Jolina Petersheim

Jolina Petersheim

Speaking of things that change your life…

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SAVORING SWEET SLIPPERY SWEETMEATS

Apples apply aptly, I’ve heard it said.

Beggars beg best when they beg for bread.

Caramel cotton candy certainly can’t compete.

Dashing dazzling diners dash amidst retreat.

Every evening eventually comes.

Frankly, fresh fritters fry best in the sun!

Great gooey gobs, gobbled up fast.

Happy, hurried hostesses hustle on past!

Instantly imagining impressionable imps,

Jesting, joking, just jumping like chimps!

Kneeling, kissing, kicking and such…

Laughingly, lovingly, longing to touch.

Merrily marveling, mostly milling about

Naughtily nipping, nearly nodding, they shout.

Openly obvious and often ornate,

Petulantly?  Positively!  Persistently, they wait!

Quaintly, quietly, quickly, they stall…

Rambunctiously raging, ravenous and all!

Savory sweet syrup silently sticks to me now

Teasingly tasty, tormenting me and how! 

Utterly useless, unless you like twilight…

Very vain vixens seldom come out at night!

Where, why, when, what – they all seem to say…

Xylophones?  X-rays?  What nonsense today!

Yammering, yelling Yippee! and Yikes! 

Zestfully zany zipping…like children on bikes!

 

Absolutely Another Sweet Sugar Riotous Rush…

Oh if only…

I’m typing this and it’s blurry. I forgot to mention in my recent update that I’m seeing blurry these days, with double vision on other days. I have an appointment with an ophthalmologist the first Wednesday of April. I was told it would get better. I haven’t seen that yet.

What will I see when I can’t see anymore? What will happen when I can’t see to work anymore? What if these fucked up things that “I remember” are all that I am able to see, in my head? What if I replay them over and over, and over? I think I need slapping right about now. Why would I even think like that? What if I cause it to happen by thinking about it? I feel hysterical.

Okay, I’ll switch gears for a bit, get my shit together. Oh if only.

So often when I think of the past, I think of Marsha Sadler. I’m not sure how it’s spelled, either name to be sure but I do know that was her name. She was a little girl, a few years older than I was, who for some reason unclear to me, spent some afternoons at the house I was raised in; I’m going to guess that the Old Lady baby sat her for a short period of time. I remember she was pretty and wore dresses. I’ve tried dozens of times to find her over the years. I want to know if Uncle Kenneth molested her too. Was that why she stopped being at our house in the afternoons? I don’t remember any controversy but to be fair, I was only six and almost 100% of the time was told to leave the house if adults were talking. You had to be a super spy to learn anything good. Why do I even want to know? I have no clue. It will be just an ordinary day and Marsha Sadler will pop into my head.

I’m fucked up, huh? I admit I believe it’s true. But thoughts are thoughts and I can’t stop them. Oh if only.

Nice Lives in Hell

When I think of the words, Things I Remember, images start popping into my mind.  My uncle forcing me sit on his knee behind one of the big Australian pines in our side yard, while his rough calloused hands push my shirt up to reveal 6-year-old nubs on my chest.  What was so attractive / alluring about this, I’ve wondered a hundred times since then.  Sitting up in a tree behind the house, reading book after book, feeling and following the adventure right along with the author’s every word.  Baseball games with friends.  Smoking under the hanging tree branches at the bus stop.  Hiding up on the roof of the barn.  Hiding under the hollow steps of the house while the Old Lady screams my name as she stands on top of them.  Getting dressed in the 2-foot space between the windows in my bedroom so I’m obstructed from view from anyone standing at the kitchen sink.  Sleeping under my bed in the summer because the floor was cooler.

Sometimes I wish I could go back, with my adult’s mind, and do all the right things, tell all the right people, make the right decisions but that would mean that I wouldn’t have married the man I married, wouldn’t have had the children I had and while I might feel sorry for the childhood I had at times, I feel so grateful for my children in my life, for the opportunities I’ve had and for the ones I’ve pissed away, and for the feeling that I experience most times of “this could have been so much worse than it was”.  Look, Ma, no cigarette burns on my chest!  Oh there are a few scars here and there.  A bullet wound that healed quite nicely with no real adverse effects to my life.  Lessons learned.  And absolutely none of that “revisiting my youth” on my own kids, whewwwwwwww.  Thank God.

I’ve tried a few times in the past few months to find out more about the Old Lady, to find out what made her the bitch she was, to find out if her childhood was the shitty one she imposed on me.  I can’t find anything on her, like she never existed before she married my uncle, the Old Man.  I can’t remember her mother’s name.  Miss Rose is what my dad’s family called her.  Nan-Nan is what I was made to call her.  Ah, life’s memories.  Wish I could find little tiny sticks of dynamite and end them all, but no matter how many drugs I’ve tried through how many methods, those memories still pop up, like turkey timers whenever I think of the words, Things I Remember.  Well, yes, other memories pop up too but always second place to the perverted shit, to the horror show, come one, come all, see the dirty little girl with the raggedy clothes and the chopped up hair, look how sexy she is, how sexy I must have been, right, to have been the drawing card of all the lust in that house.  Geez and I didn’t even realize it then.  I should have been milking that, right, as in “hey, I want a bike”.  *laughs out loud*  I’m a sick person, egad.  I think I will just wish them all nice lives in Hell.

Squirrels, Maria?

I’m fighting this battle right now – it started with one cute little harmless squirrel and I confess, I fed him.  Yes i did.  How could I not?  So dang cute.  And then he went home for the night, got on the squirrel internet, told everyone he knew, called up friends and family, gave them my address, and the next morning, they all caught taxis and swung in on grapevines and showed up at my house before I was even up and awake.  When I opened the front door, it looked like Dr. Doolittle’s house, with dang near a dozen little furry-tailed animals scampering away, my full bird feeder almost completely empty, no song birds in the vicinity, just footsteps running, eyes peeping from around trees and me, still in my jammers, wondering what the hell just happened.

At first, I thought, Okay, I’ll run them off and I did, chasing them, flinging pine cones here and there.  They’ve wised up quickly, running not together but every one in a different direction so I can’t chase them all.  *taps head*  So smart.  I moved the bird feeder.  They jump now, making it swing, which makes the seed spill out and then they eat it off the ground.  Thwarted yet again.

I bought Hot Pepper Suet, supposed to be loved by the birds, hated by the squirrels but it’s rained for two days now, maybe three, and no one is touching my suet. 

My girlfriend says, “The neighbors are laughing at you, chasing squirrels in your pajamas with mismatched socks!” and I say “Let them!”  I tried once to use someone’s opinion to pay the rent but that form of payment was rejected. 

Squirrel season…how long does that last anyway?