Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Today's Rambling: Leap Day!

You guys.  I wrote this back in February, so I could post it on Leap Day (which was somehow very important in my mind but the reason escapes me now).  I took it down because it was mean to my husband but just now I re-read it and it's not THAT mean, at least not as mean as that other post and otherwise it's funny AND I haven't written any thing in a couple of weeks.  SO.  It's going back up.

This is a lame-ass blog post.  I just realized I wanted a blog post on Leap Day.  And I have a little over an hour.  So I’m just gonna spew random shit because I want it to say “posted on February 29” so that I can look back and say--”Whoa.  WTF is up with *that*!”

So.  Snips and snaps and puppy dog tails.  That’s what little Leap Day blog posts are made of.  I can write about:

1.  The time my daughter put granulated Splenda in the sugar bowl and didn’t tell me and of course I put a heaping teaspoon in my coffee and didn’t even notice that it was *bubbling* which is what Splenda does and I took a sip of that mother and threw my cup across the room.  Well, no.  I didn’t throw my cup across the room.  But wouldn’t that have been great?  That’s what a lot of my blog is--stuff that would have been great if it had happened.  Anyway, I woke my daughter up and made her *walk* to Starbucks to get me a latte to make up for it.  And that *did* happen because goddamnit that shit ain’t right.

(Watching the time now because I have to post this in the next half hour.  I have to cut it short because it always takes me extra time to figure out this goddamn Blogger.  I’m not that savvy about web design, which you can probably tell from the looks of this blog, but let’s face it, with writing like mine, the quality comes shining through.)

2.  I’m falling out of love with my husband which is a complete drag because on top of my growing disdain for him is the awfulness of never being able to tell him that he doesn’t turn me on any more because how much would that hurt him?  Tons, that’s how much.  And that’s a run-on sentence.  Followed by a sentence fragment.  The combination of the two cancels out the poor grammar.  It’s like a Hail Mary to atone for poor sentence structure.  I tend to be a real bitch about spelling and grammar.  It’s one of my few (many) flaws and I’m working on it but not very hard.  Some things are just woven into the fabric of your being, you know?

And  . . .
3.  Which is even more contrived than 1. and 2. because the writing teacher always talked about the magic of three.  So, yeah, Davy Jones.  I remember the Monkees so fondly because I was like *5* when that show was on and it was this huge privilege and thrill to be allowed to stay up till 8 pm to watch it.  Because it was a “school night” but for fuck’s sake it was kindergarten so who the hell cares.  I was already running circles around the other kindergarteners.  I wasn't going to let one night a week of late bedtime put a crimp in my awesomeness.   Has anyone else noticed that Davy Jones died at age 66 and the Monkees were formed in 1966?  Right up there with the whole Lincoln-Kennedy “OMG the similarities are so freaky!"  Except for not.  My favorite scene in the Monkees was them pushing that bed around on the street.  I doubled over with laughter every single time I saw it.  I still do.

So it’s time to post this because as I said I have some difficulty navigating Blogger.  Especially because I write in Pages which is this lame-ass version of Word that comes bundled with MacBooks nowadays.  Apple is so done with Microsoft.  They never really got over losing that lawsuit.  I know because I worked on that case.  A story for another time.

Namaste, bitches.  Happy Leap Day.  March comes in like a wildebeest and goes out like a salt marsh harvest mouse.  So suit up because you never know when you’ll have to accept a challenge.  If you think I’m random you might want to consider that maybe you just can’t keep up with me. 

Friday, February 24, 2012

Today's Rave: Delusions of Grandeur For the Win

I may have mentioned that I have rapid-cycling bipolar disorder.  What that means is sometimes I feel amazingly creative and funny and brilliant.  When I do, I write what I have been told are hilarious blog posts.  Then other times I feel pretty subdued and introspective.  But still brilliant.  When I do, I write what I have been told are painfully honest and finely crafted blog posts.  So like Forrest Gump and the box of chock-lits, you never know what you're gonna get.

But in any case, I write this blog, which I finally got the courage to start a few months ago.  It has been liberating and validating in ways that I'm not sure I can even express.  And that's something for a writer.  I have to say I couldn't have done it without the support and encouragement of a bunch of people I've never met, who also write blogs.   You can find a lot of their blogs listed way below on the left (or right or wherever it ends up because I still haven't gotten the hang of this Blogger shit).

A wonderful woman at mynewfavoriteday was kind enough to interview me and my blog-chum Unconventional Wisdom to get insights on what makes us tick (and blog).  If you are just joining us here at the Chron, this might be a good start on getting to know what goes on around here.  It's also a great way for me to get a blog post posted without actually having to write one.

So without further ado:  Me! Me! All about me! And a little about UDubs.


Sunday, February 12, 2012

Facebook Creeping: A Case Study in Ambivalence

An online friend of mine had a run-in with an Facebook nutjob who decided to take his psychotic obsession with her *off* line.   It's been a big nightmare.  Those little buggers can be persistent.  But it got me thinking.   Who knows what goes through people's heads when they read my blog, when they visit my page?   But I think about it every time I click "share."  Really?  Share this madness with the outside world?   I founded The Klonopin Chronicles because I couldn’t be myself on my personal page.  But let’s face it, that page under my real name, what I fondly refer to as my “PTA page,” just wasn’t a big enough stage.   All about me, remember?  Delusions of grandeur, remember?

Why did I think this would be a good idea?
On the other hand.  I sashay around the internet, telling tales, cracking jokes, weaving words, but the inferiority complex is always lurking.   Rampant, paranoid insecurity.   "OMG I've been walking all around the club with TP hanging out the back of my skirt just like that poor soul in the photo I just shared about the perils of Jagermeister."   Fuck!   I put myself out there, warts and golf-balls-in-tube-socks boobs and all, and what if it's really just a huge colossal conspiratorial joke on me?  Like over 9,000 of you got together and decided it’d be fun to take Carrie to the prom.  Bucket of pig blood right around the corner.  So there's that.

Facebook creeping meets Facebook cruelty.  That stings.

Now.  I know I have Facebook haters.  Someone said, "If you don't have haters, you're doing it wrong."  Check and double check on that one.  Do I have Facebook creepers?   Possibly.  But they know I'm too wrapped up in myself to notice them unless they get vocal.  So they have to give up the very thing that defines creeper-hood. They're pretty conflicted overall, my creepers.   (It's like that commercial where the girl calls up her boyfriend to tell him that she's giving him the silent treatment.  I think that is brilliant. )    Anyway, creepers, I haz them, and like all good victims, of course I deserve them.  I brought it on myself.   "God, Klonnie, what do you expect when you're so crazy in your online persona?  No wonder some Nutjobs concoct wild fantasies about you.  You should have expected this."

Creeptastical Engineering
Yeah.   Very comforting.  Thank you for that.  Who would be saying this to me, anyway?   Who do I tell?  Who *can* I tell?  My family doesn't even know about The Klonopin Chronicles.  How would I begin that conversation?   "Um, so I have over 9,000 friends I've never met who like me because they think I'm funny as fuck and one of them turns out to be a Nutjob who took all my wild exaggerations literally and now we have to move.  All righty then.  Good talk."

So.   Between the wacky fun we have at my Facebook page (quick they are coming log out and pretend to be doing the dishes) and the sometimes painful writing I do here on the blog,  I can't tell anyone I know IRL about any of it.  It would kill my husband to know that our very private drama is playing out on a very public stage.  I don’t even show him my writing, let alone let him know that I am broadcasting it over the interwebs.   I'm going to have to wait until everyone I know dies before I can announce myself publicly.    People might ask why I "publish" my writing on the internet, given how hurtful it is.  All I can say is, better out than in.  Anonymity breeds bravado.

Again.  About the creeper.  Delusions of grandeur beat an inferiority complex every time.  And vice versa.  This leads to a lot of confusion for me and my many moods.  So I could have a creeper.  I'm awesome like that.  On the other hand, I couldn't possibly have a creeper because I suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.  No wonder no one comes to this restaurant, you can never get a table.  And such small portions.

That, my friends, is what you will see if you look up "rapid cycling bipolar Nutjob" in an Abnormal Psychology textbook.  Doubtless across the page from "sociopathic obsessive-compulsive with an Oedipus complex."  Yeah, our photos perfectly aligned.

So that we kiss when you shut the book.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Love, Anger and Indifference

Anger, unexpressed, turns inward but leaves a mark.  I pound my fists against my own chest in frustration and self-disgust.  Very efficient, two birds with one stone.  Once, looking down while changing clothes at the gym, I saw accidental bruises.  In embarrassed surprise, turning to my open locker door for a shield from prying eyes.   So that’s what happens when anger turns inward.   
The absolute value of x

But I don't want to write with my fists.  I prefer to write with my calm, measured fingers.  Writing that is clearly conceived through years of craft, that gingerly considers the double helix of  love and anger.   I have to admit that I still love my husband even now, in a limited, rueful way.  Restricted, neutral, arms held tightly at my sides between the two straight lines of absolute value.   Once upon a time I did love him. so intensely that I thought I would burst, heady days of early love, clawing lust, shortness of breath, manic nights where sleep was not necessary.   Looking into a benevolent mirror foggy from a steamy shower.  Sweaty picnics on the floor of the studio, drinking champagne.  Van Morrison murmurs poetry on the stereo.  Linden Arden stole the highlights.  T.S. Eliot joined the ministry, joined the ministry.

And then twenty years went by.  And now we look into a different mirror.  Harsh fluorescent cold tiled locker room.  Bodies sagging, failing.  Falling arches, ugly feet.  Stick legs.  Pot bellies and cellulite.  Faces unprotected by forgotten sunscreen.  Faces that have lived in the sun and wind, laughing, crying.  Faces that once felt love but now can only muster indifference, regret. 

He snores next to me.  Something called apnea can be quite dangerous.  I know that sympathy is required.  But I only feel stabbing annoyance that I telegraph with angled elbows and shaken shoulders.  Wake up, wake up, you are snoring!  Then, changing course, soothing, placating, please try to stop snoring, you need to breathe, you are not getting enough oxygen.  

But secretly I am pleased that there is something concrete to hate him for. Something he can't talk me out of when I complain.  Because I have a mood disorder, I can't be taken seriously.   I rail against endless injustices but I am dismissed airily with a wave of a hand.  How long since my last shrink appointment?  Have I had my meds adjusted? Surely that’s what my tedious and pathetic rantings are really about.  

So snoring is good.  Real, measurable.  I could record it if I wanted to and play it back to him.  I imagine his reaction, see his face go white, recognizing the truth of this accusation.  Doubt would play on his face.  The same face in response to the revelation that the kids are aware of his drinking, a story for another time.  Dawning acknowledgment that I am right after all.  Despite all the things that are wrong with me, I really am right.  Really really really.  For true and for serious.  

I savor the triumph even as it wanes.