloody, mutilated corpses…especially if they don’t die right away.  Ugh!  So I put down these instead: 


    “Guaranteed to Kill!” the package says.  I want to know: guaranteed to kill what?  My fucking checking account balance?  Because I’ve caught two and I was hoping that would be the end of it, but the other day I looked into my living room and saw two little gray mice running around, gay as you please, as if they were paying rent and belonged here.  It looked like they were playing tag with each other.  ARGH!

     I also invested in this expensive electronic mouse trap, which supposedly electrocutes them when they step inside.  The Amazon reviews were overwhelmingly positive, and I guess the fried mouse is supposed to look peaceful in death, as if it just went to sleep.  I couldn’t tell you, because it hasn’t killed anything yet, other than $27 at my local hardware store (I couldn’t wait to Amazon to ship it):

      There was a mouse in my room last night.  I heard it.  And no, last night was not the Ambien night. 

      I went back to the hardware store and complained bitterly.  Or as bitterly as a polite liberal white girl from the sticks can complain (I should have taken lessons from the Surgeon.  That guy was a world-class complainer.  He had no shame.  El zilcho).  

      “Glue traps,” said the Pakistani clerk.

      “Glue traps are gruesome!  And inhumane!  How would you like to die in a glue trap?”

       He looked at me like I was crazy.  “Do you want to get rid of the mice or not?”

        “Of course I do!  But what do I do when I find them alive and stuck halfway off of the trap, ripping their little feet off?”

       He laughed at me.  “I don’t know?  Call the police to protect you?  HA! HA!”

       So I bought some glue traps.  Does that make me a bad person?

       So be it.  I have to get rid of these little assholes.  My birds are all on lockdown because I have all these traps around, and I’m having to clean and bleach the floors as if I was my crazy OCD mother, and I am spending crazy money on these little tards (sez the mouse: Who wasted money on a $30 electric boondoggle, tard?  Thanks for the pasta, tard!).

        Good news: no roaches in some time.  Even a little one.

         FINALLY: Remember the huge monster roach I smashed in the last installment?  Would you like to know what C. did with it?

        She opened the locker of a mistress she dislikes and put the roach inside one of her boots!  ARRRGH!!!

        Unfortunately for C., she was not there when the roach was discovered in the boot…but she knows it was found, because the inside and outside border of the locker is now liberally powdered with boric acid.