Ordinary Adventures

Buzzkill Mommy

2010-03-06T10:21:00.003-05:00

I hate cartoon characters on children’s clothing. Mickey Mouse, Disney princesses, Cars, Thomas the Train, Yo Gabba Gabba, Dora, Diego, Spiderman, Batman, Scooby fucking Doo. These characters are everywhere. Not just T-shirts. Pants, hats, backpacks, socks, sunglasses, bedsheets, cheap plastic jewelry, pens, notebooks and even UNDERPANTS! Fucking underpants.

My husband brought home underpants for our 2 ½ year old son last night. They had Elmo and Super Grover on them. Uch. Really? I don’t mind my son having a familiarity with these characters. Like the characters in his books, they populate his consciousness and shape his little world. He learns their stories and their personalities and I like that part of it.

What I hate is how it seeps into every aspect of our lives. The Diego plate and cup set. The Wonder Pets silverware. Thomas toothpaste. Spiderman play chair. Pooh jammies. Mickey puzzles. These faces adorn all his toys and coloring books.

These drawings are poor substitutes for the real world, but they are made in such a way as to entice the young human, make him pay attention, want more. How can my son develop the patience it takes to watch a caterpillar emerge from a cocoon, or see the wonder in a sprouting seed, or feel the power in the changing seasons if his brain is being bombarded by brightly colored Disney advertising everywhere we go?

I’m only vaguely bothered by the fact that children are walking free advertisements for these companies. It does seem kind of wrong that no matter what I do to keep Barney out of my life, all it takes is one friend at storytime to show my kid his Barney T-shirt, and then every time he sees that bloated, purple face he’ll beg for whatever it is that asshole is selling: clothing, toys, candy, games, DVDs. Barney doesn’t care. He needs more money for the CEOs of the company that owns his ass.

Why is it so hard to find a plain T shirt for a 2 year old? Why do they all have Spongebob Fucking Squarepants on them? My mother-in-law sends boxes full of clothes to us all the time for The Boy, and most of them are attractive and wonderful (as well as totally appreciated). However, she tends to include one outfit that is just for Liam. In one box it was the overalls with the Superman logo (and matching embroidered bucket hat). Then it was the Spiderman jammies. Then the Spiderman shorts set with the light-up logo on the shirt. Then the Pooh jammies. I don’t make a big deal about it—it’s more of an eye-rolling situation, really. Plus, Liam always LOVES those awful things.

I guess that’s what really bothers me. The character crap is like junk food or drugs –the brightly animated, familiar characters stimulate his brain and create their own neural pathways and associations. Those things end up being his favorites, but they junk up his consciousness at a time when his brain is absorbing information like a sponge. I know he picks up a lot of it from the DVDs we get from the library, and during the cold days of winter I definitely let him spend too much time watching his DVD player while I showered, cooked, read, wrote, etc.

The good news is that Spring is almost officially here in south Georgia. The weather will be warming up for good soon, which means more work in the yard and garden, and more playing outside. More bike rides, trips to the beach, learning to swim and to fish. We'll be way too busy having real adventures to worry about what that bitch Dora is up to.

I Use Real Butter

2010-01-19T11:43:00.000-05:00

I am not the same person I was 10 and 20 and 30 years ago. There are parts of me that have changed, and parts that have stayed the same. I still need to be loved and admired and sought after. I still desire pleasure and thrill and surprise. Laughter and happiness and love are sacred. These are values that defined me in childhood, in adolescence, in my youthful adulthood, and even now as I settle gently into middle age.

Lots of details have changed, though. I used to believe in unicorns. I used to look for fairies in the woods. I once thought my father knew everything. I used to be a passionate vegetarian. I used to think abortion shouldn’t be legal. I once felt I was pacifist. I once worshipped Goddesses. I used to think I needed a Jesus to save me from something. I once wanted to be a rich and famous actor who is loved and admired by millions. I used to think I could touch people through the medium of live theatre. I thought I’d believe all of those things forever.

So many passions and fantasies and desires and truly honest beliefs, discarded as new information becomes available. It’s not as though I feel these beliefs are now “wrong,” I’m just somewhere else now. As new experiences occur, as my life goes on, evidence amasses that changes the nature of my foundational beliefs. And my personality shifts. My body changes. My hair, my voice, my speech patterns, my clothing, my friends.

I love the flow and patterns of life, even when they beat the shit out of me. Even when they fucking suck. This is my life. This is my story. This is me.

Of course, I’m nobody, really. If we’re thinking in terms of geological time and the billions of years that this planet has existed with life constantly evolving on it, and the billions more years that life will continue to change and evolve, my own life is nothing. Inconsequential.

Fortunately for my ego, human brains think locally. We live in the moment, and within the span of a few years we do all of our living and fighting and fucking and dying, making up some crazy drama along the way, just to try to make some sense of it all. We make our lives and the things in our lives important. We create the life we want within the environment that we find ourselves. Because we like it to make sense. That’s comforting.

So my life, as tiny as it is, makes ripples. I interact with the world around me and I change it, and it changes me. I make my contributions in the ways that make me who I am. I create humor. I tell stories. I make fun.

I wonder what I will think and believe and know when I’m 50. And 60, 70, 80, etc. If I get that far. Which I hope I will. I want to be a little old lady with lots of cats and a foul mouth. Ooh, and a cane. Then the neighborhood kids will swap stories about me (“She trains her cats to suck out kids souls!”) and dare each other to throw rocks at the witch’s house. The ones who let their fears get the best of them will never know that the best chocolate chip cookies they’ve ever tasted are cooling on the kitchen counter.

Bibliophile

2010-01-06T08:44:00.001-05:00

I love the library. The public library, of course, although private and university libraries are also awesome. I’ve been going as long as I remember. By the time my childhood memories began to solidify, going to the library was already a firmly cemented tradition. My mom was even the story lady for a while (she even dressed up in costumes and made puppets for it). Being an Air Force Brat, I got a new library every few years, and each one was a pirate’s treasure of discoveries. Where is the card catalog in this one? Where are the easy readers? The chapter books? Are there mats to lie down and read on, or just tables?

I vaguely remember posters and wall art and other decorative nonsense, but I can’t picture any details, since I was always in the stacks. It was so soothing to follow the numbered tags on the spines with my eyes, so comforting to walk past and let my fingers slide past each one, thin spines and thick, fabric and paper. And everywhere the lovely musty smell of old books.

Each book is a unique translation of one human being’s mind, even authors long dead. Open any book, fiction or non-fiction, references, field guides, self-help, science, history, hobbies, arts, gardening – any book in the library. Open the book and read the words. These words were thought up by another human being and written down for others to examine. Look inside the author’s mind. What does she say? What doesn’t she say? What does he believe? When was this written and in what context? What inspired the author to tell his story to others? A dream? Divine inspiration? The Voices? So much is revealed about another in the words they write for the world to see. So many ideas. So many perceptions and beliefs and stories and experiences. I fall in love with humanity when I read the words that have been recorded, even if they’re utter shit. Even the crappiest book I’ve ever read was written by a person who was in love with it. That amazes and inspires me.

So the public library is where humans come to absorb the ideas of other humans, translated into words and written down into books that you can take home and read for free. There are all kinds of folks there, too. I see homeless men, upper middle class housewives, Hebrew school boys, hairy vegan girls, mommies and daddies of all stripes with kids in tow, be-mulleted lesbians, street kids, old black ladies in hats and gloves, assorted balding nerds, and last week I could have sworn I even saw my ex-husband (speaking of balding nerds). It’s a nice cross-section of the population of Savannah.

This is as close as I get to church y’all. The reverence, the enforced silence, the patterns of walking through the stacks like the meditation of a labyrinth inspire such peace and awe. I’m also intimidated by the quiet, invariably introverted and often quite tall librarians. These massive, silent goddesses scan my card and see my account, my reading list laid out before their giant glasses that see all my thoughts through the books I read. Do they notice? Do they make judgments about this woman who always wears black and reads books about science and botany and gardening and feminism and health and Savannah history and horses and religious and spiritual books of all shapes and sizes? Do they see me? If they do, they say nothing. They are beautiful and mysterious.

My kid is not even 2 ½ and he’s already in love with the library, too. It’s school and church and Disney land all at the same time (he thinks the elevator is a fun ride). We do storytime and he’s so in love with the ladies that do that. He used to just sit on my lap and watch, but now he scootches up close to see the books better and he even does the Hokey Pokey and turns himself around. Maybe that IS what it’s all about.

When are you having another one?

2009-12-20T08:09:00.001-05:00

I hate babies. Well, I guess hate is a strong word here. It’s not like I’m gonna cross the street to spit on a baby, but babies are definitely NOT my thing.

I used to think I’d love being a Mommy. I had fantasies of having 5 children or more, even adopting some kids that no one else wanted. A big family seemed like so much fun.

I should have known this little fantasy wasn’t really for me. After all, if I had really given myself a good, hard look, I would have seen the truth of how babies annoy me. For one, I NEVER wanted to hold other people’s babies. I would cringe inside whenever a glowing mom said, “Oh, do you want to hold her?” Hell, no Lady, that thing could blow at any moment. I’m not even sure which end is up.

And there’s another thing: have you ever really looked at a baby? They are fucking ugly! I know everyone says babies are cute, but that’s just biology. We are programmed by millions of years of natural selection to find our babies adorable. It’s a perception thing. When you really look at them objectively, babies are quite horrifying. First there’s that giant head, with eyes that never really focus on anything. So alien. And then there’s the rubbery arms and legs, totally useless and flailing. And the cries? Like nails on a chalkboard. The skin is purple or translucent or covered in gross pimples (my kid had the pimples—eew!) These are unpleasant creatures, ladies and gentlemen.

All that’s just looking at the thing. Now it’s time to take care of it. Of course, baby care is pretty basic. Feed it, clean it, get it to sleep. It sounds simple on paper, but in execution the finer details will get you screamed at and crapped on. If you deviate from the idea of normal that your baby has in her head, she will scream until you get it right. And the getting the baby to sleep thing can be an exercise in futility.

So this ugly, screaming meatbag is dependent on you for its every need. Fortunately for our species, your body is flooded with hormones that drive you to care for this tiny evil being, no matter how little sleep you get. Oh, and although the baby gets heavier every day, it’ll be years before you are freed from the backbreaking burden of carrying your little man-cub.

I should have known. These feelings should have clued me in. That and the fact that I’ve spent almost every sexual encounter of my life hoping that I don’t get pregnant. The signs were there, People.

But anyone who knows me knows that I never listen. Not when I think I want something. So I had a baby. I held him. I nursed him (he never had a bottle). I helped him sleep. I took him places. I carried him around with me and sang to him and talked to him and loved him. I am fiercely attached to this child, and I never knew I could love someone so much (sounds cliché, but shit, it’s true).

Why am I writing about this now? My son isn’t a baby anymore, and I couldn’t be happier about that. He’s 2. He talks. He uses the potty. He walks everywhere by himself. He’s learning how to dress himself. The shit he says every day is so funny – he cracks me up daily. It’s like I have a little sidekick now, a beautiful, smart kid who loves to tell jokes and help Mommy. He is amazing and wonderful, and I only had to spend 2 years in hell to get here. I now have 10 years to enjoy my sweet little boy before the hormones of adolescence take over and I lose him forever to the realms of girls and status and being cool.

I’m finally getting happy about being this kid’s mother. So when well meaning people ask me, “So… When are you having another one?” I totally want to punch them in their smiling faces. But, of course, that would be rude. And I’m a Mommy now. I’ve got to be a good influence on my kid. I can’t just go around punching random strangers who piss me off. Not anymore anyway.

This one is for Heather

2009-12-09T10:15:00.002-05:00

One of the projects I'm working on right now is about the expression and suppression of anger. This is a modified, edited exerpt from my anger journal. I thought I'd share it after a conversation with my friend Heather revealed that I'm not alone in these feelings.

***

I threw my cat out this morning. He was going to wake my kid, and the idea of that threw me into an angry, panicked frenzy.

Liam has been having trouble sleeping lately, and I don’t know what’s the matter. It could be nightmares, or just dreams in general. He’s only 2, so it’s hard to get reliable, descriptive, accurate information about anything. He wakes up crying several times a night and wants to be rocked back to sleep again. It feels like a stalling technique. What’s going on? He loves his bed. He loves his room. He goes to sleep without a fuss. So what wakes him up crying at all hours of the night?

Last night he slept until 3:30am when he woke up crying. Scott went in briefly and came back out. Liam cried again immediately, so Scott went back in and back out. Liam was quiet for almost an hour. Did he even go back to sleep? Did he sleep for an hour and then wake back up? Whatever, he’s crying again. My turn.

I went in. He asked to be rocked and I told him no, it was time to go back to sleep. He put his head down on the pillow, crying, and asked for my hand on the bed for him to hold. I complied, and told him I was going to lay down by his bed for a few minutes, and then Mommy was going back to her bed to sleep, too. Ok.

I laid there for half an hour on the floor by his bed, my neck cricked from lying on that stupid giraffe pillow. He tossed and turned, occasionally popping up to see if I was still there. Once or twice I whispered for him to go back to sleep. I forced myself to keep my breathing deep and quiet, but he just wouldn’t go to sleep.

My neck hurt. My back hurt. My hip hurt. I was fucking tired. Finally, after half an hour, I got up to sneak out quietly. He must have heard me, or just looked for me because he sat up crying immediately. Fuck! I was patient with him, and despite my fatigue I was able to control myself. I made him lay back down (crying) while I explained to him that it was time for Mommy to go to sleep and for Liam, too. I turned his music on and left. He cried for half a fucking hour.

By this time, it’s 5:30 in the fucking morning. I am fucking tired. I am angry because I have, like, an hour left to sleep before I have to get up and do shit. Like make breakfast and get me and the boy cleaned and dressed for the day and wash dishes and feed the fucking cat. Fuck.

This time I couldn’t control myself. I marched into his room and told him to stop crying and go to sleep. He started crying harder, with the little hiccupy things happening. Goddammit. I picked him up and he curled up on my chest like a newborn and stopped his crying immediately. I melted a little at how sweet he was, clinging to me like the little monkey he is. Unfortunately, my love for my child did nothing to cut through the exhausted frustration that was building inside. I was sitting in the rocking chair with him, holding him and waiting for his cry hiccups to fade away. I told him again that we have to go to sleep. I restarted his music. I laid him in his bed and he snuggled down onto his belly. I tucked him in and left. No sound except the Celtic lullaby CD.

I went back to sleep for an hour.

When the alarm woke me up, I dragged my headachy ass out of bed and started the coffee. Fed Mojo. Who has been a ROYAL turd lately, meowing loudly in the mornings and pissing me off. He’s gotten quite mouthy in the mornings. Demanding food immediately as I wake up and demanding to be let out of the house immediately upon finishing his turkey and rice flavored cat food. And I mean, like, strange, otherworldly meows. RoWOWER! MOWWA! RrrrROWW.

So this morning after starting the coffee and feeding the cat, I went to the bathroom. So I’m taking a shit, minding my own business, not bothering anyone, when all of a sudden, those freakish, loud meows start reverberating all over the house. FUCKER! I finished wiping, cursing him silently and plotting his violent death.

When Mojo saw me running quickly and silently from the bathroom down the hall, he didn’t know exactly why I was so furious, but he saw fast that his morning was about to turn very ugly. He skittered under the kitchen table, muttering and chirping at me to please have mercy. I felt I showed marvelous restraint when I caught up to him and popped his ass 3 times with my open hand, snarling at him, “Shut the fuck UP Mojo! Just shut up.” Where the fuck is the squirt bottle of water anyway?

It was of course at this moment, while I searched for the evil squirt bottle of death water (Mojo HATES being squirted with water) and Mojo used my distraction to slip away and hide behind the coffee table, that I realized that the cat didn’t understand why I didn’t want him to meow in the mornings. My rage was completely incomprehensible to him, it was random violence from a much larger animal, and one who is trusted as a companion by him. How strange and frightening a creature I must be to him, this tiny predator who sleeps at my house and eats food from my hands.

A loud, gimpy MowWOWAH pierced my reverie. FUCK! GODDAMN CAT!! Where did he go? Are you fucking kidding me, he ran back to the bedroom and began meowing right outside Liam’s door! I ran silently down the hall and found him where he cowered from me, under my dresser. I dragged him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up under my arm. “You want to go out? Fine. Fucking FINE. Get the fuck out of here and shut the fuck up!” With that eloquent speech to an animal that doesn’t speak English, I tossed him out under the carport and slammed the door (QUIETLY!) behind him.

I went and poured a cup of coffee, feeling victorious, angry, confused, relieved, and guilty.

***

I am able to control my anger for a long time. I have lots of patience, and I am able to empathize with others and see other perspectives. This helps me remain peaceful for a long time in stressful situations. However, when I run out of energy, the end in my patience is abrupt. This can be frightening for the people and animals who are around me when I finally snap. It seems to come out of nowhere, when in fact, it’s been building and building for quite a while. I’m not in denial or anything. I acknowledge these feelings, but I put them aside to deal with them later, when I can sort through them without the danger of getting lost in the emotions of the moment.

This is a system that generally works for me. It breaks down when the stresses and pressures on me feel relentless, and I’m unable to find some time to escape and regroup and sort through all that’s happened to make me feel this way. When I’m caught out in the open, so to speak, the tears come. Also the screaming. It seems like so much because I’ve been saving it up for a while. It’s like a dam bursting inside me, and what comes out isn’t just a trickle of what’s happening NOW, it’s a flood of feelings from this morning, yesterday, last week, month, year.

Mojo and I hugged it out, and Liam and I are working on a good night's sleep.

My Long Summer

2009-11-29T17:19:00.000-05:00

It was a LONG fucking summer.

When last we met, our heroine (me), was embarking on a journey of happiness and wellness. I was ready to kick my bad habits, with the help of anti-depressant medication.

Here’s how it went down.

First of all, I never got on Wellbutrin. I called my doctor’s office for TWO FUCKING WEEKS to get the prescription. No one EVER called me back. I finally got mad enough to say “Fuck you, Asshole. I’m doing this myself if it fucking kills me.” The psychologist dude had said I didn’t really need medication, but it would certainly help me get my head right while I was sorting this shit out. I read somewhere recently that America consumes something like 2/3 of the world’s supply of anti-depressants. We are a medicated society, sucking down the happy pills so we’ll have enough energy to keep working the machines. Well, fuck that. I’m taking my ball and going home.

So I set about doing all the things I said I would do. It was just harder than I expected because I had to do them regardless of how I felt.

I got over the anger I felt at my doctor for letting me down. I got over the disappointment in not being able to take magical happy pills. And I got over the bitterness of feeling like I was facing all of this alone. Of course, it took a lot longer to fight my way out of it than I expected, and a side effect was a surprisingly painful case of writer’s block, but I’ve made it through the worst of it. And got off all my drugs. Well, caffeine is still a holdout, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I worked on a plan for myself. Replace my bad habits with good ones. Simple in theory, difficult in execution.

1. Alcohol. This was the easiest one to stop. I still drink occasionally, but it’s a glass or two of wine with dinner. Once a week or so. I don’t really miss it.

2. Cannabis. DANG this one was harder than I anticipated. At first, I tried keeping a stash just for “emergencies,” but I discovered quickly that when you’re depressed, just waking up in the morning qualifies as an emergency. Then I tried getting Scott to hide it from me, dispensing it as “needed.” This just made me resent him, and, again, how can this work when I feel like I “need” it all the time? I finally and reluctantly admitted to myself that cold turkey was the only way to go. It was rough at first, without my sweet, sweet friend to help me with my moods. It’s amazing how much of a mood elevator that herb is. I had no physical withdrawals, but a heavy sadness pervaded initially. I missed my friend. I still do, but I don’t actually NEED it, and it was draining my time and money. So out it went.

3. Junk food. Holy SHIT this is one seductive bitch. It’s so easy for me to eat enormous quantities of food, and it’s not like I can quit FOOD cold turkey, so this one was REALLY rough. I just had to make myself say no to unhealthy food on a moment to moment basis. This intensified my anger like nothing else. I felt so much anger and hate at not being able to eat two Snickers bars in 5 minutes. Such violent feelings! I didn’t expect the hold that sugary junk food had on me and it pissed me off. I was mad that I was such a slave to it, and I was mad that I had to give it up. Fuck!

4. Caffeine. I still drink coffee and tea, but I have stopped buying 12 packs of diet soda. Seriously, I would go through one of those in 2 days. Plus coffee. There were days I drank absolutely no water. I am not kidding. I was like a chain smoker, only it was a can of soda constantly in my hand. My mother and sister are still worried about my caffeine intake, but it has reduced dramatically with giving up buying soda. Curiously, giving up soda didn’t make me angry like giving up my other drugs. I just got all sad and wistful about it. I’m down to 2 cups of coffee in the morning, and 1 or 2 glasses of iced tea during the afternoon.

So those are the bad habits I’ve kicked. The flip side of the work I’ve been doing is replacing the bad habits with good ones. I focused on:

1. Exercise

2. Healthy food

3. Writing

4. Fun

First, exercise. I hit a stumbling block when I got a car this summer. I know that sounds weird, but I went from riding my bike everywhere, to driving everywhere. My activity level plunged, and I gained 15 pounds without even realizing it. Shit! I’ve had to start actually working out again. This is harder than it sounds when you have a 2 year old AND you’re struggling with feelings of depression. What I had to do is just make myself. No, I didn’t want to get out the stroller and walk Liam around the fucking park. No, I didn’t want to waste precious naptime to do aerobics with Jane Fucking Fonda. But I did it anyway. I still don’t have a regular routine or anything, I just make myself exercise in some way every day. Aerobics, bike rides, walks, dancing, whatever I can do to move, move, MOVE. It becomes more of a habit every day.

Second, healthy food. This dovetailed nicely with giving up the junk food. Veggies filled the vacuum left by Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies. No, I was not happy about it at first. Anger, anger and more anger. Most of you know how I feel about cooking, so this one was tough, but it was another case of just fucking do it. What helped with this was that, without junk food and weed, my appetite plunged dramatically. I just didn’t care to eat as much, so cooking food became less of a big deal. I didn’t have the monkey to feed.

Third, writing. I love writing. It may sound conceited, but I love what I write. Sometimes I’ll read things I’ve written over and over again, just for pleasure. I love the way words sound when I read them out loud. I love stringing phrases together to create images or emotions in myself and others. I love the thoughts that words provoke. I love to read. I love to write.

When the depression was at its worst, it was like my brain was constipated. I could see words and phrases swirling around in my head, but I was somehow unable to organize and articulate them. This drove me crazy at times. I wanted the words to come out so I could read them over and over again. But they refused. Every time I tried to write something, I’d wander off on a tangent and frustrate myself.

My solution to this was to create a schedule for myself and stick to it. No matter how far off topic I got, or how badly disorganized I felt. I’ve dusted off two projects that have been on the back burner for a year or so, and I finally feel up to writing publicly again. This has been a great relief for me.

Finally, FUN! This one was a lot harder than I thought it would be, for two reasons. One, my husband and I have been having serious problems in the last year. I’m not sure if my depression was caused by our difficulties, or vice versa. It doesn’t really matter now. The point is, we had work to do. And work we have. The way I’ve always dealt with relationship problems in the past is to sleep with the guy’s best friend and move to another state. I decided to try something different this time and actually WORK on my relationship with my partner. We’ve done counseling together, as well as using the emotional distance between us to work on ourselves separately. Lots of tears and screaming. Lots of hurt and anger. But no more running away. No more hiding. No more lying to ourselves and each other. We’re still not happy together, but we’re facing each other honestly now, and working towards a common goal: Family happiness.

The second obstacle to me finding more fun in my life is that my circle of close girlfriends collapsed on itself. First, one got a different job across town, which kept her out of my daily life (we had previously worked together and seen each other almost every day). Her new schedule, plus my depression created quite a distance between us that I’m still working to bridge. Another of my best friends left her partner and moved out of state. Which put a stop to our almost daily visits with each other. It was a body blow to my already broken heart. The only thing that kept me going was knowing this was the best decision she could make for herself and her son. My third best friend still lives here in Savannah, but we are no longer neighbors. She used to live upstairs, and we saw each other all the time. Well, Scott and I bought a house and moved out. Now Jenny and I have to plan times to see each other and neither of us is good at that. But we’re working on it, mostly because we still need each other.

So that’s where I’ve been. I’m still overweight. I still cry too much. I still struggle with feelings of anger and sadness. I still have work to do on my marriage. I still have much to do in my search for happiness.

But the dark cloud that had covered me has gradually dissipated, like the mist over the Savannah marsh on a sunny morning. I no longer cry when the alarm clock goes off in the morning. I still have to make myself do things, but at least it’s possible to do that now. Months ago, I couldn’t even make myself take my son to the park to play. Now I’m back. Doing, playing, living. I’m not always happy about it, but the gains (although slow and gradual) are very real. More energy. More smiles. More fun.

I’m grateful to my friends and my family for all their help. Although I’ve felt so alone through much of this, I have had help and support at every turn. Thank you Liam, Scott, Jenny, Colleen, Linda, Brandy, Heather, Sandy, Christina, JinHi, Mark, Red Patrick, Nina, AJ, Shelli, Tony, Lori, Keitsa, Jessica, Kara, Mom, Dad, and of course, Bobtail Mojo. I love you all.

It's Korean. It means "Progressive Flower."

2009-04-20T07:54:00.000-04:00

The most beautiful woman I have ever seen in person is JinHi. In the spring of 1998, I went to City Lights Theatre on Broughton Street in Savannah to audition for the annual "Shakespeare in the Park" production of Macbeth. I had just moved to Savannah (from Texas) with my first husband, Rickey, and we didn't know anyone yet.

We were meeting people and talking about important things like theatre and puppetry, when a woman began coming down the stairs from the green room to the lobby. She had long, wavy, shiny black hair that just kind of floated around her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was so clear and her cheeks looked like they must feel like rose petals. I swear she even had a little patter of freckles across her nose. She was just wearing jeans and a sweater, but her body was in such unbelievable shape, she could have made a garbage bag sexy.

As this gorgeous creature descended the stairs, I noticed that she walked with crutches. Because she only had one leg. Hey! She only has one leg! I didn't even fucking notice because I was in the middle of a love-at-first-sight-girl-crush! Holy shit I've been staring at her. Not only is she going to think I'm a lesbian, but she'll think I'm staring at her leg. Now she's coming right at me, smiling like an angel, introducing herself as JinHi and saying something about how she works at the theatre but I can't hear her because I have no idea if I've already made an idiot of myself without saying a single word.

Over the next couple of years, I got to see this happen to other people a lot. The reaction to her is almost always the same. At a restaurant, at the park, at the beach. She moves along with one leg and two crutches, with a gait like those landstrider things in The Dark Crystal. Her hair blows behind her and her mouth always has this Mona Lisa smile. She parts a crowd with the power of her beauty and I watch the play of thought on the faces of those she passes. It's odd enough to see someone with one leg, but her beauty is somehow even more rare. I watch people wrestle with being given so much sensory information at once. You want to stare at her, goddammit! But how rude is that?!

I've often wondered how she perceives this. Or if she even notices. See, the thing is, once you get to know her, you discover that her beauty and number of limbs are really the least interesting things about her. I just love that in a person.

Anyway, today is her birthday, and I was thinking about her. So I thought I'd write it down. Happy Birthday, JinHi!

That's not funny.

2009-04-14T13:00:00.000-04:00

It's official, kids: I am only slightly mentally ill. I'm sorry for those of you who had big money on something serious like Bi-Polar Disorder, but apparently just because I'm known to shout obscenities in the presence of children doesn't mean I have Tourette's Syndrome.

Depression is an ethereal enigma. If it's all in my mind, then how come I can't just decide to be happy? What the fuck?

I'll back up for those of you who just got here.

There have been periods in my adult life of frightening despair. Grief and anger so sharp and deep that I become an animal in a trap, ready to gnaw my own leg off to escape what I'm feeling. After awhile, these feelings recede and I am once again in love with my life.

What the hell? I mean, seriously, what the hell? The circumstances of my life during these periods are hardly earth-shattering. Sure, there have been affairs and divorces and friends betrayed (and betraying) and loved ones lost to death. But such is life. This is part of the drama of an ordinary existence, right? As important and life-changing as these things are, they hardly warrant the kind of mental and physical pain I find myself in from time to time.

Anyway, for reasons largely unknown, lately my brain has once again been subjecting me to all sorts of foul thoughts and evil feelings. I really have no reason to be depressed. I have a husband who is my best friend. I have a healthy, beautiful child. I have money for bills and groceries and clothes. I have an apartment full of nice furniture. I have a large, loving extended family and a TON of amazing friends.

So what the fuck is my problem?

My problem is that I am full of unpleasant feelings all the time. I hate everything. I'm irritated all the time. I feel unsatisfied by whatever I happen to be doing at the moment, AND I get annoyed just THINKING about what the day holds for me. I hate doing dishes. I hate cleaning house. I hate spending 2/3 of my day alone with a toddler who can't speak yet and still needs me for everything. I hate cooking. I hate paying bills. I hate even planning what I have to do today.

All of this leaves a very sour fucking taste in my mouth. It's exhausting to me to find everything in my life annoying. I'm tired all the time. I don't feel like taking my kid somewhere. I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like calling my sister. I don't feel like cleaning, but I also don't feel like relaxing in a filthy house.

The combination of pain and exhaustion leads me to drugs every time. I love drugs. They are the lazy person's enlightenment. Sure, I could meditate 15 minutes a day and exercise 45 minutes a day, and only eat whole, organic food but I'm fucking depressed and I just can't stay consistent with anything that isn't totally easy. And drugs are totally easy.

Lately, my self-medication regimen has been: alcohol, cannabis, junk food and caffeine. Since you can't do any of these ALL the time (and when I'm depressed, I'm depressed ALL the time), I rotate between the four.

1. Alcohol. Savannah is the drinkingest town I have ever lived in (and I went to high school in Germany!). It is socially acceptable to drink at any time of the day here (Mimosas or Bloody Marys for breakfast).

Pros: Alcohol gets you FUCKED UP! I love the loopiness, the pleasant flush, the total alteration of consciousness and mood.

Cons: I tend to get very clumsy. I also lose all motivation to do anything except drink more and eat salty things. It also makes me nauseated and headachy after awhile.

Bottom line: Because of the clumsiness and lack of mental organization, if it's just me and Liam I can't have more than one. After he's gone to bed for the night, though...

2. Cannabis. My personal favorite ever. It's touchy to talk about because our government has made the growth and ownership of this amazing plant illegal for some reason. And almost everyone has a bias one way or another about this herb. You either love it or hate it.

Pros: A feeling of euphoria that lasts for hours with no side effects.

Cons: Years ago, some ignorant fucktards made this plant illegal. Since I could lose my son over this one, and I love my son more than cannabis, my beloved herb has been forced to take a back seat in the last few years.

Bottom line: If this plant was legal, my backyard would be full of beautiful, flowering plants that smelled like heaven.

3. Junk food. This is the incarnation of my impulsive nature. Snickers bars, Paul Newman's peanut butter cups, baked Doritos, soft baked chocolate chip cookies, rice krispie treats -- all of it in a shiny, colorful package just waiting to be ripped open and consumed immediately. This is the epitome of my hedonistic nature. Tear open the paper of a 3 Musketeers bar and taste that nougat RIGHT NOW!!!

Pros: Sensations of sweet and creamy swirling around in my mouth chase all painful thoughts from my brain. Taste is such a powerful sense.

Cons: The high is over as soon as I swallow the last bite.

Bottom line: Of all the drugs I do, this one is the most expensive. Especially for such a momentary high. It's just too much cost for not enough payoff.

4. Caffeine. Surprisingly, this one will be the toughest to stop. Right now I drink 2-3 cups of coffee in the morning, then 2-5 caffeinated sodas throughout the afternoon. Sometimes, I make a pitcher of black or green iced tea, then drink the half gallon in one day.

Pros: Totally legal, socially acceptable and available EVERYWHERE. It's what keeps my house clean and my kid entertained.

Cons: Horribly destructive to the adrenal glands. More addictive than alcohol. Heavy use is more expensive than weed.

Bottom line: I know I'd have more real energy if I just detoxed from caffeine. This drug is not my favorite, really, so I'm surprised that I always have SUCH a hard time giving this one up.

OK, so those are my drugs of choice at this point in my life. At other times, there have been cigarettes and hallucinogens and other various ways to get high, but here's what I'm working with right now.

SO..... I got tired of feeling like shit and self-medicating all the time, and I went to see a counselor a few months ago. After meeting me, she suspected low thyroid function or Bi-Polar Disorder (I have a family history) and referred me to a medical doctor. The MD tested my thyroid and when the tests came back within normal limits, he sent me for a psychological evaluation. This morning was my follow up with the psychologist.

The results? I'm not Bi-Polar, but I'm probably clinically depressed.

The psychologist suggested Welbutrin, an anti-depressant, which my doctor should be able to prescribe. We agreed, however, that if I'm going to try a new drug, I should get off all my old ones.

So here we are.

My treatment plan: For the next two weeks, I will be taking my new drug while keeping track of my other drug use.

May 1: My wedding anniversary. This is my quit date for my Big Four. I've arranged for my mom to take my son for the whole weekend. My husband and I will spend the weekend alone, and I will not be doing my usual drugs. This gives me a few days to deal with any withdrawal symptoms (especially from the caffeine!!!).

My expectations: The Welbutrin will support my efforts to quit my other shit. Also, I've given myself a time limit for the anti-depressant. I'll do the legal drug (and quit all the others) until my birthday in August. My hope is by then my life will have gotten a grip on itself.

So there's my Not Funny blog. I've avoided writing lately because my sense of humor is down to nothing, and why post something if it's not funny? Why do anything if it's not funny? I mean, seriously.

Happy April Fools Day

2009-03-30T13:50:00.000-04:00

In honor of April Fools Day, here is the story of my favorite prank I ever pulled. First, let's set the scene. It's the spring of 1994. I am 22 years old, a theatre student in college in Texas. I am dating a fellow acting student who is, shockingly, just as melodramatic as I am.

The details of the beginning of the story are lost somewhere in the murky depths of old memory, but the prank grew spontaneously at a party one night as all the crazy theatre rats got drunk together. My boyfriend, David, was pissing me off for some reason I can no longer remember. It was common for us to fight, so it could have been anything really. What made that night special was that I was in a very evil yet creative mood. Plus, David had also somehow managed to piss off his roommates as well. This was how it started...

I went to Bart and Mike to complain about David. As the guys who lived with him, I often consulted them on my David problems. When they told me they were annoyed with him, too this particular evening, a plan formed in my brain.

"I want to get him back," I said. "He pulls this shit on me all the time."

Bart gave me a look. Or he was really drunk. "What do you mean?"

"Do you guys want to help me scare the shit out of him?" I asked, keeping as straight and serious a face as possible.

Mike grinned his toothy lion grin and grunted his drunken approval.

I quickly explained my plan and dispatched my minions. Bart and Mike loudly announced that they were going camping so they could go fishing in the morning, so they better leave the party now and all. Twenty minutes later, I convinced David to take me back to his room and do naughty things to me, since his roommates were gone for the night.

We went back to his apartment, where Bart and Mike were already hiding in the bedroom closet, waiting and trying to be quiet. I got David into bed.

"Do you want me?" I asked in my sexiest voice.

"Yes," he replied, groping drunkenly in the dark. I heard one of the guys stifling a snicker in the closet. I moaned a little to cover up the noise. Dammit, not yet!

"Tell me what you want me to do to you!" I demanded, unbuttoning my shirt slowly. David was a drunk and horny college guy, so he was quite happily in the palm of my hand at that moment. He began explaining in vivid and colorful detail all that he had in mind for that evening. I thought Bart and Mike were going to blow it they were trying so hard not to laugh. David never heard them. He was focused on one thing, and one thing only.

I finally decided he'd had enough, and it was time to bring the hammer down.

"Well then," I said, "These pants have GOT to come OFF!"

That was the prearranged signal Mike and Bart had been waiting for. They burst out of the closet, screaming and waving their arms, "AAAAAAAGGHGHHHH!!!!!"

David freaked smooth out. He shot 2 feet straight up into the air (still not sure how that is possible, but I saw it with my own eyes!) and leaped out of bed, pushing past all three of us and running out the door, leaving me and Bart and Mike slumped on the floor, laughing hysterically.

He didn't speak to all three of us for quite some time after that. I can't say that I blame him. It was a cruel trick. But I can't take it back. And it was fucking hilarious.

Epilogue: David survived a two year relationship with me and I don't think he suffered any lasting scars. He is now happily married with a beautiful family, and I hope he thinks this story is as funny as I do.

Winter is Dumb

2009-01-23T06:08:00.000-05:00

The cold is wrong. So, so wrong. And when I say wrong I mean evil. If there is a hell, my friends, it most certainly is cold.

There are people who say they like the cold. These people are either filthy, lying humans, or they are aliens from another planet. These are the douchebags who'll chime in with, "Oh I'd rather be cold because you can always put on more clothes." What kind of retarded thing is that to say? I mean, seriously. When I'm wearing tights, pants, 3 shirts, 2 pairs of socks, shoes, a jacket, scarf, hat, gloves, AND mittens, then no, asshole, I really can't put on any more clothes. And I'm still fucking cold. And my face feels like a sheet of pain.

Waiting for a bus in Chicago one nipple-achingly cold day, I had a startling realization: The only thing AT THAT MOMENT between me and death (fucking DEATH!) was four layers of fabric. If I didn't have these thin pieces of fabric and thread wrapped all around me, I would die in a matter of hours. Granted, it would be the groovy kind of death where you go numb and hallucinate, but it would still be death. That's when I decided to move back to Savannah where I'm more likely to die in a tank top and flip flops.

That's also when I realized that cold places are not a human's natural environment. I understand that we as a species have evolved through ice ages and have established civilizations in all but the coldest regions of our planet, but just because we lived to love another day doesn't mean we were meant for the cold.

First of all, we don't have fur. Seriously. My husband is of Russian/Eastern European Jewish descent. He is quite swarthy. He's the kind of guy with 5 o'clock shadow at 9 am. And yet he still lacks the follicular fortitude to brave out even the mildest of Southern winters without some form of clothing.

Second of all, in cold climates, there is very little of what humans call food growing. I understand that we all live near grocery stores now, but I'm just sayin'. The plants and animals we eat tend to thrive best in temperate and tropical climates.

And last, but not least, opportunities for reproduction and the subsequent survival of your genes are seriously hampered by a cold environment. I mean, come on now, when was the last time you had really good lovin' when it was cold? Maybe it's me, but I just don't enjoy getting all excited just to have my husband reach up my shirt and touch the warm skin of my belly with his Icy Cold Fingers of Death. And he's not really turned on by hearing me screech, "Don't touch my skin! Jesus Fucking Christ your hands are cold!"

I should really stop bitchin'. I live in Savannah, where the average winter high is 60 degrees. And there always seems to be at least one week out of every winter month that's 75 and sunny. And I love the occasional winter thunderstorms. And the ever blooming flowers. And the live oaks that keep their coats of thick, shiny leaves on all winter long. I guess if you've gotta do winter and you can't afford Hawaii, Savannah's not a bad place to weather out the winter.

But still. It's cold outside RIGHT NOW and I'm pissed about it. My skin is as dry and cracked as my sense of humor and I'm sick of freezing and shivering 10 seconds after my hot shower is over. I'm going to have another cup of coffee and crank up the heat.

Reduce, Reuse, Re-- oh, fuck it...

2009-01-16T05:50:00.000-05:00

Apparently, Savannah's New Year's Resolution for 2009 is to recycle more. The city, after much pressure from concerned environmental citizens (I totally signed that petition), and much argument about how much it would cost us, finally relented and started a single stream recycling program. Our first pickup is next Wednesday. At first, I was thrilled.

A few weeks ago, a truck that was big enough to make Liam jump and squeal (hey, he's not even 2) rolled through the neighborhood, dropping off sleek, new black and yellow bins, complete with informational packets (god I love informational packets).

How exciting. I've always prided myself on being environmentally conscious. I eat very little meat. I buy fair trade goods and shop mostly from small, locally owned businesses. I even voted for Al Gore. I've just never recycled -- mostly because I've never lived in a place where it was possible. So now that Savannah has joined the 21st century and implemented a recycling program, the ball is in my court.

I was so excited. The helpful informational packet described the utmost in ease. Simply rinse your containers and place them in the bin. Cool.

Wait, what? I have to wash my trash before I throw it away? That's adding a step, isn't it? Oh, shit I'm in trouble.

Yes, my passionate environmentalism has just crashed head on into the brick wall of my laziness.

I can't just put stuff in the bin. That's outside. I need new containers for the house. And even though they said don't separate shit, I can't just dump the tin cans in with the glass beer bottles. And they said no wet cardboard, which means I have to store it in my house until pickup day (EVERYTHING gets wet outside in Savannah). So now, in my kitchen, are 3 new bins taking up valuable kitchen space, and I can't throw anything away without washing it and sorting it carefully into its bin. It seriously makes me want to eat baby seals and drive a hummer while littering.

I can't believe I am washing my fucking garbage. The planet is fucked.

I mean, seriously. I'm one of the eco-minded neo-hippie douchebags, and I'm sitting here at my computer looking at 2 soda cans and a yogurt cup in the living room trash can that I was just too lazy to walk all the way to the kitchen to rinse.

Like everything else in my life, I'm working on it. Until I get really good at recycling, I'll just have to content myself with feeling superior because I don't own a car. In your FACE, Oil Dependency!

The Reign of Terror is Over

2009-01-08T21:19:00.000-05:00

We gather here tonight to pay tribute to the most depraved, unscrupulous, in-your-face, asshole pirate the world has ever known. He was a badass motherfucker who took no prisoners and never compromised unless forced at gunpoint. He was a thief, a cheat, and a liar. I'm speaking, of course, about my cat Punkin.

Yes, Punkin J. "Poopstain" Morgan III, the Scourge of Ardsley Park (also known around the neighborhood as "That Fucking Cat"), died last night after a short fight with a big car. He was 12 years old. Which is a lot older in cat years.

So we've been crying about it all day and now it's time to party. In honor of my Irish roots, tonight Scott and I are having a good old fashioned wake. We are drinking beer and talking about what a great fuckin' guy that Punkin was. And in honor of Scott's Jewish roots, we're covering all the mirrors and sitting Shiva (but probably just for tonight -- I mean, seriously).

For those of you who knew Punkin, have a drink in his memory. For those who never met this gloriously evil cat, here are a few highlights from the life of a plain orange cat.

1. He was a Texan.

2. My brother-in-law called him The Murderer. Punkin's lifetime kill list includes: lizards, mice, rats, moles, snakes, birds (robins, blue jays, mockingbirds, fucking pigeons!), and too many squirrels to count. One year on my birthday (I swear I am not making this up) he brought me three dead squirrels and laid them in a pile, nose to tail.

3. He never backed down from a fight. I once saw him square off with a mastiff.

4. He used to supervise my baths. One time his tail caught on fire from one of the candles. I put it out before it burned his skin, but it melted the hair on his tail and I had to hold him down, cursing and screaming while I cut it off him. The hair, not his tail.

5. Sometimes, he would just start meowing randomly at 4 am. Nothing would stop him. Asshole.

6. Speaking of assholes, if you didn't pay attention to him when he wanted, he'd slowly and casually back up and put his asshole on the back of your hand or your book or whatever was keeping you from him. It was totally irritating.

7. He was the smartest cat I ever met. He was a problem solver. He figured out how to open doors, tupperware containers, and hook and eye closures for cabinets. We had to keep all our food in locked pantries and cabinets or he'd break in and just help himself to whatever. If he had thumbs, he would have ruled the world.

These are just a few. There are so many others. Like the time my roommate Toby and I watched him throw a dead blue jay in the air for half an hour just so he could "catch" it over and over again. Or the time he stole a cookie twice the size of his head right from the table in front of me when I looked the other way for 2 seconds. Or how he always looked at me like I was the asshole.

So on that note, raise your glass and drink to a hell of a guy who just happened to be a cat. Seize the day and live your life with no apologies. It's what Punkin would have wanted.

2009-01-01T22:29:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! Not that I give a shit, really. I'm not trying to kill anyone's buzz or anything, it's just not one of my favorite holidays.

I do love making resolutions, though. I love declaring things, generally speaking, so New Year's Resolutions are my kind of fun. This year, I resolve to lose weight and call my mother more.

Ha-ha, seriously.

This year, I have decided to make New Year's Resolutions that I am actually going to keep.

1. I will take more naps. I will go down for a nap immediately when my kid does after lunch. Fuck the dishes. Fuck the phone calls. Fuck getting high and reading comedy articles online at Cracked.com. I swear I shall sleep in the middle of the day, snuggled under blankets and at least one cat.

2. I will finally admit that I fucking hate to cook and hereby swear to avoid it at all costs. Unless I need to make my vegetarian chili with cornbread. And even then, I shall complain the entire time I make it. This I solemnly swear.

3. I will give up the last shreds of hope that I will ever have any sort of fashion sense. I will abandon myself to this truth and wear whatever the fuck I want. I already started. Yesterday, I wore the clothes I slept in the night before (which I'd gone to bed in after wearing all day the day before THAT). It was great. I didn't wear a bra and my hair looked like crows were nesting in it. This is just an example, of course.

4. I will stop apologizing for shit I don't mean. I've been wanting to give over to this one for a while now, and I've already been practicing. This encompasses everything from the little, everyday apologies like saying "I'm sorry" to people when they bump into me, to the big apologies like, "I'm sorry I called you an asshole and kicked your chair." I'm really not sorry for much that I do (though some of it I probably should be), so I'm going to stop saying it.

And finally, 5. I will enjoy myself as much as I possibly can. I am a hedonist. A pleasure seeker. A person of deep appetites. This year I will indulge in them all with no shame or fear.

I hope everyone reading this has a great year. Learn, play, make jokes and have fun. It is the key to living in the Monkeysphere. (If you don't get the last joke, read on at: http://www.cracked.com/article_14990_what-monkeysphere.html -- it's worth the read)

I Don't Like Christmas.

2008-12-25T21:10:00.000-05:00

You heard me.

Sure, when I was a little girl, the anticipation was great, and the new toys were always fun for a few hours, but I never really got into it. My mom and sister were always into it big time. My mom decorated the whole house and we always had a real tree and homemade Christmas cookies. No shit. My sister LOVED the piles of presents and appointed herself the Grand High Duchess of Gift Appropriation every year. She'd sit at the foot of the pile and get all excited touching all the boxes and the shiny paper and bows, reading the names on the tags and graciously handing out packages like a celebrity doing charity work for needy children.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate Christmas or anything. I just don't enjoy all the stuff involved. I don't like the music, the shitty TV programming, the same movies every year, the sweaters with pictures of cats in Santa hats on them. Stuff like that. Our culture is so saturated with these images and memes at this time of year. Santa. Jesus. Red and green. Lights. Pine trees. Reindeer. Jingle bells. It's just everywhere and after awhile I'm just tired of it.

I think in economics it's called the Law of Diminishing Returns. In regular people speak, it just gets old fast. I think I first started hearing Christmas music in retail stores this year in September. I almost passed out with anger, realizing that if it starts in September, I will be burned out before Halloween. Fuck.

This year actually wasn't too bad. I got to spend time with my sister and her family (I don't see them enough). My sister has twin 3 year old little girls who are quite insane. I'm imagining a bloody coup in another few years in which the Twinzillas will gain power over the Great Handing Out of Presents. It was just chaos at Grandma's house tonight. There were torn gift boxes lying in 2 foot drifts against the chairs. The sounds of ripping paper were punctuated by screams and cries of, "Sissy won't SHARE!" I was drinking Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. Ho, ho, ho.

So I'm home now. Scott is passed out snoring in the next room (also courtesy of the Captain), and my son is in his crib sleeping off his Christmas high (he got new stuffed animals -- woo hoo).

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night's sleep.

The Gateway Drug

2008-12-18T21:28:00.000-05:00

I love getting high. I'm a thrill seeker. When I was a little girl, I would roll down hills and spin until I fell down, just to get the dizzy high. I loved roller coasters and tilt-a-ma-thingys. I rode bikes and horses as fast as they'd go just for that butterfly feeling in my stomach. I used to try to hold my breath until I passed out, but I never succeeded. I also never played the "choking game" that some kids played, but that was only because I never heard of it. I sniffed markers with my sister. I blew up balloons (major cool headrush). I picked fights with tough girls. And of course, once adolescence was in full swing, boys became a very precious high, one that was constantly sought and obsessed over.

So it should come as no real surprise to anyone that I would eventually turn to drugs to alter my consciousness.

When I was 17, I discovered my gateway drug. Mountain Dew.

At first, it was just one here and there, no big deal. But then they put a soda machine in the cafeteria. And then my drama class met in the cafeteria, too. I started drinking more and more. One before classes started. One at lunch. One after school. Then between classes. Then sneaking them IN classes. Before anyone knew it, I was doing at least a 6 pack a day. And loving every jittery, jumped up minute of it.

With all that caffeine and sugar racing through my heart, every cell vibrated. I could sit still and feel my body humming. My brain raced through thought and emotion, thrilling me and driving me to do, go, talk, laugh, shout! By the way, this is why I've never done cocaine. If this is how much I love the caffeine high, I would quite likely blow my brains out on coke, and manage to be a colossal annoying douche at the same time (which is what most cokeheads are).

But I digress. Drugs will do that to you, see?

It turns out that Mountain Dew was only the tip of the iceberg, though. Then I went to college and discovered coffee and Vivarin. Then alcohol. Cigarettes. Weed. Mushrooms. Acid. Ecstacy. The good Tylenol with codeine. Well, you get the idea.

What started my chemical romance was caffeine. And it is the one drug that I have never been able to stop. I've quit all the others (and cigarettes were a fucking BITCH -- twice!). I still drink now and then (shit, I live in Savannah), and I will definitely not pass on a doobie. But none of those matter. What I can't quit is the caffeine. Hell, I didn't even quit when I was pregnant and nursing. I just cut down to two cups of coffee a day and the occasional diet soda. I still have several cups of coffee every day. And green tea. And also black tea. And sometimes diet soda.

Sometimes I "dose myself down" (that is seriously how I put it) and get to where I'm just having one cup of green tea a day. But one day I'll pass a coffee shop and the smell will hit me and I'll find myself ordering the largest cup of coffee possible with a shot of espresso. And I'm back.

I'll probably never quit. No matter what other fun ways I try to get high and have fun in my life, I'll probably do caffeine every day until I die. Or my kidneys fall out. Do people need interventions for coffee?

I'm quitting here for now. It's getting late, and I've got to set up the coffee pot for tomorrow morning.

Sex, Drugs, and DJ Lance Rock

2008-12-11T19:04:00.000-05:00

My favorite TV show is Yo Gabba Gabba. It's not because Yo Gabba Gabba is a colorful and entertaining way for your toddler to learn about life. It's because Yo Gabba Gabba is a show about a skinny man in an orange jumpsuit inviting your kid to play with the magical toys he has in his special box. It's fucking sick. And my son loves it, too.

First of all, this show is just perverted. One of the characters looks like a giant red studded dildo. He's even got one eye. His name is Muno, because Willy might have been too obvious. Or maybe not. The main character's name is DJ Lance Rock. Why not DJ Dick Hard? Too much?

DJ Lance is always dancing behind a puppet stage, with a dancing monster (usually Muno) right in front of him where his cock should be. Another character is Foofa, who is pink and shaped like a vagina. I am not making this up.

Whenever other creatures are introduced besides the main monsters, they aren't your usual kid's show menagerie of kittens and puppies. Oh, no. It always seems to be snakes or worms, looking like penises or sperm, depending on the puppet. One episode had Muno the giant dildo babysitting his friends, two little purple sperm worms. Another bit had him pretending to be a snake (yes, a one-eyed snake).

Besides all the sexual perversion, what I love most about Yo Gabba Gabba is that it's like a crazy fun drug trip. Not the fucked up kind of drug trip where you end up trapped all night long at a stranger's house talking to two guys named Matt about their band and wishing you had only done one hit of acid after all. No, Yo Gabba Gabba is just one colorful alteration of consciousness after another. Smoking pot before watching it doesn't hurt, either.

Just when you start getting used to seeing the bizarre colorful puppets, they cut to a close up shot of DJ Lance Rock, smiling into the camera. Everything about this guy is orange. His jumpsuit, his fluffy hat, his fucking skin. All of it orange. Just as you start to decide that he's more "Alien From Another Planet" than "Creepy Human," they cut to (a close up!) of Biz Markie mugging and beat boxin'. THEN, just to fuck with you, Elijah Wood or Tony Hawk shows up to dance with the monsters in front of DJ Lance Rock's cock.

And the MUSIC! Talk about altering consciousness! The characters will repeat simple phrases over and over again to a monotonous tune, chanting until our eyes glaze over and we intone with them, "Don't stop! Don't give up! Don't stop! Don't give up!" while Tootie sings to accompany us, "Keep trying! Keep trying!...." After two minutes of listening to it again and again, I am so high, my mouth open, drooling, all my thoughts completely stopped. It's awesome.

The best part is the end, where they "break it down" and recap what they did, while dancing and repeating the songs to a funky dance beat. Quick shots of monsters, real kids dancing, bright graphics, and DJ Lance Rock high kicking. It's like rolling on X at the club with the black lights, except my kid has the pacifier, not me.

Yes, sex, drugs, and DJ Lance Rock. Maybe I should take Liam to the park more...

Oh, and for those who don't know what I'm talking about: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggrOcBWqHiU Puff, puff, pass and enjoy!

The Best Kiss Ever

2008-12-10T12:40:00.000-05:00

I had my first real kiss when I was eight. It sounds awfully young, I know. The boy was only 9 and to this day I don't know where he learned to kiss like that. I remember thinking, "This is like in the movies."

Once I had a taste for it, that was it. I spent the next 10 years kissing as many boys as I possibly could (after that I discovered sex, but until then, it was all about the making out). I kissed boys in games of Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle. Sometimes I made out with a guy once and neither of us spoke of it again. I once kissed an American boy in Cairo, Egypt. I kissed German boys. I kissed jocks, rebels and nerds. I made out with a man 20 years older than me. I kissed boys when I already had a boyfriend. One time I kissed a boy who was so Baptist, he cried afterward because French kissing to him was like sex before marriage, and I, Jezebel, had driven him to sin. I even kissed a girl once.

So last week, my 16 month old son kissed me for the first time. I totally cried. I've been asking for kisses for weeks now, but he'd only kiss his stuffed animals or my mom. Little Shit. But when I asked yesterday and expected the usual head shake and brush off, I was surprised by his sweet little face moving forward! His wet, drooly toddler lips pooched out in a pucker that would cause most adult humans to react with appropriate disgust. But this was my child. A human being that I pushed out of my body, covered in blood and shit. This real little person, related to me in a way no other man on this earth has been, reached out to kiss me.

And that was the best one. I don't see how it could be topped.

Unless I have grandkids someday...

Rude Awakening

2008-12-09T14:28:00.000-05:00

I was at work the other day. The store had closed for the day and I was picking up a few hours for a little extra cash. I was working at the scale by the window, staring off into space.

I noticed a man crossing the street coming towards the sidewalk in front of the window. He's a middle aged black man, wearing workout clothes and an iPod. He's fucking staring at me.

Goddammit. Mind your fucking business dude. What an asshole. He's just walking towards me, staring like I'm not really human. Jesus Christ. I have feelings, dickhead.

He approaches the window, walks by slowly, then backs up to "talk" to me through the window. What fucking balls this guy has. Backing the fuck up just to get a better look at my tits. Eat shit, buddy. I hope you rot in hell, pervert.

Then he mouths the question, "Are y'all still open?"

Oh. My. God.

I was so embarrassed that I couldn't even look at him anymore. He must have thought I was retarded because I just slowly looked away from him, ignoring him completely. I had been giving Stink Eye to a jogger who just wanted to know if we were still open to sell him a bottle of water.

I am not 23 anymore.

Handy Girl

2008-12-09T13:35:00.000-05:00

I just reconnected with a friend from college. Her name is Samantha, and she is completely awesome. So many memories came flooding back, some you'd have to have been there, some we shall never speak of again (I swear to god I had no idea she was in Mike's bunk!), but the Handy Girl memories were bright and clear and simply must be shared.

Sam has cerebral palsy. It's integral to the story. In college she was skinny as a reed, with long, straight dark hair and big bedroom eyes. Her cerebral palsy affected her motor control, mostly her walk.

Her range of motion in her limbs was slightly limited, so she walked with her knees together, and her ass would sway from side to side as she walked. I called it her "sexy swish." It would occasionally throw her off balance, so it got automatic with everyone that whoever was walking with Sam held an arm out for her to hang on to so she wouldn't have to worry about it.

Sam held interesting conversations. I think she was an Education major and a Theatre minor (which is how she wound up slumming with the Theatre rats). Her mind was sharp and her sense of humor quirky. This is one of the many reasons we got along so well. I love sharp, quirky women.

One of the things we talked about was people's perceptions of the handicapped (disabled, differently abled, crippled, shit -- pick your PC label). We both thought it was funny that people often saw Sam's physical disability and assumed that she had limited mental capacity as well. She said she couldn't count the times some asshole spoke slowly and with small words without even bothering to listen to her first. We decided it was either ignorant, condescending, or just plain rude.

So why not have some fun and fuck with some people?

This is how Handy Girl was born. In retrospect, I wish we'd come up with a snappier or more clever name for our little game, like Cerebral Ballsy or Bowling for Fucktards. But Handy Girl is the name that stuck.

Here's how it went. We'd go to Albertson's or Winn Dixie and start cruising the aisles, me wearing my best expression of the hatred born of obligation. Totally ignoring Sam, who would clutch my arm and stagger after me, drooling and making baby talk noises. She'd occasionally stop to caress the onions or to reach out for something shiny. The conversation would then go something like this:

Me: "Jesus, what now?"

Sam: "Agaaah ahhh!" She bobs up and down, jerking my arm and pointing to something brightly colored.

Me: "Come ON! We can't stop for everything, Retard!" Flashing eyes and angry looks from me.

Sam: "I sorry..." Very slurred. She reaches up to drag her fingers down my face.

Me: "Quit it! Jesus Christ you're retarded! I fucking HATE it when Mom makes me bring you!" I jerk my arm, throwing her off balance. She falls to the floor.

Sam: "I love you! I love you!" Lispy and slurred as she grabs at me, scrambling to get up.

Me: "Shut UP! GodDAMN it! We're going!"

We never had the nerve to do it long. And I got the worst Stink Eye from people. I have never gotten dirtier looks than when playing Handy Girl. Sam and I would race as fast as she could swish back to the car, laughing our asses off.

Thinking about it now, it's a pretty fucked up thing to do. But shit, I was young and really full of myself at the time. I wonder if any of the people who saw us still remember it.

I'm so glad I'm back in touch with Sam. My favorite people have always been the ones who are creative and committed enough to match me, and unafraid to be my partner in crime.

Judge me if you will for playing mind games with people, but I take nothing back and I make nothing up.

What do you mean, "What was that noise?"

2008-12-08T14:56:00.000-05:00

Seriously, I thought it would be the queefing.

Of all the things that have changed about my body since having a baby, I was positive that the thing that would be guaranteed to embarrass the shit out of me in public at some point in the future would be the queefing.

You see, delivering a human through the vaginal canal changes its shape. This I knew, but it wasn't until doing yoga in my living room after Liam was born that I discovered how this would affect my life. When I executed a forward straddle fold, I felt a curious fhooping sensation in my vagina.

What the fuck was that?

I slowly rolled up from the pose, and air was pushed out my twat in a great honking queef. I collapsed in a pile of horrified laughter.

I composed myself and continued, and it didn't happen every time, but it would happen often enough and without warning. I was terrified of ever going to a public yoga class ever again. How could I? It's bad enough when people fall asleep and snore at the end when you're supposed to be meditating, but how about breathing deeply and then hearing a nice flapping queef from 2 feet away? Namaste!

But it wasn't the queefing.

My friends Jenny and Colleen have been bugging me to go to their yoga class with them, and finally, I caved in. Jenny promised that if we did straddle forward fold, she would develop a sudden coughing fit. I have such great friends.

The class went great. No queefing at all. So I went again yesterday.

We did the shoulder stand pose, which I was totally surprised that I could still do. I hoisted my big, cheesy ass up and propped it on my elbows. So far, so good. I lifted my legs slowly until I was practically upside down. That's when my belly slid down onto my tits. Which were already resting on my chin.

This rather surprised me, since I've mostly lost the baby weight, and my belly didn't look like this in the shoulder stand pose BEFORE Liam was born. But, hey, wow, I guess this is how my body has changed.

Just as I begin to make peace with my new (upside down) belly, the instructor tells us to take it from the shoulder stand to the plough, meaning: now that you're upside down, throw your legs back over your head until your feet touch the ground. Seriously.

And as I lower my feet and scrunch my body further into a ball, my boobs and belly roll clear up over my nose and mouth and suddenly, I'm being suffocated by my own giant tits.

I had to roll back up rather quickly just to take a breath. I tried to be cool, but the instructor saw me and became concerned that perhaps I was overdoing it and got dizzy. Then I had to explain what it really was to the class. It was pretty fucked up embarrassing to tell a roomful of limber women that I just choked on one of my enormous breasts.

I swear I thought it would be the queefing.

(PS I'm going back next week. Shit, why not?)