As hard as it is to believe, not everyone in the world knows who I am. I know!! Freaky, right?

Anyway, I have a story to tell: it involves me, and a not only unplanned pregnancy, but a miracle as I had anorexia and the docs in Cali told me the anorexia had damaged my internal organs so much I'd never get pregnant. When I lived in Israel at 18, I fell in love with a man named Tal ben Gal. When my belly began to swell (anorexic; I weighed about 95 pounds) I was sent to TWO different MD's in Jerusalem who BOTH said I had a "tumour".

After several more months, the "tumour" wasn't getting any smaller, so I flew back to Cali. Imagine my shock when my OB/GYN told me there was no tumour in there; it was a 5 1/2 month old embryo. Adoption was my mother's idea (she was kinda... ah, don't sugarcoat: she was a bitch). I went along with it, hating every minute.

I sent the Israeli 20 letters I sent him informing him of the pregnancy, and the State of California sent him two registered letters (he had to give up his parental rights) but he never responded. Not once.

So, when the squalling brat (you'll see later why I call her that) was born, I put Tal's name on the birth certificate because he was the only man I slept with when I was in Israel.

Cutting to a chase the squalling brat, named Amanda Sandler by her completely lunatic adoptive parents (more later), found me, and God in heaven I wish she hadn't. She was awful. Arrogant, pushy, sadistic, demanding. But,  Tal (who had finally gotten a letter I sent to him, which I'd done every year on her birthday), who had been informed of her existence ten tears earlier;  flew to Cali to meet her.

And here's what I hope will pique your interest: 20 months ago the SB (squalling brat) picked an online fight with me because I wished her the wrong year on her birthday (I'd just had surgery and was on pain killers). She sent her evil minion flying monkey friends to attack me on email, Faceplace, Tindr, any where they could.

Which is when the mental metal box holding some very nasty information burst open, and the truth come a'spillin' out: I'd been raped, in 1977. 9 months TO THE DAY later I had the SB. And, since during this brutal act the rapist had also smashed my head on a rock, I didn't remember any of it.

Want more? Cuz today I read a note from Tal, and ho boy, he tapped into an inner rage I didn't know I was capable of. Hence, this first part of the story. 

I LOVE This Political Season, as a comedian.

I am finding this political environment to be nearly homicidal, not to mention Cannibalistic. Not that I don't enjoy watching the Repulsivans gnash and snarl and cast aspersions and things that are bigger and more horrible than aspersions, at each other.

Now that's fun politicizing! When Christie gave out a trophy for some vicious horse race today in Jersey (I am vehemently opposed to horse racing, and circuses, for the same reason: they are criminally horrible for the animals) and was BOOED by, like, what, 9500 people??

Rat on!

Lord, I hate poorlititans!

Harper Lee. I have a question: Who would want to kill a mockingbird??

Just to fill people in, my niece, 32 years old Lauren, was married, apparently this past September. They picked the 9th, the day our uncle died, and wow, is this guy a woofer. Yikes. Had to pay off someone at the pound to find this wierdo.

And the reason for my venom? Their mother, Susie Newman Kimmel. She is... well, one of my late aunt's finally got around to asking me, about ten years ago, and after sitting altogether at Thanksgiving for decades, "Does she ever talk about anything but herself??" and the answer is, of course, no. That's who she is: egotistical, pushy, and if the table talk isn't all about her, she would go to the kid's table and natter at them.

On her Faceplace deal, this witch itch bitch actually called her daughters (the other daughter, I see from the photos, obviously played the role of Hand Maiden [whatever it's called] at the wedding and looks like she needs a couple of years of therapy for severe anorexia [you'll know why in a second]) "My beautiful darlings!"

I, on the other hand, when these girls were growing up, have heard her call them "fat, stupid, bitch, idiot, moron, lazy slut, stupid [while she has the brain of a vole], useless, pathetic, sickening" and oh so very much more. 

She didn't tell me when my brother died. (She also allowed him to use her Los Angeles Teachers's health insurance for his six or seven stints in alcohol and drug rehab, well after they were divorced, which is, I believe, illegal.) Instead, she allowed a cousin to email me with the news that he had had a Stroke and they took him off life support after TWO whole days! Oh, what a mensch! 

Rot in hell, Susie,  you monster..

INTRODUCING ME AND MY COOLNESS FACTOR

This blog will be open to any and everyone, but mostly me, bitching about the government, the Repulsivans who have come this close to wrecking my life, and other fun stuff like that.

I am an Angeleno, ripped from her native soil, now living in the waste lands of Indiana (for financial reasons), and, believe it or not,  I am hilariously funny.

Prove it, you say? Okay: Go to a site called "Smashwords", and call up a book I wrote called "You Picked Orange", by Samantha Kimmel. (You can read the first 10% for free.) The book's about my husband's Stroke and that incredible, terrifying, hilariously funny, wicked dance, and it's a pretty nifty primer in standing up for one's rights in this state which thinks you are disgusting filth if you have no money. Or insurance. Or GI bill to suck dry, thus attempting to deny you your medical rights, but, ha ha, I KNEW our rights (I've worked in three hospitals, as a Desk Jockey, so I knew our rights, all right. Right?) and fought back (I'm still exhausted). Nothing I could say would convince them that I was really, truly poor, and that I had no Krugerrands buried in my backyard or unknown Da Vinci charcoals in the attic. But, by threatening to kill/maim/destroy certain doctors, RN's, and "Hospital Money People" if they didn't put my husband into a GOOD treatment facility two weeks after the Stroke (I cap that word because it terrifies me, and it deserves to be capped because IT SHOULD TERRIFY YOU TOO), I would, indeed, kill/maim or destroy them; no, really, I did. And, for the most part, I got what he was legally entitled to, though, as I said, I was exhausted and furious most of the time, but I was also correct in knowing his rights.

But, astoundingly, after he was transferred to the fourth facility (which I call "Hellcare") we found the funny in the situation, too, and just in the nick of time. You'll see what that funny was, and why I called it "You Picked Orange", and if you buy it ($5.99, what could be better at half the price?? :)  ) you'll find out who I threatened, growled at, ordered to leave our presence and never return and a whole bunch of other stuff.

But this whole blog began, not because of the above, but because of the gubmint freaking me off, yet again. Three plus years ago I was approved for food stamps. The amount went up (high of $284.00 a month, for two grown human adults) and down (at one point, below $100.00). My husband (you remember that Stroke patient I was just writing about?), the guy with complete numbness from his right hip on down (still can't move that ankle, and standing in the middle Indiana, if he was walking south back then his right leg swung so far out he could knock people over in Illinois), was denied DISABILITY, even though three doctors wrote letters saying he WAS most certainly disabled, then after two more tries, he was approved. 
I applied for food stamps, at the suggestion of the Medicaid people (of all people!!), got approved (!!!), then, in '09, applied for Medicaid and was denied, even tho I, too, had two letters from MD's saying I should get it. Nope. The people at Medicaid, who have no MD after their names,  denied me. Fast forward to five months ago, early August 2014, when, out of the blue, I was told I had been covered by Medicaid since December 2013. Yes, THIRTEEN. No one at Medicaid told me this. No one sent me the little blue plastic card. They also told me to gather medical bills for that time and they'd reimburse me, because, as THEY said, I was covered. I got the pharmacy to print out my drugs and what I paid for them, but.... yep, you're getting there, THAT wasn't good enough for Medicaid! They said I had to have individual BILLS for each covered drug. So, I got the pharmacy to do just that: individual bills, which their pharmacist initialed, and I sent that packet to Medicaid, just like they told me to. Three weeks ago.

Flash forward to that three weeks ago: the next week? I had applied for Disability again (I've got so much wrong with me if I was a horse  you'da shot me by now) and they TURNED ME DOWN. Then, miracle of miracle, God took a Gentile by the hand (my husband's), turned him around and, miracle of miracles, showed him the Disability page had suggestions for ATTORNEYS TO HELP ME WITH MY APPEAL OF THEIR DENIAL (okay, I couldn't go on with the "Fiddler on the Roof" deal, sue me. Like everyone else).

And all through this, sometimes I think I am going insane, or everyone is a Zombie, or the Gods of Olympus really exist and are just screwing with me and, not that I put much faith in it, I called that lawyer, his assistant took all my info, put me on hold and told her boss all about me. He said, "Yep, we'll take that case", she gave me the news and I near about fainted dead away.

And yesterday I got a letter saying my Medicaid was being stopped in January, 2015 for bibbledebobbledy reasons, which might have an effect on my food stamps (SNAP, it's called now, and no, I don't know what that means) because Mike Pence, mental midget that he is, says so: "You don't qualify for Medicaid, ya don't get the food stamps." Or words to that effect, which he forced the Indiana legislators to agree to. (I called the attorney's assistant, sobbing and blubbering into her voice mail, occasionally being coherent, and telling her about the letter saying I was off Medicaid, and thus putting my SNAP, in danger, in January; but she did warn me [no, she really did] that this thing would probably happen because Indiana is COMPLETELY BANANAS.)

We're not alone in this, I know. There are people with kids and the elderly who suffer, dare I say it, far more than we. 93% of all Indianites (I hate the word "Hoosiers") are DENIED on their first try, and 74% are denied on appeal. Which means 3 out of four poor people are, according to the Reps in the Senate here, think being poor is the equivalent of cooking your baby in the microwave and we are scum.

See ya Monday. After I call the attorney again, and, it is devoutly to   be wished, get someone human to talk me off the fifteenth floor.