‘Twas The Night Before Election Day

And a few took a nap, 40 winks…a siesta, Hillary’s people were tired, but not John Podesta

He is nervous, sweating bullets, as he always should have been.

But he isn’t alone in nervousness, so is Huma Abedin.

Smart girl this Huma, few are keener

But her biggest mistake? Delete button ignorance and Anthony Weiner.

I’m hard pressed to find words to rhyme with man so perplexing.

But I’m comfy with idiot, nutso and a dumb ass caught dick-sexting

As for the emails, Director Comdy says they’re no issue.

Good news for Hillary, who sweat through eight boxes of tissue.

But The Donald doesn’t care—-this stuff he’s still spinning and as a result, some polls now say’s now winning

Trump is no Boy Scout, he has made fun of women

He speaks harshly and rudely and often with venom

She loathes him with and to him she’s hassle

So no matter who wins were sick with an asshole.

And in the end,

So, if Hillary wins, it’ll more of Obama, can we survive the delirium
If Trump is the man, can we deal with a coiff fixed with helium?

Hillary seems two faced and a liar, her integrity is minimal

Trump can be be an ass but at least he’s not a criminal

So, in 48 hours we’ll know the winner, hopefully by Wednesday night’s meatloaf dinner

This is our reality, and it’s not at all pretty,

We’re damned by the outcome, which is woefully shitty.

Out next prez with either be a blustery human hair ball or a lying pant-suited frump.

I’m not nuts about either, but please Lord, let it be Trump.

A Letter To Myself

Dear Laurie At Age 11,

It’s Halloween 2016 and you’re about to read a blogpost that conceptually speaking, has been purloined.  On this spooky day in the 57th year of your life, you’ll casually read an article written by an American female soccer player who helped  her team win a medal with some precious metal content (we’ve never been much on details)  during the recent summer Olympiad.    It is a letter to her seven-year old self.    Hardly a new concept, it’s been done to death, the same with writing one’s own obituary.     Oprah, as you’ll learn, will enter the screen of a TV set near you in the early 80’s and she’ll eventually become the host of her own globally syndicated show.  Eventually, she’ll become something  of a doyenne of all things self-help, self-empowerment and spiritual recovery from the evil that’s creatinh one’s failure to launch.     Give her whatever credence that fits your life needs at the time.    Otherwise, move along and look for your ‘source’ where you can find it, but please, don’t  make the mistake of thinking it can be found in any singular performance or person.   In fact, avoid seeking approval in all forms and learn that everything you really and truly need comes from within.

For example, don’t find yourself needing another person.   Instead, want them–that makes their presence or absence in your life, your option.   Options are powerful.   Appreciate them and never assume they will ever be as easy as A or B, black or white, right or less wrong.   Eliminate degrees of difficulty and avoid all ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’ scenarios.  Know your exits and in your 40’s, if none are clearly marked, create them where there are none.    Peace of my mind is worth every dollar you might spend on property damage, literally or figuratively speaking.

Write in your spare  time but major in a science of some sort, when in college.    Broadcasting will only break your heart.   Just to as you enter the early summer of your career, it’ll start its descent to the gallows.    In 1996, a President by the name of Clinton will serve as its executioner.     Oh yeah…he has a wife named Hillary.   They’re both terribly addicted to the limelight, scandal, making lots of money and blaming vast right-wing conspiracies on  everything.   Oh and one more thing:  don’t forget, a savtig  brunette wearing a beret will enter the picture.  She’s a silly, young thing really, with lofty goals that cloud her judgement.  From what I remember, her daddy issues will get her in trouble.    A certain president’s own particular version of daddy issues, will get him into trouble along with her.  Sad scenario for the families involved, but a never ending font of material for comedy writers.   You’ll consider voting for the Clintons when possible just because they’re the gift that keeps on giving.    But I’d strongly advise against that for reasons that will become obvious.

You’re going to fall head over heals in love the first day of Jr. High.  It’ll be the time of your life, Part One.   It would be in your own best interests to employ catch and release tactics involving this young man.    You’ll lose him for the silliest of reasons, but you can keep the memories.  They become fewer and sweeter in time.

Strive for prosperity but be aware that the real prize is satisfaction.

The time of your life Part Two kicks off in the late summer of 1979.   It includes career moves to three different cities.   The years from 1988 through 1995 are for compete recalibration.

This next sentence will seem convoluted at first, but having lived our life, it’ll make sense–never settle, know your limits but defy them every chance you get.  Failure is your best teacher,  pain makes a terrific guidance counselor.   Envy and insecurity can cancel out everything you achieve.   Love yourself in moderation.

The dreaded Kendrick divorce gene continues to wound every generation.   You can do nothing to prevent it from affecting others, but don’t let it taint your view of marriage.   But if you ever choose to couple and you are by no means obligated to do so, find the right guy.   Find a mensch, a man with a moral compass similiar  to yours.   Fight through the doldrums once the romantic goggles are removed.  Love him, but more importantly, like him.    And make damn sure he feels the same about us.

Avoid pilots, long-haired Liberals too scared to take a chance, dreamers who don’t act, actor who don’t dream;  say no to musicians, tennis pros at the club, college jocks and that guy in that bar that one time in that city.

Don’t be afraid to admit you dig yacht rock, treasure real friends, discard place fillers. It’s perfectly okay to be comfortable in your skin.

As for your parents, please do your best to understand they are, were and always will be emotionally incapable of  so many things.  Forgive them early and often.  They’re as wounded as you are and know no better.   They’re victims themselves…of another time, a different generation, embittered and embattled for reasons of which they aren’t aware.   And as for ever acheiving your ideal mother/daughter dynamic?    Ain’t gonna happen, Sister.

That beautifully illustrated scene you saw in that Little Golden Book, the one that moved you at the tender age of five, doesn’t belong to you.    That  lovely and carefully drawn mom and her equally lovely infant and four-year old  girl child, sitting so placidly in the lovely living room on a late afternoon, isn’t your reality.

But the sunset can be.    And as you enter the early autumn of your life, all you need to do is look for it.   Then, look AT  at it through your six year old eyes, youR 24 year old eyes, the peeoers you have at 53….at 57 and beyond, if there’s a beyond.  Understand how fluid its beauty is.   Revel in the time you have with it.   Sunsets have sonething very unique.  They’ll be back within 24 hours.    They have staying power.    Unlike childhood, young love, teen angst, twenty something confusion, absent parents, , pimples, joy, contentment, glory, defeat,  complicated relationships, both personal and professional and bad choices, can  remain with you, should you decide to keep them in your life.     But please, please refrain.

Sunsets require unobstructed views.

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Best,

You at 57

PS:   Floss more, realize that bread is wonderfully evil, wear sunscreen, endeavor to have a daily BM and be kinder, earlier please.      And a hearty tip of me hat  to “Baby Dear”, published by Little  Golden Books written and illustrated by Esther & Eloise Wilkin, respectively.  (more…)

Ain’t It A Bitch?

The biggest kick in the figs has got to be emotional deflation.

*When you realize the love of your life never existed; when you wake up bored and the boredom doesn’t leave or boredom doesn’t have the decency to allow you to sleep.

*When you hate your job to the point of throwing up….begotten arriving, during the course of the day, or three hours after you’ve gotten home that afternoon.    Doesn’t matter emotions like propelled vomit doesn’t abide by time.

*When you feel powerless when you thought you were so damn powerful.

*When it clicks in your head that your marriage is a mistake;  when you realize someone  you’ve admired for years and years is a shallow hint of who they really are.   You see the facade as the facade.     No one can take away the embarrassment of being fooled by aluminum siding.

*When you realize that little man behind he curtain is really the Great and Powerful Oz.

“Never meet your heroes.”

And if you do, make sure it’s a brief and shallow encounter.   Don’t get to know them.

CASE IN POINT:

I met a comedian 20 yea s ago.   It was the mid-90’s and her star was on the rise  She was marketed as the next IT girl in the world of funny.   And funny, she was. The ‘be-flanneled’ aand tattooed Gen-X’ers of the period told me so.   And the mighty advertising dollar gave them that power to know, discern, to mandate.

So, she begs me to attend her gig on the main stage of the big comedy venue in town.   She does 48 minutes of the most perfectly extemporaneous comedy ever  written.   Her execution was flawless, just as it has been on her HBO special and in LA and Chicago and  Montreal.   The red light above the stage attracts her eye; her contractual hint to wrap up, which she does and them cones the payoff.    She swallows the applause like  sustenance.   Adoration equaled adulation.    The organism is short lived, when the performance adrenaline gives way to feelings, real or insgibed.

Instead  of meeting with the club owner or any of her handlers, she walks straight up to me, demanding in no uncertain terms, that I relay to her how funny she was and if I laughed, when I laughed and would I please describe the frequency AND the decibels with which any guffaw might have spewed forth.

Neediness is possibly the most unnatrati e trait in all humanity.   I know–I’ve looked at it in the mirror and stared at it face to face.

 

 

 

 

 

AHS Season 6/ Episodes 5 & 6

I’m nuts.   Seriously.

I vowed I wouldn’t write again about the FX series,  American Horror Story, but I’m compelled to do so, in part because I just watched episodes 5 & 6 back to back.  And in the course of a combined 56 minutes of broadcast television, minus the commercials, I’ve had 49 pure WTF? moments.

I should know better than to believe the creative team of Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk could ever write and produce a story with a defined beginning , middle and end.   And while this sixth season is the only one since the uber haunted Murder House in the first year.   I couldn’t bear the subsequent four seasons, although I tried.

Asylum lost me as did Coven and last year’s Sideshow or Freaks or whatever the hell it was called, defied what little tolerance I had.     BUT, as a fan of Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys and Daphne the brainiac sleuth-slash-one of the meddling kids from Scooby Doo, I love crime tales.   And when you add a supernatural element to re-enactment shows like Dateline, Lt. Joe Kendra (retired) and others, I’m a sucker.    Season 6 has all those elements with a soupçon of history from colonial America….and did I mention cannibals, lunar phases, horny forest nymphs, knife, axe and torch  wielding villagers with bloodlust, inbred rednecks just a click south of the kind which had hankering for Ned Beatty’s ‘purdy mouth’—with bloodlust,  property disputes, ritual sacrifice for land consecration, a very odd 300 year old house  with no electrical lines attached yet, it has power AND and the inclusion of  network TV weasels who only care about ratings—with bloodlust????

Last night, as I mentioned, I watched two AHS episodes back to back.    At any one given time, it felt like I was watching The Blair WItch, Deliverance, every movie ever adapted from every Nathaniel Hawthorne book ever written, the movie about the Argentine soccer players whose plane crashed in the Andes,  and maybe even Green Acres…with bloodlust.

I’m too exhausted to give you a complete synopsis of both offerings, but I will say this: I’m six episodes into this season; four more than I could stomach in recent years.   Is it  convoluted?    Yes.   Are there stellar performances?   Well, Downton Abbey it ain’t, but the divine Kathy Bates is an acting tour de force.   I smell a second AHS Emmy for La Bates and I hope it’s just enough to someday inspire a drag queen to strut his/her stuff  as Kathy Bates–the Misery years.

i think there are five episodes left.    Maybe four, maybe six more, I don’t know.   But AHS must end so the highly anticipated third season of Fargo can premier on FX in January.    Now THAT  is a well written show deserving of my obnoxious, middle-aged allusions to the ancient and obscure films and cartoons from the 60’s and 70’s….with bloodlust.

A Toothache Can Be An Allegory

The second presidential debate is now history.   I refused to watch it, because had I done so, my death would have been imminent.   You see, I have no patience and intense short-fuse rage issues these days.  The culprit is an abscessed “wisdom” tooth which has to be treated with antibiotics before the wretched thing  can be pulled.  Proximity to the brain, dontcha know.

Pain above the neck is acknowledged through a short,  very direct route to the brain.    Below the neck, it all has to go through the spinal chord.   Make no mistake, if I stepped on a nail. I’d feel it immediately, but feeling the intensity can be slightly muted by distance, mere inches in some scenarios.   As my layperson’s mind perceives it, it could be compared to booking a non stop flight versus one with a lengthy layover in Denver.   There’s always a layover in Denver.

I finally got tired of burping up insane amounts of oral pain gels and faced my fears and  went to my dentist, an occupation that has scared me since seeing The Marathon Man as a kid.    The  kindly dentist took X-rays which revealed I had  a rather odd wisdom tooth that was quite infected.     He knew it was painful.   I confirmed that it was.  I was quietly praying for a script of Fentanyl; he suggested Naproxen.

I have to wait three more days for it to be pulled.     I’ve had a migraine, an earache, a sore throat and as mentioned, rage issues for the past week and a half.   Chronic pain, which I’ve lived with daily since a car accident on 1991, can wear on your heart and soul.   I was precribed an antibiotic which began working, but I only felt its defense forces for the first time this afternoon.  It was only then that I had an appetite, could chew and be civil.   It was the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to yell at those  pesky kids to get off my lawn, even though I have no lawn and I live in a gated community.  I’m the youngest homeowner here and I’m still south of 60.    I can remember “Let’s Make A Deal” while my mostly senior  neighbors can barely recall Roosevelt’s New Deal.

Age schism.   And many of my neighbors are of the nosey, gossipy variety, who hate my dog’s entire elimination system.    I responsible in that I pick up where he leaves off, but I’ve  been written up in the past and for another pet owner’s lack of duty regarding dog doodie.

Pets are barely tolerated, but I’m afraid children aren’t allowed here.  Of course,  no where is that mentioned anywhere in the contract with the builder or in  the HOA by-laws because well, it’s completely Illegal, but here, I get the sense it’s unspoken.  If there are any local kids missing,  authorities might want to check out some of my neighbors.   I walked by one house recently and got a strong whif of gingerbread.

I’ll move soon, and rebuild  and do as the late John Denver once warbled, come home to a place I’ve never been before.  Like an old Etch-A-Sketch from my childhood, I’ll erase a good part of my past.    Well, maybe not erase,  but I’ll make the bad stuff of memories far less retrievable.

Here’s a tip for you:  when God…the Universe….Putin tells you over and over again,  your life and everything in it isn’t working, acknowledge it don’t ignore as I did, cut your losses and run, don’t walk to the nearest exit.    Don’t sit there hoping things will change as you maintain the same currupted mindset that only served a purpose when climbing the ladder, not while stowing it away.   Minding these no so subtle cues often means leaving what’s familiar, but not necessarily healthy.    Taking it further, it also means excising certain people from your past, not because they’re bad, but because one or both of you have changed to the point nothing in the relationship is salvageable.   These are people I once knew from my childhood, a million years ago, from cities large and small,  a million miles away.    Depending on perception, we were victims and/or the fortunate ones to be where we were, when we were.    But nothing lasts, nothing is static.    Many people remain loyal to things which they have every right to do, but these are things I can no longer believe in, creating  a schism of a different kind.

I’ve recently spoken with some people in the psychiatric world about the changes I feel within and around me.   I wanted to know if this need to separate who I am with who and what I was is normal, given all my circumstances.   They each replied in their own ways, assuring me that shedding is perfectly normal and natural.   Dogs do, it; as evidenced by the fur on everything in my house, cats do it and people do it.  We shed dead skin cells to make way for newer, healthier ones.  The White Coats say what really matters is what’s really about the intention behind the mental aspects  of shedding.    Makes sense, so I’ve thought about, lost sleep over it, allowed guilt to eat at my being and arrived at this point.   It’s time to remove  things, leave things, and think differently about things because for me, it was and continues to be in in my best interests to move forward and stop looking back.    I had to remove myself from the things that hurt; which had become painful; which to due to impulse, neediness and bad choices, I allowed to become painful.

Not unlike my abscessed wisdom tooth.

An Untitled Ode

If I were asked to name a new rock band, I’d call it Ava’s Gardner.

I thought about that while waiting in line at the Walgreen’s in my hamlet.   I know it would only be  funny to ‘people of a certain age’, still,  I found it funny.

Then, I pulled up to the clerk behind the bullet proof glass and the metal drawer that when fed various forms of negotiable currency,  magically dispenses all kinds of drugs that are supposed to help combat issues associated with ‘people of a certain age’.    If only the drug dealers of my wanton youth were as attentive and accommodating and NOT under DEA surveillance.   My bedside table looks like a crime scene photo from  Marilyn Monroe’s bedroom.    Like hers, my bedside table is littered  with amber hued plastic pharmaceutical bottles.  Unlike Marilyn’s collection of Big Pharma, my collection includes  none of the fun stuff.   Aging it seems, is a condition that must be treated medically.

In 1973,  when I transitioned from an  8th grader to a high school Freshman, I discovered FM rock stations.   What a concept.   No AM static or hiss or loss of signal when you drove under an overpass.   Even standard songs that ran amuck on AM station playlists sounded better on FM.    I remember one of the first songs I heard on this amazing new format–’twas aural splendor.  It was an Elton John tune that was a few years old and rarely played then, much less now.  It was entitled Friends, from the French movie of the same name, about two young teen lovers (a term I loathe).  The beginning of the second verse is as follows:

“It seems to be crime that we should age….”

Turn 14 and all that that implies, and listen to those lyrics and try NOT to experience new-found teenage angst and existential doubt.

Funny how amplified a pimple, a break up, an unrequited crush, a mid-term exam, the prom, being popular or not, can be everything at one point in life.  How small the world is in the life a young teen in a free society circa 1973

In those years, all I wanted to do was experience what my new masters, the surges of estrogen, were commanding me to do.   But mother didn’t like it.   To her, I’d become  a problem child.    I proclaimed  her “pubic” enemy #1.   I matured faster than my two older sisters who were more demure and feared her.   I didn’t.  The fact that I would  argue and debate points  WHY I’m should be allowed to attend a senior party, were lost on her.  She didn’t see it as burgeoning negotiation skills.  It was me being a sassy.  A smarty pants.      It’s as if she viewed my larger boobs as dousing rods that would lead to bad behavior.   She was very strict based on reasons she couldn’t explain.   I was actually very normal for my age, but she was intent on coloring me abnormormal, compared to the two daughters she’d previously raised.   I was constantly threatened with being sent to a convent school and forced to see priests and shrinks because she couldn’t understand me.

It wasn’t long before I realized our mother/ daughter dynamic was textbook skewed.    She knew it too.  The truth is, she was hardly the mother that a girl like me should have had and I wasn’t  the daughter that  a woman like her should have had.    We’re were misplaced in each other’s lives.  We were a living conundrum–very much alike while also being polar opposites.

She was/ is short in stature and even shorter now, and even though I surpassed her in height decades ago, she has always been nine feet tall,  completely imposing in her very counteneance.   I saw that as a challenge.     I’d get grounded, but felt it worth it if I got a good line in as my two week sentence was being handed down.

It took a number of years before I understood her as a woman with issues of her own.

She turned 86 in June.   She is slow and doddering, her memory will lapse, she searches for words and can stand  with vacant eyes, her mouth agape until what ever synapse starts firing normally again.   She’s now at that point where if she can’t remember it, it didn’t happen.    “Damn liar!”,  I’ve decided, is a term of endearment.

It’s taken years to understand how unkind onset of senility can be.   

She has good days.   She has bad days.  She has aches and pains.   She’s deaf and refuses to wear her hearing aid.   She’s often grumpy.   Her front and back bumpers of her car are mosaics of colors from things she’s  bumped into.    The familial discussions about additional care and imposing new restrictions such as allowing her to continue to get behind the wheel, are becoming more frequent.     It’ll enrage her to learn she can longer drive. But we would do it for her own good though she’ll compare to a stint in Abu Graib?

It was her choice to move into a lovely semi independent home earlier this year, though  she doesn’t socialize with her fellow residents.   She talks more openly about her death, a topic I hate, but I know it’s my duty as her daughter to remain quiet and absorb everything she says as opposed to denying her the priveledge.   After growing up in The Depression, after watching friends and brothers  leave to fight in World War II or Korea and never return home; after all she’s witnessed, such as  the advent of TV, astronaut Neil Armstrong take one giant leap for  mankind…and after giving birth to two compliant  daughters and one ABC After School Special (aka me), she’s earned that right to talk about her life and the end of it.

It’s taken a few years to appreciate aging along side my mother.

It’s odd that we’ve finally reached something akin to a canvass  of common ground that’s painted as gray as our hair and on a landscape of  mirroring wrinkles.

My two sisters see her once a month.  Her decline is more obvious to them.  But I notice it too.   Often, from day to day.

But despite that, life goes on thankfully and I’m renewed in some way that we still argue, we still have distinctly different views on almost everything but we have a better understanding of each other which remains unacknowledged.    And that’s okay.   We’ve never been demonstrative in word or deed.  She told me she loved me by giving me coupons for products I liked or  highlighting newspaper articles about weight loss, a knee with encroaching arthritis or how  to find THEE man of my dreams.    I’m emotionally awkward too, though I can say I love you easier than she can.  She’ll say it in return if told first, but she never initiates it.

And that’s okay, too.

I understand so much more than I did at eight or 18 or 38 or 58, which if you must know, staring me down in a matter of months.

The reality is my time with her grows short.   Someday, sooner rather than later,  the phone will ring and life as I’ve known it, will cease.  One day, I know I’ll miss being told no with a hand slap,  or that what I’m wearing, watching, reading,  driving, drinking and thinking is all wrong for me.   I’ll miss hearing  my hairstyle is 20 years too young for me and there no more be questions about the  eye liner I’ve applied being or something from the Slut Line of cosmetics.    She’s old, but still biting.

I’ll even miss being called a Communist spinster with a bad attitude;  hearing the  constant criticism that comes with wearing bra that’s completely ill-fitting for a woman with what she calls, some “heft”.

Someday, she’ll be gone.

And it will take years for me to get over it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AHS Season 6 Episode 2

Well, “My Roanoke Nightmare” continues to entertain…and provoke and remain Swiss cheesy in terms of logic.

It starts off kind of where last week’s show left off, but not exactly.    Last week’s show ended with Shelby is running amuck in the woods in pursuit of Kathy Bates’ character who literally bounced off Shel’s car when she was trying to escape the house.     She gets lost and is confronted by a man with the top part of his head missing;  he sees her and falls to her knees.  The end.

This weeks show starts of with her still lost in the woods but she walks upon a crucifixion or purification  scene in which.  The scalped man is tied and nailed, chest first to  a much larger version of one of those Blair Witch looking twig figurines we we were introduced to last week.      Kathy Bates’ character is the head of this puritanical coven, is it?…. and she has has Igor hunchback counterpart which looked something like Lady Gaga in bloody make up.    And whoever or whatever this person represents she’s egging on Kathy Bates’ urging of these angry, torch welding phantasmas.   He died something illegal with a pig  and the villagers slap on pig’s head (a fresh kill by the looks of it) and  then he’s not crucified, rather large figurine is turned into a spit and the man is burned alive.

Shelby screams, allerting Kathy Bates and company to her presence, a chase ensues and Shelby runs into the driveway and almost into a car, driven by her sister in law, Lee.

Shelby is rushed to the hospital and checked out.  She’s okay. Matt comes to see her; tells her that the cops were called…once again…searched the woods and found nothing.     They are becoming a total pain in the ass for this  local jurisdiction.   Anyway, Shelby still thinks its the local yokel inbreds who placed a low bid on the house during episode one.

Lee decides she wants to see her daughter, Flora.  So the eight year old ones for a weekend visit and of course immediately, befriends a ghost bonnet wearing ghost child named  Priscilla Flora who  during a game of hide and seek at the end of her visit, tells her that she’ll kill everyone in the house, and keep Flora alive until the very ends.  This enrages Isaac Hayes who  has come back from the grave to play Lee’s ex-husband who wants total custody of the child, due to Lees/ boozing fired cop way.  He takes Flora off in a heart wrenching good bye scene….child screaming for her mother, mother screaming for her child.    Then Lee falls off the wagon and drinks all night long.  Matt and Shelby awaken  to the all too familiar sound of glass breaking.   It’s Flora in the dining room just coming off her bender she’s drunkenly broken a bowl.    Everyone looks up and there are knives thrown into the ceiling.  Matt and Shelby assume Lee did that, too, but she denied it.  Matt takes her upstairs to sleep off the rest of it.   She’s awaked a few hours later the image of two 60’s looking nurses staring at her in bed.    She shakes her head.   They’re gone.  Then she hears a noise….runs towards it anyone scared shitless is inclined to do and she sees a bunch of blood pig tails nailed into the wall.  She shakes her head.   They’re gone.  She looks into a mirror and sees the man with the pig head on coming towards  her.  Again, she shakes her head and  he’s gone and apparently Lee is gone too because we don’t see her for a while.    More on Lee in a sec.

Its the middle of the night and Matt and Shelby are sleeping.   we hear a phone ringing.     Loudly.  Shelby sleeps through it, but Matt but go down three flights of stares to answer a desk phone that was outdated in 1985.   On the other end is a woman moaning.  He looks down and sees the phone isn’t even connected to the wall outlet.   Then, the moans start coming from the kitchen.  Matt turns around and sees a residual haunting of when the house was a senior care facility decade earlier.     He sees  are the same two nurses that Lee saw by her bed, that Shelby saw cross the hall in front of her that, that went unmentioned in the last last episode.   They are oblivious to his presence and they stand around a bed with an elderly woman in it, refusing to take her medicine.   One nurse accuses the patient of having a sassy nought so she pulls out a handgun and shoots granny right between the eyes.  This elates the sisters who revel in the fact that the patient’s name was Margaret, so they gleefully spray paint a large M on the wall.

The cops are called.    Nothing is there.  The ugly wall paper chosen to refurbish the house is undisturbed.   Matt, says the officer, had to have been having a vivid dream.

Then the next night, they are awakened once again to the sound of that damn pig.   Shelby and Matt grab his and hers flashlights and head into the wooded acreage that came with the house, in search of a pig.   They get separated and a pig comes out of no where and runs by Matt’s feet and he says nothing.  They meet up once again to find the greasy, dripping, gross remnants of the grilled man….but no Kathy Bates lead villagers.  The cops were called once again , but this time, the cops see the remnants, but they also think its the handiwork of Papa Hayseed, Ishmael Polk and his odd progeny.

Then one afternoon, Matt and Shelby are looking outside and see a pilgrim looking woman standing there.  They of course, run our to see who o what she really is and there’s nothing there, but she was standing on the entrance to a fruit cellar.    What do they do?   Run down the step ladder and into the old cellar, which is oddly free of cobwebs, spiders and or critters.  All they find is a video camera.   They take it to their VCR and play it.  Its an extreme close up of  bearded Denis LO’Hare  portraying a academic and author, namedDr. Elias Cunningham, who lived in the house in order to write a Charles Mansonesque murder mystery, based on a pair of pure sisters who were homicidal sociopaths.  They took pleasure in killing off old people that had become a burden to their families.

Sad.

Dr. Cunningham explains in the tape that the women only took boarders whose first names could spell out one word M-U-R-D-E-R.    But they hadn’t gotten to the R yet.  It was just MURDE.   And apparently, the five letters couldn’t be covered top by paint, so we see extras placing ugly green floral wall paper over it. The professor on the tape says there are demonic things happening in the house and that he’d been in the fruit cellar for days and didn’t want to step foot back in the house, but somehow, he finds the courage and takes his camera with him.     He walks through the darkened youse, demanding that whatever is in the house show itself, well, it does…in a big way.

Think “The Ring”.   I know….I don’t get it either.

Matt and Shelby freak and call the bank wanting their money back.     A representative comes to meet them .  They accuse him of nondisclosure, regarding specific aspects of the house’s past.  He claims he’s no real estate agent and can’t help them; the house is theirs until they choose to sell.

So, they’re stuck with the house and the pig noises and Kathy Bates who only roasts by night.

Oh yeah and Lee kidnaps her daughter and brings her back to the house.   Really?

There are a couple of other things I should add.    A bloodied meat clever is left in their front door and yet another window is broken.  It takes down a vase filled with flowers in  and mixed with all the flora is a small dirty bonnet….described by the human Flora, who’s new imaginary friend Priscilla said she’d make for her,  IF she helped Priscilla stop.

Stop what, we ask.

Flora  explains “all the blood”.

Later, we learn that Lee has kidnaped Flora and brought her back to the house and the episodes ends with Flora running into the forrest,  at the behest of a ghostly John Smith looking mother fella.      Matt, Lee and Shelby run after her and they find her yellow sweater tied atop a newly de-branched tree….a very tall tree….with no sight of young Flora anywhere.

This episode?  Intriguing to make me look forward to episode 3 next week.

Now, there are still major plot holes, and scary things that happen this couple won’t tell people., much less each other.   I’m finding if I watch this show as a civilian and throw logic out the window one of the few windows unbroken in the house. And don’t I wish I were the window and glass purveyor in that vicinity.    And lastly, we do know that they, whoever they are, are looking to kill someone who’s name begins with an R to complete the word “murder” which lies behind wall paper that’s the easiest to remove in the history of mankind.

As for Lady Gaga character as the Igor character?    Maybe I’m right.   Gaga’s name was featured as a guest star in the closing credits.    Now, I don’t know if that means that she’s there as part of the general cast or if it was specific to this episode, but it was there.