The Mad Scorpion

6.

Ok. I really wanted to stop trashing politicians, but… let’s face it, they don’t make it easy for me to keep my trap shut. In fact, they make it darn right easy. Get a load of this one -
ACC Minister, National’s Nick Smith, on their plans to scrap support for the families of suicide victims:
“If my doctor told me that I was terminally ill and I had 30 days to live, with the ACC rules the way they are I’d be finding myself a train to throw myself under on the 29th day because my family would be treated so much more generously.”

Granted, I think he was voicing his against stance about the whole issue, but oh my… Poor choice of words, buddy.

MOON OVER MARTINBOROUGH:
www.moonovermartinborough.com
A gay American and his hubby move from the big city to the sticks. Hilarity ensues… I smell a sitcom.
Well written, worth a look, and quite funny.

MY LIBRARIAN:
All through the power of eavesdrop, I have managed to decipher that my Librarian:
- Drinks soy, is a vegan, is wheat and dairy free, and eats Alpha One Rice Bran products.
- Has been “communicating” with a man over the internet and is going (has actually already gone) to San Francisco to meet her new “Friend”. And I quote: “People keep asking me if I’ve fallen in love over the internet, but no, I’m just communicating with him!” She says this with her tongue firmly in her cheek too. Here’s hoping her communication works out well.

BILE OVERLOAD:
Ok folks. I have been pushed so far to my stress limits that I actually broke this week. So it’s time let loose on some personal issues. Be warned: The first three rows will get wet.

SCOLIOSIS:
…is a well-heard-of but little-known-about congenial birth defect. It usually involves a couple of bits missing from your spine when you are born, causing your spine to grow in bend in all sorts of directions, and all the muscles and nerves being crushed and pulled in unnatural angles causing immeasurable life-long pain and suffering. In a nutshell. Only in reality, a nutshell doesn’t do it justice.
I happen to be one of those circus freaks. I’ve had two major operations which involved hacking off a piece of hip and whacking it in my shoulder the first time, and the removal of most of the back right half of my ribcage the second. (Sidenote: Ask any of my schoolmates about the day I took my ribs to school and they leaked through my bag… Mmmmmmm.) Even though my spine is now shaped like a question mark – literally – and it continues to twist and collapse and give me all sorts of daily grief, I have been told by the “Medical Profession” that there is nothing more they can do for me and I have basically been left to my own devices. That’s fine. I can deal.
What I can’t deal with, is that once arriving in that point, the “Medical Profession” seems to swiftly forget why I was there in the first place. Like they suddenly came down with amnesia, or alzheimers, and then turn to me going “Huh? What? Who are you again? Why are you here??”
CASE IN POINT: This story requires going back a bit to the beginning of September, when I had a friend over from Wellington staying for a coupl’a days, and I ran out of pain medication.
Now, I’m on some fairly strong, highly monitored stuff – which, in case you’re wondering, barely even touches the sides of someone like me, and is actually on the lower end of the scale as far as highly monitored prescription drugs go – so there can be a fair bit of rigmarole involved in getting it…
Anyway I’m digressing and my poison can’t hold back. Here’s how it goes –
I go to Doctors, I get prescription. Supplies are doled out to me on a fortnightly basis. This lasts for three 2 week cycles. I go back to Doctors. Repeat til dead.
It’s early September. I’m working and I’ve got no time to go in and get my script. I call the Medical Centre, order my next prescription, tell them I’m working, ask them if it’s ok that my friend (who was over staying from Wellington) comes in to pick it up for me, they tell me it’s fine, I call the Pharmacy, ask them if it’s ok that my friend comes in to pick up my meds for me, they say that’s fine, I carry out my plan, and all goes well. Bar the fact that I rack up a small bill in the meantime.
Six weeks go by, I run out of meds.
I go in to make an appointment. Bitch receptionist demands to know when I’ll be paying off what I owe on my account. In front of the entire waiting room. Loudly.
I politely tell her I am well aware that I owe them money, and that if she’d like to she can come around to my house and see the bill pinned up on my wall, right in line behind my other bills, that I can’t do anything about until Pay Day, and in the meantime can I please make that appointment.
She kinda looks at me stunned and blank for a moment, before demanding to know when my Pay Day is.
By this point I’m kinda ready to reach over the desk and pummel her face into the counter, so I tell her not to bother and storm out, slamming the door behind me just like the shitty teenager I was impersonating.
I resolve to not go back until I have paid my account fully so that evil old bitch can never have anything to look down at me for again. Yes, this will involve suffering for a few weeks without medication, but I can do it. I cannot STAND being treated like shit by anyone, but in this case, it means giving them nothing to go on.
And so, fast forward two weeks. My bills are paid, my back is killing me, and I legally and honestly go into the Doctors to order, and pay for, my next prescription. It’s a Friday, I’m sore as fuck, I know I’ve got a largely Have-To-Be-Upright Weekend coming up, and I’m pretty much at my pain threshold looking forward to some long postponed relief.
I go into the Medical Centre. I order, and pay for, my next prescription.

“That should be fine, it’ll be ready for you this afternoon.”

But all is not fine. Come the afternoon, I get a call from the Nurse, who says

“You were given a prescription last week, so where are all your pills?”

Uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh…. What now?
She repeats herself, with the steel tinge of Judgement rife in her voice.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“According to Dr. McArthur’s files, you were given a script on the 8th of October.”

“Uuuuuuhhhhhh, No. No I wasn’t. I haven’t had any pain relief since I ran out over two weeks ago.”

“Well why didn’t you come in then?”

With a completely deadpan face:
“Because when I did the receptionist was such a bitch to me about owing money I felt obliged to pay off my account before I came in again.”

“…Oh.” (Yeah, take that bitch.) “Well, I’ll have another check around and get back to.”

“I’d appreciate it. THANKS.”

Half an hour goes by. My breathing has turned thick, and I have a new and interesting rage knotting in my stomach. My phone rings again. I am looking forward to not having the fear of pain relief being held from me.
It’s her again. Lisa the Nurse.

“Look, I’m sorry, but according to us you were given a script last week and the receptionist remembers your friend coming in to pick it up for you.”

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhhh… yeah, they did, but that was almost two months ago, not LAST WEEK!”

“…Oh.”

“And look, if I was given a script on the 8th of October, WHERE IS IT AND CAN I HAVE IT?”

“Yes, well, we did have a look around it’s not here, and we also checked the chemists and it hasn’t been taken in there either.”

“Riiiiiiiiiight. So what you’re saying is I NEVER USED THE PRESCRIPTION I NEVER GOT.”

“It would appear that way, yes.”

“So, can you just get another one from Dr McArthur then???”

“Well no, because he’s away today and we can’t ring him and he won’t be back until Monday.”

Snap. Now panic really sets in. Stress (and here comes the wonderfully ironic part) actually causes my spine to cramp up into all sorts of new and exciting pain enhancements. Am I really going to have to suffer through the weekend because these idiots can’t sort their shit out???

“Listen, Lisa, here’s the thing. I HAVE A SPINAL DISORDER AND I’M IN SEVERE PAIN AND I HAVEN’T HAD ANY PAIN RELIEF IN TWO WEEKS. I NEED IT.”

By now, I’m past caring if I make scene. Fuck you lady, I ain’t suffering because of someone else’s mistake.

“Well sorry, there’s nothing we can do about it until Monday now.”

Oh no you didn’t, Bitch!
And with that, I hang up, squish all that pain induced rage down into that growing knot in my gut, and go straight down to the medical centre. I’m there within two minutes of the phone call, making it very obvious to anyone who has eyes, that I am just on the edge of losing it, and someone had better come out and explain this shit to me NOW.

I am told that the available Doctor is busy until five, but I’m welcome to wait and then he’ll see me.
Oh don’t worry lady, I’m not going anywhere.
Five to five rolls around, and just when I think I’m going to start throwing up from rage sickness, start throwing things, start screaming wildly, and generally start acting like the Junkie I am being judged to be, Nurse Lisa reappears and whisks me into a side room. She gives me just enough pain relief to get me through the weekend, and suggests I make an appointment with the Doctor on Monday to sort all this out.
Yeah, No Shit Bitch.

SO… Crisis TEMPORARILY averted.
Here’s Monday. I go to my Doctors appointment.
Let it be known that the general consensus around town is that my particular Doctor is an idiot. I haven’t had him for long, and I haven’t minded him either. Let it be known that I now know why the whole town thinks this.
I sit down, I tell him the events of the Friday before. He takes one look on his computer and says “But you were given a prescription on the 8th of October.”
SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.

“Look, do you remember writing that script out for me?”

“Well, I write out a lot of scripts every day, that’s my job.”

“So you don’t remember then.”

“Well the receptionist says that your friend came in to get it.”

“Yes. SIX WEEKS AGO, NOT LAST WEEK!”

Completley judgmentally, he replies:
“Well maybe your friend came in to pick it up again.”

…Oh THAT'S IT, you Mutha Fuck!

“Three things. One: The friend that came in to pick up my prescription for me? They live in Wellington, so they’re not even in town, and they did that for me because I had run out, I was working, and I asked them to do that for me, with the FULL permission of both the Medical Centre and the Pharmacy.
Two: I don’t actually have friends that would do that to me. They don’t do shit like that and I don’t appreciate you suggesting so.
Three: Here’s an idea, MAYBE SOMEBODY AROUND HERE FUCKED UP.
I am Not a JUNKIE, and my friends are not THEIVES.
Yes, I was probably DUE for a prescription around the 8th, BUT I DIDN’T GET IT. And while we’re on the subject, where IS this mysterious script? It isn’t here, it hasn’t been taken to the chemists, so WHERE IS IT???”
And yes, I did actually say all of this.

The Doctor kinda sat there with a dumbfounded look on his face for a moment before deciding to shrug the whole incident away with a “Oh, it’s probably gotten lost around here somewhere. But that’s ok, we’ve talked about it now, I’ll just write you out another one!”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Like pulling teeth! Or jamming nails in your spine, if you prefer.
I cannot word enough how much I RESENT those sorts of judgments from the very people who are supposed to be helping me. I can tell you what though - All this is going in a complaint letter to the Health Board so this bullshit doesn’t happen again. I’ve spent many a year fighting for relief, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with this shit forever. Fuck ‘em. I bet no other Junkie they ever met can string together the words DISCRIMINATION CHARGES. Fuckers.

And so ends part one of my bile vomit. Take a breather, then prepare to enter the world of

I HATE MY BITCH OF A PROPERTY MANAGER:
So. I move into a little one bedroom flat last April. It has a bedroom, a lounge, a kitchen, a laundry and a toilet. Everything you need really. Except curtains and curtain rails.

On moving in, I am assured by the seemingly lovely Property Brokers Property Manager Karen Dickinson (be warned people), that she will arrange for curtains and curtain rails.

I sign the lease, I move in.

Winter arrives. The house gets cold. Still no curtains. Now, the bedroom and the lounge have windows that go out and round in a half circle shape. The bedroom is a freezer without them, and I’ve resorted to nailing a blanket over the windows, but this isn’t working, so I start using the lounge as my bedroom. It’s easier to keep warm, and I’ve made makeshift curtains from couch throws, hooks, and nails.
MONTHS pass. In the meantime I have two house inspections, and both times am assured by Karen that she’ll “get onto that” when I bring up the curtains. So I continue, in my naïve good faith, to patiently wait.
Last week, and SEVEN MONTHS LATER, a handy man FINALLY arrives to put up my curtain rails. But, he informs, only on two of the windows. A little one by the front door, and over the windows in my bedroom. HOWEVER, he’s been instructed to go straight across with the rails and not around. Effectively making the room smaller and forcing it to have curtains as big as the wall itself and not just as big as the windows. Are you with me? Good.

This, I decide, is not good enough. I’m on a roll after my stint at the doctors, and I’ve had enough of being fobbed off and treated like shit, so I text Karen asking her to call me. I text her every five minutes until she does. This takes about an hour and a half, so by then, you can imagine that she’s had a few texts. She sounds annoyed and tells me she hasn’t been able to ring because she’s been driving.

I care little, memories of a winter spent freezing my arse off fresh in my mind, and suggest she could always have pulled over. But no matter, you’ve called now, and I appreciate it. Before she can even speak, I launch into the question:

“Why are you getting the man to put the curtain rails up straight across instead of around?”

“Because it will be too expensive otherwise.”

“But that means I will have to find curtains as big as the walls instead of the windows.”

“Oh I’ll find the curtains!”

“You will?”

“Oh yes, you don’t need to worry about that. We provide the curtains.”

“Really Karen? Like you’re providing me with curtain rails SEVEN MONTHS LATER???”

“...ah, er…”

“What’s with that anyway Karen? WHY HAS IT TAKEN THIS LONG?”

“Um, oh, er, because I had to get in touch with the landlord and organise it.”

“Oh Puh-lease, Karen. Really? SEVEN MONTHS???”

“Mm, yes, that is a long time isn’t it.”

Yeah, No Fucking Shit Cunt.
But Ok. I’ve had my vent, and it’s clear she feels above apologizing, so I say goodbye and hang up on her.

Two days later, I’m thinking, Fuck this bitch. If it took her that long to provide me with rails, Fuck knows how long she’ll take for curtains.

I look into the legalities of tenancy agreements, and discover (Thanks to my ex flatmate and best friend, daughter of two great lawyers and pseudo-niece of the Head of the Tenancy Tribunal) that I can serve my Property Bitch with a ten day notice in which they have to provide their agreed upon services.
But, weirdly, just as I’m organizing all this, I get a Text from an unknown number telling me that I am $220 in arrears with my rent, and to contact my Property Manager.

Now, this is TOTAL news to me. As far as I’m concerned, I have paid my rent on time every week bar ONE. And on that occasion, as soon as I realised it hadn’t gone through, I wrote to Karen the next business day explaining that it hadn’t gone through and that I would pay it in halves over the next two weeks.
I paid the first half, but the next week decided I would pay the other half when I got my curtains. And this was around early September.

This text, on top of everything else my week has served me, surges a new kind of bile through my system. I actually start getting hives. I feel like a demon has latched onto me and is pumping acid through me. It is an all new venom coursing through my veins, and I break, and see a new kind of red. Again.
I head straight to a computer and send an e-mail:

“Dear Karen,
I just received a Text on my phone supposedly from Property Brokers, although it didn't come from your number, that I am $220 in arrears with my rent.
Could you please send me this in writing, as well as the dates of the missed rent payments. I don't think text is an appropriate medium for these types of messages.
I was aware of being $60 in arrears, but I'm fairly certain the figure quoted to me by text is a mistake. However I'm unable to confirm this until I have been over my bank statements. If there has indeed been a mistake on my part I shall endeavor to correct it as soon as possible.

Also if you could give me in writing a reasonable time frame in which you are going to provide curtains for the bedroom of my property it would be appreciated. Taking SEVEN MONTHS to provide the curtain railings was totally unreasonable, and I don't really believe the flimsy excuse provided that it took that long to get in touch with the landlord and to organise. I would appreciate it if it didn't take as long this time and I can finally start using the bedroom for its intended purpose.”

Simple, to the point, and non-abusive.

This was Karen’s response, received within minutes:

“Nathan,
I sent the text as an informal way of contacting you regarding the rent arrears but if you want it in a more formal manner ie a Ten Day Notice, I will issue you with one.
I was being a nice guy about it but obviously this hasn’t gone down too well.
Could you please advise as to which curtain tracks have been installed so I can organize the curtains.”

I think I could actually hear my blood vessels burst when I read this. And lo and behold, a whole new vista of stress and rage knots, twists, and surges through me. Now I’m actually seeing red because my Eyes are Bleeding. And wow, who knew stress like this actually causes Nails to appear hammered between my vertebrae!

But no matter. I’ve played the Tenancy Tribunal game with cunty landlords before, with some of the best in the business by my side. And won.
You wanna play that game with me? Well I am MORE than prepared, Bitch. Bring it.

Without missing a beat, and actually trembling with toxic rage, I sent her this in return:

“Karen,
A ten day notice will be fine, as long as the dates of the missed payments are included.
I know all about ten day notices, as I was about to issue you with one myself.
Personally, I don’t think you were being nice at all, and now I think you are using threat tactics.
P.S. The curtain tracks that have been installed are the ones in the bedroom and the little side one by the front door.”

Although in hindsight I wish I’d added:

“… and now I think you are using threat tactics as a direct response to me pointing out that you aren’t doing your job properly. It sure does seem that way, seeing as I was only informed of supposed rent arrears after telling you that taking seven months to provide me with curtain rails was unacceptable.
Is that what you’re doing Karen? Threatening me?
By the way, I’m STILL not hearing an apology about you taking so long with that. You think I’m being unreasonable? I tell you what, Karen, why don’t you go home and next year between April and October, why don’t YOU take down all the curtains in YOUR house and freeze YOUR arse off, and THEN tell me I’m being unreasonable.
I thought I was being the “nice guy” by getting you to provide a reasonable time frame in writing instead of just issuing you with a ten day notice… but I guess that hasn’t gone down to well.”

Admittedly, in hind hindsight, it’s probably best I didn’t.
Fuck you Bitch. You work for ME, not the other way round, and tenancy agreements work both ways, Fucker.

Somewhat surprisingly, I got this response:

“Thanks Nathan.
I will arrange to get the curtains.”

Yeah, that’s right KAREN. You WILL.
Of course, this is in No Way Whatsoever providing me with a time frame in which she will “arrange to get” the curtains, but it isn’t a thinly veiled threat either, so I’m just glad she’s realised that I am prepared to go to War with her if that’s what she wants, and that I’m as well armed as she is, and not the usual small town hick she’s used to dealing with.
I’m not scared of you, or your Ten Day Notices, or even your Eviction Notices. A house is a house and there’s plenty more out there, and quite frankly, if they don’t involve you as a landlord, then bonus.
I couldn’t give a rats arse if I have to move. You can play your power tripping game all you like, but I tell you what… they only work on

People

That Aren’t

Me.

Kisses!