HYPOCRITE: a person who puts on a false appearance of virtue or religion

OK.
Working, but then an employee comes to ask you to take over a difficult caller case.
OK.
Listen to the lady rant about how she's been waiting for months, no, years for this money.
OK.
Review of her paperwork indicates she submitted her case less than 2 days ago. But that doesn't matter to this particular Southern black pity-me-so-pay-me mama. (Yep, I say it like I call it.)
OK.
She praises to her lord - oh, amen - that this is the windfall she's been waiting for.
OK.
You know what she means.
You don't?
Well, let me tell you, honey.
OK.
See, she is a "bishop". (You gotta believe her if she say so. She goes to church, for god's sake!)
OK.
But, apparently, bishops are not well taken care of. (Should we notify the congregation?) She has no money, and is about to be evicted. She'd already told her pimp - oops, landlord - that half of the $$ was coming her way any day now, because her prayer's been answered.
OK.
(Hmmm, whose schedule was she using? And is another deity delivering the other half of the rent?)
OK.
And why can't we pay her now? Why do we need more documents from her? (Well, bitch, you're taking advantage of the system with your bullying tactics and lies. So, yeah, we're going to ask you to prove the facts.)
OK.
And do you know how many other cases (patiently waiting) you are bumping ahead of to just get your way? You think you are the only one in dire straits?
OK.
IF you're a bishop and part of god-fearing folk, you need to show some more respect and understanding to the situation and to the book's teachings, instead of cursing like your god loves you even though the truth is he left your sorry ass for the same reason that everyone else left you. Hallelujah! And, why don't you actually let me finish speaking?
OK.
Oh, but she's always right. She's a "bishop", got her "special" ed-u-ca-tion in Sunday teaching. And I know nothing, of course.
OK.
My apathy for one more welfare of the world isn't conducive to her end goal. So I say adieu and do as I'm ask. I forward her to the [big honcho]. Lucky for her, [big honcho] is a softie and pushover. Problem solved. She stops crying. And I stop crying from all this yawning.
OK.

HYPOCRITE: read above for definition

Bah, humbug!

You might be waiting for the countdown to the new year, but it is good riddance to another holiday celebratory and debt-filled season for me.

Despite wanting to simply believe that there is some sort of magic in the air, I just smell cow and pig poop that wafts in on the breeze from the far off countryside.

Try the best as I be, it seems as if I feel less of real emotion, real connection to anyone or anything anymore. Not my self, not my family, not my job, not my dream. Except money. I do care about that.

Could it be that I am a scrooge after all?!

People watching.

Now, that is a sport. Lower the sunglasses, pop in the ear buds, then act as if you are minding your own business.

But who cares what you are doing?!

[M]ental decided that she needed to act upon a long overdue visit to a fam-ber out of state. Great, except that she planned the trip at the last minute with less timing on her part to relay her excitable news to the very fam-ber she was inviting herself to.

Granted, [M]ental, while a little cuckoo in the head, is not house gagged and bound. Independent, nomadic living is a familiar part of her lifestyle. Still, having a traveling partner suited her fantasy of connection and need for distraction, so I volunteered. (After a long, very long pause with a hard slap to the head...) Idiot!

Whose scheme was it to leave me with only four pills of headache medication for a 20-hours road trip...each way?!

1 bottle of whack-me on the road: [M]ental's requirement for constant blaring of radio news and music in order to drown out covert messages that may be transmitted to her mind from spying evil-doers trailing her movements.

2 bottles of whack-me on the road: [M]ental's forgetfulness to provide specific arrival day and time to fam-ber, whose own schedule necessitated us having to lounge around and amuse ourselves...when we are already cranky and tired with non-stop driving...for seven hours more before actually meeting up. (This is what I get for allowing [M]ental to take care of the details.)

3 bottles of whack-me on the road: Backaches and chills from sleeping in the car for the entire duration of the visit, since the fam-ber's lodging and accommodations were neither sanitary nor spacious. (My toes still curl up automatically when I think about having to walk on the sandy surface.)

4 bottles of whack-me on the road: [M]ental's temper flare-ups, shout-outs, and shut-ups to both fam-ber and me on issues ranging from my lackluster appetite to seeming favoritism of one over the other, and other points of personal dissatisfaction. (To be fair, it should be noted that any visits by [M]ental to fam-bers dictate that hosts not be immune to at least one such blow-outs during her stays. Worse,[M]ental thinks things will always be different, shelving those past experiences in lieu of happier, scripted expectations...which, undoubtedly, never happens.)

5 bottles of whack-me on the road: Convincing [M]ental not to extend her visit with fam-bers given language barriers that will exacerbate her frustration and disapproval ratings amongst all parties. (No matter what smiles are pasted on faces or kind words are spewed from lips, some personalities will never mesh in tune.)

6 bottles of whack-me on the road: Bringing back a puppy that has never ridden in a car before which, inevitably leads to a whole lot of stink - poo, pee, poo, vomit, pee, vomit, poo, vomit, and danger of $1000 fine for littering dirty towels and clothes on the roads.

7 bottles of whack-me on the road: [M]ental giving everyone the silent treatment.

Actually, forget the last one. My headache seems to be lifting a bit.

I envy other people's lives. Sometimes. Ok, most of the time. What do they have that I do not have?! I start making a list--a long list--and there are moments when the only self commentary I can make is that I hate my life.

Then there are the rare instances when I might be on the flip side of this opinion. I am not blind to note that there might be few people who might be jealous of my life, of having a steady job, lodging, food on the table, and the ability to pay the bills more or less on time.

So when, from those few lot, a temp asked me to help her out by loaning her some money, I did it with the full understanding of the possible consequences. I even had her sign a promissory note, having watched enough small court television series. But realistically, as I was reminded recently, I knew when I was handing over those bills, this would likely become a charitable donation. And, of course, the result was as anticipated.

What gave it away? Oh, the redundant excuses of "I'll pay you back the next time, so be patient for few more weeks" or "my grandma's gonna be sending me some money, and I will pay you back when I get the check." Too bad she had no sense to keep her new bling-blings under the wraps, or ask how to go about cashing a check.

Ever since her husband was paroled from prison, yet again, the temp acted differently. Responsibility was replaced by negligence, sparkles of happiness replaced by blotches of bruise marks under her foundation, and kind-nature became nothing but true ugly as to what type of person she really was. Money hungry.

Still, I would have consoled myself to write the loan off as a lesson learned if the temp had ended here. Instead, she has done the despicable; she has offended us all.

Perhaps it was her fear of facing me and the due loan. Perhaps the strain in her personal life was too great. Whatever the reason, this temp's presence at work had been sliding drastically in the last couple weeks. Finally, her supervisors and the big honcho had enough. They called the temporary agency to obtain a reason and decide on a course of rectification.

Bang, bang. If I am going to die, I might as well take some of you with me.

Catching everyone off guard, the temporary agency responded with the following: the temp had formally filed a complaint against one of her supervisors, stating that he was constantly harassing her with the way he looked at her and the inappropriate comments and questions he posed to her during their daily conversations.

Now, this is not the first time that this particular supervisor has been called in to similar complaints. He does have the tendency to stare at the ladies. He does have the tendency to follow people too closely. He does have the tendency to say odd remarks here and there. The trouble with him, when one looks at him objectively, is that he is very socially awkward. His big head on top of a bigger body relays an image of a giant clown who tends to make any jokes he try to tell as un-funny as possible.

Nonetheless, the temp's latest maneuver has everyone fuming. After all, what is she trying to do but to find a scapegoat for an excuse out of her situation? Yes, she could have simply said that she wanted to quit her current assignment. But the truth is, she needs a way to get onto receiving unemployment benefits like her husband. And "quitting" does not qualify...especially after they have worn out their welcome with their other family relatives. Why would they since she would not pause in stooping low as to suddenly accuse her step-dad of sexual assault to her imprisoned mother after he too stopped writing checks for them from his monthly disability checks?!

So to everyone's chagrin, the entire department has to get involved in responding to this "formal complaint" from the temp and her agency. Or else the temporary employment agency will no longer fill any future positions for our office. And, heck, that does not bother me one bit. Another agency has already been eagerly knocking on our door for a chance to show their stuff; if one door closes, another door opens. But what is the chance that we can get one temp without someone in their family deep in hot water with the law or trying to work the system?! Very much like winning the lottery, and I have not won that either.

Hey, hey, did you hear? One of the temps have been calling in sick all week long. She says her back hurts and cannot get up. Then again, why was she caught standing dandy-fine at a bus stop on a day when she was supposed to be bedridden?!

I know, I know. Here is the story of why.

Picture a family comprising of mama-temp (minus papas) and her three jailbird children (one daughter, two sons). Not too long ago, both sons were released from prison. The oldest toughie rooms with the mama-temp, and begins the good behavioral parole phase of landing a job and bringing home some dough. Not a bad start; everyone is happy.

Oh, no, not for long though. The horseshoe bends their luck, and things begin to fall apart. The oldest toughie borrows mama-temp's car and is videotaped one night inside the car while two of his buddies ransack and rob a house. Oh, dear, now he is on the run.

Meanwhile, mama-temp's softie sickly son is released from prison to serve his parole in another city in the state. The instructions are clear - immediately report to his parole officer in the new town upon leaving the prison; do not wander off the trail. But mama-temp must see her baby, and what would one night's delay change. Apparently a lot. A pending arrest for violation of parole terms on the docks, this son too goes a-running. Without any money, without any friends, without any medications to treat his deteriorating health.

So both sons are on the loose. The softie sickly manages to even meet with mama-temp on occasion to get some money from her. We know, because mama-temp comes back to work with red wet eyes.

Yet, the bigger trouble lies with oldest toughie. He is no snitch, but coppers want to close cases. Videotapes are concrete proofs and this son is the only lead they have to the robbery. Investigate, track, and the police surround him when he tries to come by mama-temp's daddy's house one evening. With the cruisers and guns outnumbering the barking dogs of the neighborhood, the oldest toughie is finally apprehended from his hiding place on top of the roof.

Shame, shame, that is all you bring!

Mama-temp's sister and daddy raise their Bibles and hail Mary, Jesus, and Zeus before turning their backs on the infidels. There goes the good-old cheery holiday family get-together. And mama-temp becomes an outcast, with only her own children and grandchildren to depend on.

With no place to go, mama-temp secretly moves in with her daughter at the public housing she resides at. Remember, this is all hush-hush. No one must know that mama-temp is there. Who would want to?

Ah, so this brings the story back to mama-temp's absence from workplace. An "investigator" stopped by at the office the other day, huffing and puffing and threatening to blow down the building if we did not hand over all information regarding mama-temp to him. To make it official, he took out his star badge. Good job on cutting along the lines!

Fortunately, suspicious and reading beyond his true intention, [Big honcho] smacked him on the head to knock him down few pegs with reason. (And for a small lady, [Big honcho] carries a big punch!) And he left with merely the address of the temporary agency that we hired mama-temp from, but not before revealing the information that she had missed some car payments, and was wanted in the investigation involving her automobile and possible felony charges that awaited her if she did not come forward to cooperate.

Now, what?! Exactly who was this brute stranger? Was he just a repo-man, or did he have some other devious agenda in mind? Which agency did he represent? He never really said. Yes, the word gets around before the head can snap back in place.

Without mama-temp coming back, we can only surmise that it all relates back to oldest toughie's case and how she desperately wanted to avoid having to testify or aid in prosecution during her son's trial.

Well, whatever. We will never really know the full truth. And with a bit of melancholy adieu, we pack up mama-temps's contents to begin another round of temp truth or dare.

La, di, la, di, da.
I'm humming a stupid song.

When I read or see people who exclaim that they have wonderful and fulfilling lives, I want to gag. Sitting around while their cares and concerns are shouldered by other people is a luxury that few can afford. And worse still is when they try to enlighten the rest of the plebeians with their wisdom they have gained by spending through their inherited trust accounts.

Of course, I realize that folks can be happy without money. But they tend to be either delusional or heavily medicated, or both.

And speaking of happiness, I wish [M]ental would not feign to be such with her eerie smile she puts on every day.

La, di, la, di, da.
I'm humming a stupid song.

Much of the animal kingdom sleeps more than half of their lifeline away. Perhaps that is because, when you are knocked unconscious, your body finally gets the peace and quiet you crave.

I have yet to feel the regular jovial beat of my heart beyond a dot of existence in consciousness. Sure it was great to finally see [B]um out of my life but, merely a week after, [M]ental drives back into it.

Other than occasional tweets to say, "I'm not dead yet," she had been vagabonding across the continent in hopes of losing her "chasers" until she had to rewind back into town for a brief stay. First it was going to be a momentary meeting. Then it became, "How about getting together for a lunch?" This then turned into couple hours, then wanting to spend a night, then two, then a week, then months?!

I really should put out the sign that reads, "NO vacancy!"

So far there is no mention from [M]ental what her long-term plan is, although she enjoys planning remodeling ideas of my loft from basement to attic. She has gone far to consider re-painting her room. Yikes.

I am no Grinch to kick her to the curbs. A sad reminder of how my pathetic weakness pokes through every time...

And my gift? A set of headphones to block out the voices in her head.

La, di, la, di, da.
I'm humming a stupid song.

Finally...alone.

Not!

With the heat comes the flies and the mosquitoes and, if I'm not swatting them away, I'm fanning myself to exhaustion under the summer sun. Still, I've preferred their bites and buzzing over the yippity-yaks of the more genetically related.

But things seemed to be finally looking up -- if not happier, than I can at least breath more. [B]um is finally moving out! Hooray!

Whoa, though. Don't celebrate too much. Of course, given the type of person that [B]um is, he's not moving out on his own. Nope. He complained constantly, but he didn't even bothered to help in the search or pay for the expenses. Instead, to make things easier, another fam-ber decided to be the peacekeeper and take him with her when she moved into an apartment of her own.

Is she happy to do it? Obvious answer is a negative. Near to retirement, she wanted to start saving and enjoy her life more in her own independent way. As if that will now happen. Disappointed? Yes. Angry? Yes, and much, much more.

Now, most sensible beings may comprehend the sacrifices that others may be making to help one out of his long slump. Begin with a word of thank you. Or small gestures of gratitude and/or assistance. Oh, that seems too much.

Even during the moving period, I am horrified to witness that [B]um only concentrated on taking care of his belongings. Forget about the old lady with her backache and the fact that she could have used some help. How many times did she request that [B]um help her move the microwave and the television set?! Not enough, since she had to come back to do it herself. Oy, the pain afterwards that an aging body experiences...

And given the continued state of "I'm not speaking to you and I don't want to look at you" that emanates from [B]um, don't even both offering any other personal advice.

So the rest of us do what we can, even to the point of sadly trying to erase his presence from our lives. Unfair and regrettable? Absolutely.

Will it dawn on him that the old lady will croak one day? Again, absolutely. But does he have the human sense and means to do anything after that? Absolutely not. I cringe with weariness thinking of that impending day. One tries to save those they can, but I am ready to release his hand for good.

About time, heh?!

Pssst! I forgot to mention one more thing. You know how [B]um likes to get attention by throwing tantrums. Well, in recent months, he had been knocking something against the walls to make the rest of the inhabitants uncomfortable. Likely throwing a tennis ball or something, we thought.

Not even close.

That bastard was punching holes in the walls with a hammer! In addition to those he made from a prior episode of bout. (Relegated to the basement, he mentioned that he was expressing his discontent of being isolated in the lower living realm.) Uh, because people probably wish you dead, my thought processes.

So, not only does he leave my house with a free pass to pester and mooch off of someone else, I'm left with the very expensive ordeal of fixing up the walls that looks like Swiss cheese! And, yes, I said walls with an -s at the end, as in more than one, two, or three. Just keep counting.

And all around me, I hear the psychologists and psychiatrists and wannabe-know-it-all's insisting that I should have simply cut him off from the very beginning. But, you know what? The battle of mixed emotions that arise in trying to resolve such conflicts will always have you in a frenzy...especially when I don't see myself as the source of his problems while, simultaneously, others try to make it my problem.

And you wondered why it took so long for me to get rid of [B]um.

Oh, well. As we crack our knuckles with satisfaction, we hope that this is the end.

Wait, was that him coming through the door? Why is he back? We thought he hated this place and hated us!

What?! The washing machine is broken at the new apartment? And he needs to do his laundry? Oh, right, he can't be looking like a bum.

Time to change the locks on this place.