Advertising in bar bathrooms befuddles me. When I bother to pay heed I applaud the salesmanship on the person unloading that space as it seems about effective as toilet training your puppy.
Sure people might see it but will they remember?
Over the weekend, I patronized a nearby brewpub. Whereupon I noticed this gem:
My eyes scan over to see this:
To give you the full picture:
Who are they trying the reach?
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
For more Wordless Wednesday click here!
I am uninsured.
The topic of pundits.
The tagline for ideologues.
The target of vile hatred and misconceptions.
My first three jobs provided pretty kick ass coverage. Meaning, when compared to other people’s policies, mine rocked. My PPOs allowed me the luxury of seeing some of the best specialists in the country.
Then my employment situation changed and, eventually, the COBRA went the way of manufacturing in Michigan.
A year later, still unemployed, I visit Planned Parenthood for a routine exam. Prepared to pay out of pocket they ask for my financial information (they also made sure I knew to eat three meals a day) then notify me that my unemployment puts me in an income bracket too high to qualify for their plan.
I keep quiet to avoid overt assessments established by employing assumptions and not fact.
Another year passes, I investigate Hackley Community Care given they offer sliding scale coverage. They accept five new lazy beggars patients the first of every month.
9:00 November 1st I call.
They open at 8:00 so all the slots are full.
December 1st lands on a Saturday. The following Monday I learn they accept people on the 1st.
Regardless.
And on and on.
This past Saturday I discover they now only accept patience on the first business day of the month (Monday).
Today, I dial at 8:00 on the button. The phone tree does not offer an “intake” option. I hit zero and am notified that extension is currently unavailable.
Second time. Repeat above.
Third time. I hit 0 and it rings and rings and rings.
Fourth time. Repeat above.
Fifth time. Visiting their website, I guess at an alternate extension and leave a message at 8:09.
Sixth time. After talking to an operator, I leave a second voicemail at 8:12.
8:39 I discover that they took 10 people this morning all of whom left messages before I did.
“I tried calling and no one answered.”
“Well, somehow they got through.”
We go back and forth for a few minutes.
“Who you are, as an organization, accountable to?”
“If you need care you can go to the Emergency Room or a Medi-Center.”
“No, who funds you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Where do you get your money? Who can I call about this?”
“We get some funding from the Federal Government. You could try your state representatives.”
While that last sentence is moronic that is exactly what I did.
Why?
I call bullshit and they are a good place to start raising hell.
All day I agonized about reporting this anecdote. In a culture where people are called moochers and whores for talking about health care the last thing I desire is situating myself in a shitstorm of squabbles joined with some strong streams of judgment. However, READ CAREFULLY, said program is sliding scale. Meaning, people pay for it. Furthermore, READ CAREFULLY, I pay taxes and have done so for 22 years. I do not want birth control; I just want a well-exam. And maybe some crazy pills Xanax* to safeguard against a panic attack.
My shame about seeking assistance disallowed me from sharing my story sooner. Yet, I speak (write) now because I am not alone. Society will always take care of the very poor. All that separates those of us in the middle from monetary devastation is a single slip down the stairs.
As for Hackley Community Care, it occurs as if they neither provide the community or the care as their name indicates; however, the verdict remains out at the moment. I will keep you posted.
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
*Alas, to get into the “community” mental care, as an adult, one must be suicidal.
Every day I pose a “Question of the Day” on Facebook. Started in January, I enjoy learning new facts about my friends.
Today I inquired about nicknames. Someone asked if I blog about these.
Normally, I do not; however, this one, like Marie-Thérèse Walter, imparted inspiration.
Growing up I answered to many monikers.
Keeka was my babysitter’s daughter’s version of Alyssa.
Don’t ask because I have no answer.
My sister called me ‘Sissa.
In elementary school I became Lips. That was short for Alispa because I had a lisp and children are charming.
Last week, angered at a doofus driver, I thought, “Don’t make me go Alicia on your ass.”
Bringing us to my favorite nickname.
My entire life people have grappled to properly pronounce my name.
These deaf illiterates call me many things; the most common being Alisha or Alicia.
In my late twenties I worked in an office to which THE OFFICE could only aspire to rival in terms of dysfunction and pranks. As such my former co-workers not only dubbed me Alicia but, in a burst of irony added “the Office Whore”. They even made up a song to the tune of Dirty Diana. Finally, after a quarter of a century I had some fun it.
Someone named Larry calls me Alison, I reply referring to them as Barry.
One day, I am on the phone with a tenant explaining they had to remove some boxes to avoid further structural damage.
As I talked about their document management hording problem, the woman kept calling me Alicia.
“You need to move the boxes.”
“We can’t move them. We have nowhere to take them, Alicia.”
“My name is Alyssa. You need to move the boxes.”
“They are not causing any problems Alicia.”
“My name is Alyssa. The engineer says that they are so you have two weeks to do something.”
“Alicia, we can’t do that.”
“Alyssa. My name is Alyssa.”
“I have had enough of you.”
“What did I do?”
“You are a very rude little girl for correcting me on how to say your name.”
“Well, my name is Alyssa not Alicia.”
“You are implying that I cannot listen or speak correctly.”
“Actually, no I am not implying that at all.”
She then hung up on me.
Honestly, I do not know what, “Going Alicia” looks like as that was the first time I ever thought that; although, I imagine it involves, at the very least employment of a figure.
What is your nickname? Could people pronounce your name as a kid? Now? How do you respond?
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssa land
I spent my Memorial Day in a Laundromat washing my shirt in a foiled effort to remove the concealer stain.
True story.
I guess you have some questions you would like answered.
Like, how did I end up with a makeup stain on the breast pocket of my work shirt?
The single response I can provide is the tube projectile vomited on me the other day.*
Alas, the washing machine is broken (the replacement arrives tomorrow) so I treated it at home and lugged two loads of laundry across town (14 miles) to facility where I felt (fairly) certain none of the other patrons would could cut me.
A few things worth mentioning
I have not visited a Laundromat in over a decade. They remind me of being an underfunded university student. My non-so-fond memories include lugging weeks of dirty garments down two or three flights of stairs (I have a proclivity towards top floors) and wheeling them a few city blocks to the nearest facility investing hours watching my clothes get clean. A type of Hell that Dante could not imagine.
In my last apartment in Chicago our laundry room was across the courtyard in a basement that reminded me of a setting for a slasher movie thus I could would only do laundry during the daylight hours.
Now I love doing laundry because it neither involves quarters, horror film facilities or walking city blocks.
I gather my quarters, the ones I did not spend because nearly twenty years of coin operated machines keeps me hording them, guessing $5.00 should be enough for two loads.
My selected spot doubles as a tanning salon.
I spy some big units for $4.00. Shit.
The regular sized ones are $2.50. Still shit.
What other choice do I have?
I pass a manicure station (this place offers a plethora of services) to exchange my Canadian coin for a suitable American one. I mention needing to obtain more change and the overly tan employee offers to run my card for money then I can use the “changer”.
While my shirt spins I read Let’s Pretend this Never Happened. Life could be worse. My dog could get bit by a snake.
A woman enters wearing a pink stocking cap and a hoodie.
Time to dry.
A quarter gets you six minutes.
Since I associate Laundromats with being poor, I wonder how the hell anyone can afford these places. I now possess compassion understanding of WHY people wear pajamas in public. Why unnecessarily dirty clothes for a trip to WalMart?
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
*Still confused? I have provided a picture of the mechanics of the tube.
A friend recently purchased beer on the Indiana side of Michiana. Seems like an easy enough transaction until he encountered a dumb law.
“Do you have any cold beer?”
“No we cannot sell cold beer. We have warm beer.”
“Why can’t you sell cold beer?”
“Because we are a gas station and people put gas in their cars so it is illegal to sell cold beer.”
You read that correctly.
Now, said area is also “Dry” on Sundays so one may, and I do, presume that the law has little to do with prevention of people participating in the already illegal act of operating a vehicle with an open container and more to do with shoving morality on the masses.
Moreover, if there is a will there is a way and a cooler and ice provide a nice solution.
Alas, these laws, created by teetotalers, overlook certain aspects. For example, Ottawa County (located directly south of me and mere miles) outlawed the sale of alcohol beer and wine on Sundays.
Can I have a chardonnay?
Nope.
Can I have a beer?
Nope.
Can I have a Long Island Iced Tea?
Sure!
(This has been repealed but still provides much fodder)
I spent a few days mulling around turning this quip into a blog. Everyone knows prohibition did not work and any law steering us in that direction will fail. Likewise, these laws seems steeped in moral pretension trying to rescue people from a vice for the threat thereof.
Then…..
On Friday, Buzz Feed ran a piece on “The Most Porn-Loving Religious Cities in the Country” listing Grand Haven/Holland (Ottawa County) in the middle of the group. I might have kissed my computer monitor.
“With 9.2 Pornhub views per capita, the Holland/Grand Haven area winds up in the middle of the pack. 55% of residents say they’re very religious.”
Without getting into discussions about porn and the like, this cracked my shit up because it shines a light on certain hypocrisy. So all you peeps pushing for limiting access to alcohol leave our vice alone and we will reciprocate.
Wait, one more thing, we will stay out of your bedrooms, offices and, well, your cache if you do the same for everyone else*.
Deal?
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
*Two years ago the Holland City Council voted against language that would prevent people being discriminated against based on sexual orientation.
Almost two weeks ago I attained tickets to watch Three Broadway Divas at the West Michigan Symphony.
Given that I have a BFA in theatre I not only treasure such outings, I paid a substantial sum of money to appreciate them (or not). I worked on many Pre-Broadway musicals. I have an affinity for this shit.
So, with that background, you can comprehend the excitement engorging my being until I nearly explode like that kid in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
Yet….
No less than three people asked me, “How can you sit through something like that?”
The that referring to the symphony.
It was a Pops Concert showcasing show tunes (please refer paragraph three) not Wagner. (I did not actually respond with this comeback as the latter reference might not have been appreciated.)
Whatevs.
However, over time said statements, guised as questions, nags at me. Seriously, it is like Tommy is running a pinball among my neurotransmitters.
A proper response (after the above mentioned one) would have been, “Why do you care? Is it hurting you?”
Listen people participate in a lot of things that simply do not make sense to me. Such are ice-fishing. Or Rap music. Or Cage Fights. Do I get in their business asking them about it?
No.
Though the Cage Fighting does require a biting of the tongue.
Opinion is not fact and confusing it as such demonstrates a huge amount of hubris.
Your personal dislike of something does not equate worldwide badness.
The world would be a dull place if we all enjoyed the same entertainment. Also, tickets would be nearly impossible to obtain.
Oh…the concert got the musical monkey off my back. Also, hearing those songs with a full symphony was spellbinding.
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
In Alyssaland belongings get “lost” with more frequency than a Taylor Swift relationship cycle. Were there a market for songs about misplaced items I, too, could be insipidly irritating. Well, assuming I could manifest a melody.
I fear someday the bank will cut me off from replacing another debit card.
Ditto for the Secretary of State and Driver’s Licenses.
When I worked in an office, my catholic co-worker would stand over my desk and say a prayer to Saint Anthony (the Patron Saint of Lost Things, you heathens). Afterwards, I stepped away from my desk for a few minutes (apparently part of the petitioning practice). Then, upon my return, I would find said article. I often asserted it was the calming period that allowed me to find the mislaid object.
Who is the heathen now?
Yet, I remain unable to recall anything I actually lost recently.
Bringing us to last summer’s missing clothes mystery.
WardrobeGate 2013
One evening, after actually spending time considering my outfit, I cannot locate a specific shirt. As I search my closet, it occurs to me I have not seen it in a few months.
Perhaps it is in the car.
Don’t ask.
Get your mind out of the gutter.
No luck; however, in my quest I remember a pair of misplaced jeans.
#shitstix
I return to my room concerned as to how I mislaid an outfit. An article of clothing lies within reason but an entire ensemble?
I hadn’t been drinking tequila to make my clothes come off. *
Yes, I am aware I *might* possess too many clothes.
I don a backup blouse and life continues.
Over the next passing months, occasionally, I long for the jeans and purchase a similar, substitute, shirt. Additionally, I note a missing wrap.
One day, I wander through the storage area to look for something. Possibly another misplaced something. I catch a glimpse of a plastic grocery store bag the contents transforming a dreary February day into a mini-Christmas. Finding the missing clothes I felt 22 again.
Maybe clothing requires a longer resting period. Maybe, fairies replaced them. Maybe someone (Gimpy) was trying to gaslight me
Or, maybe Saint Anthony just has my back.
What is the weirdest thing you lost?
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
*Ending the sentence in a preposition was painful regardless of the “cultural” reference
WRITING PROMPT:
The last thing you lost.
As the holiday weekend approaches, James wanted me to share this picture from last year. He still resents me for not letting him go tracking.
Feel free to ask any questions or leave a comment.
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
For more Wordless Wednesday click here!
After a week of vacation in an empty apartment enduring unseasonably cold and rainy—yep rainy—weather; I spent last night lying on the floor, under my solitary suitable light, reading Jane Green’s Second Chances after a nourishing dinner of fish sticks. Other than waiting for the delivery of my television and assembling an Ikea stand, I wasted the bulk of my week wallowing on my couch monitoring Facebook via the Pinkberry and mastering Brick Blocker.*
I rise at 8:30, tidy up the air mattress and grab my bottle of wine—a dish to pass is out of the question as I do not possess plates or, for that matter, pots. While picking an outfit, from my restricted options, a twinge of desolation dresses me like June Gloom while missing my family’s holiday habit of hibernating. In fact, I usually do not bother dressing (or showering).
I brush my teeth remembering how we unwrap presents over coffee followed by Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls and movies all day long. One year we watched A Christmas Story, Christmas with the Crupps, Guess Who’s Coming, Akela and the Bee, Little Miss Sunshine, Sideways, You, Me and Dupree and the Wedding Crashers. By the end of the day the plots blended into Bernie Mac giving the girl who went on to win the spelling bee a BB Gun that he wanted to use to shoot those guys who crashed his daughter’s wedding to Ashton Kushner after his bachelor party in the Wine Country.
Or something like that.
Alas, I am dressed (up) on Christmas Day.
I spend my first California Christmas celebrating with the Adult Orphans of Orange County, people whom, like me, do not claim any nearby family. Apparently an annual occurrence usually hosted by the Mertz’s, this year their downstairs’ neighbors Lucy and Ricky Ricardo open their home.
As we pass Palm Trees plastered with twinkle lights Have Your Self a Merry Little Christmas plays on the radio. When Chrissie Hyde sings, “Through the years we all will be together,” I start silently sob sitting shotgun.
*Time Warner will not be out until next Tuesday; however, I made it to level 20.
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
WRITING PROMPT:
This week’s prompt is the word: orphan.
NOTE:
I, reluctantly, used this to work on part of a larger work that I have not touched in over a year.
I have a Rubber Chicken named James Van Der Beak who accompanies me on my assorted adventures. He is adored by all. In fact, he received letters from a secret admirer known as “Shy Lady.”
Yes, kinda like Flat Stanley but surly, drunk and Gay.
A few weeks ago we went to the Holland Tulip Festival.
Check back next week for more pictures of our adventures. Warning, this one is pretty tame.
Feel free to ask any questions or leave a comment.
Smooches!!
The Queen of Alyssaland
For more Wordless Wednesday click here!