Dozer, the bulldog

Dozer, the bulldog
Dozer: He was the best dog on the planet.

Bonding

Bonding
The author of Mark's Work with Ellie Mae

Guess who's coming for dinner

Guess who's coming for dinner
Blue heron, sitting on the dock of our pond

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.
Air-borne bees

BFF's forever

BFF's forever
Margie and Ellie Mae

Tomatoes and peppers are us.

Tomatoes and peppers are us.
Spicy salsa with roasted peppers, here at HappyDay Farms

Much love, John-Bryan

Much love, John-Bryan
Eric at 26 on the left, and John-Bryan in January of 1973.

Halloween fun

Halloween fun
SmallBoy and Dancing Girl

Our house

Our house
The snow season approaches...

Mahlon Masling Blue

Mahlon Masling Blue
My friend and brother.

Mark's E-mail address

bellspringsmark@gmail.com

Friday, April 14, 2017

Fucked Up Again, Naturally

Fucked Up Again, Naturally

I harp on my mental deficiencies a lot but I don’t apologize because one of the principle reasons I started this cyber-journal, was so that I could work some of these matters out on paper. This is an extremely inexpensive form of therapy.

So if having my mood spectrum disorder shoved in your eyeballs is getting monotonous, then you may want to consider shifting to a more conventional site, where never is heard a discouraging word, and the bong never gets dirty. I have found much to appreciate about the process of writing out my thoughts, reviewing them, and then trying to decide if what I am looking at is gibberish or not.

I have no plans to abandon ship on this format.

With that preamble in place, I’ll just say that being bipolar means do not rock the boat. If I make the decision to journey down to the great metropolis of Willits, as Gluten-Free Mama and I did yesterday, rest assured those plans are meticulously outlined, with nothing being left to chance.

Chance has fucked up more of my good intentions, than any other entity.

No, if I am going to Willits, I have my backpack carefully packed with current book, i-phone, headphones, cannabis, lucky stones and a selection of random paraphernalia that would rival an average woman’s overnight suitcase. Oh yeah, there’s Suzy Puente too, my computer.

Additionally, I have written down our intended destinations for the day, I have compiled a store list and when everything is neatly in line, I’m ready for action-ready for danger. What I’m not prepared for, is to be hit up somewhere on my travels and asked to vary from my established theme, because it rocks my mental boat dangerously close to sinking.

Included in my overview for the excursion, and frequently in bold, is the selection of a place to dine, whether it be breakfast or lunch. Yesterday we chose the pizza place in what used to be Ray’s Shopping Center. I will leave the name conspicuously out of the conversation.

I rarely eat pizza because I rarely eat anything that could be construed as bread. Pizza crust is a lot of bread with some cheese and mushrooms on top, which explains why I crave it so much. My sense of anticipation for this meal was right up there with my need to be back home, so you can figure my expectations were great indeed.

When Gluten-Free Mama decided to pop next door and pay our phone bill, while we waited for our lunch, I assured her that I would guard her pizza with my life should it arrive before she returned. So when it actually did show up a few minutes later, while mine lagged behind, I decided the best way to guard at least one piece of the pizza, was to consume it.

She had gone with the gluten-free crust, as her name implies, and I am here to tell you, this pizza was everything I wanted in a pizza, except maybe not the sausage. Whatever. Different strokes for different folks. The crust was crunchy and the overall effect was stellar.

Imagine my chagrin minutes later, when my own regular-crust cheese and mushroom pizza arrived, and it fell far short of the original effort. Succinctly put, it was grossly undercooked, with the “crust” still very much bread.

There is no technology sophisticated enough to register the level of disappointment I experienced. The higher the expectations, the harder the fall. Send it back? Nooooooooooooooooooo, thank you. I am the least assertive person I know. Besides, just the thought of sending it back conjures up all kinds of uncomfortable images, about how a disgruntled employee might possibly respond to being called out on inefficiency.

Again, no thank you.

Being able to recognize all of this objectively, does not help me when it comes right down to the bottom line. I ate two more of the smallest pieces of the medium pizza, before hanging up the towel and calling for a box.

Someone more capable than I, would have either asked for a reheat or a new pizza and not batted an eye. I recognize that; it’s the difference between having a mood spectrum disorder and not. This information, and a lot more than a quarter, will buy you a cup of coffee.

Do I not return to this establishment? After all, the last time I came here, I liked the pizza but had to eat a plain cheese one because when I said cheese and mushrooms, the only part that got written down was the cheese. I can get pizza up in Eureka, I can order Papa Murphy’s and heat it up at home (best idea) or I can buy a frozen pizza. 


Besides, it’s not as though Willits doesn’t have seven Mexican food establishments, from which to choose.

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