Talking to Ghosts and Burning Sigils

It's time for the latest Mahala news! I know you're excited. I can feel it.

My disability hearing is scheduled for early January. I'm both tickled pink and worried to death. I met with my attorney last month. I got the impression that she hasn't looked at my case since she got it two years ago. She had some pissy comments to make about my choice of mental health services.

I've been going to the HeeHaw County Clinic for Nervious People and Drug Addicts since April. My attorney waits until two months (to the day) from my hearing to tell me I really need to get in to see a psychiatrist. I'm sorry, but how the hell am I supposed to get an appointment with a private practice with no insurance, no income? She referred me to the Big City Hospital charity office, where it takes 30 days just to get your application approved. She couldn't mention this, like.. I dunno.. SIX MONTHS AGO???

She made similar comments about my seeing a Rheumatologist. I'm a little ticked off.

It was also suggested that I have one of my former supervisors write a letter stating the problems I had performing my duties at The Cubicle Asylum. I tried to get in touch with Kat, the HR clerk, but that just resulted in one call where she yelled in to the phone for five minutes because she couldn't hear me, and another from her husband demanding to know who the hell was calling him from Frog Pond Holler. I think her cellphone forwards to her house phone? Maybe?

Anywho, her bubbahubby Charlie isn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

I gave up trying to get in touch with Kat. It took a few days, but I eventually worked up enough nerve to call Peppermint Twatwaffle, who now works for the sister plant. She was all, "I got you guuurlll!! Let me call you right back after I get out of this meeting."

Never heard from her. Bitch.

I'm to the point where I've just accepted that it is what it is. I don't know what I'll do if it isn't approved, but I'll figure something out. I always do.

If ya'll can just cross your fingers, say a prayer, dance under the full moon, whatever works, I'd appreciate it.

I've been spending most of my time trying to get the house back into a less embarrassing condition. It's difficult, with my wonky hands, but I'm figuring out how to do stuff differently. I'm learning to not feel guilty for being home. Brandy is trying to drill it into my head that I don't have to be constantly wringing my hands over dishes and laundry. So I read and watch Netflix. I've collected books on Appalachian Hoodoo and I've been studying the practices of the old Granny women of these hills.

There is a smorgasbord of mountain medicine growing in my front yard. I've become the weirdo standing out there with an herbal remedy book, picking weeds and sniffing odd flowers.

Old Mrs. Kravitz is endlessly entertained by my weed plucking.

I've dedicated a corner of my bedroom to an ancestor altar. It seemed the logical thing to do. I've always consulted Granny and Mamaw on any number of topics, looked for their answers in signs. I dug the old pictures out of the box in the closet and placed them in pretty frames where they can be honored. I've placed a bottle of gin, some smokes  and candy, along with flowers that I change out with the season. There's also a homemade cauldron for burning sigils, because sometimes you have to burn shit to show the universe you mean business.

As far as therapy goes, I'm almost embarrassed to admit this, but it's mostly focused on my trying to get over my aversion to grocery shopping. It's really about not wanting to go anywhere at all, but I need to be able to buy food. It's been a month since I went last. There's just the one grocery store in the county. It's the one where my dad cornered me in the parking lot after Mamaw's funeral and the one where I used to cry every time I got to the checkout line. Last month, I got like two weeks worth of groceries, I had a cashier who didn't know the difference between parsnips and parsley. He totally screwed everything up, then messed up my coupons, tried to throw part of them in the trash, then when he called the manager, the manager TOOK THEM and said they didn't take printed coupons.

OMG embarrassing.

He brought them back, after he was corrected by the other manager (I've always used them there.) No one apologized. The poor little bag boy feller took my big ass basket of groceries, bagged them, then tried to cram them in to one of those tiny carts for when you're just getting milk and bread. I ended up having to chase my sweet potatoes across the parking lot when they kept rolling out of the bottom.

So yeah. I haven't been back. I'll probably get a few things from the DG later, then go do the main shopping on Friday. Maybe.

Anywho, that's pretty much life in the holler these days. Nothing exciting. I hope ya'll are hanging in there.

We'll talk again soon,

Later Taters!!!