Wednesday, May 27, 2015

500 Words, Day Eight: OkCupid: Shenanigans All Day

Pink and blue for the babies you're going to have together?
One thing I find particularly awesome about this #500WordsADay nonsense is that when I’m out of ideas, I go back and find something I started that wasn’t quite ready to go up at the time.  This piece is from last spring when I had just joined this online dating website that rhymes with “oh hey stupid.”  I was pretty obsessed with it at the time although now I’m kind of over it except for the galvanizing effect it has had on my comedy writing.  Blog fodder plain and simple.  I did meet some nice guys though, and I drank a lot of awkward Starbucks lattes.  I realized I’m not really ready to date when I found myself on first dates talking incessantly about my ex and The Nightmare Years™   Nothing says “check please” like a middle-aged divorcee with tears streaming into her tiramisu.  Okay, it wasn’t that bad but damn, that’s a funny line, 

OKCupid.  Or as I sometimes think of it, "An Excruciating Trip Down Memory Lane.”  I log in to my profile aaaaand I'm instantly transported to the middle of my sophomore year in high school.   All the same types, guys and girls alike here.  Let's start with the type of guy I call the Triple A Special:   Amazing,  Arrogant, and Aloof.   These guys remind me of cats.  And I don't like cats.  I can feel shitty about myself without their help.     These guys would clearly never be interested in me so of course I throw myself at them because who can resist that kind of self-esteem greenhouse?  I am drawn to them like a bad writing to a cliche.   Judging by the pickings on my side (yes I do visit the ladies’ profiles too -- it’s for the blog, remember?), maybe I stand out because let's face it, I'm amazing too.  Right?

Except for maybe not.  

I'm thinking of starting a new profile to watch over my real profile:  eleanorrigby will be her name and she'll keep her face in a jar by the door.  Ah, look at all the lonely people.   She's the one I can use to peruse the Triple A Specials without revealing my true fake identity.   OKCupid is free, but there's this premium service called "The A-List" that you have to pay for.   Then you can visit profiles without them seeing you were there.  It's not stalking per se but I love what you've done with the baby's room.  Also, people rate you by giving you stars (ugh trauma again) and four or five stars means you like the person.   If you like them and they like you, it’s time to head to the tree in which you'll be doing some K-I-S-S-I-N-G.    In other words, "It's a match!"  Uh-oh.  Awkward Starbucks Latte No. 147.

According to the "Staff Robot,"  the faceless benevolent machine driving this Hellbound Express, over 200 people like me, but I don't get to see who they are unless I pay for this "A-List" shenanigans.    But honestly.  Um, no.  I refuse to open my wallet to an online pimp who is cockblocking me and holding me hostage (Can a woman say it's cockblocking or do we have to get junk-specific?) Anyway. Fuck you, OKCupid.  You and the algorithm you rode in on.  I bet you couldn't get a date in high school and this is your revenge on the rest of us.  


Tuesday, May 26, 2015

500 Words, Day Seven: Dubs or Subs

The Gamer is setting up the PS4 to play Netflix on our, well, it’s not a TV exactly, although it’s meant to be one.  We don’t pay for access to cable channels, and broadcast TV basically doesn’t happen anymore, so essentially what we have is a very large monitor.   When we moved to the new place back in January, The Gamer, who will be 16 in a few weeks, said to me, “Mom, I don’t care about cable.  Everything I want to watch, I stream or YouTube.  If we could just have some stupid fast internet that won’t cut out on me, that would be great.”  

So I took the monthly cable bill down from $165 when I tried to manage The Spendthrift Family, to the low low price of $55.67.  Guess what I’m doing with the other 100+ bucks?  Don’t know?  ME NEITHER.  I haven’t decided yet.  Maybe join a wine club.   Those Santa Barbara Pinots.    Come to Mama.

The Gamer has decided that I am good company when it comes to watching his favorite genre, anime.   I am over the moon about this, because I don’t really know what the cool kids are into these days.  Or the nerdy ones either, for that matter.   I do know that I need to tread lightly, because if I suggest movies or music that I think he would like, that’s the kiss of death.  Kids have to discover this stuff for themselves.   So I nudge little tidbits towards him with my toe very subtly, when I think of a movie or some music he should know about if he wants to be as cool as me.  And I’m bowled over when he plays stuff for me that he figured out was awesome all by himself.  #toolforexample  #alsomemento

So now he’s looking at me with the controller in his hand, and he says, “So Mom, what’ll it be?  Dubs or subs.”  For a long moment I’m silent, while I try to think of this could mean.   Suddenly I realize he’s asking me to choose between dubbed voices or subtitles for the Japanese show we’re about to watch.  For regular foreign films I prefer subtitles because I can often look past them if I semi-know that language (español por ejemplo, or français peut-être).  But with Japanese I have no fucking clue.  And the screen with the subtitles over animation looks just cray so, no.

“I don’t know, dude,” I say.  “Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me.  What do you prefer?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.   “Well, I like the subtitles because the dubbed voices are lame, and listening to the dialogue with the English running along the bottom of the screen is really helping with my Japanese.  So we could just watch Attack on Titan episodes all day, and it would be like studying.”

“Seems legit.  How about some popcorn?”  And I walk into the kitchen to fire up the microwave.

That kid.   The one who doesn’t need cable, and wants to watch the movie with subtitles so he can improve his Japanese.    Did I say “wine club” with the cable money?  I lied.   There’s a school trip to Japan next spring.  I’ll sip Two-Buck Chuck while he tells me all about it when he gets back.   

Streaming.  With subtitles.  

Monday, May 25, 2015

500 Hundred Words a (Memorial) Day, Part 5, Part 6, and the Bulk of Part 7: In Which I Drain My Car Battery Charging My Cellphone

When I get a spare couple of hours, I like to hike.   I call it hiking but let's face it, it's really more like walking.  There are hills involved though, and the footpath is not paved. I have learned to take some ibuprofen before I start which is just humiliating even to admit but fuck it I’m 52 and life’s too short to be proud about such things.    So let's just call it strenuous walking and tell hyperbole to take a hike.  Haha.   

Memorial Day, May 26, 2014.   It’s a day to honor our war dead, never forget, and I do honor and I don’t forget.  I've always said that I may not agree with our reasons for going to war, but I have massive respect and admiration for people who make the decision to put themselves in harm’s way for a cause they believe in.  And supreme sympathy for those whose government wrestled away their right to make that decision for themselves.  

Now, imagine the (station) wagons circling

I figured the best way I can honor these patriotic men and women of principle is to spend the day in Nature.  Thousands of my affluent suburban homies (the former two terms being redundant and the latter two oxymoronic) appeared to have had the same idea.  The parking lots at the Nature Preserve (five of them, because overkill and unintentional irony are the hallmarks of affluent suburbs everywhere) were full to capacity, and when I arrived, the second or maybe even third wave of the day's cars are circling, watching, waiting to pounce on the elusive parking spot.   I spied mine open up and secured it by recklessly shooting into the lot through the exit, something I would never ordinarily do because, and you may not know this about me, I’m incapacitatingly rule-bound.

You would think, having jostled and maneuvered and finagled my way one step (haha again) closer to my objective, I’d have jumped out of the car and laced up my walking slash hiking shoes (they’re called “trail-runners” actually, to further confuse the nature of this activity), eager to be on my way through the unpaved but well-worn trails of the Open Space.  
What the flip would you call these, then, eh?

But you'd be wrong.  

Social media addiction is a killer disease.   “Oh look a notification, let me just take a quick sec to see what’s doing in my online world.”   I began to scroll, smirking at Facebook, giggle-shuddering at OkCupid (MrCunnilingus4U omg are you serious right now?), scowling at email from my not-even-close-to-being-my-ex-yet.  

Oblivious to the other would-be hikers who must have been peering, then glaring at me through the windows of their minivans and SUVs.

(hey lady why are you sitting there in your car when you’re supposed to be hiking or maybe walking hey lady are you leaving or waiting for your ibu to kick in or what)

Engrossed in my phone and how it transports me to a world where people think I’m hilarious and inspiring and to whom I relate better than virtually (haha) anyone I know IRL.  

Aware that the battery was low when I left home, I had hooked up the car charger for the perhaps twelve-minute drive to the Open Space, figuring that some’s better than none, which is a guiding principle for life if ever there was one.   However, I had failed to notice that I had only partially executed that task, and that the key was now merely pointing to the place on the starter marked “Access” which means “Hey. Dummy. That’s not all the way off.”

But a phone charger won’t drain the battery in and of itself, you may be protesting.  True, but let us not forget that in addition to being compulsively rule-bound, I also am a slave to routine.   Which in this case included turning on my headlights even in the daytime because (more irony) the trip from my house to Nature involves six minutes on the freeway, and I like to be safe.   

Add to this incipient clusterfuck the fact that when engaged by something that particularly interests me, I can hold the breath of my attention and swim under the water of absorption for upwards of an hour without noticing.   In this case, the car battery gave out before my metaphorical lungs did.

I heard that funny noise my phone makes when it begins recharging, and somewhat more important, when for whatever reason, say oh I don’t know, like THE CAR BATTERY HAS GONE COMPLETELY DEAD, it stops.   The phone battery was full to capacity, but the car battery was the collateral damage.  Once again, Irony, never far from my heart, was on the spot with a rueful grin:  I had a ton of charge available to call Triple-A (for a jump in an Open Space Nature Preserve on a Federal Holiday), to call my son to let him know I would be late picking him up (from the tutoring session that I had forced him go to on a Federal Holiday), and to call my ex (gulp) to confess what happened (gulp) and ask the favor (gulp) of picking up our son in my place (gulpitty gulp gulp gulp).

In what can only be described as cinematographic timing, the couple who had parked their car in the spot next to mine returned seconds before the arrival of the Triple A guy.  This to the consternation of the family in the waiting minivan who had had their signal on and everything (dear god please let them not be the same people from an hour ago how did they seriously not either find
Don't forget to ground yourself from all that negativity
a place to park or give up and go home).  The Triple A guy, a BAMF and a mensch, as those dudes tend to be, jumped my car with a sympathetic smile, and gave me the obligatory spiel about driving around for at least 20 minutes to perk up my electrical system and nurse it back to health.  

I called my ex back to give him an update, it was a good thing I did.  It turned out he had lent his car to our daughter, Troubled, although I had forbidden her to drive as a consequence of a some pivotal events of The Nightmare Years™, the story of which involves drug trafficking and pathological parental irresponsibility, and can be found elsewhere in these pages.  The 50-Teen Formerly Known as Mr. K. had only remembered after he went out to the driveway to discover, with what I imagine was much head-scratching and consternation, that the vehicle in question simply wasn’t there.   

With a stab of resentful glee, I un-gulpitty-gulp-gulp-gulped.  Yes!  Vindication was mine.  Every single time I have ever needed that man-boy-person ever in the history of evereverever, he has let me down.  Once again, the bad news was that my son would be inconvenienced, once again, the good news was I could be the hero(ine) who saved the situation I had unwittingly created in the first place.  

I pulled into the parking lot of the tutoring center (noting with a rueful grin the enormous selection of spaces) and, leaving the motor running (good remembering!), texted my son that I was here to pick him up after all.  He came out to the car and I explained what happened.  He didn't ask why I was there instead of dad, and I didn't volunteer because I’m nothing if not magnanimous.  I dropped him at home, told him to enjoy the rest of his Federal Holiday, and headed for the freeway where, with my headlights on in the daytime, I spent the rest of both the afternoon and a tank of gas breathing life into my old tired battery, and regretting, but only for a fleeting moment, the waste of a perfectly good dose of pre-ambulatory ibuprofen.  

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Does This Facebook Page Make My Narcissism Look Fat?

That would be a great name for a Facebook page, btw.  I better go create that right now before someone else thinks of it.  More fun with self-reference.  

This 500 Words a Day thing though.  Setting the expectation of writing a certain amount every day changes the game because the excuse of "I don't have time to write,” (external constraints), shifts to "I don't have anything to write about” (internal inadequacy).   

Awesome. I think we're getting somewhere.  

Picture time as a fire hose and your writing as water.  When that hose is coiled up but there’s writing to be done, it feels pretty damned important to get it said.   Crisis writing.  And some of that turns out PDG if I do say so myself.   The urgency of it crackles on the page. Snap crackle ka-pow.  But if you roll that fire hose out on the daily as a requirement, then that same writing, leisurely now, affable almost, rolls around inside it very limply, like, well, like something very limp and ineffective rolling around inside something much larger and loose.   (Ed:  Coy ellipsis here or a winkie, I can’t decide.)  

Sitting down to write your vegetables each day is an uncomfortable prospect.  If you come up empty, you have to consider the possibility that you really are an undisciplined dilettante who occasionally manages to scrabble together a paragraph or two in between pithy tweets and relatable Facebook memes, like Scheherazade or something, but not even remotely like her, on second thought actually.  But I went to the trouble of googling “Scheherazade” to make sure I spelled it correctly (I did) so it’s staying in.    Especially because, you’re not really a writer, yanno, just a Nutjob with fast internet and a big vocabulary, and attempting writing exercises and joining groups and whatnot are merely pathetic indicators of that terminal wannabe-hood.   

Let's face it, I have a fantasy that, despite my ham-handed use of Blogspot, despite the amateurish font choices and layout disasters that betray my ignorance of HOW DO I WORK THIS, somehow the quality is there and a kindly publisher recognizes it and takes pity on me (yeah, I know, but it’s my fantasy, remember?) and just when we’re getting to the good part, when they fly me to New York and go over the contract and I’m getting ready to sign and then <needle across the turntable>  I remember:

Can’t get famous till everyone’s dead.  As if.  

I tiptoe around this illusion that my family doesn’t know I write about them, or even that I write about myself.  Or even that I write.   There are exactly seven people who know me in real life who know I write The Klonopin Chronicles.  And three of them are friends from an online (of course) parenting board fifteen years ago.  (And one is my therapist.  I know, right?)  

That feeling when you reach 500 words and stop even though you’re not done,  or reach 500 words and start looking around for ways to carve out some to save for later because maybe you could get two or three days’ worth of posts out of this idea if you play your cards right.  

Those artificial requirements, those self-referential impositions.  

Awesome. I think we’re getting somewhere.  


Saturday, May 23, 2015

500 Words. Day Three. Hitting a Wall Already?

Conclusion: There's a reason I don't write every day ordinarily.  I basically have nothing to say.  Looking back over half-hearted half-started pieces, thinking I can cobble 500 words together and call it meaningful.  But all I really have to go with are notes from The Nightmare Years.  Do people really want to read more about The Horror?   Am I getting boring?  Yes, Mina, god, we get it, your ex is a drunk, your daughter is an asshole, her boyfriend is a monster.  Enough already jeezy freezy lemon squeezy.  Isn't it time to be moving forward?  

That's a wrap.
The answer may or may not be "yes on all counts."    BUT WAIT.  THERE’S MORE.  

I repeat myself when under stress.  Thank you, Adrian Belew.

Exhibit A
Shakily, her hand moves the phone around the room, peering into the corners, throwing light on the wreckage that surrounds her.  She narrates.  Here, Your Honor, is the garage.  Clearly a fire hazard.  The junk piled up against the door.  Someone who needed to use this for an escape route wouldn't have a chance, would surely perish.  And here, Your Honor, see how the furniture bars entrance to the bathroom, see how the paint cans keep the door from shutting.  Do you see a toothbrush here?  No, you do not.  Neglect unto abuse.

Her therapist has advised her not to re-enter the house because exposing herself to the wreckage will trigger what she considers to be PTSD.  Except it's not clear when, if ever, there will be a P to this T.  Nevertheless, when (dear god would he please sign the papers so he can officially be) her ex travels overnight on business, she is of course eager to return, to put everything back to normal for her son, for at least the time that they can be together without HIM.

Curiously, it's not neglect in the sense we normally use that word.  It's not as though he was out gambling, or smoking crack.  It's not as though he left young children alone for hours with nothing but the TV and a box of Cheerios.  More an almost moral neglect.  Benign neglect they call it.  Just through his clueless inaction, through his passive indifference to the mundane details of basic living, he has turned their home into a frat house.    One of his favorite movies has always been "Animal House."  And there you have it.

I’ve been farting around on the dating website called “OkCupid” and it’s been a great comedy-writing workshop if I do say so myself.   Many many many sets of 500 words.  Big plans, big dreams.  But the reason I bring it up today is this:  You’ll be reading someone’s profile and come across something that makes you say, “um, no.”  So you hit “hide” -- and the message you get is “Well, they can’t all be winners.”  And three more profiles of guys EXACTLY LIKE THE ONE YOU JUST HID.

Sometimes social media is like real life on steroids.

Friday, May 22, 2015

500 Words a Day - Missing Person's Report

Troubled left her Facebook up when she went to the bar, and I didn't log her out.  I am a horrible person.  But I'm a rabid mother, wrathful and indignant, searching for validation even as I recoil with horror from the notion that I'm right about what's been going on.   I read every single PM.  I take screen shots of the conversation with Juvie, the one where he's seems rather indifferent, almost accepting, of her insinuations that he hit her.  Where she seems almost apologetic about mentioning it.  She loves this monster, she is desperate to keep him in her life, despite or maybe because of his reluctance to stay.   

While I'm at it, I PM that guy from Google.  I thought she was lying when she told me he walked her home at 4 in the morning the last time she went AWOL.  I told her I would lock the doors at 2 a.m  and if she wasn't home by then, she'd be out until I left for work the next day.  But she would show up at 4 or 5 and I would let her in because I am conflicted and inconsistent and back-sliding, just like my now-ex-husband-finally.  I read the conversation that they'd been having, she and the guy from Google, and it was clear that she hadn't been lying.  Turns out he's my age, married.    I send him a message from her account:  "Hi, this is Troubled's mom, she's ill, she's struggling, we are trying to help her, if she contacts you, please let me know."

Twelve hours later I check back.  He deleted his account.  As it should be.

Idea:  Write a vignette about texting with potential OkCupid suitors while I wait for the shrink she loathes to finish lecturing her on mindfulness and a healthy lifestyle. That was fun.   Do I have latent hostility?  Make that blatant hostility.  That'll be another 500 words and then some.  Oh yes.

Write about having to cancel a promising first date to make the 6 pm appointment with that same sanctimonious shrink, an appointment she will probably miss because she's AWOL again.  She took off a couple of hours after I dropped her off this morning.  "Is it too early to file a missing person's report?" I ask my ex.  He wrings his ineffective hands, surreptitiously does a shot behind the liquor cabinet door (oh please), and heads to bed.  I get my phone and hit the button titled "non-911 police."  I explain to the dispatcher what's going on.  I give all the pertinent details.  Automatically, almost by rote.  Yes, I'll be up when the officers get here.  Yes, a recent photo.  Okay, thank you.

That was 45 minutes ago.  Now it's just after midnight and I'm getting sleepy.  I would like to take my own head meds and go to bed, but I keep myself awake at the dining room table.  I have to keep it together because, let's be honest, the common wisdom is that the madness inside my head is the same madness that caused the clusterfuck that now swirls around us all.

So done.  So done with this nonsense.  So, so done.

@Kale and Cigarettes #500WordsADay

Thursday, May 21, 2015

500 Words A Day: An Experiment

Flannery O’Conner wrote, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”  This is about the most brilliant and relatable statement I have ever read.  

I saw another quote that stuck with me recently:  “The biggest lie I tell myself is 'I don't need to write this down. I'll remember it.'"Ugh.  So many amazing ideas came and went.  At least, I thought they were amazing at the time.  Too amazing to forget.  But we’ll never know now.  I hope they come back some day.  I will totes write them down this time.

I began this blog three and a half years ago because writing helps me to specify the feelings that constantly wash over me, to capture and contain the thoughts that rush at me, that bounce off my brain and ricochet around my consciousness like pinballs.  (Editor -- is this cheesy or brilliant?) I’m still processing the events of the last couple of years.  And I guess the last couple of decades.  Let’s face it, I’m still processing the event of the last couple of lifetimes, because that’s how I roll.  All the moments are right here all the time.  It’s exhausting.  And exhilarating.  

<stops to count words, stops to google word-counting apps>  

200 words more or less.  Do the four words in the title count?    Do hyphenated words count as one word or two?  A few people wanted to know whether this or that “counted” for doing this project.  “If I write the words but don’t post them, does that count?”  I’m guessing the answer is “absolutely,” because I think the guy at @KaleandCigarettes who offered this experiment (not a challenge, remember, but an experiment, because Science) gives zero fucks about how you do it, zero fucks about what your criteria are for success.    Hell, he gives zero fucks about whether you even participate, although I guess he would feel gratified to know that you had.   I will certainly feel gratified if you join me, because maybe that guy will notice me if we tag the fuck out of this dealie-o.  He’s supah cute even if he IS probs young enough to be my son.  A girl can dream.    

<stops to count words again, even in the part I already counted in case I missed some>

FACEBOOK BREAK  <By-the-Hammer-of-Thorsday.  And the Giants won.>


Dude.  I got paid!  My payroll AND my bank both send me emails when the eagle has landed.  Too fucking much.  I love it.  I watch that bank balance like a hawk because after 25 years of dealing with other people (cough Mr. K. cough) and their spendthrift ways, I get to manage the budget for myself.  If we go over budget it’s because of spark plugs or therapy, not trips to Disneyland and spontaneous sushi for five.  (And we’re not talking the lunch special either.  Nigiri a la carte.   Kill me now. )

Word count again.  It’s 500, but just barely.  And word count isn’t that important.  I say that now that I know I reached the goal.  It’s not a competition.  Unless I won.  In which case it’s the fucking Olympics of whatever.    Another cool thing someone once said is that 90% of life is showing up.    So I showed up and wrote 500 words.  I showed up!    And the Giants won.  And I got paid.  But not for writing this nonsense.  And that’s okay.  

I may do this experiment every day for a month.  I will let it be okay if I don’t.  I may or may not post the results each day.  I will let that be okay if I don’t.   

The point is to write because, like Flannery O’Conner, I don’t know what I think until I see what I say.  

And because the biggest lie we tell ourselves is “I don’t need to write this down, I will remember it.”

Saturday, May 9, 2015


Flipping through Facebook today, I'm struck by the love and warmth and depth of emotion in the posts about Mother and Her Day.   I don't want to negate that, nor deny my sisters in motherhood their due.   I promise I'm not going to ruin your Mother's Day by complaining about mine.   It's just that for me, it's another in a series of Hallmark Holidays that remind me (as if I need reminding) how much I've failed.  Valentine's Day wants to remind me that I suck at relationships.  Christmas wants to remind me that I suck at family.  And Mother's Day completes the trifecta by reminding me that I suck at being a mom.  

Yeah.  I should probably stay off the internet this weekend.

I see all the things you post about how Mom is your best friend, Mom always supported you, had your back, loved you despite all your mistakes and failings, and I want to weep.   I can't say those things about my mother.  The best I can say is that she loved me in her own limited way, that she did the best she could with what she was given.  I forgave her long ago.  But there is an emptiness inside me where I imagine everyone else has a pink puffy heart-shaped mug of hot cocoa.  And a kitten.  Blech.

What will my kids say about me, as adults, on Mother's Day, when they look back?  Will my daughters think of our relationship as the tightest bond they've ever known?  Or will I be the bane of the stories they will tell?   Oh my god my mother.  Horrible, mean, angry, hypocritical, manipulative.  She made Dad miserable.  She ruined our lives.  

A friend of mine posted about that Samsung commercial called #TextsFromMom, saying that she would welcome a text from her mom, who was distant and unresponsive at best, and downright adversarial at worst.  I quaked inwardly.  That is probably how my daughter feels about me.    That is a narrative she probably tells.  How much I internalize it on any given day depends on a combination of that day's neurochemistry and the prevailing weather pattern.   Today, for example, all signs point to GUILTY AS CHARGED.

It's pretty unfair, actually.  Joni Mitchell sings, "I told you when I met you I was crazy."  In a similar fashion, I told my ex when we first got together that I didn't want to have kids. I didn't like children, I didn't really understand them.  I was born this little adult who lived among adults and never really connected with other children.  I didn't want to mess up my kids the way I felt my parents messed me up.   I didn't want to be responsible for the way another human turned out.  I didn't trust myself.  Clearly, no one else should either.

Mr. K. said he had similar reservations but had come to the opposite conclusion.  He wanted to create a nurturing home life full of love and great memories as a way to heal himself from those early traumas.    He wanted a houseful of kids -- six!    Yikes.   All righty then.   Luckily, I was able to distract him after the first three and he forgot about completing the set.

Fast forward twenty-five years.   Marriage over.  So much for healing ourselves.  My relationship with my oldest child is broken, possibly beyond repair.  As is the case with parent-child relationships, it is up to me to reach out to fix it.  I've been stubbornly refusing even to consider this.  What kind of monster does not want to repair a relationship with their child?    What kind of monster just sits there, tapping their metaphorical toe, with their metaphorical arms folded grumpily?  Who waits for a child to start behaving like an adult?  Who does that?

The child in question is 22 years old.    She broke my heart, she and her dad both.   The story of how this all went down has been documented here over the last couple of years.  But do I really get the luxury of that broken heart?   Who allowed that heart-breaking behavior?   Who is choosing to remain wounded? And who is preventing the healing by stubbornly resisting the impulse to reach out?   Who is the grown-up, acting like a child?

That would be me.    Yeah.  I need to do something about that.  Remind me on Monday.  


Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Road Trip! Rekindling My Affair With My iPod and Recycling Blog Posts Like a Boss

We like to keep things green around here, and that means the three R's -- reduce, reuse, recycle.  I wrote this post a couple of summers ago and I'm proud to dust it off and present it anew.   (This is how I got through school, in fact.  I took essentially the same paper every year and rewrote it with a different focus, changed up the sources, and turned it in for a different class.  Boom.  Honors.)

So here we go:

Summer is the time for travel and this summer, I actually got to travel.  Seven hours round-trip to take my son to his friend's for the week so that he could play video games at their house instead of making me look like the shitty parent that I am by playing them unsupervised at my house.  Anyway.  I resurrected my iPod to go on a road trip.  I don't know where I had lost it (that's why it was lost, duh) but somehow I found it and I plugged it into my car's sound system and off we went.  I put the iPod on Shuffle and five days' worth of music lined up at my fingertips.  What on earth was on this thing?  I mentally rubbed my hands together.

I was alone in the car, which was a good thing because there was no one there to hear me say things like, "Oh my god I love this song!"  And then answer myself, "Of course you do, Klonnie, it's your own goddamned iPod."  In a different voice.  That was creepy, even for me.  Danny's not here, Mrs. Torrance.  Redrum!

Here are some songs that I heard and the random thoughts that ran through my head when I heard them: 

1.  No Sleep Till Brooklyn, Beastie Boys.   Cranked up so high that the music resonated in my chest.  So loud that I didn't really hear it, you know?  I just sat back, feeling it thump the floorboards and pulse from the speakers in the doors.  No!! Sleep!! Till Brooklyyyyyn!  Duhn dahhhhhhn duhn.  No!!  Sleep!!  Till Brooklyyyyyn!  Nuhr Nuhhhhr Nuhr.   Good thing I was alone in the car.  My kids would have turned that shit off in a heartbeat.  How's that for irony?

2.  Lazy Eye, Silversun Pickups.  Cup of coffee in my hand + that hypnotic track on a loop +  me behind the wheel.  I've been waiting for this moment all my life.  There are two kinds of people in the world:  Those who thought the lead singer was a woman until they found out he wasn't, and those who are lying when they say they could tell right away that it was a dude.

3.  Work Me,  The Black Keys.  The Black Keys cover Junior Kimbrough.   Baby, work me, till I want no more.  I'm melting, sliding down under the steering wheel because I'm weak with lust.  Squirming in my seat, I can't lie.  "Chulahoma" is the sexiest album I have ever heard.  Barry White?  Al Green?  Forget about it.  These two white boys from Akron, Ohio, ladies and gentlemen.  Give it up.

4.  Dancing Nancy, Dave Matthews Band.  I have a live version of this song from Red Rocks in Colorado.  The spring that my mom died I would get in my car and play this album and just drive for hours and cry.  That was the year I discovered Starbucks and I would get the caramel macchiato and just suck that puppy down while I drove.  Something about that warm sweet milky coffee soothed me.  I was worried that people would see me crying at stoplights so I had to drive on the freeway.  Crying while driving 75 mph is probably right up there with texting while driving on the danger-o-meter, but but God watches over fools and mourners.  Could I have been anyone other than me?

5.  Beautiful World, Colin Hay.  Remember Men At Work?  Mildly entertaining 80s band from Australia?  This guy is the lead singer.  And a brilliant songwriter.  Acoustic version of "Overkill?"  Raise your hand if you first heard that on Scrubs.  Beautiful World is a song about getting older and looking at your life.  It's uplifting.  But the middle of the song picks you up and dumps you on the ground, emotional-reaction-wise.  Still this emptiness persists.  Perhaps this is as good as it gets. Suddenly I am sobbing.  Gut-punched.  I've heard this song 200 times and I still never see it coming.   Thanks, Colin. Jerk.

I pulled in the driveway and turned off the ignition.  I had to pee, but I needed a moment to pull myself together.  I was spent, wrung dry.  I took such a deep breath that my bangs blew back a little on the exhale.  Batshit crazy emotional chameleons like me should not be allowed to have iPod shuffles.  We do enough shuffling as it is.

Saturday, May 2, 2015

Mental Health Awareness Month: Recycling Blog Posts Like a Boss

Too much?  Ya think?

May is Mental Health Awareness Month which is incredibly good timing because it coincides with me needing to recycle last year's blog post announcing Mental Health Awareness Month.    Dumb luck or what?

So here's an oldie but goodie that I post every year to try and keep it real for everybody and I hope you'll like it but I probably won't notice if you don't because I'm hanging on this emotional rollercoaster ride at the moment by a very thin thread.  Because OH BY THE WAY he finally signed and the judge finally signed so everyone needs to know that I GOT THE D LOL.  But you should totes be aware of mental health and PAY ATTENTION  because it sucks being blamed for being sick.  You just never know what's going on with someone so just don't assume.  Unless you see me wandering around in the supermarket in my bathrobe.  Because then you should assume that you need to take my elbow gently but firmly and lead me back to the car and drive me home.  But I digress. Surprise.

I wrote this post before I even had a blog.  I was inspired by a friend who had just been diagnosed.  She was in a full-blown manic episode.  Watching her go through that reminded me of what my own episodes were like.   I'm calm enough now to articulate what it feels like to be so brilliant that you can't describe it.  Which is pretty goddamn ironic, if you ask me.

The hallmark of mania for me is how I feel like a superhero.  Creative and brilliant and simply on *fire* with wit and humor.    When I was riding the crest of a manic wave,  I used to say that I didn't need to eat or sleep because I was bionic.  I got really angry with people who said I was wrong to feel that way and that I needed to go to the hospital and take meds so that I wouldn't feel that way any more.   I would get so angry that I would snarl at them and claw and hiss and refuse to get out of the car.  Wouldn't you?  After I was finished with the treatment that stopped that wonderful, invincible, genius feeling, I would quit taking my meds cold turkey.  I would carouse until all hours of the night, telling anyone who would listen my bright new ideas that tied up every loose end in the universe with one beautiful bow.   Holding court on the floor of my room in college, knocking over the bong with expansive sweeps of my arms as I pontificated to my housemates, who thought I was brilliant, but knew I was nuts.  Destroying relationships.  Winning hearts and breaking them. Staying in my room for days, talking to myself and scaring my roommates away.  Ending up in the nut house time and again.

Now I can recognize when that superstar quality starts to burn and I know I have to nip it in the bud.  I let the few people close to me know and I go see the shrink and get extra support and all that good stuff.  It is the hardest thing in the world to voluntarily let go of that genius feeling.  I simply cannot tell you.  But I know that I must.  As great as the high feels, the low is going to be a gut-punch that knocks me flat, even though I know it's coming.  So I take my meds and I gather my loved ones around me and I brace myself.

A Beautiful Mind     
The hallmark of a depressive episode for me is not wanting to be here. I don't think about suicide per se.  I don't want to die.  I just want not to be here.  Everything I've done wrong (which is basically everything), every mistake I've made, every conversation gone awry, every wasted opportunity with my kids, my career -- they all gather together in a threatening thundercloud that hovers over me.  The horrible angry voices of what I call "The Committee" begin the litany of exactly how worthless, no, harmful my presence on the planet has been.  As evidence of why I shouldn't be here.  Shouldn't *have been* here.  This whole time.  I just want to curl up as small as possible, until I take up no space.  No one sees me.  I'm not here.

So.  Staying in the middle is a good thing.  Boring and safe.   Learning to feel my feelings, but not too much.  That's a tough one.  Because I feel my feelings.  A lot.  Possibly more than I should, whatever that means.  Apparently there is a normal amount of feeling, though how you could measure it, I don't know.  It certainly doesn't sound very fun to me.

My job is to stay safe.  To have creative energy, but not too much.  And to channel it in ways that make me glad to be here.  And to let it be okay to feel sad, from time to time.  But if "worthless" pops up on the psychic horizon, it's time to blow the whistle.  Time to remember to do the things that help me, in addition to my meds.  Swimming.  Playing music.  Creating this page, working out my thoughts, writing, laughing.  Making people laugh and shake their heads in self-recognition.  And maybe a little relief that they are not alone.

I have a mantra that is blinding in its banality.  It's insultingly simple.  And yet it works for me.  I'm embarrassed to admit it, but my mantra comes from a sitcom (yeah, I watch TV, I have teenagers, don't judge) called "How I Met Your Mother."

"When I'm sad, I stop being sad, and be awesome instead.  True story."

Of course it's not that easy.  But it reminds me that this too shall pass (god I hate that expression, yeah, this too shall pass like a goddamn kidney stone) and I will be awesome again.  Until I'm not.  And so on.  In the meantime, I have a blog.  And a page.   And a lot, I mean, like a metric fuck-ton of friends I've never met.  Who get it.  More than most people I know in real life.  I'll take it.  I mean, what else ya got?

Namaste.  And if you're wondering what that means, suffice to say that we meet in the middle where there's mutual respect and understanding.  We give each other the benefit of the doubt. We forgive ourselves and each other.  We're good to one another.   We don't have a choice. This is it. 

Namaste, you Nutjobs, you.    Happy Mental Health Awareness Month.  


Friday, May 1, 2015

I Understand and I Wish to Continue

You know that warning message you sometimes get when you're making your way through the blogosphere.  Content advisory.  You may not like what you're about to embark on, so click as you will, but don't say we didn't warn you.

I understand and I wish to continue.  Seven words, so simple and straightforward, yet they form a suitcase whose meaning would take a week to unpack.   The phrase resonates, a mantra of sorts.  Om.
I understand and I wish to continue.  It's not easy to rock a mood disorder like a boss.  There are days when I just crumple up into a ball, like the sheets of paper I used to wad up in disgust and frustration after trying to write the first sentence of pieces that started aimlessly and went nowhere fast.   Under the desk with the dust bunnies and the wrapper from my Atkins breakfast bar.   Don't mind me.  I'm not here anyway.  Or I won't be as soon as I finish giving this revolver a blow job.  KIDDING.  I don't have any firearms.  

I understand and I wish to continue.  But sometimes, just barely.   I really don't have a choice, do I?  Having extricated myself from a toxic alliance with a drunk in denial, having renounced my eldest's destructive behavior, I need to remain present for the people still in my life.   The struggle is real, and for once, I'm not being sarcastic.

My teenage son has been ill with a cold for several days, alternating between fever and chills.   Today was record heat, and when I got home from work, I could see he was miserable.  I knew what I had to do.  I changed out of the pjs I had already put on (as I often do because HOME FINALLY) and headed to OSH.  Two box fans, please.  Except for apparently Thursday evening is Happy Hour at OSH.  I am not even kidding right now.  There is a greeter handing out shopping bags.  There is party food.  There is a DJ.  The music is loud and terrible.  No one seems to want to sell hardware.  

It is truly the stuff of nightmares for an exhausted, depressed, overwhelmed mother with a sick teenager at home.  I will my rising anxiety and irritation not to go full panic and rage.  I talk myself down, it's okay, hang in there, let's find the fans and GTFO.  Which I did, notwithstanding the fact that they were difficult to locate and all the personnel were enjoying the festivities so I couldn't ask anyone even if wanted to (which I never do, it's weird I know, deal with it) because I was not going any closer to that crowd and that music than I had to.   I located two box fans (thank ye gods and monsters) and stood in a line that was four times as long as it should have been, as all the green-vested individuals were relaxing with cups of lemonade by the indoor cabana instead of DOING THEIR FUCKING JOBS at the checkout.  Got those fans, got em home, got em in the got-damned windows, and got my feverish son a cool breeze.  Like. A. Boss.

The point is that, despite a depression that currently has knocked me flat like that rogue wave at the beach that leaves you with water up your nose and sand in your pubes, I understand and I wish to continue.  And sometimes, somehow, I pull it together long enough to be able to.  

I read a comment on my Facebook page the other day that I can't get out of my mind.  The commenter had run into an old acquaintance who told her, "I remember you.  You're that girl that cried all the time."  Which was a horrible thing to say, of course.  People are assholes.  But I thought to myself,  "There it is.  There it fucking is.  I'm that girl who cries all the time."  

I understand.  And despite that understanding, against my better judgment, I wish to continue.  

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Birthdays Are Overrated and Other Truths of Life as We Know It

I woke up this morning super-early, realized it was my birthday, and immediately burst into tears.  Even though I've been rocking this mood disorder for over thirty years, I'm always surprised by the strength and swiftness of my emotions.  "That escalated quickly," I think.  "What the hell was that all about?"  Well, this morning it's about my birthday.   It's always a day where I'm force to reflect on where I am, how I got here, and (cringes, braces self) where I'm headed.  

And the feels descend.   First comes Anxiety, always the front runner, with Panic moving up on the rail.  Here we go.  Next up, Sadness, digging in against Despair.  This is the year that I will finally be single.  (Oh, did I not mention he finally signed the papers?  I would make an event out of it but I'm STILL NOT DIVORCED because it's still not official till the Judge stamps the front page of the inch-thick Petition, soon to be a major motion picture).  

I closed the door on a major section of my life this past year, really the only one of any significance.  SO FAR.  I mean, right?  I have to keep thinking that the best is yet to come, although the Hallmark Hall of Fame called and they want their cheesy cliche back.  But I HAVE to keep thinking that, or else, you know, visions of cliff-driving and vein-opening and revolver-fellating and all that nasty shit comes to call.  

So here comes a day of tearbursts, reading the fond wishes of my Facebook family, hearing from people I don't know in real life but who know and understand and "get" me better than most people I do, feeling valued, smart, kind, important.  Good shit, mang.   Cue Sally Field.  Again.  

Thank you.  Seriously.  You have no idea.  

Hold up.  Yeah.  You do.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

The Annual Anonymous Winter Holiday Blog of Familial Hostility, Part Three

Hello everyone, and welcome to the third round of insanity this holiday season.  You better buckle up because it's Christmas Eve and you still have so many feelings to eat so much shopping to do.

I took several weeks off from The Klonopin Chronicles because I had a metric shit-ton of major life hurdles to, well, hurdle.   One is that I sold my house for an insane and record-setting amount of money.  You totally want to date me now, don't you.  Don't lie.  Bunch of greedy bastards, you lot.

Another is that I took a real vacation -- two weeks tripping around Mexico with my daughter, PreMed.  (A side note -- she has changed her major, but I'm still going to call her "PreMed" because "PreMBAinWorldHealthandCommunityDevelopment" is just too fucking long.)

The third and most important hurdle is that I found a new place to live and signed the first lease I've ever held BY MYSELF in my fifty-one years on the planet.  Coming up on fifty-two in a couple of months.  I will finally be playing with a full deck.  Boom.

At any rate, I owe you guys the third in the triptych of the Annual Anonymous Winter Holiday Blog of Familial Hostility, or as I like to call it, "The Qualifying Round of Passive-Aggressive Olympics."  Some of you guys have been on the podium a record-setting number of Olympiads.  It's an honor to compile your season's greetings and a joy to undercut them with snark.

I know, I know, Urban Outfitters.
Funny tho.

So without further ado, let's get started so we can finish  . . .

I’m thankful that no one is coming to our house for Thanksgiving because it looks like we’re auditioning for Hoarders.

(Through to the next round!)

Screw this dysfunctional family.

(I'd say, "fuck them" but I'm just the editor.)

It's so great to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Douchebag.

(Allow me to present Mr. and Mrs. Enema.)

Birth control is your friend. Just saying.

(! ! !)

I just stuffed the turkey full of Xanax so we can all have a relaxing and unstressful holiday.

(That's money.)

Dear MIL -- Stop glaring and rolling your eyes at me as I sit on the couch while you wash dishes. I am not lazy. I am saving you from being stabbed in the heart.

(A mitzvah, MIL - you have no idea.)

You are about to become a mother.  Please pull your head out of your butt and realize the world does not revolve around you.

(Speaking of heads coming out of butts, let's hope that baby's not breech.)

Thank you for deserting me when my husband threw me and my three kids out because he's a fucking control freak narcissist. Thanks for ALWAYS being there for me and my kids -- with a knife ready to shove into our backs.  You guys suck, for real.

(Some of this shit is just real and that's no joke.)

Hey, mother-in-law, about the "vegetarian" thing? No matter how small you chop up BACON and simmer it in sauce? It's still a fucking animal.

(She's got you there, MIL.  Your move.)

Go fuck yourselves. It's miserable spending any holiday with any of you.

(No further questions, Your Honor.  The witness may step down.)

I'd like to give thanks to my family for offering to visit US at our home for Thanksgiving before my husband, your brother and son, leaves for Afghanistan next Tuesday. I'm sure we'll be showered with your support while he's gone, too - all ten of you.

(And by "showered with support," she means "roundly ignored.")

Here's to another year of togetherness with the very people can suck the fun out of something simply by entering a room.

(And we're not talking nitrous oxide here.)

Thank you all for coming, I love you all. I hope you'll keep me in the family when I finally divorce your brother/son. Now, who needs more gravy?

(I do.  Please pass it.)

Thanksgiving used to be much easier when I was drinking heavily.

(Right?  Ain't that some bullshit?)

To My Dear Mother In Law: I'm happy you are gone and I no longer have to watch you humiliate your son because he did not become a "real" doctor like you wanted him to be. What the fuck. Thanksgiving gratitude because you are not in it.

(What kind of fake doctor did he become, anyway?)

You are not entitled to anything. Stop draining everyone around you financially and mentally. Grow up.

(Fifty-teen.  Holla.)

Well, hello, SIL.  Please come in and eat two plates of food and then take ALL the leftovers for your family of four. Guess what? We're secretly cooking up extra batches that won't be put out on Thanksgiving Day so we can have some damn leftovers of our own.

(A brilliant plan.  Expensive, but worth it.  That gravy.  Am I right?)

A lot of you are assholes.

(Succinct and universal.)

Dear Husband: Sharing the looks with the teenagers that you think I don't see. Be a parent for fuck’s sake. Don’t throw me under the bus so you can be the cool friend/parent.and I look fucking crazy. You’re the alcoholic in this family, not me.  Own your own shit as I own mine.

(Hmm.  That sounds like something I would say.  Like verbatim.)

PLEASE stop telling me to eat your food! I know where you get your groceries and I also know that you buy bulk perishables on sale because they're past the expiration date.

(Now it can be told.)

I wish my Mom would stop inviting all of you social misfits so we can actually enjoy our holiday as a family. Don't you have your own families you can torture?

(And by that I mean, how did they get rid of you and can I have lessons?)

I would like to tell my family that if they could stop judging everyone else for once in their wretched lives and use their energy for good maybe they'd wouldn’t be crotchety old wenches who are about to die alone.

(Good to know.  And it's not too late.)

Quit complaining and just SHUT THE FUCK UP! Eat the goddamn food I spent all day making, and BE FUCKING HAPPY.  IT'S THANKSGIVING, ASSHOLES.

(Yeah, Assholes.  God.)

You should not have another baby with your "baby daddy". Every other day you are on Facebook telling us how you hate him.

(You might want to adjust those privacy settings.)

Sister, I'm just as crazy as you so why don't you take some pointers from me on how to hide it better.  Mother in law - stop taking so much Oxy. You make no sense and by the way, Jesus doesn't hate black people.

(And pass the gravy.  And by "gravy" I mean "Oxy".)

If you complain again about your "double chin" in pictures when I outweigh you by 50 pounds, I’m going to punch you.

(And no jury in the world would convict her. )

Please tell my boyfriend some more about the bowel issues I had as a child.

(You mean your former boyfriend.  WTG, Mom.)

I am not even a little thankful to be here with all you sanctimonious, holier-than-thou douchecanoes that have made my year mostly miserable. But I am thankful for this food. Forgive me, now please pass me the pie.

(Pie makes it all worthwhile.  Real talk.)

And that's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.  For some of us, it's the defense mechanisms of  humor in the face of misery, snark to suppress pain, mocking to prevent murder.  The real and honest acknowledgement of  "all the feels" we go through on a daily basis.  All of us.  Even those who wish they didn't and work like hell to keep it that way.   I wish you a healthy and happy New Year, where the worst you get is probation and a suspended sentence.  We are all in this together.  Except my ex.  He's a dick.

Namaste, you Nutjobs, you.  Keep coming back.  LYLAS and all that good noise.  And I never ever do this, but - - - xoxoxoxo.

The Rolo Turtle.
Stop by the Facebook page where I posted the recipe.
In the words of Louis C.K., eat them until you hate yourself.