vindicated

My first appointment with an actual psychiatrist was this morning. Does she tell me to try forty new SRI's? Give me blood tests? Act as is I am some nutcase drug addict looking for drugs?

No.

She gives me Xanax. About 10 times the amount I would reasonably take.

Do you know how awesome I feel? To be vindicated, validated? Have I not been saying this for years? All I had to do was go to an actual psychiatrist, not the damn family doctors, who are all convinced it's my thyroid or some shit.

No, no. This woman talked to me for 30 minutes, read the horror story that my psychologists jotted down the week before, and straight up gave me "one to two tablets every 6 hours as needed".

There's 120 Xanax sitting in my kitchen.

Finally.

It's not that I want to take that many, oh no. I want to know they are there. I want to know that if my anxiety starts spiraling out of control, I have a way out. I can stop it. It's not going to go on for days and days, weeks and weeks, without any break in sight. Just knowing it's there is like a security blanket.

Can I possibly explain how it feels, to have had this shit happening since I was fourteen? I am now thirty one and finally someone is like, "Whoa, yah, you need some help. It's not just 'in your head,' here, let me help you."

When she handed me the prescription I had the image of myself dropping to my knees in her office and sobbing with relief. I didn't, lest she snatch that piece of paper back out of my hand.

Coincidentally, I felt the same way coming out of the bridal salon with my wedding dress last week. Fuck. I thought was an ordeal that might never end, but glory glory halleluiah, it's done.

For now, the worst of it is over. The hard part is coming up, of course, where I actually have to deal with all those things that scare me shitless. But for now, for this moment, I am just going to enjoy the wonder of silence.

The elusive joy of calm.

Mmmmm.

wedding, anxiety

I had some really strange dreams last night, as Mr. Wonderful was all too aware, since I kept slugging him in my sleep.

One stands out in particular. I ended up in some kind of jail. It wasn't jail exactly, it reminded me of juvie (where I did a brief stint but that's another story). Basically, juvenile jail. The place sucks, in case you're wondering.

I didn't know why I was there, and I was really upset. I knew I was going to get out a mere week before my wedding and I was terrified Mr. Wonderful wouldn't want to marry me anymore. I ran around the place, hysterical, sobbing, telling people I didn't belong there. No one seemed to pay me much attention.

I ran upstairs to get a photo album to show them pictures of him, but I couldn't bear to open it, I couldn't bear to look at his photograph, I missed him so badly. I was horrified something terrible would happen while I was there and I had to leave. I was afraid he wouldn't love me anymore. I felt so ashamed for being there.

At some point I dreamed I had woken up and I was telling him about the dream. I asked him, "You wouldn't go fuck some other woman if I was gone for 6 weeks, would you?"

He replied, "Well, I don't know. I mean, I have needs, you know." He was very matter of fact about it and I rolled over in terror, saying, "That isn't very reassuring!"

Apparently this was one of the points that I slugged him in my sleep, and I was VERY happy to wake up and realize that was just a dream.

The night before, I dreamed some receptionist lady was telling me I had a doctors appointment on the day of our wedding. I told her, no, no, I'm getting married that day, that won't work. She said some smartass bitchy thing about that being "not written in stone", to which I started throttling her and yelling, "It's written on the invitations! It's close enough!" while making some crazy noise that sounded like a female Wookie. (I assume they sound different, somehow.) I was having a bizarre out of body experience watching myself strangling her while making Chewbacca-on-PMS noises, and thinking to myself, "I've become Bridezilla! Oh no!"

I've been having lots of wedding anxiety dreams.

I had another one recently where I couldn't get a hold of Mr. Wonderful on the phone, and I was hundreds of miles away. I finally get through, and a woman answers his cell. My blood ran immedietely cold, and she informed me, "You really should have given more consideration to that whole 'relationship' thing before you bought the rings, you know," and hung up on me.

I've had dreams where we got to the day of the wedding and I realize I didn't write any vows, at all, and I'm going to have to wing it in front of all those people.

In reality, I'm more afraid I'm going to pass out.

I have an appointment with a real psychiatrist tomorrow. No more doctors telling me they think this and that, I'm going to the real enchilada. The person who actually knows what the fuck an anxiety disorder is about, and PLEASE GOD knows how to properly treat it.

I know quite a lot of this is normal, except for the fact that I am terrified of everything on a daily basis. Ha. It's not just about the wedding, but the wedding is making my sense of impending chaos sharpen to an unbearable point. I do not wish to spend the weeks before my wedding trying to dance on the edge of a knife.

I want to be excited, not terrified. And I do have moments, but they are too often strangled by apprehension. Not focused, exact apprehensions, mind you...well, anyone else with an anxiety disorder knows what I'm talking about.

Mr. Wonderful informed me a few days ago that he may have to fly out to Nevada for work, helping these people install the new computer something or other (I just nod, computer alien-speak, uh huh honey, go on...) for a few days. It took every ounce of self control to not go completely bat shit hysterical, with images flooding my head of his plane crashing, mere weeks before our wedding, and some demented feeling of "that would just be how my life goes, now wouldn't it?"

There's been a lot of trauma. ~sigh~

I started crying, but he understood. He knows how I am. I hope he doesn't have to go, or the shrink decided to sedate my crazy ass. Preferably both, that would be dandy.

Just dandy.

why science is awesome

Now THAT'S what I'm talking about.

And yes, I most certainly do support stem cell research.

It helps if you aim correctly.

Yah, good job there, buttcheeses. You are SUCH awesome fans.

But seriously, you suck.



Just so we're clear on that.

he's special because he's a jerk

Yesterday my friend and I were driving past my previous place of shitacular employment, and I laugh to see Mr. Crazypants (my old boss) has once again set something out on the street as a form of advertisement.

First, that's stupid.

Second, it's illegal. The owners of the property have threatened to throw anything they find outside in the dumpster next time he does it, but he does it ALL THE TIME.

Third, people have stolen things before. Please, do yourself a favor and read the whole thread. There's a long post by my ex-boss's brother, who does not in fact own the store but likes to claim that he does. He did so in the paper, and I laughed, knowing how much Mr. Crazypants must have been pissed off about it.

He rambles on for quite a while, changing from subject to subject, a beautiful example of the crack headedness of both brothers.

Public Service Announcement: People with autism should NOT do cocaine.

I met him once. I can't say that for certain that there is no one on this earth more repugnant than he is, but I'm pretty sure. Let's go with 98.7% sure. He was so horrible to talk to, I wanted to wash myself in bleach after coming in contact with him. I don't know how anyone could make me feel like a piece of exposed meat that quickly, it must be a gift.

After that, every time he called the store to talk to his brother I would either leave him forever on hold or just hang up on him. I even told Mr. Crazypants that I would never EVER speak to his brother willingly again, and if he even came in the store I was walking out the door for the day. He was THAT awful. He made Mr. Crazypants look like a real great guy.

But I digress.

My friend and I were driving past the store, and see this stupid thing out on the street:



I started laughing, and told her we should just throw it in the back of my truck. It's not like he would notice, he'd be too busy doing coke in the back bathroom. We could take pictures of it all over (ala Traveling Gnome) and send them back to him.

Of course, seeing as how he's a fucked up jerk, the photographs would have to reflect that.

This morning I was discussing the idea with Mr. Wonderful, and told him all of my great ideas.

We could take pictures of him covered in raw meat!

We could put dog crap on his head.

Set him on a corner with some prostitutes and write, "Will do anything, ANYTHING, for cash" on his sign.

How about laying him next to some road kill, with a syringe nearby?

Even just slightly demented would do-

Dress him up with an eyepatch and a Santa Claus beard, a pink tutu and then write on the sign, "Help me."

Draw a chalk outline of him on the cement.

Cover him in camo and put him in the woods. No, the mall.

Take pictures of a dog peeing on his leg. Or humping it.

Oh, I could go on. You know I could. But I must finish this story so I can take a nap, you see. Insomnia is a cruel whore.

So, I'm telling Mr. Wonderful my great ideas and he's laughing. Then I say, "Oh! I could just take his business card and stick in a pile of dog crap and take a picture."

Mr. Wonderful gets up to drink his tea and says, "I'm glad you like me." For a second I don't understand what he's getting at, and then I laugh. "I'm not a hateful person," I explain, "he's just special, 'cause he's a jerk." He smiles.


And the fact is I wouldn't actually do any of it. But it is a hell of a lot of fun to think about.

Next up: Fat Cat Boot Camp

What's up there, tubby? For shame! How will you chase mice? Escape from the neighborhood dogs?



You! You've crushed your owner! Who will feed you now, Captain Tubbypants?



Are you half cat, half bloated tick? A helium balloon? A parody for Alka-Seltzer? What the hell is wrong with you, man?



Never fear, it is I, Freakishly Huge Cat, who will whoop your pansy butts back into shape! You will address me as Sir, Yes, Sir at all times! Is that understood, tubby? The Whiskas joy ride is over, pal! Hup, two, three, four! Move your bodies off the floor! Attention! Hold on, hold on, I gotta get this guy to set me down...

Ramen!

You can help spread the word and make Pastafarians yourself!

the debate of Intelligent Design grows

The ever astute HannoverFist has reminded me about FSM, in an effort to make sure that all religions -oops! I mean scientific beliefs- are equally represented.

For those of you wishing to know more about FSM, you can read what Wikipedia has to say.

If you would like the complete dish (ahem) you can read the open letter to the Kansas school board.

idiotology

It never ceases to amaze me how short sighted people can be when when they fear change.

In this case, I am referring to the current battle in Pennsylvania, where parents are taking the school board to court over a little thing called "Intelligent Design".

Basically, Intelligent Design is the prettier, younger sister of Creation Science, which claims that it is not against evolution, per say, but that evolution is obviously wrong. I can see their point- we don't yet understand it, therefore it must be God.

Yah, I like that. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The answer is God, of course. Now stop thinking. No more thought please, you might strain something.

In the article by the BBC, Roland Pease points out,

"Intelligent Design, which argues that key moments in the history of life were guided by a higher power, is being promoted in schools across 20 states in the US.

It argues the case that evolution cannot explain key features of the biological form, such as the human eye. ID proponents say this organ is so complex, it could only have arisen as a result of some guiding hand."

I mean, really? I had to read that twice just to make sure I wasn't missing something. The punch line, for example.

All of nature, the atmosphere, the cosmos, gravity, all of these that we understand do not prove the hand of God, but eyeballs do because we can't explain them yet.

Genius. I particularly like John Hintons article, Whiskers, Things That Make Evolutionists Look Stupid.

Personally, I don't think whiskers make anyone look stupid, except maybe that guy who got plastic whiskers implanted into his lips, but even that looks ok to me. I mean, to each his own. I'm no stranger to body dysmorphia, myself. I ponder getting a boob job from time to time.

But we're not talking about my breasts. No, seriously. We're talking about how Intelligent Design is being used to explain away anything that isn't understood yet. More so than that, it's being used to push religion into science. Like a handy dandy Band-aid for all those things we haven't figured out yet.

How wonderfully conveniant that would make my world, but I'm not buying it.

I wonder how they will explain the theory once we figure out the human eye?

"Yah, ok, we said eyeballs proved the existence of God because we didn't understand them but now we DO understand them. That doesn't mean God doesn't exist! It just means, uh...God showed us! Yes! Hurrah!"

~sigh~

I like my science. You like your religion. You got your chocolate in my peanut butter! I got my peanut butter in your chocolate! But this doesn't equal out to a oh-so-delicious Reeses Cup. It's just a big dog crap sandwich. And I, for one, am just disgusted by the whole thing.

I don't need to know if science or God wins. I'm curious, of course, what makes everything tick, but knowing why the sky is blue is superflous, as is the miracle of my eyes viewing and perceiving the sky.

I just want to be in the moment.

Do I think science and religion can co-exist? No. Not really. It's possible, but I can't see how. I am not so short sighted to believe that my inability to understand means it isn't possible, however.

I do believe science should be taught in school, and religion taught in church and home. That whole separation of church and state thing...it's what helps us get along. When you start messing up the boundaries people get pissed off. You can't erase the chalk line and redraw it somewhere else during the course of the game.

There are more important things than explaining life...life itself.

the power of adorable

(pulled from the sex blog a while back)

Mr. Wonderful frequently tells me I'm adorable.

Adorable?

This isn't something that has been used to describe me since I was a small child, and I don't remember anyone calling me that then, either. Adorable has never been in my list of adjectives I would use to describe myself or anything that wasn't covered in fluffy white fur and/or a bonnet.

Most of the people that have known me over the years might pick smart, funny, tweaky, hot, scary or bitch, but adorable has never entered into the list.

Adorable....(rubs chin thoughtfully)...Adorable has taken me some time to get used to.

I have always been a very independent bitch, stoic and hardened. One could say jaded and not be incorrect. I have always kept a close gaurd over myself and my son, and been rather paranoid about it at that. Life has been hard, sometimes wretched. And so softness has not been my strong point. I have learned to cover my weak spots with armour and not expose my soft underbelly to strangers, you know? For whatever reason (and there are many) I have not chosen mates that could or would protect me.

Until now.

When he and I got together he would hint at frillier girly clothes for me, and gently demanded I get rid of all my huge ass kicking boots and shoes. I told him I have a serious thing for large shoes, shoes I can run in, shoes I can kick some ass in if need be.

My shoes have been a clear indication of my fear and paranoia in life. Flip flops terrify me. Who the hell would wear shoes like that? If anything happened, what good would they be? Can't run in them, can't fight in them, worthless flaps of plastic, bah! Granted the likliehood of being attacked while walking down the street is fairly low (as long as you can stay away from those oh so sketchy areas), I still find it comforting to know that I am prepared if any danger should arise.

(note: Doodles has got me wearing flip flops since this was written.)

So to rid myself of all these comforting items was difficult. I bought my first pair of sandals with little kitten heels. They have straps over the toes, and nothing holding them on in the back (i.e. you can't run in them), the very type of shoes I would NEVER wear in the past. I have since branched out to more heels, even a pair of good old Converse (no steel toes? argh! flimsy!) and it's been good. I refuse to get rid of the black leather motorcycle boots (they have heels, and I got em at Wal Mart for $12, come on!) and I have also retained a large pair of black mens shoes, just like a freaking security blanket on those bad days when I crave the extra security, but I tell myself I keep them for hiking or something.

The fact of it is, I enjoy looking girlier. I feel younger. I look younger. Sometimes I feel like a ninja disguised as a girlie girl, but that's ok, too.

Now people are calling me adorable. Adorable? At thirty years old I have no memory of anyone ever calling me adorable. And it's not just my man, either, friends have been saying it, too!
It's mind boggling for me.

I realize now that I am softening around the edges. It's been a gradual process, a lenghty process of learning trust, of knowing that I will be protected. A lot of my jealousy has been chipped away, and although a lot of that is still there it is greatly diminished compared to what it used to be. And the root of jealousy is simply fear. Fear of being hurt, fear of being abandoned...

Yesterday I went to lunch with one of my best friends. She's a petite little bombshell of a woman, the kind that mens jaws drop and necks swivel, despite their best intentions (and their wives elbows in their sides), the monkey that exists in mens brains simply over rides when she walks by.

I was having a bad day, full of anxiety about family visiting and feeling panicky. I noticed as soon as she got out of her car I noticed her stilleto heels and a red flag went up in my head. Her t-shirt pulled tight over her chest (that said, "yummy" over her boobs) sent me into a tither as well. Everything about her just seemed fragile and dangerous to me. I could just imagine the army of slathering psychotic men lurking around every corner, waiting to pull her into a dark alley or yank her into the back of a van. I was having a really hard time not feeling freaked out at how she seemed to be flirting with danger, blissfully unaware (although she is not, I assure you) of the horrible possibilities that others can inflict upon your reality at any moment.

Then she started to tell me about her playing with her cat. She was holding her cat in the air, doing the "airplane" thing with him, flying him over her head and saying silly little things to him (her cat is the type to enjoy this, one should note). And she's telling me this story, her hands animated, her hair pulled back into a long flowing pony tail, her face flushed and beaming, just being so freaking cute I could scream. And I realized, "Wow. She's adorable."

I blinked.

Adorable? Is this the cuteness people see in me? And I looked at her as she went on with her story, her childlike innocence and youthful enthusiasm, the sheer mind numbing beauty of it all, and it blew me away to think that people see that in me.
In me!

It was a revelation. Me! Adorable! This glorious type of beauty belongs to me! I am not a monster of doom, darkening the doorways of all I know with my cynical depression! I bring lightness and laughter and joy to the people I know.

.......................WOW.

You know, it's amazing the effect words have on people. Just two people calling me adorable in the last week led to this beautiful revelation for me. Two people throwing out a compliment, a moment of observation they spoke aloud and *bam* I'm feeling like a freshly hatched butterfly because of them.

Adorable.

co-ink-a-dink?

Years ago, when the ex boyfriend and I were together and were discussing marriage, I signed up at The Wedding Channel. If you want to look around, you have to make a profile, so I did. I made an imaginary one, set with an imaginary date.

Well, there were sporadic wedding talks but no proposal ever arrived, and after five years it went down in flames (the ignition of said fire caused by him sticking his peter in the girl he worked with). Needless to say, I hadn't been hanging out in The Wedding Channels website much. I think I looked at it twice.

When Mr. Wonderful and I get engaged, I was doing online searches and came across that site. I remembered that I had signed up for it long ago, but couldn't remember what e-mail address or password I had used.

A few days ago, I got an e-mail from them in my old yahoo account, saying that I had 8 weeks to go until my wedding.

What?!

I had them resend my password and went to check out the account.

It turns out that 3 years ago I had entered in the date for the day before my wedding. My actual wedding, with Mr. Wonderful. Before we met. So, if we got married on Friday instead of Saturday, I would have predicted my own wedding date three years ago.

Well, aren't I the coolness?

Watch where you stick that thing...

...because the Secret Service is watching you, too.

Who would win this battle?

The Train Station in Detroit

This is actually a re-posting from back in March of 2003. After writing the post about "Driving Tips in Detroit", I started to reminisce. There may be quite a few more Detroit posts coming up. There are many stories to tell...

*For many truly incredible pictures of the train station, just click on the title of this post.



I grew up about 15 miles north of Detroit. My friends and I used to go downtown (Detroit) to hang out, although looking back I cringe for my parents sake.



There was a particular trip (literally and figuratively) when we went to the abandoned railroad station.

It was magnificent, the building itself had a great room with a huge vaulted ceiling that echoed like mad. You could take the side stairs up to the upper floors but you had to be really careful- the elevator had long since been torn out and that left a gaping hole in the floor.

I discovered that the first night as we blindly fumbled around in the dark. We didn't bring flashlights. I thought it might be good idea to borrow my friends lighter to make sure we didn't trip over any junk and I was both horrified and amazed to see a precipice not 5 feet in front of us. Hurrah for intuition, or we would have fallen to our most certain deaths. We were far more careful after that discovery.



Looking back, it was crazy, a bunch of little urban hipsters on acid, wandering around abandoned buildings in Detroit. We were careful not to disturb the bums that lived in there (we came across their campfire one night) and were really careful to avoid any crackheads.

The first night we were there, we went up to one of the upper floors and somebody started pounding on something, and pretty soon we all joined in.



The image is one of a shell of a formerly glorious building, with the windows broken long ago and the only lights were the orange glow of the million streetlights in Detroit, none of which were close. The building is a wreck, which broken glass and ripped up aluminum and God only knows what all inside littering every inch of floor. And there we were, up on the top floor, pounding out an urban drumbeat that echoed throughout the back alleys of the city, drumming with whatever we could find.



It was blissful for a while, till it seemed to occur to all of us at the same time that we may be drawing unwanted attention to ourselves and would then be trapped where we were, the only exit being the stairway that some scary freak could be ascending. We beat a hasty retreat but came back many times later, only to scare the hell out of ourselves every time.



There was just something so magical and untamed about that place, and we became it every time we were there. It was like, we wanted to bring some creativity and beauty into a ravaged bleak environment, but it was so crazy and dangerous. We were drawn like moths to the flame, and each time would experience great joy and fear. We had to decide if it was a baseless imaginary fear, or very real indeed. Sometimes it was real. But always it was teaching us to be brave and wild and trust our intuition. Sometimes I miss those moments, and Detroit.

Like a phoenix from the flame.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another wonderful memory of Detroit: a girl I knew had gone around for an hour or two collecting junk off the street and came back with a box full of nuts and screws and broken glass and string and fan belts...and one by one tied them all together and hung them in a tree. I thought she was nuts until it dawned on me what she had done: made an urban windchime. One of the craziest and most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

tips for driving in Detroit

I got this e-mail from my mom. Although usually I feel they are stupid, this one was actually right on. Following is a list of Detroit driving tips, with my comments in italics.



1. First, you must learn to pronounce the city name. It's Deh-troit. NOT DEE-troit. If you pronounce it DEE-Troit then we will assume you are from Toledo and here for the country Music hoe-down.
Only people down South say Dee-troit. They also say cee-mayant when talking about concrete, which Dee-troit is covered in. The last syllable is emphasized, Deh-TROIT. It's bad ass. Say it like you're getting all kung fu on somebody's ass, "Hii YAH!" There ya go.

2. Forget the traffic rules you learned elsewhere. Detroit has its own version of traffic rules...
You can pass people in any damn lane you want, weaving in and out of traffic. When we went up a few months ago, Mr. Wonderful let me drive the whole time. He was dumbfounded by it all, and his sweet fiancee's sudden ability to turn into Road Warrior Bitch. Growing up there, it's a defensive driving skill. We don't call it road rage, ok?

3. The morning rush hour is from 6:00 am to 10:00 am. The evening rush hour is from 3:00 pm to 7:00 pm. Friday's rush hour starts Thursday morning. Weekends are open game.
"Hour" is a loosely used word in Detroit. Bring some books on tape and maybe a couple of joints. If you don't smoke pot, you may want to start (I quit once I moved away from Detroit, personally.)

4. If you actually stop at a yellow light, you will be rear-ended, cussed out and possibly shot. If you're first off the starting line when the light turns green, count to five before going across the intersection. This will avoid getting in the way of cross-traffic who just ran their yellow light to keep from getting shot.
Duh! Common sense: if you just spent the last 45 minutes driving a mile and a half, your dumb ass had better not stop for a YELLOW light. Shit.



5. Schoenherr can ONLY be properly pronounced by a native of the Detroit metro area. That goes for Gratiot too.
It's "SHOW-ner" and "GRASH-shit", so's ya know.

6. Construction and renovation on I-94, I-96,I-75, I-275, I-375, The Lodge and The Southfield Freeways are a way of life and forever. Just deal with it.
It's a concrete jungle with a bajillion people in it, all of them own at least 2 cars since all their uncles work for the Big 3, all driving around for hours in "rush hour", the roads freeze and crack in the winter and they liberally apply rock salt to it any chance they get (Detroit is built on a salt mine, a little factoid for ya). The roads are shit. They have always been shit, and always will be shit. Such is life. Make sure you have good shocks before visiting, and no bowel problems.

7. If someone actually has their turn signal on, it is probably a factory defect or they are "out-of-towners".
That, or they suspect you are following them because they stopped at that yellow light and you are waiting till they get out so you can shoot them. They are using the signal to try to throw you off.

8. All old men (or women) with white hair wearing a hat have total right-of-way.
This is for your safety more than it is for theirs, I assure you.

9. The minimum acceptable speed on I-696 and I-275 is 85mph regardless of the posted speeds. Anything less is considered downright SISSY. Oh, and don't even think of allowing more than one car length between cars!
I have personally done 115 mph on I-696. I miss that road.



10. That attractive wrought iron on the windows and doors in Detroit is NOT ornamental. DO NOT get out of your car to take pictures.
This is a good example of Survival of the Brightest. Just because you don't see crackheads wandering around doesn't mean they won't strip your car in a matter of a stoplight, leaving your car on cinderblocks by the time the light turns green again. They come out like cockroaches, in a sudden swarm, and don't favor sunlight.

11. Never stare at the driver of the car with the bumper sticker that says "Keep honking, I'm reloading", he/she is.
Don't stare at anyone, you jackass. Assume everyone has a gun. Also, don't stop your car exactly next to someone else at a light. A little in front, a little behind, pick one. It's non confrontational, and it makes you harder to shoot.

12. If you are in the left lane, and only going 70 in a 60 mph zone, people are not waving because they are so friendly in Detroit. I would suggest you duck.
Ducking won't help your stupid ass to get out of the fast lane. Let a native drive, really. Remember to take sedatives before they get behind the wheel.

13. I-275 and I-696 is our daily version of NASCAR.
Please see #9. The biggest difference is that no one is yelling, "Yeehaw", they're all saying, "Fuck you." There are no trophies, you just get the sweet satisfaction of making it to work in one piece, and eluding the police another day.

14. It's not M-10, it's "the Lodge".
My dad lives right off of it. What an ugly ass road.

15. That's not a lake, it's a pothole.
They should consider making that the state motto.

16. If someone tells you it's on Outer Drive, you better hope you have a map.
Fo sheezle.

17. The Michigan left turn is simple. If you want to turn left, go a 1/4 of a mile past your turn, get to the left, then make a left, then make another left, then make a right when you get back to the intersection where you wanted to turn left in the first place. NOW you have gone left.
It's called a "Screwy U-y" by Michiganders. They say it's helpful. I couldn't tell, because I was far too high when I lived there.


(Note: most overpasses are fenced now so people can't throw cinderblocks on to your car anymore. That makes you feel better, right?)

Say hello to the bag ladies for me. Tell them I miss them. Give them a hug for me, ok? I promise, few things will make you feel better than that.

for you, my darling

Everyone should be serenaded now and then...

Oh my, oh my: the story of my new shrinky dink

(reposted from the sex blog)

I finally took the plunge and got myself a new shrink. I get attached to them, and I've been away from my shrink in Asheville for over a year. It's time to move on and allow a new shrinky dink to come into my life and my head.

The trouble is, the beginning is so hard. Today I sat down with this stranger and told her one horrible traumatic event after another. Oddly enough (or perhaps not) the only moment I got choked up was when she asked me if I told anyone about the rape after it happened.

"No," I said, small and looking down at my wringing hands.

"You didin't have anyone to talk to? Your mother? Your father? Family? A counselor?"

"No, no one I trusted."

Her eyes opened wide. "Oh my," she said.

I told Jack this morning that I was nervous about going. "Why?" he asked. "If you don't like her you can change doctors."

"It's not that," I said. "It's telling those stories, all of those stories, all over again, in rapid succession. The first appointments are always harsh, me telling the ridiculous story of my life." He looked at me, not comprehending what my point was. "They have a tendency to stare," I explain. Realization dawned on Jack's face.

"Ooooh...oh." He smiled at me and gently said, "Aw, baby, I get it."

When someone calls a shrink for their services and complains about stress and anxiety, a lot of cases are "I hate my job" or "My wife is a bitch" or "I'm failing out of college", stuff like that.

Then there's me. I come with a fucking list a mile long. Sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, abandonment, homelessness, suicide, depression, alcoholism, drug abuse, molestation, trauma trauma trauma. I am a fucking trauma unit.

So I sat there for an hour today, telling her one story after another, one leading into another, while staring around her office, trying to look at anything but her face so I could avoid the expressions. I couldn't block out her expressions of surprise, though, as hard as she was trying to not let it show. "Oh my..." "Really?" "No one?"

"Oh my."

"Oh my!"

"Oh my."

~sigh~ I sounded like a script writer for a soap opera at best, or a deranged compulsive liar begging for attention at worst. I'm always afraid they won't believe me, for some reason. I always want to explain to them, "Look, I'm paying you $90 an hour, right? I'm not taking this to the Jerry Springer show. Just so we're clear, here."

It all just sounds so ridiculously dramatic.

But it is my life.

She started asking me about my family, and I said we aren't close. She asked if they were coming down to my wedding, and I said no, only my mom and step dad are coming. I waited, and cringed. I knew it was coming....

"Isn't your dad going to give you away?" she asked, surprised.

I heaved a lifetime of bitter sighs and said flatly, "No. He said he wasn't coming. He said he wouldn't even come if I got married there (I live 600 miles away). I asked, just to see if he would, I might have planned to have it there. But, no."

She stared. She faltered. "Wha...he won't come to your wedding? Why not?"

I scowled down at my hands and said, "Because he's a bitter old bastard." I thought that summed him up quite nicely. She didn't think so and wanted the full story, or at least, the abridged version that can fit inside a 60 minute appointment. I gave it to her.

She finally asked, "Is your step dad going to give you away, then?"

At that, I smiled. "Yes." I almost started crying again, feeling overwhelmed that SOME man at least cares enough to perform this silly but totally meaningful act for me. I was going to have my grandpa do it, but he's too ill to come. My brother, but he's not coming either. Didn't even bother to call to tell me, he just had his wife send me an e-mail.

(pauses to stare at ceiling momentarily)

The cheese stands alone.

We talked about my sons dad, the alcoholics, the abusers, the cheaters, the bastard men that have made up my life (except for those few exceptions, all three of you read my blog, as a matter of fact!). By the end of it all I was exhausted, feeling like a turtle that has been jabbed with a stick repeatedly. Must...pull...soft...parts...into....shell......

My time was up. She was still asking questions. I kept trying to wrap it up, not wanting to take up more of her time than I was allotted, but damn if she didn't just keep asking me more questions. I swear to God, it was like she was just morbidly curious. Ten minutes over the limit I finally said, "Ok, so I guess I'll see you soon, right?" She blinked and said, "Yes! Yes."

I felt like her own personal Rubik's cube.

I paused next to her before she ushered me out. I looked down (I am quite tall and she is quite not) and asked, "So...is there hope?"

I know that there is, but I wanted her to understand that I am seeking reassurance. I wanted her to grasp here and now, that I am needy, and be under no allusion that I am not high maintenance. I also wanted her to understand that I am placing her in the role of my mentor, and that is what I want. I can be very intimidating, and I needed to clarify our roles so she can help me.

She smiled, really truly smiled with warmth and radiance for the first time since we met. "Yes," she said, surprised and I think somewhat charmed by my question. "Yes, there is hope."

I like hope.

welcome to my coping mechanisms

"ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak!"

Crickets have invaded our house. To be more precise, crickets are invading our house on an individual basis. They are singular, mostly, but occasionally plural.

I'm pretty sure they are sneaking through the crack in the door, where the weather stripping doesn't quite do what it should. Technically, it does nothing at all unless you count allowing the passage of air between the indoors and outdoors as "doing something", although I do believe that is the antithesis of what it is supposed to do.

The crickets seem to like our house. They come in, hang out, look around, surprise me by meandering across the wall when I least expect it. I look over, and the cricket is just walking across the wall, cool as a cucumber, seeming to look at me as if to say, "What's up, bub?" and keep on trucking.

At night they talk. Sometimes they are quite talkative, and I've noticed they enjoy the acoustics of the bathroom. Seeing as how the bathroom is next to the bedroom, I do not enjoy their acoustical accomplishments as much as they do. I think perhaps I should post a sign in the bathroom that states, "House of an insomniac. Sing in my bathroom all night and I might go insane and fucking eat you. You've been warned." Alas, I can't translate that into Cricket, so the warning has gone unposted.

Other times they just go for the occasional twirp, as if to say, "Hello? Anybody?" and then drop silent for a while. I sense their unease at not being answered, a kind of Cricket Twilight Zone compared to the cricket symphony that is outdoors.

One night we were laying in bed, having turned off all the lights and a lull in our bed conversation occured. And there in the silence...."ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak!" We both laughed. Silence. Then the cricket just went nuts, "ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak!" On and on. I turned to Mr. Wonderful and said, "You know there's a cricket out in our living room, dancing around a sombrero and singing, right?" as I bust into a mariachi song, complete with a rousing, "Ole!" at the end.

He cracks up and we discuss how perhaps I should get up and take my sleepy medicine. Indeed.

Since then I have taken to naming the crickets. I feel crickets should have fanciful names, and recently I have pictured them being French, with little black berets cocked coyly to one side, and those stripey red and white shirts, perhaps a fancy cigarrette or something. Piere, Simon, Allister, Phillipe- these are good, fancy cricket names.

I was thrilled to see a hurricane has recently been named Phillipe, after my crickety singing friend. Obviously.

Last night I couldn't sleep well (I haven't been lately, argh) and laid there contemplating cricket names, since my latest cricket friend was serenading me at the time. I figured it was just inane enough to let me drop back off to sleep. It worked.

I have to do SOMETHING, you see. I am so freaking stressed out planning this wedding, even as simple as it is, I'm losing it. The problem is, I want it to be DONE, the planning anyhow, and I tend to obsess so I can finish and relax. It doesn't work. I have to come up with alternate ways of distracting myself, such as cricket naming.

Perhaps I'll go for biblical names next. Moses would be a great name for a cricket, singing in my living room, parting the Red Sea and what not. Noah.

The gnats that we get in here don't get fancy names. They get short little names, because they annoy me and are unworthy of fanciful nameage. Bob, Booby, Bob Jr. Rob, Robby, Rob Jr., Tim, Timmy, Tim Jr. I haven't actually made it as far as Tim yet but I've got his name planned out as soon as he arrives.

Flies tend to be named old crotchety men next door kind of names, Ralph, Harold, Julias, Gerald. I swear I can hear 'em flying around and cussing about shit, like those old guys in the balcony on the Muppet Show.

Bees are all female, and named Susan, or Betty, or Darla. Perhaps Beatrice, Alice, or Rebecca.

Wasps aren't named anything at all, or if they are it's just Bastard. (As in, "Get away from me, you bastard!")

Same with mosquitos, they're all named Fucker. As in, "Die you fucker!" (SMACK)

But crickets, crickets are far more interesting, even if I still find them repugnant to touch. Mr. Wonderful is the one who scoops them up and sets them outside, where they are free to tell their singing brethren the way in. Then it becomes a sort of truth or dare game amongst the cricket youth, Spend A Night Inside The House Of Solitary Confinement. They talk in whispers about the lack of crickets, the cold, the lack of food, the inability to find their way out...and then a giant scoops them up and they are back, alive against all odds, to tell another generation about the Cricket Twilight Zone.

Hmmm. I wonder if caveman names would fit. Blorg, Argh, Mlur, and Burf...Naw, those seem to be more fitting for cicadas.

Stay tuned.

"ck-ck-ck-reeeeak! ck-ck-ck-reeeeak!"

I don't know how in the world I've overlooked this until now.

It tells me all is well with the world. I am relieved.

mooooooooooooooooooo

Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries!

It's merely a flesh wound! Have at thee!

a horse with no name

One day, many years ago, a horse found me.



I was coming home from work, and as I rounded the corner, there she was.

Just... a horse. Standing on the side of the road. Eating some grass.

Huh.

I should note that I lived in the middle of good old nowhere. Really. I was living on the side of a mountain that only 3 other people lived on. None of them had horses.

I slowed down, baffled as to what I should do. I rolled down the window a bit, and the horse said, "Mmhmhmhmhmhmhm" which is Horse Speak for "You got any carrots?"

I blinked. I drove on up to the house, and got my boyfriend. (He was a complete jackass, I must note, but good with horses. And if one of us was going to die from a kick to the head, I wanted to be sure it was HIM.) We drove back down the road and there she was, just munching on some grass.

She asked me again, "Mmhmhmhmhmhmhm?" The Jackass drove his truck while I tempted her up the road to our house with a handful of carrots. She rambled up there, amicably enough. I suspect she was glad to meet someone who spoke Horse as well as I did.

We checked her for some kind of ID, nothing. Just a red bridle. I don't know what we were expecting to find, it's not like people outfit horses with dogtags. We checked her gums, nothing (sometimes people tattoo ID horses on their gums). We asked around, and no one was missing a horse.

And that was it.

She adopted us. We didn't corral her in, since she didn't belong to us. But she didn't leave. She would wander around the mountain and then cruise back to the house when she wanted some love and/or food.

Who could resist her? Certianly not I. We brushed her and fed her.

You know how you feed a stray animal, and they keep coming back? Yes. Now think of that stray being a horse.

She trained us well. She learned to clomp her hooves on the front step, her version of knocking on the door. A few times we left the door wide open, and she would stick her head in and talk to me, looking around, pondering if she could fit inside. I informed her she could not, and it was best not to try. It was not a horse house.

I adored her. She was my horse. I decided to name her Sassafras, because she was such a sassy thing. Knocking on the door wasn't the half of it. If we slept too long she would be at the bedroom windows, staring at us, mumbling something in Horse Speak that sounded suspiciously like, "Get your lazy butt outta bed, I want some apples."

Since I worked in the deli at a local health food store, I had access to massive piles of fruit and veggie shavings from the juicer. Juicers spit out piles of carrot pulp, and I would take the bags home with me at the end of the day. Carrots, beets, celery, apples, she LOVED it.

I spoiled her. She would hear my car coming up the mountain and meet me down at the bottom of the drive, galloping up alongside my car, neighing and telling me all kinds of gluttonous things. Basically, it was a stream of, "Oh, gimme gimme, oh man, I know you got it, I can't wait, gimme, (drool), whatcha got today, something for me, oh yes, for me, to eat, to eat, come on, hurry up, I can taste it, man oh man!"

You get the idea.

I would even dumpster dive for that horse, and did so when it got really cold. I will never forget the look on the poor grocers face to see a pretty girl standing inside the dumpster smiling at him. "Oooh! Whatcha got?" I asked him happily. He was shocked. "It's for my horse," I explained. "You guys are just throwing it away, and she LOVES this stuff." He said nothing, and walked away.

Really, you would not BELIEVE the amount of food grocery stores chuck. When the produce section would be cleaned out, we could get a truck load of veggies. She was in heaven.

I also started making her oatmeal in the winter. Plain old oats for MY horse? I think not. I would get her huge metal feed bucket, throw it up on the wood stove, and heat up her oats with some water to make 'em good and yummy. She loved it.

When winter struck a most horrible blow, we were frightened. She had no shelter, no stable, no nothing. We dismantled and rebuilt the front porch, making a dirt floor stable for her. It wasn't much room to move around, but she wouldn't freeze at night. We got her a horsey blanket, and I would pile blankets beneath that. I even wrapped her legs in bandages to keep them warm when it got bitterly cold.

We got her bales of hay, lined the floor, and gave her plenty more to eat. Every night I would feed her a giant bowl of oatmeal to help her stay warm. First thing in the morning I would be up and cooking her another one to help her start the day. I worried about her. I would open the front door and let her warm up a bit (the wood stove was 5 feet from the front door.)

You have to understand, it was not only freezing cold, but the top of a mountain is a windy place. Even near the top (where we were) could have 60 mph winds some nights, and you add that wind to temperatures in the teens, and that's some fucking cold, my friends. If I could have figured out a way to sleep out there with her, I probably would have.

Spring came and she was back to galloping happily around the mountain, a merry brown horse in the springtime.

It would have been the picture of perfection except for the fact that my boyfriend was a raving lunatic. I had to leave. I didn't want to leave. To leave would mean I would have to leave my horse. With him.

I had to leave everything, but worst of all, I had to leave my horse.

I finally had to go. I was heartbroken. I felt like I was abondoning her, my perfect beautiful friend, the first horse friend I ever had.

I left, and never went back.

What happened to my horse, I do not know. I try not to think about it.

She was old, and we knew she had a tumor in her nose. I can only hope she passed soon after, and I made her last few months wonderful.

unraveling the mystery of PMS: clues

(reposted from the sex blog)

I've been meaning to get back to the subject of PMS, but as you read recently, I tend to get a little (how does one say?) nuts during it all.

Since I like viewing myself as a logical person (I am not, I just like to view myself that way), talking about PMS honestly forces me to acknowledge something I would really rather not: I lose self control. That is not logical.

In short, I have a tendency to flip the fuck out. Sometimes in small ways, sometimes in big ways.

Frankly, it's embarrassing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clue Number 1: MOST women don't want to act like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, sure, some women really enjoy being as bitchy as possible, and those women should generally be avoided like the plague, unless you're into that sort of thing.

But the rest of us normally sweet natured gals dread the inner bitch. Got her all trussed up with some ropes in the corner, you see, and she glares at us from above her gag. "Time is on my side," her eyes say, "you only have a few weeks left, you know. I WILL get out." We turn our backs and pretend we don't see her, till one day the hormonal fluctuations in the body silently dissolve her bindings and she sneaks up behind and becomes us.

To help men understand what this feels like, think about that one heartbreak where you just lost it. You wept, you sobbed, you lamented. You did stupid things, calling her all hours of the night, standing outside her house in the rain, pleading, you know the stuff. The stuff you don't want to think about, the stuff you see Other Guys do while you all shake your heads and try not to look. It's embarrassing to watch, and it's humiliating to do.

Even at the point that you're doing it, you can see yourself doing it and wish you would stop. You're embarrassing yourself! Get a grip! But you can't seem to do that, and a part of you maybe doesn't want to. You realize (or don't) that this is a process, as integral to your being as anything else, and if you don't vent this thing in the most humiliating way possible, you are going to fucking explode. Spontaneous combustion is no laughing matter, you reason, so on it goes.

That's pretty close to PMS.

We are overcome. We struggle. We unravel in the struggle. We know how much you hate to hear us bitching, we're inside the bitching head, and trust us, it sounds MUCH worse in here. Think back to the sounds of your heartbroken laments, and the wish that the whining pitiful voice wasn't yours.

But it's that or explode. We must vent the poison gas, lest it combust and we become like the stampeding rhinoceros. We don't want to gore you, we just want to stamp out the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clue Number 2: No matter how many times we've gone through it, it always catches us by surprise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poor Jack. How many times have I called him in tears and upset and he asks, "Baby, how close are you to your period?" I stammer, and think about it. Or I'll be totally morose and not know why, and he'll gently remind me, "PMS, sweety?" And every damn time I respond with, "No way!" as if this event that I have experienced hundreds of times already is somehow a singular freak of nature every....single....time.

We can be just skipping along through our day, happy as larks, and then *KABOOM*. We didn't see it coming, and so we panic.

It's like a tsunami of emotion, and along we go, desperately trying to clutch to something secure to keep us afloat.

Frequently, the thing we are clutching at is you. But if you don't seem to be helping paddle, we will turn on you, beat you over the head until you are silent, and we wait, terrified, until the flood is over. Still clutching, oh yes. We don't want to be ALONE, it's scary in here! But we believe firmly in the old adage "If You Don't Have Anything Nice To Say, Don't Say Anything At All."

The old adage doesn't apply to us in our current state, of course. We abide by this tiresome rule the rest of the damn month, we just want you to live with it for a week or so.

Nice Things to Say include:

"Let it out, baby, it's ok. I know it hurts sometimes."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Would you like me to hold you?"

"It's ok, sweetheart, I know you didn't mean to shoot me repeatedly in the arm with that nail gun. Let's stop and get you some chocolate on the way to the emergency room."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clue Number 3: This is the time we want/need for you to be the hero.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yes, please, dig out the Superman costume and save us, save us from ourselves.

Instead of being frightened of our inner bitch, this is your best chance to be assertive, strong, and have great spine. (Yes. Backbone.) You are Man! Strong! Capable! Able to leap from tall buildings in a single bound! Able to plan ahead! And planning involves chocolate!

Oh horrified men of the PMS inflicted world, may I offer you The Happy Box? The Happy Box is the potential cure for your inner bitch induced woes.

What does The Happy Box come with, you ask? It comes with whatever she likes. Whatever makes me happy. I suggest you fill the box.

Also, please note that the box must be invisible. Meaning, do not literally fill a box full of chocolate stuff and then pull it out when you are already fighting and say, "Who needs a chocolate bar?"

This will get you another shot from the nail gun. You musn't call the inner bitch out on her shenanigans. She requires a graceful exit. If you are already fighting, you are going to have to be tricky. Lay that box of chocolates just peeking out from under her pillow. Tape those tickets to the movie she's been dying to see on the bathroom mirror. Run her a bath, and while she's letting Calgon take her away, do the dishes for her.

The key is to take her off gaurd. She is the angry soccer goalie from hell, and you must score. She wants you to score, she does. But she wants you to WORK for it. She wants you to PROVE to her that she's still deserving of your love, despite her inner bitch.

This is perhaps the most important part of all. If you absorb nothing else, and you are blundering dunderhead, absorb this:

She wants you to PROVE to her that she's still deserving of your love, despite her inner bitch.

The bitch is denied. When she rears her ugly head, we are afraid you won't love us anymore. Now that you've seen our ulgy side, the jig is up. We cling, we push, we deny, we weep, we look for a scapegoat on which to blame this bitchs emergence.

Did you just say we look fat? Oh! Ah ha! It's YOU! (insert fire and brimstone here) YOU must be the reason this bitch escaped! We must avenge our delicate and socially appropriate selves by destroying your evil bitch producing self! Attack!

Our bitch warrior is distracted by shiny things, you should carefully note. Also by men serving us, preferably in a restaurant of our choosing. The smell of both chocolate and flowers confuses her and throws her off the war path.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Having said all that, I must make the note that integrating the inner bitch is the key to it all. But have pity on us, some of us haven't gotten that far in our bitch integration. We are human like you. Think of it as learning how to ask for directions. The metaphor fits in more ways than one.

most accurately named product

The Fukuoku™ 9000 wins my accurately named product of the day.

I am led to believe that U will feel Ok if you Fuk U with this product.

Indeed.

Ophelia: worst hurricane ever

Comic Book Guy: "Last night's 'Itchy and Scratchy Show' was, without a doubt, the worst episode ever. Rest assured, I was on the internet within minutes, registering my disgust throughout the world."

I feel the same way about Ophelia, man. I hear ya.

Ophelia is a bitch...

...for standing me up.

Squalls, they said. Blinding rain and sheets of water, they said. Rain up to my fucking eyeballs, they said.

I've seen no rain. None. Just wind.

I'm going outside to water my plants, now. I left them dry yesterday, assuming they'd be drenched by now. If anything, the wind is drying them out even MORE.

Psh. Stupid Ophelia. You could have at least washed the car for me.

lament of an insomniac

"To sleep, perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub."

Shakespeare's "Hamlet" - act III, i, 65-68



Thank you God, for Lunesta. Whoever. Scientist in a lab, whoever you are. Your brilliance has my undying gratitude.

My doctor put me on Lunesta a few weeks ago. I slept. I felt better. I wrote.

Then my doctor decided to try 2 mg instead of 3 mg. Suddenly, I did not sleep. I started waking up at 3 am again, and not going back to sleep.

I've been feeling like hell the last week. Two weeks? How long has it been? I couldn't even guess. Sleep deprivation does that. My memories of the last week is choppy, broken up shards of experience, filed haphazardly in my battery acid filled brain.

Yesterday I called the doctors office and said, "No. I can't do this." They put me back on 3 mg. Last night, I slept.

Amusingly, when I did wake up (only twice), I went back to sleep the first time. (I usually wake up and pee at least 5 times a night, then lay there for an hour or two...) The second time I got up to pee. At first, when I laid back down, I was afraid. Afraid I wouldn't fall back asleep.

My fears disappeared after a few minutes when I realized that my mind wasn't going for the usual litany of anxiety-babble. I realized I was laying there contemplating the different kinds of cereal that I am fond of. That realization made me smile. And back to sleep I went.

Sleep is magical stuff. It is cursed stuff when it eludes me. But now, now I have my friend Lunesta. Sleep and I shall become acquainted once more.

Ah, sleep. I adore you.

I parked my truck under a tree. Maybe Ophelia will come through and knock the tree onto it, solving that whole "selling it" problem.

I'm just saying, you know, if Mother Nature wants to work with me here and help me pay it off, I'm totally ok with that.

Fuck me.

The jets are roaring in, right the fuck above the apartment, really. I wish I had a damn videocamera to catch this shit, because there's just no way you could possibly believe me.

They are maybe 50 feet above the treeline in my backyard. It's completely fucking insane.

I'm guessing they're trying to get in as many runs before the airshow as they can, seeing as how Hurricane Ophelia is heading our way. They won't get any practice the next few days, that's for damn sure.

At least the ones flying over currently are quieter, less rumble, no bang. They must be lighter than the ones that normally go over. These might be F-14 Tomcats? I think the ones that usually go over are the F/A-18 Hornets. I hope this makes sense to some of you so you can get an idea of what the hell I'm talking about.

I certainly don't know. I like to talk out of my ass sometimes. It makes me feel smart.

Anywho, Mr. Wonderful left for work this morning, got out to the parking lot, a jet flew over, and a minute later the phone rang. It was him, telling me, "Holy SHIT! They're flying over so low I could see the BOLTS on the fuselage!" I pretended to know where that was, and answered, "I believe it. They were doing that all day yesterday, too." I added that last part in so he would understand why my nerves are tweaked.

I wish my step dad was here. He loves these damn things. I could park his butt on my back porch and he'd be in heaven. It helps, I think, that he is slightly hard of hearing.

Stay tuned for further Introspectre Goes Batshit From Jets updates.



ps)If anyone would like to save me from this fate, please send a pair of soundproof earmuffs right away.

zoom zoom zoom

Oh shit.

The air show is back in town.



I will confess, the Shockwave Jet Truck does kick some major flaming ass. I tried to take a picture of it last year and it was just a big blur of fire. I believe I also screamed, "Holy fucking shit!!!" in a crowd of families, although I doubt anyone heard me over their own screams of "fuckbricks on a toaster!" and "holyfuckcrapfuckfuckershittoastfuckingA!"

(Also: "Batshithelicoptersponyridesbitch!" and "IthinkIjustcrappedmyselfFUCK!")






And while the Jet Truck kicks ass, the Superhornet kicks MY ass.

I don't know what it is about a jet breaking the sound barrier right above my house that makes me want to scream and immedietely molt, but there's just something about it. Something I can't quite put my finger on...

The mind erasing noise?

The fear that the world is suddenly ending?

Perhaps because the mind erasing noise that sounds like the end of the world comes without ANY WARNING AT ALL?



Perhaps.

The crazy thing about the Superhornet is that once you hear it, it's too late to see it. Unless you are actually looking up when it flies over (terrifying unless you're an adrenaline junkie- I am not) it's already gone.

I admire it. Let us be clear about that. I am impressed.

I am also terrified of the thing. Perhaps flying it would be better. Maybe it doesn't sound like anything inside, because the noise would be left behind during that whole breaking-the-sound-barrier moment.

Yah. I don't know.

I do know that the last air show was insane, with all these things flying over my house.


Guys jumping out of planes with fireworks and parachutes, cool. Me standing under jets doing death defying stunts, not cool. Me picturing jets crashing and raining down slabs of molten metal onto the people below, not cool.

Jet shows were simply not made for people like me (read: insane).

I don't know, I think I could like it with a steady sedative drip. It's possible. Until that day, I'll be here, hovering in the corner, whimpering.

There's lots more wedding stuff to do, but instead, we spent the day hiking.

It's really hard to be neurotic while finding lizards, watching herons, looking for eagles nests and listening to the wind whip through the trees overhead.

Balance.

seeking balance

Adopting an attitude of universal responsibility is essentially a personal matter. The real test of compassion is not what we say in abstract discussions but how we conduct ourselves in daily life.

-His Holiness the Dalai Lama, "Imagine All the People"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm so damn moody. One minute I'm up, next I'm under the weight of depression. Anxious, cheerful, I can't seem to make up my mind.



Hormones? No.

Katrina.

The reminders are everywhere, the magazines at the check out lane, scrolling across the bottom of the screen during Conan O'Brian's show, e-mails, the advertising on web pages. Even PETA sent me an e-mail asking for help with pets in New Orleans.

It's not that I'm unaware of the devastation. I am too aware.




I realize that this statement could sound callous. I'm whining because of the stress of being reminded, while others are suffering in the midst of it all.

My feelings about this has caused me to think greatly about it, my reasons for being emotionally shut down, irritated, freaked out. And I got to wondering: how many other people have reacted the same way?



And also, how many of us are having strange little flashbacks to 9/11?

The magnitude, the scope of it all, the suffering, the pleas for help...sound familiar. And that familiarity is painful. It reminds me of an even darker time, a time of fear that threatened to swallow us all. Staring at the TV. Crying a lot. Feeling helpless and vulnerable. Anxiety about the future.



And then I wonder- how much of the response lag to Katrina was caused by people shutting down? Traumatized, as it were, by 9/11. I wonder if we, as a country, failed to respond quickly enough in our state of shock, because of the knee jerk reaction to look away.

The resistance to empathize is powerful for me. I want to shut it out and put up a defensive wall. I don't WANT to see it. Then I look. I feel. It hurts. I shut down again.



I have moral battles in my head. Which is worse: to let myself deny reality because I don't want to cope with it? Or indulge my morbid curiousity and let myself freak out?

Of course, the answer is to walk the middle path. To see, but not stare. To feel, but not wallow. To help, but not panic.

Sounds perfectly logical. Alas, if only the Spock in my brain could convince the rest of me to integrate this bit of logic.

Right now, I seek balance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We should always remember that meditation is the cultivation and practice of nonattachment. The Buddha taught only the middle way, and mindfulness is nothing but the middle way. It is neither an intense practice, nor can it be done without effort. It must be done with balance. Properly done, it is neither detached pushing away nor egoistic clinging. Be very careful about sitting down with ideas like, "I am sitting, I am watching, I am breathing, I am meditating, I am this, that is mine.

-Buddhadasa Bhikkhu, "Mindfulness With Breathing"

impending/surpassed lunacy

Looking at wedding stuff makes me insane.

Insane.

That is all.

opinionated

I found this girls pics in MySpace and I found myself getting so damn angry looking at them. She's GORGEOUS. F-in beautiful. And whoever her plastic surgeon is, deserves to be shot.

You are not supposed to be able to park a truck inbetween the breasts. I hope she sues his ass.

I do not mean to rip on her or be catty, please understand. I'm not saying she looks bad, I'm saying her boobs look wrong. It's distracting from an otherwise smokin' girl.

Dammit.

the punch drunk new age stalker

Mystic, alcoholic, paranoid, abusive, and perhaps a dash of schizophrenia- these are the words I would use to describe Neil.

Also, stalker, carpenter, car sick, soft hearted, irresponsible, and a conspiracy theorist.

One of my many Ex's.

When Neil and I met, it was at his cabin, out in the mountains. My then boyfriend, The Poker, was friends with Neil and had taken me out to his cabin to skinnydip in the spring fed pool in the yard. Neil wasn't there, and I wasn't in the mood to skinnydip in a small freezing cold pool that was mostly full of algae. Au naturel, indeed.

My housemate was with us, the exotic model than was more psycho than sane, and she had no qualms about stripping down and diving in. Nothing like algae in your hair to a girl feel sexy, I suppose. To each her own.

Neil came home at some point and we were introduced. I was impressed by him, or at least I was impressed with the story that was him. My impression from The Poker was that this guy was a loner, an accomplished carpenter, who lived out in the wilderness with his dogs and cats, was really spiritual, and he was pretty handsome. Sounds like my kind of wonderful.

Nothing happened because I was dating Poker. But eventually Poker and I broke up. And I ran into Neil downtown.

I don't remember that day. Well, there's a lot of days I don't remember. I do remember being quite charmed with his eloquence, his knowledge of mysticism and holistic health. The fact that he was seventeen years older than me just added to his charm.

He's older and therefore wiser was my theory. (We know how well that theory has worked for me in the past...) He seemed accomplished and grounded and stable.

Key word being "seemed" of course.

In the beginning he would shower me with love and affection, writing me cheesy cards, over the top expressions of his adoration. (I still have one, as soon as I get a camera I am so totally posting it in here.) He seemed perfect. We would be out at his off-the-grid cabin in the wilderness, taking baths outside in the chilly mountain mornings, him feeding me peaches he'd plucked from the tree in the yard. We would go for hikes up in the mountains, he would smile and laugh, the dogs trailing beside us, panting happily along.

There were signs all was not well in paradise, but I was young and naive and overlooked them. Dismissed them, as it were. The dream was so lovely, with my visions of the future, the family, the animals, the beautiful life living at one with the Earth.

When reality hit, it was sudden and brutal. The sparkling dreams of our future fell like shattered glass the first time he punched me.

We had gone to a friends house. He wasn't there. I had been complaining to Neil that I needed to eat, that my blood sugar was getting so low I was having trouble driving. Neil decided that whatever reason we needed to be there (I'm pretty sure it was to get some pot) was far more important than my need to eat, and he wanted to wait. I started to fall apart, desperate to get food (any hypoglycemics know what I'm talking about). He said something to me, I don't remember what, and I started to cry.

He punched me in the shoulder. Hard. And Neil was a big guy.

I stared at him, shocked, tears still streaming down my face. "What the hell was THAT for?!" I asked. His reply, "You needed it. You were out of control." My eyes took on what can only be described as a lunatic murderous sharpness and asked, "And you thought punching me would help?"

"Yes," he said, calmly, as if this was of no consequence, obvious to anyone who wasn't hysterical like his freshly punched girlfriend.

I yelled, "Don't you EVER fucking hit me! Ever! That is not ok, will never be ok, what the FUCK?!?!?" (which ended in a scream.)

He just shrugged it off and said, "You stopped crying, didn't you?"

I twitched, and went to my happy place. We didn't speak. We drove home.

After giving it great consideration, I decided to let it go. Surely this sort of thing would never happen again.

It was taking the shattered toothpick sculpture of my dreams and trying to glue it back together using unicorn shit as paste- even if it DID exist, the adhesive quality was all wrong. It smelled suspiciously like weasel crap, and the toothpicks were jabbing me through the pillow while I dreamt.

It was only a matter of time.

While that time was passing, more signs that bullshit was afoot began to appear. I helped him on the construction of someones deck, tiling their floor, and a few other odd jobs around the house. He started talking about how he couldn't finish the job because he underbid it- so low, in fact, that he couldn't afford the lumber to finish building the deck. He had to ask them for more money. They gave it- what were they going to do, have half a deck?

I thought it irresponsible and foolish of him, and just kept looking around. I realized quickly that this is how he did ALL of his work- he underbid all the other contractors and then mid project he would request more money, mentioning some minor detail he had overlooked or some unforeseeable problem that had arisen.

He also started drinking like a fish. An alcoholic fish.

When I expressed concern about that, he said it was nothing, that he always drank like this, but he just felt "comfortable" enough around me now to drink in front of me. There's some logic for you.

Things spiraled quickly after that. We all know that fish do not handle their liquor very well. Drinking and swimming causes accidents to occur, usually involving the mouths of bigger fish, or the occasional motor boat. Dangling worms look like an all you can eat buffet. Let's play tag with the barracuda. You get the idea.

One night we were invited to a benefit. His friend was serving the food, at the biggest club in town. We went. It was quasi-glamorous. Excellent food, free drinks, great music.

I watched as Neil consumed seventeen beers in a matter of two hours. Once he was good and trashed, he drunkenly got up from the table and asked me to dance. I informed him I had no desire to dance with him. He asked why. I told him I didn't find the thought of being drunkenly tossed about a room to be all that enticing, thank you very much. He was embarrassing enough as it was, without adding a crowded dance floor and him knocking me into people. No fucking thanks. I'll pass.

He scowled at me and informed me he was going to go find some girl who DID want to dance with him. "You do that," I said. "I'm going to smoke." He hated that I smoked cigarrettes.

The only place to smoke in that club was the downstairs smoking lounge. It was a small concrete room with no ventilation, as far as I could tell. There was about 25 people sitting in there, chain smoking. I could barely see the walls. Ah, comfort. I sat down and joined my fellow nicotine junkies in a spirit of unified addiction.

I spent the rest of the night down there, never checking on him, kind of hoping perhaps he'd wander off into traffic or somthing. I spent the greater part of the evening talking to a friend of mine about enemas, of all things. We were laughing about it and just having a great ole time, the guys at the table all dumbfounded to hear two hot chicks discussing ass cleanliness.

But all good things must come to an end, and I went back upstairs at closing time. There was Neil, staggering around talking crazy to people. I could see he had made himself well known while I was away, because each time he would stagger off towards a new person, people would watch in horror and actually run away from him before he got to them.

It's one of the most pathetic moments of drunks. Many of you may have seen this. There comes that time when the drunk is out of their head, and wants to befriend everyone else, and nobody wants anything to do with them. It's really sad to watch.

I grabbed his arm and led him to the car. It was a fortyfive minute drive back home in the dark, and the whole way he was talking smack about anything. I knew he was blacked out so I just let him have it, telling him how much I hated him, what a loser he was, blah blah blah.

He then told me it was time for him to channel, that some being wanted to talk through him. While I believe channeling is possible, I didn't give a rats ass what any being wanting to channel through HIS drunk mouth had to say. I drove while he took on various theatrical voices and talked about the being that he was, and UFO's, and whatever. I started asking him stupid questions, "Why do dogs fly?" and dumb shit like that, just to fuck with him. Crazy bastard.

There was another morning where he announced it was time for him to channel. I listened intently for a moment or two and then said, "Yah...I'm just gonna keep eating my breakfast, ok?" He talked and talked and I finished and left the table while he was still talking.

Whatever.

There were a few more times that he was physically abusive, although I don't remember them all. Each time he would swear it would never happen again. Each time I would believe him because I wanted to. I just couldn't accept that I had fallen for someone who would abuse me. I realized that all those stupid women who stay with abusive men do it for the same reason: disbelief.

He hits you once, no way! He hits you again, you can't believe it! He hits you again and you start to notice a trend here, but surely he's learned....He hits you again and you can't wrap your mind around the fact that he's abusive...

On and on it goes.

For me, the final straw came the night I kicked the cat off of the bed. I was in the blankets, the cat kept laying on my feet, but painfully so. I would move him and he'd do it again. I finally got annoyed and swung my foot under the covers, meaning to annoy the cat so he'd give it up, but instead my foot connected squarely with the cat in mid-movement, and I kicked him off the bed into the wall. I felt so bad, I didn't mean to kick him, but before I could check to see if he was ok (he was fine), Neil grabbed me by a fistful of my hair and dragged me all the way across the bed to where he was standing. Getting pulled 4 feet by your hair is painful, I assure you.

What was worse was staring up into his other fist, cocked to punch me in the face. He was screaming.

"Don't you ever fucking kick my cat! You stupid bitch! I'll fucking kill you!"

He didn't. Terrified, I explained that it was an accident, that I didn't mean to do it, that I would never do it again...he finally calmed down and lowered his fist and let go of my hair. I'm sure there was a great pile of it left in his hand.

Sometime that week I left for work. I never came back. I left everything I owned in his house, never to be seen again. It wasn't worth it. I had taken those things that I was most sentimental about and left everything else.

He showed up at my work, telling me I couldn't leave him. He said if I didn't come back he would kill the dogs (2) the cats (3) the horse (1) and then himself. I knew threats were coming and I was prepared. I coldly imformed him, "You do what you have to do. I'm not coming back."

I also heard, "If I can't have you, no one can!" Frightening, but not the first (or last) time I've heard that. *yawn*

For quite a while he stalked me. I would be out on dates and see him in his van, parked in an alley down the street, watching me.

One day I found my car window smashed in and a note from him on the seat. It said that he had taken everything I owned and put it in a storage unit, here's the key, please get your stuff because I can't stand to look at it anymore. How convenient. It was almost worth replacing my broken window.

I saw him maybe three times (after he quit stalking me). Last I heard he had moved to Australia. While that was comforting, I don't think Mars would have been far enough.

I still have occasional nightmares about him, and a moment of fear when I see someone who looks like him. And then I think back to all the times he pissed me off while I was driving and I would take all the curving mountain roads too fast to make him car sick, and I laugh.

Fucking bastard. He wasn't even good in bed.