Archive for September, 2007

The crazy

September 12, 2007 | Filed under: Blogology, Straight Jacket

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”  ~Ray Bradbury

When Leah and Jess started Real Mental a few weeks back, I jumped at the chance to post just once. In the hope of finding and opening up a vein to unleash the mish mash that has been going on in my head for the past few months. Before I moved back to NY – and the two having nothing to do with each other – I was diagnosed with a Bipolar II Disorder. Which in the grand scheme of things isn’t a big deal, but it’s been something of which I’ve had a most difficult time writing about or expressing. In fact my jumping at the chance is a manifestation of my desperate need to say something about it and now I’m hopeful that I’ve found that space.

I still have trouble telling people, even those that have known me for years, but I have no trouble strolling up to the pharmacist at CVS at regular intervals to get my Lithium and Klonopin prescriptions because they are the key to my not going completely fucked up, raging mad. I mean, really? It’s been weeks since I’ve given anyone the finger for having the audacity to merge.

So for now, what I once felt was sacred, I’m trying to be a little bit more open about in hopes that I can fully accept my new ‘normal’ without having an outer-body experience whenever I tell someone. Like maybe if I say it quietly they won’t hear me, better yet, maybe they’ll forget that I’m fucked up. In all honesty, my friends that know aren’t judgmental or fear me or think that I’m ‘special’ or speak to me V-E-R-Y S-L-O-W-L-Y. They’re actually relieved to hear that that I have an actual medical condition and not just a permanent case of grade a BITCH.

Simon

September 10, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, Oh The Stupidity You'll See, The Great Moving Caper

 
“After scolding one’s cat one looks into its face and is seized by the ugly suspicion that it understood every word.  And has filed it for reference.”  ~Charlotte Gray

On Thursday night I went over to my apartment to do some measuring and to admire the vast amount of closet space I had suddenly acquired. Enough space for me to fit my shoes, bags, clothes and a few dead bodies if the need should arise.

While measuring space for a bookshelf and questioning what type of cheap, Swedish furniture I should get to fill up the place, I noticed my roommate’s cat, Simon, underneath the bed.  I had been previously advised by The Roommate that Simon is psychotic. Simon needs some serious kitty therapy to get him through his often disgruntle behavior. It’s all of that living of his incredibly difficult life of sitting on his fat ass all day long and having things brought to him that has Simon hating his life, people and the direction in which the wind blows through the house.

So I ignored him and continued to think about the new chair I was going to get for my desk while tuning out his increasingly loud hissing. When the hisses turned to low rumbling growls from the depths of his evil black heart, I turned around and rolled my eyes and told him to shut up and perhaps try a Xanax. Apparently Simon did not take too kindly to those suggestions which I noticed as he lunged towards my leg and took a nice chunk out of my meaty ankle.

And so I did what any normal person who had just been attacked would do; I screamed like a little girl and gave him a firm swat to the face with my Coach bag causing him to run off and me to slam the door and call him a “stupid little shit”. Maturity, thy name is HB.

Now on the one hand I would pride myself at being an animal lover. The Roommate has a puppy, which was a major selling point for me. Well the puppy, the access to bars and the hardwood floors and I’m a big fan of rolling around on fresh hardwood floors and professing my undying affection for them. We actually once had a cat, Salem, who wasn’t permanently having the male version of PMS. And I’m sure Kris just recoiled in fear knowing that someone she had left in charge of her cats, recently smacked a defenseless kitty in the face with a sturdy leather bag.

But I had my reasons, which I conveyed through panicked breaths while trapped in my bedroom. Stacy, dear gorgeous Stacy, once lost an eye to a fucking cat therefore, I’m going to have to refrain from engaging in any sort of cordial behavior with a cat with a serious stick up its ass as I’d rather not have the same experience. Speaking of sticks, I used one, at the behest of my mother, to finally flee from my personal hell. When I walked, nay sprinted to the front door, there was Simon sitting calmly under the dining room table, licking his nether regions.

So perhaps he’s psychotic because he’s horny? Who the hell knows. At any rate, I showed The Roommate the carnage done to my ankle and she suggested spraying him with water and showing Simon who is in charge. I suggested letting Simon out for some fresh air come mid-November. Perhaps a little bit of cold and a large snow plow will teach that little shit a lesson or perhaps give him a bit of an attitude adjustment. Or maybe he’ll meet another nice female kitty and get laid.

Chaotic

September 9, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, La Madre, The Great Moving Caper

“Housework, if it is done right, can kill you.” ~John Skow

Several weeks ago, I decided to embark on a little project called painting my bedroom. It should probably be more aptly named ‘a fantastic way for my head to meet the corner of a desk, over and over again’ because I about lost my damn mind. Patience is not a virtue and when a project requires roughly $200 in supplies and several coats of primer to get rid of the seizure inducing canary yellow color that the previous owner had put up, well then the mind; it is gone.

Mind that I did the requisite reading, hence the primer. But nothing prepared me for standing precariously at the top of a ladder in order to paint the very edges of the wall while lunging out towards the offending paint drops as Intense Teal paint falls on my brand new hardwood floors. And the cat tramps through to step in the paint, hiss, scratch me and then run away when I spray water on it as the dog eats the paint. I’m now wondering whether or not it’s possible for a puppy to pee blue.

Really it was just one big party-tastic weekend. The photo above is a good representation of how I’ve left my bedroom and high tailed it to DC (I’m writing this from my hotel with a lovely view of Dupont Circle) spontaneously. When my mother found out that I had to leave to go to DC, she volunteered to go to my place and finish painting while I’m away.

The above isn’t a sign of niceness or motherly love. It’s the sign of a woman desperate so very desperate to get her mooching daughter* out of her house that she’ll paint alone on a Sunday. This is a major step forward in our oft tumultuous relationship wherein we she says the sky is blue and I will fight her to the death that it’s actually green. I’m going to enjoy this moment of us finally agreeing that I need to get the hell out and for this moment of complete understand and bliss, I am so very thankful.

*Ok, if she’s ALREADY going to the grocery store, I don’t see why I should go as well. So I just tell her to pick up a few things. Necessities like fruity cheerios and three packages of veggie burgers. I just don’t understand the point of us both going there to spend money when she is doing it already.

It was only a matter of time

September 7, 2007 | Filed under: Comes And Goes, Oh The Stupidity You'll See, Socially Awkward Barbie™

“Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon.” ~Doug Larson

Nine years ago I was in the throes of adolescence and thus constantly testing out one look or lifestyle after another. It was the chameleon effect as I like to call it, which is an unfortunate manifestation of my constant need to be a people pleaser and to have people like me. One thing that has always been consistent is my intense desire to just fit in and be like everyone else another unfortunate byproduct of growing up in one of the whitest places on Earth. Apparently black people aren’t too fond of the snow and the precipitation getting into their hair causing it to do crazy shit. For further evidence I point to any photo of my hair taken ever and you’ll notice how it’s always everywhere and it only took about 24 years to accept that that’s how things are.

Regardless adolescence is when one is most able to test things out to see how others live and who to possibly be. It was during this time that I decided to stop eating meat. I was going to Girl Scout camp with hippies and such and I ended up rather hippy like and one pair of Birkenstocks short of smelling of patchouli, wearing hemp and having underarm hair long enough to braid. I was rustic and camped and my mother would smile politely and purchase veggie burgers and kept me from setting up camp in the back yard. She also made me shower.

Given that I was a girl with a fondness for fried chicken and a Big Mac, the fact that I found beef to be revolting nearly gave both of my southern born and bred parents a heart attack. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a chapter in a parenting book as to what to do when your daughter wakes up one morning and says “I’m not eating those ribs and please remove the pork fat and back from my collards. Thanks.” My father would look at me like, who are you and what happened to my daughter who could suck down a plate of ribs? In fact my father for years asked me if I was still on ‘that vegetable diet.’ I will confess though that it wasn’t a moral thing and only recently saw footage of cow slaughter. Hell, I do have a little bit of a thing for a certain retailer of fine leather goods and there is really nothing better than smell of new leather boots come fall.

Apparently though this living from the earth – while simultaneously carrying all of my shit in a large leather tote bag with a little Coach tag swinging from the front pocket – phase went on a lot longer than expected and my father just started to roll his eyes and embrace the fact that I did not want bacon anywhere near my food and if it were there I’d vomit. This is about the time that he probably started drinking heavily. Oh, children, such joys. So as I continued my quest to be a little more ‘natural’ (or as I continued to get dumber) I contemplated the Peace Corps then grew out my hair (If you think my father didn’t enjoy the whole ‘vegetable diet’ thing, well my mother about shit herself when I said, “I don’t want no damn relaxer” and promptly cut off my hair) and cut it all off but ended up in Madrid where I became a pescetarian. The consumption of fish was because I didn’t want to miss out on too much but even then I had to very slowly explain to my host mother that I did not eat meat. One day during lunch she inquired that since I didn’t eat meat would I like to have some rabbit? Perhaps some lamb? Because it’s ok not to eat a cow but it is ok to eat a tiny fluffy bunny. Got it.

I’ve been a pescetarian ever since and anyone who has hosted me is well aware of this and has been accommodating. I’ve been eating a lot of shrimp and salmon and things are good.

So imagine Isabel’s surprise when I sat her down last night after my 15th glass of wine and said very seriously, “There’s something I have to tell you, but you can’t get mad”

“Up until yesterday (Monday) I haven’t eaten meat for about nine years”

The look on her face was dire shock at best then she put her head down on her arms, because in the 48 hours that I stayed with her I had managed to consume a very large hamburger with a surprise inside (cheese), teriyaki chicken, Italian sausage, prosciutto wrapped asparagus fresh from the grill and the most delicious pulled pork sandwich ever.

In 48 hours. Right down my gullet.

Isabel asked why I didn’t say anything. I drank the rest of the wine in my glass and said “Because I felt bad.” I’m an eternal people pleaser and she didn’t know and it all just sort of happened and god damn, those burgers were tasty and have you people ever had prosciutto wrapped asparagus?? Goes down like butter, baby.

I’ve yet to tell my parents about this. A) Because then they’ll force a hot dog down my throat, B) Because my father might think that the apocalypse is coming next or that while he was away for a week I found Jesus in the form of barbecue and C) Because I’m not sure whether or not this is a permanent thing or a fluke because I didn’t want Isabel to hate me. Not that she’s the hating type, but I don’t know…I just have a problem with feeling pressure wanting to make people happy and not being rude and oh my God, barbecue tends to taste as amazing as it smells. As a matter of fact, I am now sure that this was a fluke as my mother just mentioned some sort of penne with beef bits and I felt the bile coming up in my throat. And yet I still can’t stop smelling bacon.

Because I’ve always learned things the hard way

September 6, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, Oh The Stupidity You'll See

“Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.” ~Erica Jong

Here are a few things I wish I had thought about yesterday beginning at 10:30 AM. Think of it as a little advice from me to you and please heed my words:

If someone suggests going wine tasting, feel free to say yes, but remember that the key word in that is TASTE.

Do not do shots of wine or down most of the glass and then empty out droplets.

Though feel free to purchase bottles of wine - approximately five, if so inclined.

Do not then go home and continue to drink thus making the accumulated time of wine consumption roughly 14 hours.

Even if that total time includes two hearty meals, that will not matter.

Do not stay up until one in the morning when you have to be up at four.

Do not drive on the Long Island Expressway in the dark with truckers who will squash your little mercury sable into 27 million shards of cheap Ford plastic because you are incapable of going 80 due to the overwhelming urge to vomit.

When your boss/mother/office secretary asks why you look like shit and can’t read, tell them you have a touch of the flu. In September.

Do get an office with a door that both shuts and locks so you can put yourself in a time out and think about your piss poor judgment.

Do not have two slices of blueberry cream pie because it will help with alcohol absorption.

Remember to smile because yesterday was such a good day even though today is such a very bad day.

Scold yourself some more because of the piss poor judgment which leads to piss poor attitude come morning.

Decide to give up wine for Lent.

Realize that Lent isn’t for six months.

Decide that seltzer will be the permanent alternative to wine.

Cry.