Me to Ex: Medication is a perfectly valid component of therapy.
Me to Dr. Zen: Oh, I don't know as I need any medication.
Me to Ex: You quit taking it because it's making you fat? Fat is a small price to pay for mental stability, I think.
Me to Dr. Bod: If this stuff makes me fat, forget it.
Me to Chica: It's so frustrating when they can't see that their strategies aren't working!
Me to Ex: I simply cannot believe that my approach is not working here.
Hmmm.
Dr. Bod: So what's going on?
Me: Well, I can't really get to sleep, except then I can't wake up, and I don't seem to be able to quit gaining weight. Except I don't really eat. But I can't seem to get my ass in gear to exercise. But I can't really get anything done. I feel like I'm in college, you know, sort of perpetually hungover and with no real sense of purpose or the ability to operate in the world. At all. Mostly. And I cry a lot.
Dr. Bod: Mmm hmm.
Me: So I'm thinking it's my liver.
Dr. Bod: Mmmmmm hm.
Me: Or IsupposeImightbealittledepressed.
Dr. Bod: MMM HMMMM.
Me: But I'm seeing Dr. Zen this afternoon.
Dr. Bod: Good.
Me: And I suppose I could discuss the possibilities with her blah blah blah.
Dr. Bod: Yeeees. Tell her I'll be here until 4.
Me: So I suppose I might be a little depressed and I suppose I've been feeling this way for oh, about 2 years and especially the last two months and I keep crying over, like, paper cups and I have no motivation and all that but I'm not really sure it's all that big of a deal. But I suppose we should discuss whether medication might be in order. Boohoohoo.
Dr. Zen: Sleeping problems?
Me: Uhhhh...yeah.
Dr. Zen: Appetite?
Me: Uhhhh...no.
Dr. Zen: Ability to focus?
Me: Huh?
Me: Boohoohoo.
Dr. Zen: Sex drive?
Me: Boohoohoohahaha. That would be a disadvantage considering that I have no where to drive to.
Dr. Zen: So. You're using humor to control the conversation so you don't have to think about being depressed. Does that seem incongruous?
Me: Nope, not really. That's pretty much modus operandi for me. Nothing incongruous about that. I'm sorry, I don't think I'm getting the question.
Dr. Zen: Mmmm hmmm.
Many doctors hummed many hums. I like to bring the arts and sciences together.
Friday, April 29, 2005
As good as it gets??
All that goody-goodying and all I get is purgatory? Screw you guys, I'm going home.
The Dante's Inferno Test has sent you to Purgatory!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Take the Dante's" Inferno Test
The Dante's Inferno Test has sent you to Purgatory!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Extreme |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Moderate |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Moderate |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Very Low |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Moderate |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Very Low |
| Level 7 (Violent) | Low |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | Moderate |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | Low |
Take the Dante's" Inferno Test
Pie from HELL
All right, Smartie Professors--and any other brainiacs out there--I am BEGGING you. Leave your Friday Shuffles long enough to figure out this damned pie thingie. It is driving Trisha, Amy, and me STARK RAVING MAD. And I'd venture to say we're all close enough to already being there that pushing us over the edge is just not a good plan. I cannot get past 16 bites. I've tried going around the edge with the radius of the bite. I've tried working in lines. Triangles. Squares. Concentric circles. I NEVER LIKED F***** GEOMETRY!! FIIIIIIX IIIIIT!
Ahem. Thank you.
Ahem. Thank you.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Nothing green
And then it snowed.
If you've ever lived where snow falls, you know why I love that Yeats poem. Or you know a little of it. People talk about the wild blue yonder and the endless sky, but if you want endless, you have to stand out in the open and look up into white infinity. If it snows at night, and you're near a city, you can look out into the dark and watch the sky stretch out pale before you, lit from beneath. There's something...still...about it that I can't really put into words.
I'm always glad when the days start warming up and the trees burst into life again, but this year I felt a little twinge of sadness about moving ahead into the hot months ahead. I don't know why. Of course, every year we get a late snow that (at best) buries the grass or (at worst) presses down the trees, crippling them and sending everyone out in the middle of the night in a panic, with brooms and shovels and rakes, to shake off the branches before they snap. So I shouldn't have been surprised last night when the fat rain drops turned to a drizzle, and then to downy flakes. I stood at the picture window that looks out of the dining room, into the backyard and onto my poor purple (and now icy) lilacs. The flakes were huge...The size of silver dollars. I was feeling somewhat annoyed by this fickle climate, as I leaned my forehead against the pane, but then I tilted my gaze up into the sky.
It was like being inside a snow globe--the cold glass against my temple, the huge flakes pouring down, nearly on top of me, out of an endless expanse of white. It was incredible. And I thought, Wow. Sometimes when things seem really shitty, all you really need to do is look up.
If you've ever lived where snow falls, you know why I love that Yeats poem. Or you know a little of it. People talk about the wild blue yonder and the endless sky, but if you want endless, you have to stand out in the open and look up into white infinity. If it snows at night, and you're near a city, you can look out into the dark and watch the sky stretch out pale before you, lit from beneath. There's something...still...about it that I can't really put into words.
I'm always glad when the days start warming up and the trees burst into life again, but this year I felt a little twinge of sadness about moving ahead into the hot months ahead. I don't know why. Of course, every year we get a late snow that (at best) buries the grass or (at worst) presses down the trees, crippling them and sending everyone out in the middle of the night in a panic, with brooms and shovels and rakes, to shake off the branches before they snap. So I shouldn't have been surprised last night when the fat rain drops turned to a drizzle, and then to downy flakes. I stood at the picture window that looks out of the dining room, into the backyard and onto my poor purple (and now icy) lilacs. The flakes were huge...The size of silver dollars. I was feeling somewhat annoyed by this fickle climate, as I leaned my forehead against the pane, but then I tilted my gaze up into the sky.
It was like being inside a snow globe--the cold glass against my temple, the huge flakes pouring down, nearly on top of me, out of an endless expanse of white. It was incredible. And I thought, Wow. Sometimes when things seem really shitty, all you really need to do is look up.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Lilacs
Sunday found me on my knees in the sprouting grass, finally givin' some lovin' to my long-suffering and oft-neglected yard. The yard was always the Ex's territory, you see; I was the Inside, he was the Outside. That statement is more apt than I can say.
The yard was the Ex's pride and joy. Last year, the first summer after our split, I will admit to being a bit--shall we say, passive aggressive?--about the yard. As in, Screw you, Yard! To hell with you, Yard! Granted, I had a lot of other things going on, AND I generally have a Black Thumb, so making the yard my last priority perhaps wasn't as much of a statement as it seems. But in any case, the poor jilted yard needs a tender hand this year. The yard, to put it in the parlance of our times, needs a good boinking.
So, there I was, pruning the ornamental grasses, maneuvering the oversized mower and trimmer (damned men and their need for large machinery), putting on gardening gloves and pulling up the grasses from around the edging. The lilac in the front yard especially needed some attention; shooters were already making their attack on the surrounding areas, errant grass surrounded the shrub, and the old leaves that I spitefully refused to rake up last fall had been blown into drifts around and behind it. As I clipped and raked and dug endlessly, I suddenly though of my grandmother, the Master Gardener. My grandmom's garden was always beautiful. She never put me to work in the flower beds (she was way too smart for that; I had an unholy love of snap dragons and would never have been able to resist mauling them). Instead, she gave me the odious task of weeding the front steps. We lived in Florida, and our front steps were red brick. Tiny green creeping vines sprouted from between the bricks in a sort of never-ending cycle, and all summer long, it was my job to destroy them. As a kid, I hated that job. Strangers have lived in my grandmother's house for 25 years now; my grandmother's been dead for 15. I'd give anything to sit on those steps and rub my fingers raw pulling up those damned weeds.
So there I was, digging up the grass from around the lilacs. I love lilacs. This state is full of them--overgrown, wild, unstoppable. After we moved here, away from my grandmother, away from growing things, we lived in a rundown house out in the middle of the dry, dry countryside. I missed the moss, the orange trees, the snap dragons. We couldn't even grow grass. My mother tried and tried, but she kept turning up rocks. No matter how many she dug up, the ground was always full of them. The lilacs were the only wild things that didn't care--the lilacs and the irises, and these are still two of my favorite flowers. So last Sunday, in my head, I'd be thinking, Dear God, will this freaking grass never END? and then I'd shift and get a face full of lilacs, and suddenly I wouldn't mind that I'd been pulling this grass for hours, years, centuries. The grass, the lilacs, and the endless spring.
The yard was the Ex's pride and joy. Last year, the first summer after our split, I will admit to being a bit--shall we say, passive aggressive?--about the yard. As in, Screw you, Yard! To hell with you, Yard! Granted, I had a lot of other things going on, AND I generally have a Black Thumb, so making the yard my last priority perhaps wasn't as much of a statement as it seems. But in any case, the poor jilted yard needs a tender hand this year. The yard, to put it in the parlance of our times, needs a good boinking.
So, there I was, pruning the ornamental grasses, maneuvering the oversized mower and trimmer (damned men and their need for large machinery), putting on gardening gloves and pulling up the grasses from around the edging. The lilac in the front yard especially needed some attention; shooters were already making their attack on the surrounding areas, errant grass surrounded the shrub, and the old leaves that I spitefully refused to rake up last fall had been blown into drifts around and behind it. As I clipped and raked and dug endlessly, I suddenly though of my grandmother, the Master Gardener. My grandmom's garden was always beautiful. She never put me to work in the flower beds (she was way too smart for that; I had an unholy love of snap dragons and would never have been able to resist mauling them). Instead, she gave me the odious task of weeding the front steps. We lived in Florida, and our front steps were red brick. Tiny green creeping vines sprouted from between the bricks in a sort of never-ending cycle, and all summer long, it was my job to destroy them. As a kid, I hated that job. Strangers have lived in my grandmother's house for 25 years now; my grandmother's been dead for 15. I'd give anything to sit on those steps and rub my fingers raw pulling up those damned weeds.
So there I was, digging up the grass from around the lilacs. I love lilacs. This state is full of them--overgrown, wild, unstoppable. After we moved here, away from my grandmother, away from growing things, we lived in a rundown house out in the middle of the dry, dry countryside. I missed the moss, the orange trees, the snap dragons. We couldn't even grow grass. My mother tried and tried, but she kept turning up rocks. No matter how many she dug up, the ground was always full of them. The lilacs were the only wild things that didn't care--the lilacs and the irises, and these are still two of my favorite flowers. So last Sunday, in my head, I'd be thinking, Dear God, will this freaking grass never END? and then I'd shift and get a face full of lilacs, and suddenly I wouldn't mind that I'd been pulling this grass for hours, years, centuries. The grass, the lilacs, and the endless spring.
Monday, April 25, 2005
But we won't quit our day jobs
So I tried to add text to the audioblogs, but I finally gave up. Swiped the idea from Profgrrrrl, of course. (PG, how did you add text? It kept deleting the audioblog graphic when I tried to do it.)
Yes, they get their musical talents from me. No, I won't subject you to that.
Yes, they get their musical talents from me. No, I won't subject you to that.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Fill in the blanks
Some great post about working in the yard and lilacs and childhood and light and the moon and the Circle of Life--it was all right here, I tell you!
But it's sort of stuck, and my ass, it enlargeth. I need to get some exercise before it gets any later and I talk myself out of it. So...you've got your preview. It'll show up, eventually.
You know what you don't want to hear? You don't want to hear the Massage Lady say, "There are three places I can work on that I have to tell you, cause excruciating pain. The other two, I have to put on gloves." Because what follows will be sounds of Not Happiness, and they will be coming from you. Dang, though, that Massage Lady knows her stuff. After the Not Happiness part comes the Thank You Jesus I Am Healed part, where your hip actually moves and stuff! Which means you will go back to the Massage Lady, even though the last thing she did was tell you where the Number 1 Excruciatingly Painful Place is..."just so you have some time to get ready." Mommy.
But it's sort of stuck, and my ass, it enlargeth. I need to get some exercise before it gets any later and I talk myself out of it. So...you've got your preview. It'll show up, eventually.
You know what you don't want to hear? You don't want to hear the Massage Lady say, "There are three places I can work on that I have to tell you, cause excruciating pain. The other two, I have to put on gloves." Because what follows will be sounds of Not Happiness, and they will be coming from you. Dang, though, that Massage Lady knows her stuff. After the Not Happiness part comes the Thank You Jesus I Am Healed part, where your hip actually moves and stuff! Which means you will go back to the Massage Lady, even though the last thing she did was tell you where the Number 1 Excruciatingly Painful Place is..."just so you have some time to get ready." Mommy.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Whoa, some-body teeeell me...
And if anyone knows what *that* is from, you will also know how humiliatingly easily it popped right into my head. Yowza.
Which seems to be the word of the day for me. Yoowwzaa.
So I hear from Orange and Jessica that Ayelet Waldman was on Oprah having to defend herself about the husband/children thing? Somebody tell me how that went. I sort of skimmed over to the ol' Oprah site and took a gander at the comment board, and h0-ly mackerel! Or better yet--yowza. Them was some scary commenting ladies, I tell ya. I don't think I can even describe it. Yeesh. The point being that I don't watch TV but I have this silly blogging habit and what good is it to me if you all don't catch me up on the interesting stuff I miss by being Ms. Crunchy Organic No TV Dansko Girl. (And I wish I could explain how it is that this description is absolutely accurate and totally INaccurate all at the same time. I am a Conundrum Unto Myself, people!)
Folks sure do seem to get testy with Ayelet. I don't know her or anything, but I feel a bit bad for her. When I was reading her blog, there were a few things I disagreed with her about. In particular, she dissed one of my favorite people, and I was all upset, but that person had the balls to contact her directly--how rare is that?--and Waldman admitted she'd been wrong and apologized. Which also takes some guts, IMHO. In any case, she struck me as a fairly thoughtful, even sensitive, person who felt very passionately about things, and who tended to downplay or even sort of deride her actions or her kids or the things she cared about--not because she didn't care about them, but because of that thing where you can't admit how much you adore something or are proud of something or good at something because you'll jinx yourself. Maybe it's the price of being "known", that you say something you do is self-absorbed--because you're sort of chiding yourself--or you blow off steam, or make a hasty judgment, or you reveal something that has you wondering, and everyone thinks you've just hurled an insult into the general crowd, like some verbal Molotov cocktail. And really, you're just...talking out loud.
But what do I know. Like I said, all conjecture. And she undoubtedly knew that all these things were going to be out in the public eye, so I'm likely just projecting (oh, that would be new). Still, if people took everything I said as my rock-solid opinion and then got all bent out of shape over it, or if I couldn't say what I was thinking or feeling...oy. What a nightmare. I contradict myself and say snarky shit because I'm unhappy and then agonize over it and get all uptight over things I know nothing about and have to admit later that I'm a dolt and say what I truly, passionately believe or feel myself and THANK YOU GOD no one cares or thinks I'm aiming some judgement at them. Yowza.
Which seems to be the word of the day for me. Yoowwzaa.
So I hear from Orange and Jessica that Ayelet Waldman was on Oprah having to defend herself about the husband/children thing? Somebody tell me how that went. I sort of skimmed over to the ol' Oprah site and took a gander at the comment board, and h0-ly mackerel! Or better yet--yowza. Them was some scary commenting ladies, I tell ya. I don't think I can even describe it. Yeesh. The point being that I don't watch TV but I have this silly blogging habit and what good is it to me if you all don't catch me up on the interesting stuff I miss by being Ms. Crunchy Organic No TV Dansko Girl. (And I wish I could explain how it is that this description is absolutely accurate and totally INaccurate all at the same time. I am a Conundrum Unto Myself, people!)
Folks sure do seem to get testy with Ayelet. I don't know her or anything, but I feel a bit bad for her. When I was reading her blog, there were a few things I disagreed with her about. In particular, she dissed one of my favorite people, and I was all upset, but that person had the balls to contact her directly--how rare is that?--and Waldman admitted she'd been wrong and apologized. Which also takes some guts, IMHO. In any case, she struck me as a fairly thoughtful, even sensitive, person who felt very passionately about things, and who tended to downplay or even sort of deride her actions or her kids or the things she cared about--not because she didn't care about them, but because of that thing where you can't admit how much you adore something or are proud of something or good at something because you'll jinx yourself. Maybe it's the price of being "known", that you say something you do is self-absorbed--because you're sort of chiding yourself--or you blow off steam, or make a hasty judgment, or you reveal something that has you wondering, and everyone thinks you've just hurled an insult into the general crowd, like some verbal Molotov cocktail. And really, you're just...talking out loud.
But what do I know. Like I said, all conjecture. And she undoubtedly knew that all these things were going to be out in the public eye, so I'm likely just projecting (oh, that would be new). Still, if people took everything I said as my rock-solid opinion and then got all bent out of shape over it, or if I couldn't say what I was thinking or feeling...oy. What a nightmare. I contradict myself and say snarky shit because I'm unhappy and then agonize over it and get all uptight over things I know nothing about and have to admit later that I'm a dolt and say what I truly, passionately believe or feel myself and THANK YOU GOD no one cares or thinks I'm aiming some judgement at them. Yowza.
I'm Irish and I have a guilt complex. So sue me.
Second, the melodramatic one:
The Cold Heaven
SUDDENLY I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?
-W.B. Yeats
The Cold Heaven
SUDDENLY I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?
-W.B. Yeats
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
And oh yeah...
Because the month is halfway over and what kind of a lame-ass poetry lover am I? First, the well-known one:
Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
-Raymond Carver
Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
-Raymond Carver
So many therapists, so little time
I swear to you that there was a moment last week, sitting on the pediatric psychiatrist's couch, when I literally had an image flash into my mind, and here's what it was: Remember those old Looney Toons, where someone is starving, and someone else is talking, blabbing away, blah blah blah, and to the starving character the blabber suddenly turns into a walking lamb chop? That's what I felt like. I had this flash, from the perspective of the doctor, me sitting there, blah blah blah, and suddenly I was a giant ice cream cone labeled "Case Study". I started giggling right then. Of course, I'd been crying about 2 minutes before that. Oh yeah. Triple scoop.
So okay! Let's get all these therapists labeled for future blogging bonanzas of fun. We'll call the Boy's psychologist Dr. Tall, cause wow, she's tall. And stunning. Wow. He's gonna look back on therapy and ask himself, Why didn't I keep up with that until I was at least 16? Then we've got the psychiatrist, and I really like him, but he actually brought up the Oedipal Complex, which caused me to snort in derision. (Aside from the Ex: "Hey, better to be blind in Heaven." We scare our therapists.) So let's call him Dr. Rex. And then there's my therapist. Yes! It's the Third Annual SBFH Return To Therapy Event. We'll call her Dr. Zen, because she once mentioned that she'd just gotten back from a Buddhist psychotherapy retreat, which was when I knew she was the mental-health professional for me. We'll call the Ex's doctors Drs. Ex cause I'm running out of brain cells to keep track of all these friggin' doctors.
And I went in for a neuromuscular massage tonight, and damn! That hurts. In a good way. I hope.
I had a sudden wish this morning that I could grow dreadlocks. But I can't.
Shh. The words "early-onset bipolar" have been bantered. Dr. Tall prefers "possible mood disorder". Drs. Ex are trying to determine whether the Ex is truly bipolar and if so, how effective can talk therapy be? What's the lowest level of meds he can take to positive effect? Lithium did zilch for him. Dr. Rex wants to hold off on all meds until we have a chance to see how Little Oed does with the behavioral and cognitive therapy. I had a nice Crow Pie over the Boy's teacher, remember the one that drove me crazy (ha ha)? I decided I needed to adjust my attitude about her, and lo! she turns out to be quite caring and helpful. We've got a 504 plan in place for him for next year. We're looking into group therapy for social skills. He's started Tae Kwan Do and I've never heard so much yes-maaming. The Girl is peeing on the potty (only after we realized that she was doing it at school because they give her M&Ms. As soon as we mentioned that TREATS might be involved, we can't get her OFF the potty). I finally realized that spending every waking moment on the verge of tears is probably not a Good Thing, so I'm making my annual pilgrimage to Dr. Zen. Poor Dr. Zen; she can't get rid of me to save her soul. I am Perpetual.
Miss me?
So okay! Let's get all these therapists labeled for future blogging bonanzas of fun. We'll call the Boy's psychologist Dr. Tall, cause wow, she's tall. And stunning. Wow. He's gonna look back on therapy and ask himself, Why didn't I keep up with that until I was at least 16? Then we've got the psychiatrist, and I really like him, but he actually brought up the Oedipal Complex, which caused me to snort in derision. (Aside from the Ex: "Hey, better to be blind in Heaven." We scare our therapists.) So let's call him Dr. Rex. And then there's my therapist. Yes! It's the Third Annual SBFH Return To Therapy Event. We'll call her Dr. Zen, because she once mentioned that she'd just gotten back from a Buddhist psychotherapy retreat, which was when I knew she was the mental-health professional for me. We'll call the Ex's doctors Drs. Ex cause I'm running out of brain cells to keep track of all these friggin' doctors.
And I went in for a neuromuscular massage tonight, and damn! That hurts. In a good way. I hope.
I had a sudden wish this morning that I could grow dreadlocks. But I can't.
Shh. The words "early-onset bipolar" have been bantered. Dr. Tall prefers "possible mood disorder". Drs. Ex are trying to determine whether the Ex is truly bipolar and if so, how effective can talk therapy be? What's the lowest level of meds he can take to positive effect? Lithium did zilch for him. Dr. Rex wants to hold off on all meds until we have a chance to see how Little Oed does with the behavioral and cognitive therapy. I had a nice Crow Pie over the Boy's teacher, remember the one that drove me crazy (ha ha)? I decided I needed to adjust my attitude about her, and lo! she turns out to be quite caring and helpful. We've got a 504 plan in place for him for next year. We're looking into group therapy for social skills. He's started Tae Kwan Do and I've never heard so much yes-maaming. The Girl is peeing on the potty (only after we realized that she was doing it at school because they give her M&Ms. As soon as we mentioned that TREATS might be involved, we can't get her OFF the potty). I finally realized that spending every waking moment on the verge of tears is probably not a Good Thing, so I'm making my annual pilgrimage to Dr. Zen. Poor Dr. Zen; she can't get rid of me to save her soul. I am Perpetual.
Miss me?
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Well...it's protein, and it's natural...
On the way to the library park today, the Boy stopped, looked down, picked up something so miniscule as to be invisible to my eye, and said,
"Did I mention that I can eat ants?"
And then he ate it.
Of course I was three steps ahead of him with one eye on his sister, who was chomping at the bit to get to the slides. My reaction was something along the lines of "Uh huh...[glance]... that's inter...[double-take]...uh. WHAT?"
Two men sitting under the llibrary overhang nearly busted a rib cracking up. "The real trick," called one to the Boy, "is to eat 'em while they're still alive. Then they're all wiggly going down." The other one was just shaking his head at me and chortling. "Nah," the Boy called back, "it's easier when they're dead."
He caught up to me--not too difficult seeing as how I was still standing there, mid-step, completely flabbergasted. "Tastes like tea and malt," he commented, before heading off with his sister to the swings.
I was willing to chalk it up to a one-time experiment, except I caught him doing it at another park later. "I'm hungry, I need a snack!" he told me. "Well, it's time to go home," I said, "We'll get another snack there." "No, I need one now." "Sorry, buddy, but your sister and you ate all the snacks we brought." "No problem," he declared brightly, "I know where I can find lots of snacks!" And then he climbed up some rocks and started eating more ants. WTF??
In the car on the way home, I explained the finer points of Why We Don't Eat Ants Unless We're Traveling In Exotic Locales. "When Papa was in China he drank snake blood," the Boy observed. Spoken like a true Frenchman, I must say. "Well," I said, "eating ants is definitely adventurous, I'll give you that. Maybe when you grow up, you'll be a photographer and you'll roam the world taking pictures for National Geographic. Or maybe you'll be a writer, and you'll travel far and wide, writing the stories of many lands. Or maybe you'll be an amazing chef, and make all sorts of exotic dishes." "Ant pie," he mused. "I will make pie, and fill it with ants."
Bon Appetit, my sweet boy.
"Did I mention that I can eat ants?"
And then he ate it.
Of course I was three steps ahead of him with one eye on his sister, who was chomping at the bit to get to the slides. My reaction was something along the lines of "Uh huh...[glance]... that's inter...[double-take]...uh. WHAT?"
Two men sitting under the llibrary overhang nearly busted a rib cracking up. "The real trick," called one to the Boy, "is to eat 'em while they're still alive. Then they're all wiggly going down." The other one was just shaking his head at me and chortling. "Nah," the Boy called back, "it's easier when they're dead."
He caught up to me--not too difficult seeing as how I was still standing there, mid-step, completely flabbergasted. "Tastes like tea and malt," he commented, before heading off with his sister to the swings.
I was willing to chalk it up to a one-time experiment, except I caught him doing it at another park later. "I'm hungry, I need a snack!" he told me. "Well, it's time to go home," I said, "We'll get another snack there." "No, I need one now." "Sorry, buddy, but your sister and you ate all the snacks we brought." "No problem," he declared brightly, "I know where I can find lots of snacks!" And then he climbed up some rocks and started eating more ants. WTF??
In the car on the way home, I explained the finer points of Why We Don't Eat Ants Unless We're Traveling In Exotic Locales. "When Papa was in China he drank snake blood," the Boy observed. Spoken like a true Frenchman, I must say. "Well," I said, "eating ants is definitely adventurous, I'll give you that. Maybe when you grow up, you'll be a photographer and you'll roam the world taking pictures for National Geographic. Or maybe you'll be a writer, and you'll travel far and wide, writing the stories of many lands. Or maybe you'll be an amazing chef, and make all sorts of exotic dishes." "Ant pie," he mused. "I will make pie, and fill it with ants."
Bon Appetit, my sweet boy.
Friday, April 15, 2005
The reason I refuse to count calories
Kim's written an incredible post about a truly scary subject that's pretty important to me. Go read.
Ah, but it's that 25% that gets y'all every time...
via S&C:
Your Linguistic Profile: |
60% General American English |
25% Dixie |
5% Midwestern |
5% Upper Midwestern |
5% Yankee |
Thursday, April 14, 2005
As we are
So here we are, nearly at the end of a very long week, and I don't know what to say to you. Come on, I keep thinking, you have to say something, you have some explaining to do, especially after all the kindness everyone's shown. I mean, really. Some of the things people have written in this last week have brought me to tears, just out of sheer gratitude. Plus maybe that little nervous breakdown I had. But mostly gratitude.
But then it all gets so tiring and messy and I realize that all that really matters, I think, is this:
I will never give up faith that all will be well. I will never give up believing that my child--that all of us, all the ones I love--will find peace. I will always, always love him and I will always be there for him, and I believe that he will be well, that all will be well.
So help me, I should've been a pioneer woman. Except I would've been a really whiney pioneer woman, and all that hand-washing the laundry? Not so much.
So it boils down to this: Last week, for no apparent reason, the Boy suddenly refused to take his medication. Any more. At all. Going off antidepressants cold turkey is not a good thing, and there were Scenes and Incidents. There were tears and thrown objects and kicked doors and smacked walls, and that was just me. There was frightening behavior, there were many calls to many doctors. In the end, no one was hurt, and everyone was hurt. And in the end, I was reminded, again, that the only thing I really have any control over in the world is what I choose to make of my reality. See above.
Maybe it's irrational that I believe in a benevolent God, or the power of love, or the inevitable good. But it's also irrational, in this world, to believe that the sun will keep on showing up every morning. Hell, I believe in plenty of rational things, science and good chocolate and knee boots and all that. But I also believe that, as a wise woman once told me, what we believe eventually consumes us. And here are the things I choose to consume me: love, and peace, and health, and joy, and forgiveness, and faith. And good chocolate.
Thank you, everyone who wrote or commented and who sent good and loving thoughts our way. You are all so incredibly kind and I am so blessed to have so much positive energy coming our way. We're going to be fine, here, and we thank you. Thank you.
[Oh, and by the way, so no one worries unnecessarily--we have a new plan, therapy-wise; the pediatric psychologist has decided to keep the Boy off meds for the time being; and the Ex really came through in this one. And hey! I had a discussion about Freud and I didn't even crack up! Okay, I did, but...well, you know Freud and me.]
But then it all gets so tiring and messy and I realize that all that really matters, I think, is this:
I will never give up faith that all will be well. I will never give up believing that my child--that all of us, all the ones I love--will find peace. I will always, always love him and I will always be there for him, and I believe that he will be well, that all will be well.
So help me, I should've been a pioneer woman. Except I would've been a really whiney pioneer woman, and all that hand-washing the laundry? Not so much.
So it boils down to this: Last week, for no apparent reason, the Boy suddenly refused to take his medication. Any more. At all. Going off antidepressants cold turkey is not a good thing, and there were Scenes and Incidents. There were tears and thrown objects and kicked doors and smacked walls, and that was just me. There was frightening behavior, there were many calls to many doctors. In the end, no one was hurt, and everyone was hurt. And in the end, I was reminded, again, that the only thing I really have any control over in the world is what I choose to make of my reality. See above.
Maybe it's irrational that I believe in a benevolent God, or the power of love, or the inevitable good. But it's also irrational, in this world, to believe that the sun will keep on showing up every morning. Hell, I believe in plenty of rational things, science and good chocolate and knee boots and all that. But I also believe that, as a wise woman once told me, what we believe eventually consumes us. And here are the things I choose to consume me: love, and peace, and health, and joy, and forgiveness, and faith. And good chocolate.
Thank you, everyone who wrote or commented and who sent good and loving thoughts our way. You are all so incredibly kind and I am so blessed to have so much positive energy coming our way. We're going to be fine, here, and we thank you. Thank you.
[Oh, and by the way, so no one worries unnecessarily--we have a new plan, therapy-wise; the pediatric psychologist has decided to keep the Boy off meds for the time being; and the Ex really came through in this one. And hey! I had a discussion about Freud and I didn't even crack up! Okay, I did, but...well, you know Freud and me.]
Monday, April 11, 2005
Sister Dagger of Enlightened Compassion thanks you
Ah, dear friends, thank you all so much for having our back. I'm still not quite ready to go into it, but things are better, and your continued prayers/good thoughts mean so much to me. And don't fret--nothing so bad has happened that it could kill off my sense of humor. So that's good.
My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Sister Dagger of Enlightened Compassion.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Small favors
If you're the praying type, I'd appreciate it if you'd send one up for the Boy. If you aren't, I'll take whatever you've got. Thanks.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Paranoid
Every now and then, the Chica sends me my horoscope. Today, she emails me the following:
Says the Chica: "Hey, Yeah...who were those people?"
I just checked site meter, and for some reason, 10 times as many people as usual stopped by today. Which is nice and all, don't get me wrong, but...hey. Yeah. Who were those people?
Scorpio:
You may be called upon to solve something of a social mystery. In short: who were those people? Later on, they'll figure prominently again.
Says the Chica: "Hey, Yeah...who were those people?"
I just checked site meter, and for some reason, 10 times as many people as usual stopped by today. Which is nice and all, don't get me wrong, but...hey. Yeah. Who were those people?
Friday, April 01, 2005
To make it up to you...
Because I've been so negligent, and because I missed you all so...I thought I'd start a meme. And by the way, I finally gave in and looked up the definition and history of the term "meme", because that's how geeky I am. Yes, I'm back and I'm geeky. Or, as the Boy might say, "full of jolly goodness". Take your pick.
If this thing isn't as original as I think it is, forgive me. I've been busy not showering. If you don't have a blog, feel free to post your answers in the comments. And if you answer and aren't on my blogroll, please tell me or email me or something so I can see your version, 'cause I'm damned nosy that way. And for the dear Lord's sake, somebody else do this thing or I'm going to feel like a total idiot.
If you had to pick five fictional literary characters who would best embody you (in some aspect, either now or in the past), who would you choose?
Meg Murray
Jane Eyre
Christina Parsons
Mrs. Richard F. Schiller
Tess d'Urberville
Which five books (any genre) have had the greatest influence on you?
Catch 22
The Lord of the Rings
Traveling Mercies
The Neverending Story
The Heart of Darkness
What is your favorite commonly censored book?
The Wizard of Oz
If you would ever burn a book (God forbid), which book would it be? Why?
Watt, by Samuel Beckett.
I am one of those people who think like I read. Try having your brain start thinking like this for a week straight. You'd hate it, too. The horror.
Are you a monogamous reader, or do you like to read around?
Book slut. Always an orgy. No less than 5 books at a time.
Last one, and be honest: Do you skip ahead to the ending?
Skiperdoo.
Writing this, I realized that a lot of these books are ones I read as an adolescent or college student--they affected me so strongly because they introduced me to different ideas of how the world worked, perhaps. I find this interesting--and worrisome--because that's the age group that is the target of so much censorship (a vile activity if ever there was one, IMHO). Also, it looks like I'm stuck in a time warp.
If this thing isn't as original as I think it is, forgive me. I've been busy not showering. If you don't have a blog, feel free to post your answers in the comments. And if you answer and aren't on my blogroll, please tell me or email me or something so I can see your version, 'cause I'm damned nosy that way. And for the dear Lord's sake, somebody else do this thing or I'm going to feel like a total idiot.
If you had to pick five fictional literary characters who would best embody you (in some aspect, either now or in the past), who would you choose?
Meg Murray
Jane Eyre
Christina Parsons
Mrs. Richard F. Schiller
Tess d'Urberville
Which five books (any genre) have had the greatest influence on you?
Catch 22
The Lord of the Rings
Traveling Mercies
The Neverending Story
The Heart of Darkness
What is your favorite commonly censored book?
The Wizard of Oz
If you would ever burn a book (God forbid), which book would it be? Why?
Watt, by Samuel Beckett.
I am one of those people who think like I read. Try having your brain start thinking like this for a week straight. You'd hate it, too. The horror.
Are you a monogamous reader, or do you like to read around?
Book slut. Always an orgy. No less than 5 books at a time.
Last one, and be honest: Do you skip ahead to the ending?
Skiperdoo.
Writing this, I realized that a lot of these books are ones I read as an adolescent or college student--they affected me so strongly because they introduced me to different ideas of how the world worked, perhaps. I find this interesting--and worrisome--because that's the age group that is the target of so much censorship (a vile activity if ever there was one, IMHO). Also, it looks like I'm stuck in a time warp.
I Fall to Pieces
So. After spending Friday afternoon, most of Saturday morning, and all of Sunday afternoon and evening in tears, it occurred to me that I might not be handling things so well as I’d thought. (No one has ever accused me of being slow on the uptake! Oh, wait. Yes, actually, yes they have.) Please understand: I know that in the grand scheme of things, I have it damned good. I am so fortunate. I guess my heart just loses its perspective now and again.
On Monday, I walked into the Chica’s office and said, “I think I might be a little, you know, depressed.” And she looked at me and said, “Well, DUH!” No, she didn’t really. But she probably wanted to. What she said was, “Oh, sweetie. I think maybe you are.” (A goddess among women, I’m telling you. If I walked into my office 15 times a day just to sigh and stare at myself balefully, I’d have ditched myself as a friend a long time ago. I don’t deserver her.) So I’ve taken most of the week off from work, and I’ve sat around a lot, and gone to the Acupuncturist, and read, and meditated, and prayed, and watched The Incredibles three times, and cleaned the parts of the house that needed it the most, and done laundry, and bought a Purple Blanket that makes me almost forget my lust for the Yellow Blanket, and slept and slept and slept, and made bread, and eaten bread, and had lunch with friends, and played with my kids, and moved furniture, and sorted paperwork, and gone for days without showering because if I’m going to be in a funk, dammit, I’m going to do it RIGHT.
Today, I woke up, and I felt pretty good. I felt as though I was happy to be here. I felt like I could probably manage my life again, in small doses. So, that’s my mental-health break, in a nutshell, and I want to thank you all for dropping by to see me (and aren’t you glad you didn’t do it in person, because did I mention? I went days without showering!) and for sending me your kind wishes and happy thoughts. You are all wonderful, and again, I am fortunate. I live a life filled with fortune. Sometimes it just takes a few days of sleep and bread and isolation to remind me.
Now, having said all that, this is one of the email messages that greeted me upon my return to work today:
Not helping, people. Not. Helping. But actually, it just made me laugh, so I guess I’m back, if you know what I mean.
This sort of reminds me of the job I had about 10 years ago (before I had children, as will be obvious in a minute). For a while, we worked in a building that was near the county jail. Our offices were on the top floor, a preschool was on the bottom floor, and there was a picnic area on the roof. My friend Kim and I frequently worked overnight, pulling together project deliverables; daylight would find us drinking strong coffee out on the roof. On one such occasion, as we both stared glassy-eyed toward the sun rising over the prison, I said, “You realize I’m just waiting to be taken hostage during a jail break. I already have my escape route mapped out.” “Yeah,” she nodded, sipping her coffee, “I’ve thought about that. But I figure they’ll go for the kids first.” “Oh!” I exclaimed brightly, “I hadn’t thought of that! Then its all good.”
Yes, indeedy. It’s all good.
On Monday, I walked into the Chica’s office and said, “I think I might be a little, you know, depressed.” And she looked at me and said, “Well, DUH!” No, she didn’t really. But she probably wanted to. What she said was, “Oh, sweetie. I think maybe you are.” (A goddess among women, I’m telling you. If I walked into my office 15 times a day just to sigh and stare at myself balefully, I’d have ditched myself as a friend a long time ago. I don’t deserver her.) So I’ve taken most of the week off from work, and I’ve sat around a lot, and gone to the Acupuncturist, and read, and meditated, and prayed, and watched The Incredibles three times, and cleaned the parts of the house that needed it the most, and done laundry, and bought a Purple Blanket that makes me almost forget my lust for the Yellow Blanket, and slept and slept and slept, and made bread, and eaten bread, and had lunch with friends, and played with my kids, and moved furniture, and sorted paperwork, and gone for days without showering because if I’m going to be in a funk, dammit, I’m going to do it RIGHT.
Today, I woke up, and I felt pretty good. I felt as though I was happy to be here. I felt like I could probably manage my life again, in small doses. So, that’s my mental-health break, in a nutshell, and I want to thank you all for dropping by to see me (and aren’t you glad you didn’t do it in person, because did I mention? I went days without showering!) and for sending me your kind wishes and happy thoughts. You are all wonderful, and again, I am fortunate. I live a life filled with fortune. Sometimes it just takes a few days of sleep and bread and isolation to remind me.
Now, having said all that, this is one of the email messages that greeted me upon my return to work today:
From: Facilities Manager
Just as a precaution, I have called police to look
at the 4 bags that appear to contain dog food in the northeast area of our
parking lot. I looked at them, they appear to be harmless, but until the police
check them, please stay clear of that area.
With the discovery of bombs in a
couple different [city where I work] locations, best to be safe.
Not helping, people. Not. Helping. But actually, it just made me laugh, so I guess I’m back, if you know what I mean.
This sort of reminds me of the job I had about 10 years ago (before I had children, as will be obvious in a minute). For a while, we worked in a building that was near the county jail. Our offices were on the top floor, a preschool was on the bottom floor, and there was a picnic area on the roof. My friend Kim and I frequently worked overnight, pulling together project deliverables; daylight would find us drinking strong coffee out on the roof. On one such occasion, as we both stared glassy-eyed toward the sun rising over the prison, I said, “You realize I’m just waiting to be taken hostage during a jail break. I already have my escape route mapped out.” “Yeah,” she nodded, sipping her coffee, “I’ve thought about that. But I figure they’ll go for the kids first.” “Oh!” I exclaimed brightly, “I hadn’t thought of that! Then its all good.”
Yes, indeedy. It’s all good.
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