tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58819754586947082842024-02-21T03:45:42.536-06:00below sea levelStories from below the water line in post-katrina New OrleansFish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-42951913555087756192022-06-29T13:55:00.001-05:002022-06-29T13:55:31.247-05:00I Didn't Die. Now What?<span id="docs-internal-guid-e131df5d-7fff-f331-c826-3e915ccae3b4"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m going back to work on July 5th. I’ve been on medical leave for the past 9 weeks for Major Depressive Disorder. This depressive episode was my longest, hardest, most painful period of depression to date. It was also the most transparent I’ve ever been about it - I am no longer ashamed to have this condition. I have done nothing “wrong.” This is not punishment for some unknown crime or sin. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could write volumes about the treatments and path I took to get relief from this episode of depression, but I tried so many things, and I am no longer sure what worked and what didn’t. What I know is that somewhere around August 2021 I got really tired. Really, really tired. Like I cannot get out of bed tired. But it wasn’t EVERY day. So I figured maybe it’s just sinuses/migraines/eating wrong/not exercising/{insert personal or physical failure here}</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But it got worse. It got better. Then it got worse. Then it got a little better, oh wait, yes? Oh, no, still depressed…and then after the winter break, it went dark. The lights went out. I could not stop crying. Everything was so hard. The house got dirty. I lost weight. Work became impossible. I could not hold it together enough to participate in conference calls. I went beyond wanting to die and into the realm of “I am going to die from this depression.” And it is going to be a painful death. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I started each day with 5 coins and each thing I had to do cost a coin - so brushing my teeth cost one coin and driving Max to and from school costs 3 coins. You get the point. And to live a minimally successful life - to have my basic needs met to keep myself alive, I needed at least 10 coins. But I only had 5 coins each day. So things that used up too many coins became impossible. Multi-step processes were exponentially more expensive than basic rudimentary tasks. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I went on leave, I pretty much assumed I was going on leave to die. But I didn’t die.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So what do I do now?</span></p></span><p> </p>Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-53404704566779533842014-10-24T12:34:00.005-05:002022-01-03T12:16:50.434-06:00Tickled Pink<b id="docs-internal-guid-bbf93629-4336-7a8c-5fdd-b2474c58a1cb" style="font-weight: normal;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh October, how I used to love you with your crisp cool air and your apples and pumpkins. As a child and even well into adulthood, I would long for October as the official start of fall weather in New Orleans, or at least a glimpse into something other than broiling heat. But then, at some point, October became more than scary costumes and endless plastic cauldrons of chocolate; it became breast cancer awareness month. Ugh.</span></div>
<br /><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know, I know you are thinking, wow, how heartless you are? Where is your Save the Boobies spirit? Where is your pink? I will tell you where it is. It died with my mother.</span></div>
<br /><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother I suppose technically did not die from breast cancer. She died from radiation induced sarcoma that was caused by the treatment for her 1989 diagnosis of breast cancer and eventually spread all over her body. She died 11 days after her 70th birthday, her body ravaged by cancer. She was healthy except for the cancer so we had to sit and wait for a week for her organs to fail. We sat vigil by her side as she lay there in a coma. 4 days in I broke and demanded we put her out of her misery, arguing that we would not do this to the family dog, but I was told in hushed voices that it was not done that way, as if ending her pain was in some way more criminal than slowly watching her kidneys fail.</span></div>
<br /><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So now when October rolls around with all of its pink, I brace myself for the hit. I screw off the little pink top of the Walgreen’s medication bottle and wonder what Mom would think of all this. Would she take it seriously or, like her prosthetic breast that she said she expected to feel like a chicken cutlet, would she laugh at it all to ease the tension.</span></div>
<br /><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I board my Delta flight home, I am tired and want to be home.I miss my son and I miss my husband. It is times like this that I miss my mom, even though she died nearly 9 years ago now. I want to rip the flight attendants little pink ascot off her neck, wad it up and shove it down her pretty pink mouth while she claws at me with her pretty pink nails. But I don’t. I say please and thank and yes I would like a water, thank you. Because that is what Mom would want me to do. </span></div>
<br /><br /></b><br />Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-43622161623425233362014-03-10T20:07:00.001-05:002022-01-03T12:16:59.381-06:00Do You Believe in God?<div class="MsoNormal">
One time, I was flying from Denver to Chicago in the spring
when the winds are awful. It was my first week at a new job and I moved
mountains and made lots of calls to get onto that flight with my boss so we could hightail it to
Chicago for a sales meeting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ended up in the middle seat near the front of
the plane and she was in the back. About an hour into the flight, the plane
started dropping out of the sky, literally. We were heading down and the pilot
came on the PA and shouted, “Everyone, in your seats now!” The flight
attendants ran with the little carts to the back of the plane and told everyone
to put their seat belts on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was quiet, strangely and eerily quiet except for a few
gasps and cries each time the plane would lurch up or down or side to side. It
went on for what felt like hours, but it was only a few minutes. But I was
scared, really, really scared. And I prayed to God. I did not pray to nature or
the wind or Good Orderly Direction or Yin or Yang. I prayed to capital “G” God
and I begged to live. And when I thought that might be asking for too much, I
reduced my prayer to please let me die on impact so I did not burn to death in the
fuselage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those last moments of thinking the plane was going down, I simply
wanted not to suffer physical pain. I did not ask for forgiveness, I did not
ask for anything other than the release of future pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The plane leveled out and we did not crash into the earth
at a million miles an hour. Everyone was quiet and weird and scared the rest of
the flight. The pilot came on and said it was unexpected turbulence that did
not show up on the radar and that it happens sometimes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did my prayer to God save us from crashing? No, because I
never even asked for the plane not to crash, I really just did not want to feel
pain. And I didn't. So, I guess there you go. I guess someone else must have
prayed for the plane not to crash. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do I believe in God? I don’t know, but I pray every day
anyway. Because I did not burn to death in the fuselage. And because one day I
might.<o:p></o:p></div>
Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-11190566641440625382013-06-12T08:55:00.001-05:002022-01-03T12:17:05.134-06:00Go Gentle Into That Good Night
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was thinking about death, which I often do, because I am
often convinced I have some terminal illness that all the doctors I have seen
in my life have missed. Every headache could be a brain tumor, every sinus pressure
a stroke and every weird ache some rapidly growing cancer. I don’t know why I
am like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess it just seems that
life is so tenuous and we are all just one random accident away from meeting
our maker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Both my mother and father died of cancer and had funerals at
a church. The casket was open at the front of the church and people milled
about and went up to the coffin to “say goodbye” and then chatted with the
family and told us how wonderful our mother was. In fact, one person at my Dad’s
funeral was like, “You father was a good man, but oh lord, how I miss you
mother.” Which was pretty funny and apt. I think Dad even felt that way – “Man I
am a good person, but oh how I miss Celeste.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I also recently attended the funeral of my brother in law.
Pat was a good guy. He was quiet and lurked about not wanting to take up too
much space, but he was funny when you got him going. When Mike told him I was
pregnant with Max, Pat said, “Are you sure it’s yours? I mean, she travels a
lot.” Which I thought was hysterical. The thought of me running around in
sensible business clothes having affairs in small cities is funny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At Pat’s funeral, people of course shared good times and how
much they loved Pat. Almost everyone said the same thing – I had not seen him
lately. In fact, I had not seen Pat in over 2 years. He moved across the lake,
things got busy, you know the scene. It made me sad to think he left his world
not knowing how much I and others cared about him and how much we valued him
exactly as he was, as we all are – an imperfect child of this Great Universe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I started thinking that if I ever do find out I have some
terminal disease, if I have notice that I am going to die, I am going to plan
and attend my own funeral. I mean, why miss the party? How awesome would it be
to invite all your friends to your funeral? They would treat it like the real
thing – wear black, take bereavement leave, bring a casserole and then they would
stand around and talk about how wonderful I was. And I would wear a white robe
with wings and flit about the room from conversation to conversation saying
things like, “Bless you my child” and “I am watching over you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would get to enjoy all the peace lilies and bouquets of
Stargazer Liles. I could personally write my own thank you cards for donations
in my name to the charity of my choice. I could see if Mike keeps good on his
promise to have a bagpipe player at my funeral.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And after the funeral, there would be light snacks and a
buffet at my house for family and close friends. There I could dole out my
belongings and read my will. Who could contest it then? I mean, if you don’t
understand it, you can just ask me! Wonder if I had any regrets? Just ask, I’ll
share the scroll-long list of them! I might even be able to check off a few
things on the list before I pass over to the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then, when I did finally die, I would go off knowing
that all those people cared enough to come to the funeral and send me off. And
they would know, that I knew, that they cared all along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as I suspected they did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-48157391629727327312013-05-15T10:05:00.001-05:002022-01-03T12:17:12.158-06:00Hot Buns and Mothers Day<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the Saturday before Mother’s Day, Max had Mike take him
to Target to get my present, which was a much needed pair of slippers since the
dogs slowly but surely ate the last pair. I wore them with their gnawed open
toes for a while, but finally Stella ate one so much that I could no longer
keep it on my foot while I walked. Max excitedly gave me my new slippers which
I was very happy to receive and I placed them on a high shelf when I saw Stella
excitedly sniffing them.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, later that day, after Max and I went to the
planetarium, he told me that the slippers were not really what he wanted to get
me. What he really wanted to get me was something he had seen on TV that you
could only procure by ordering from TV or at Walgreens. And we just happened to
be stopped at a red light with a Walgreens on the corner. So we stopped in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Max asked me give him $20, point him in the direction of the
“see on TV” things, and wait by the front door. So I gave him $20, we wandered
up and down the aisles looking for the “Seen in TV” area, and then he selected
his gift for me. We went to the checkout line where I was told to wait “over
there’ while he paid for this purchase.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when we got to the car Max showed me my new Hot Buns.
What are Hot Buns you ask? Hot Buns are like giant rollers that you roll your
hair up in and then snap into a bun. I tried to explain to Max that I did not
think my hair was long enough for a hot bun, but this did not deter him. On the
car ride home, he read the step by step instructions to me, spelling out the
words he could not read, assuring me this was going to be simple and would
result in my looking beautiful for my date with Daddy that night. He said, “It’s easy Mom, you just Roll, Snap
and Wrap!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.buyhotbuns.com/">http://www.buyhotbuns.com/</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we got home, Max ran and got a brush and a pony tail
holder. He read the instructions to me again instructing me to get all the hair
and pull it tight. I think he was disappointed that my hair did not totally
cover the hot bun thing, but I assured him I loved it. He told me that if I
wore a white dress, it would look even better. I did not even ask where that
came from I just said, “Hmmm.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spotted him eyeing my hair several times over the course
of the next hour while waiting for the babysitter to arrive. I know he was
thinking that I had not done it right and that is why the bun did not look like
the one on the box. I had tried to explain that the girl on the box had thick
hair down to her ass, but I could sense he still thought it was a failure on my
part, some inability to manage my own hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was dressed and ready to go, after Max looked me up
and down and asked, “Are you wearing THAT on your date?” and I answered, “Yes I
am” to his sigh, the babysitter Victoria arrived with her friend Emily. They walked through the front door with their
long luxurious hair and Max ran upstairs to get the other hot bun , the
instructions and a brush. I warned the girls that they were in for a hot bun
treatment and they were thankfully game. In fact, they had so much fun, these 2
wonderful girls with my sweet boy, that when we got home from the movies, he
asked us to leave again so they could stay longer. That easily I was replaced
with younger girls who clearly know how to manage their hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose it is a preview of what’s to come in a few short
years when I can no longer smother him in kisses in public and when he won’t
register that it is Mother’s Day much less give me a special gift of Hot Buns. Until
then, I will proudly sport my Hot Bun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. – Just a word of
warning…learn from my mistake and do not use your work computer to google
images of “hot buns.” You will not get picture of smiling ladies with their
hair wrapped into beautiful buns.<o:p></o:p></div>
Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-38367863602400776262013-01-19T20:21:00.002-06:002022-01-03T12:17:17.001-06:00Mardi Gras Mom boI opted to skip Krewe du Vieux tonight to stay home with Max and make pizza and watch The Dark Knight. Except that is not true. What happened is I bribed Max into staying home with me by agreeing to let him watch The Dark Knight, which is PG-13 and very creepy and totally inappropriate for a 7-year old. And then I coerced him into making pizza with me. The Red Box only had The Dark Knight Rises, which is a little boring and hard to follow, but I did discover Tom Hardy, which was nice and I spent several hours surfing the internet learning more about Tom Hardy.<br />
<br />
Last year we went to Krewe Du Vieux without Max and it was crowded and miserable and the route had changed and we could not see the floats. I am literally close to watching Mardi Gras on TV like my parents used to. I like parades, but the conditions have to be perfect. It needs to be between 63 and 72 degrees, it needs to be crowded, but only about 3 rows deep and rain? Hell no.<br />
<br />
I started looking on Facebook and saw that I used to blog so much and people were so very nice with their comments and I used to love blogging and writing. I still love writing, I really do, I just don't seem to have as much time to do it anymore. Somewhere along the line, work took over and other things and I just quit blogging as much. I would say I am going to do it more and push myself to do it once a week, but I doubt that will happen. I am much more likely to watch the Mardi Gras on TV.<br />
<br />
I really do love the idea of Mardi Gras and there are times when I have a lot of fun at parades, but...it's so crowded. I mean, seriously, really, really crowded with people, lots of people. And the energy in the air is that of very thinly controlled chaos. At any moment, I expect complete and utter pandemonium and those aforementioned people will be in full panic mode. And really, there is nothing worse than throngs of people in panic mode. Actually, maybe there is, but I can't think of what it is right now.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'll start blogging more...Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-43825029099857260742012-09-21T20:55:00.003-05:002022-01-03T12:17:33.029-06:00The Low SparkMax's 7th birthday party is tomorrow. It is the same party we've had the last 3 years - an inflatable water slide in the backyard, but each year is a different theme. This year it is legos. Last year it was Wizard of Oz.The year before it was Toy Story. And every year, after the party, I tell my sister, "I am not doing this again. Next year we are renting a place and I am not having all these kids at my house grinding cake crumbs into my rug and couch."<br />
<br />
And then every year we have the same party at my house. My brain is like a sieve.<br />
<br />
I am filled with anxiety tonight. And it is not even about the party. It is everything but the party - I got a new laptop for work and it is a Mac and while I think I am cool and savvy, so far I think it has cut my productivity in half and the keyboard is giving me carpal tunnel syndrome. Additionally, I am convinced Max is going to drop out of school when he is older and that he will still demand to drink out of a sippy cup when he is 20 and he is also not going to ever be able to form his letters and numbers correctly.<br />
<br />
And I am afraid the cake I ordered and paid WAY too much for is not going to be ready in time. And I think I am going to get fired because eventually someone will figure out I am really just an idiot with a big vocabulary.<br />
<br />
I don't like this anxiety and I want to tell it to fuck off and go away. Yeah, that's right, I said FUCK YOU anxiety. Get out of my head!<br />
<br />
Oh and I think I might curse too much.Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-28110325068797507372012-06-27T19:32:00.003-05:002022-01-03T12:17:32.979-06:00Run Away, Run Away, Run Away<br />
<div class="prj0">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Max ran away today. He went to the neighbor’s house. Kim and
James have 2 little boys so they are used to chaos and temper tantrums. He ran
away because we would not agree to adopt a little baby girl. In fact, I think
up until today, he may have thought he was adopted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the midst of the tantrum he said, “I wish you had never
adopted me!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;">I was like, “Um, you’re
not adopted. I had you. You grew inside of me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked really confused and said, “I thought you went to
Texas to get me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You were born in Texas, Max, but you are not adopted,” I
replied thinking all of this nonsense would be over and done with.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But no. He still ran away with a handful of quarters and a
water balloon making toy. Mike called the neighbors to let them know he was on
his way and then about 30 minutes later Mike went and got him. He was not happy
and insisted he lived there now. I said that his dinner was ready and he
instructed me to bring it to him at his new house. I instructed him to sit down
and eat. He told he wished I had never been born, which was exactly what I was
thinking at the time. I sent him to his room to think about what he said, which
was really just buying me time to eat my dinner in peace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If my blog were read by more people, I suppose I could
expect comments telling what I did wrong in the situation and how I could have
handled all of this better, but it’s not. I am 43 and my husband is 50 and I
want a 2<sup>nd</sup> child almost as much as I want to have a root canal. But,
I do feel bad for him. I mean, he sees his friends who have siblings and
wrongly thinks they are having a ball. As the youngest of 4, I can assure you
they are not. They are hoarding toys, stealing food and finding small spaces in
which to hide and be alone if even for a few minutes. I used to hide in a coat
closet on the 2<sup>nd</sup> floor. It was hot as blazes because there was no
AC vent in there, but I would sit there sweating my ass of just to have 15
fucking minutes of alone time to read and sing and just generally not be
harassed by any one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night I was thinking about how my mom, when I was maybe
7, participated in some consumer study to get free dish towels. She had me eat
some new snack and then asked me a bunch of questions about it and whether I
liked it. It had peanut butter in it, which I despise, so I no doubt said, “It
tastes like hell and you know I hate peanut butter,” but she filled in the
sheet and got a dish towel. I endured peanut butter for a dish towel. We did
all this sitting at our dining room table, where very little dining actually
took place. We mainly used it as a desk – I wrote just about every high school
and college paper sitting at that table. Anyway, it made we wonder what weird
scenarios Max will remember about his childhood. Will he remember the night he
ran away?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We also used to collect green stamps. In fact, I am pretty
sure we got the bird cage for our parakeets using green stamps. Charlie and
Loretta lived in a house purchased using the 1970’s equivalent of American Express
points. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real fact is, I do kind of feel bad for Max. We pay too
much attention to him. He has nowhere to hide. There is no one to distract us
from him. It has to be enormous pressure. In a family of 4 kids, you can sort
of disappear for a while if you need to because your parents are so beat down
and tired. But, there is no way I am adopting a kid to relieve that pressure.
Maybe I can just tell him to go sit in a closet somewhere. Or I can send him to
sleep away camp or something. I suggested to my husband we get a new puppy and
he suggested I shut my trap. It was totally called for – I was verging on
hysteria at that point. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-64622251595997184962012-06-16T17:09:00.003-05:002022-01-03T12:17:33.361-06:00Blah, Blah, Blah..Why is it I had time and energy to write every week for a year and now I can barely manage to eke out a post every year? I don't know why that is, but I don't have that much to say even though a lot has happened and continues to happen. I guess it was the horror of the hurricane and having my first kid while evacuated in Houston and then my mom dying of cancer like all at once that provided the fodder for the blogs (and my therapist) so if I never post again because my life is too calm to have anything to say, well, then I am fine with that. But, surely I cannot be so dull that there is nothing worth posting about without life events that are so devastating and catastrophic that it takes the National fucking Guard to quell the chaos? Right?<br />
<br />
Or maybe not. Maybe this is it and the well has run dry and now I have a completely pedestrian life that does not inspire creative quips and stories. Pack the lunches, make the breakfast, drink coffee, go to work, stop here and there for various things - funerals, vacations, hysterectomy, and then climb back in the wheel and keep running, at not quite a leisurely pace, but certainly not the clip of my youth. Ah, my youth, how I both miss it and smile like an asylum patient that most of it is behind me. Sure, I miss breasts that defied gravity and hair that was naturally the color of coal, but oh the pain, the pain of being so fucking stupid and so unbearably insecure. I will happily keep my gravity-beaten body to feel the warmth of self acceptance that I never felt in my youth. Had I one inkling back then that everyone felt as stupid as me, I would have, well, probably not lived to tell the tale so perhaps it is best that the whole thing came crashing down when I was 22 and I quit the rocky road of self-destruction then. Well, at least the drinking part of the self-destruction. The rest of the package has slowly eased up and gone away over time. It really does heal all wounds.<br />
<br />
And now I watch my son, in his 6 year old sweet boy mind, deal with life. And I do my best not to put my shit on him, not to feel the pain of my shy and awkward youth in his tiny life. But, I fail, every day. And that is ok. I love him more than anyone has ever loved a son and that is enough. It has to be, but it is the only constant, the only one sure thing. The rest is, as we say in the Big Easy, lagniappe. It is tenable and definitely not the northern star that is my love. It can all go away with one fell swoop, but my unconditional and undying love will be the bedrock upon which the rest is built.<br />
<br />
<br />Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-13525654629502998412012-06-14T20:32:00.000-05:002022-01-03T12:17:32.952-06:00I have not written since February 25th. Well, how do you like that? Let's see, what does right now and February 25th have in commom? I am not working. Back then, it was for vacation and right now I am recovering from surgery. I have done pretty much nothing for the past several days except watch movies.and sleep and eat. I feel like a prisoner in my home.Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-83147302398995464962012-02-25T15:50:00.001-06:002022-01-03T12:17:33.396-06:00I took Max to the park today to play and run around in the sunshine. It has been cold and grey this winter and today was the first bright spot in weeks. At the playground, there were 2 little girls. They were wild-haired and barefoot and dirty and frearless - Max and I were both almost instantly enamored.Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-16072971636952579152012-02-25T15:50:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:32.966-06:00I Smell ToastDude, I have not written in forever. I have lots of thoughts, most of them random and unconnected in any way, so it's hard to put them down in a coherent blog format. This past week I was on vacation. My sister came in from Seattle and the other one from Houston came in as well. We went to dinner Sunday night for Seattle Sister's 50th birthday and I went home feeling full, confused and like I was 13 years old again, but in the bad way, not the good way. It was fun, but weird, which pretty much describes my 13th - 19th years of life.<br />
<br />
On Monday, we put my father's ashes in his final resting place in a crypt in the mausoleum not far from my house, along with my mother, Memere, and Uncle Henry and Aunt Raquel. It is a Murphy plot, but so far, my Dad is the only Murphy hanging out with 4 Ferrys - why should his afterlife be any different than his life on earth? Afterwards, everyone came to my house for lunch and then later that night we went to the Orpheus parade followed by, the next day, a fun-filled Mardi Gras roaming the French Quarter.<br />
<br />
Knowing that I did all of that in a 72 hour period, I think I am forgiven for having random and unconnected thoughts, don't you think? I mean, in a 48 hour period, I went to 3 parades, dressed up as a ringmaster, helped my son dress as Willy Wonka, buried my father's ashes, had 20 people over to my house for lunch, had a birthday dinner at Ralph's on the Park, and got kissed by several of the Pete Fountain's Half Fast Marching Krewe - all in all, I would say the first half of my vacation week was very successful. I did not check email even once, partially because, ok, mainly because we upgraded to Office 365 over the weekend and I would have had to set up my email on my iPhone to check it. I held out until Wednesday to do that. I actually don't even remember what I did on Wednesday. In fact, Wednesday and Thursday are both a bit of a blur. I swear, I do not drink and I am only 42, how is it I actually do not remember Wednesday and Thursday?<br />
<br />
Friday was the day I wandered around the city waiting for places to open so I could do something before meeting my husband for lunch. Seriously, how do people who don't work fill their days? I guess I could get used to it and maybe I would be more productive, but I truly accomplished nothing on Friday except going out to lunch with my husband and then out to dinner with my 2 sisters and their families. We went to Jaeger's Seafood House in Metairie on the first Friday of Lent with a party of 14. I truly expected us to have to wait for 2 hours for a table, but we called ahead and had no wait at all. I don't see how eating char-grilled oysters, boiled crawfish and shrimp po' boys is any kind of penance, but I'll take it.<br />
<br />
This post is completely disorganized and I am now starting to question whether I am having a stroke of some sort. I smell toast...Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-82307134416146000612012-01-21T19:46:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:33.391-06:00All That JazzI drove into the city today from the airport after dropping someone off and tried to look at New Orleans through the eyes of a tourist. The first thing Marge from Montana might notice as her filthy cab careens under the railroad trestle just past the I-10/610 split is the cemeteries. We do cherish our dead don't we. I mean, if burying them practically above ground next to a major federal highway can be considered a form of cherish. Really, what must these tourists think? Surely, they assume we are all idiots.<br />
<br />
A friend once told me that the jazz music piped into the airport in New Orleans sounds genuine, as compared to the Don Ho forced upon people at the Honolulu airport. I don't know what that means really. Are we in New Orleans more simple than the people in Hawaii? Or are we just better at making people believe we all eat alligator and all know how to play instruments? Or maybe he just likes jazz better than ukelele music.<br />
<br />
Look, I said I was going to try and post every week. I did not promise that it would be all that interesting or even all that good.<br />
<br />
I did go the ER yesterday. That was both exciting and anticlimactic, as I am still alive. I had what they called a "visual disturbance." Yes, it was very disturbing that I LOST THE ABILITY TO SEE for 30 minutes. Yes, that was scary and I thought I was having a stroke or a TIA or something. But, in the end, they could find nothing wrong with me and sent me home with 2 tickets to the IMAX theatre because I had to wait more than 30 minutes. Seems kind of mean to give someone who might be on the verge of blindness tickets to a movie. I guess I better use them soon just to be safe.<br />
<br />
In spite of the fact there was a fatal shooting down the street from my son's school, I would still rather live here than anywhere else. Does that make me an idiot? Perhaps, but frankly, my family and I just won't fit in anywhere else. People would assume the husband and I are drunk all day if we lived in Iowa, where as here, because when we are dressed up Mardi Gras day as the Bearded Lady (the husband) and a Ringmaster (me), since we remain upright and with our eyes open, everyone knows we are the sober ones.<br />
<br />
Maybe this is what my friend meant about the jazz music in the airport....<br />
<br />
<br />Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-69032668739731730942012-01-11T17:29:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:33.376-06:00Passion? No thanks, I'm good.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am sitting in an airport. I wonder how many of my blog
posts start with that sentence. I bet a lot. I spent the past three days at a big sales conference. There were over 1600 people at the meeting. It
was insane and bizarre (I am not a salesperson) and I often felt like I was in
a live action Saturday Night Live skit or a trippy dream. But, I guess the
sales people were motivated. I, on the other hand, kept my bitter and sarcastic
comments to myself…mostly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to keep most of my opinions about public education,
motivational speakers, Power Point Presentations and hotel food to myself, but I will tell you this, Death by Deck
meetings are alive and well in 2011. I barely escaped with my life. Why, oh
why, did anyone ever in a million years think Power Point was a good idea?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not think I have
had sun on my face since Sunday. I have been in a windowless conference room
for 3 days being told to Live Big! Follow my Heart! Be Impactful! I may have developed rickets from lack of
Vitamin D. They asked us often what our passion was. In fact, you were supposed
to write on your name tag what you were passionate about. I could not think of
anything to write. I realized that I am not really passionate about anything. I
think maybe I used to be, but now I am not. Now, I find passion to be a bit
exhausting and annoying. Think of the people you know who are passionate about
something…they are annoying right? They show you pictures on their phones, they
tell you long and involved stories; they shake their fists and spew their
righteous indignation. They spit when they talk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will leave the passion to those who have the heart for it
and I will continue to put one foot in front of the other, taking each day as
it comes, trying to be a better human being, trying not to walk away from everything.
I will drink my coffee in the morning and do my job. I will kiss my son and
walk the dog. I will try to be as kind and loving toward my husband as I want
him to be with me. And I will do it again the next day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to be passionate about ideas and values. But now, I
just show up and smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-67012183359900513532012-01-05T22:13:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:33.371-06:00Down in New Orleans Where the Blues Were Born... Mike's parents used to have a Little Christmas party every January 6th to celebrate 12th Night or the Feast of the Epiphany. This is when the three wise men made it to baby Jesus and brought him Frankensense and all that jazz. I have fact-checked none of this so it might all be wrong, because here in New Orleans, January 6th, or King's Day (I think some people call it that) is the first day of Carnival Season. Yes folks, Mardi Gras starts on January 6th every year. That means the good people of New Orleans get one week between the Xmas holidays and the start of Carnival to dry out and eat like normal people and then we get right back up on the horse - we eat King Cake and drink have parties and dance in the streets like crazy people right up until the day before Ash Wednesday. And then we repent. And we quit eating sweets and drinking (except for Sundays, of course) until Easter. And then Festival Season begins - Jazz fest, French Quarter Fest, Strawberry Festival, Mirliton Festival...we got a festival for every vegetable and every genre of music. You name it, we got a festival for it. Then summer comes and it's too hot to eat or drink so we're good until Halloween, more or less. And, bam, the whole things starts up again. It's exhausting I tell you.<br />
<br />
So, tomorrow night is our Little Christmas Party. Anywhere from 20 -100 people are going to show up at our house (the good people of New Orleans are also not very good at RSVPing or sticking to the RSVP selection) and we will have food and drinks and a live band.<br />
<br />
The gumbo is made.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6QcqUMJmPimGUQhAti8Z328TtxBhwLdci9CNA0_rL5BozUA_4PDAVeUVt2VvdKpOzSvUx2KziOzNUqwZPlRv9WQfg11wn9_pMOR29z1U86iCG8pQmAd5PKD7tqctfsBjemGyI0GZ7Q/s1600/IMG_1407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6QcqUMJmPimGUQhAti8Z328TtxBhwLdci9CNA0_rL5BozUA_4PDAVeUVt2VvdKpOzSvUx2KziOzNUqwZPlRv9WQfg11wn9_pMOR29z1U86iCG8pQmAd5PKD7tqctfsBjemGyI0GZ7Q/s320/IMG_1407.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
The Christmas Tree is a fire hazard at this point.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV6BRYxrzER7RSa-BiZuCYj0rb8qVfXe-LEQlVpgoTyjU4IZwUng2hTzp3ly5DwhyTATnZ9EWtQoLsSHl0JsJeVQPl7RvEGKXB2giZw9bwIlWAaL0rE0aXXIw3JC9DKK65g5-ojbzoog/s1600/IMG_1414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV6BRYxrzER7RSa-BiZuCYj0rb8qVfXe-LEQlVpgoTyjU4IZwUng2hTzp3ly5DwhyTATnZ9EWtQoLsSHl0JsJeVQPl7RvEGKXB2giZw9bwIlWAaL0rE0aXXIw3JC9DKK65g5-ojbzoog/s320/IMG_1414.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
But the mirror is masquerading already.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiM-6YxBxQbezyigLIGsOfKRwACrZNV2hpi6llpt0w5iEjO4unJhbiCIrlbio6xupKKN9Mg-Tq_W8SBSPu7GREFrA6ey-vypwxVguA0aClH0bCS5CVP7OaoRqwbSHDNCBbPjiZw5opA/s1600/IMG_1408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiM-6YxBxQbezyigLIGsOfKRwACrZNV2hpi6llpt0w5iEjO4unJhbiCIrlbio6xupKKN9Mg-Tq_W8SBSPu7GREFrA6ey-vypwxVguA0aClH0bCS5CVP7OaoRqwbSHDNCBbPjiZw5opA/s320/IMG_1408.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My cousin Beth's beautiful Mardi Gras quilt is gracing the wall above our table.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEluJz8I6DaJSjuA4PCF1NIcbnv2AOnp1OUmfvcCAEPxvKMtWtTWWVWuK5s2NTImy1WeWnK6iagjjRHchyphenhyphenAqvtKYvXbZbVuDQpBEfzbX40xWR_ot7QxuJTKoOCHt9_SUfhAGKiQ447iw/s1600/IMG_1405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEluJz8I6DaJSjuA4PCF1NIcbnv2AOnp1OUmfvcCAEPxvKMtWtTWWVWuK5s2NTImy1WeWnK6iagjjRHchyphenhyphenAqvtKYvXbZbVuDQpBEfzbX40xWR_ot7QxuJTKoOCHt9_SUfhAGKiQ447iw/s320/IMG_1405.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And Kenny is tired already.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-I8oZEwrQmk2UDsO3YS3iwvkrhmEBuMoeJgLuHwSE5Mpwr5DXDOwF277xO786g-qbxczFaQfrXv0XwROX4UmJDu_Xjkw3lH20LAhWRQDLmKqBYRwYp60bS7LRuRzeXAd7Zb4SEx2Teg/s1600/IMG_1415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-I8oZEwrQmk2UDsO3YS3iwvkrhmEBuMoeJgLuHwSE5Mpwr5DXDOwF277xO786g-qbxczFaQfrXv0XwROX4UmJDu_Xjkw3lH20LAhWRQDLmKqBYRwYp60bS7LRuRzeXAd7Zb4SEx2Teg/s320/IMG_1415.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-37707692604090043212011-12-29T12:48:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:33.004-06:00Ring in the New Year with Writing and Sugarless Goodness<div class="MsoNormal">I have a few New Year’s Resolutions this year, but the top 2 really are the ones I am focusing on. The others are there just to torment me so I don’t get too self-satisfied:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><!--[endif]-->Stop eating sweets. Cake and pie will be the death of me. Damn you King Cake, I will not eat you this year by the fistful. I will not even try to display my non-existent self-control. I will simply avoid you and your sticky sweet friends all together.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><!--[endif]-->Post to my long-neglected blog once a week. I did it one year, I can do it again. Dammit.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->3)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><!--[endif]-->Fit back into my skinny jeans. Even if they are what I wear in my open casket, I will get back into those bitches one more time, dammit. And yes, I meant bitches, not britches.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->4)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><!--[endif]-->Travel less for work. I don’t even know how I am going to do it, but I think listening to your 6 year old cry on the phone because he misses you is one experience I can live without repeating ever again, thank you very much.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What’s your New Year’s Resolution?<o:p></o:p></div>Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-12957394428547270252011-12-22T14:36:00.002-06:002022-01-03T12:17:32.942-06:00Random Post<div class="MsoNormal">The Christmas shopping is done. The tree is up. The house is more or less decorated and everything is ok, except my son seems to have confused God and Santa Claus. I mean, really, they are very similar. I can see why one would get them confused. My stepmother says that children have a stronger faith than adults because they believe without question, in God. I think it is because they are gullible. They also believe in Santa, the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny. And whenever I lie to my son and tell him Taco Tico is still out of Hi-C punch and that is why we are having water, he believes me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On a totally unrelated note, I was thinking the other day, why do we call something we look at as wimpy or feminine “gay?” I mean, seriously, I think as s society we are using the word gay totally wrong. I would think it takes enormous cajones to be a man and have sex with another man, and I would imagine, but don’t know for sure, that there is not very much flowery and frilly about it. So it makes no sense to me why we are not saying things like, “Did you know that John just lifted a burning car off of another burning car and pulled out the victim from the flaming wreckage. It was so f&^%ing gay!” Or, “It was so gay – that man literally lifted that other man up by the throat using only one hand!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope this isn’t taken wrong. Although, of course, I am not known for my tact or kindness, but with this case, I really do think we are using this word all wrong. We need to change it and start associating the word gay with not only with men who sleep with other men, but also with feats of incredible strength and bravery. Just my opinion.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And on another totally unrelated topic, my sister is nice. And she seems to be so without having to work very hard at it. I find this amazing. There was a time when I thought she was actually not nice and was pretending to be nice just to make me feel like shit. I figured she, like me, had black gooey meanness at her core and that ire was actually fueling her “kindness” which was being displayed just to highlight my grouchiness. As I have grown older, I have come to realize that she is simply a kind person and while not perfect, she is not purposely pretending to be nice so that others around her will pale in comparison.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I, on the other hand, have to put “be nice” on my to-do list and check it off when it is done. It does not come naturally to me. I am quick to judge and often times, quicker to open my mouth with whatever ridiculous thought has fallen from my brain. I had a boss once who told me my mind was like the house and there was a set of step stairs leading from the front door of the house to the front screen door. And every ridiculous and inappropriate thought I had was the ill-behaved dog of the house barreling down the stairs and crashing through the unhinged screen door, right out into the yard<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just some random nonsense for your holiday reading pleasure!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-59165298459759311022011-12-22T14:15:00.001-06:002022-01-03T12:17:33.058-06:00The ChriFish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-3551206042234720872011-11-06T09:35:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:32.924-06:00Goodbye Dad<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The
story that keeps coming back to me about my father is from when I was 13. I
liked a boy named Joey. He was 15 and drove a blue Camaro. I think he also had
an earring and perhaps a moustache. I liked this boy and he came to the house
once to see me. I was, under no circumstances allowed to ride in the Camaro
with Joey. I was the last child and my parents were tired, but they were not
stupid. And thankfully, I was just stupid enough to be a very bad liar, so I
never managed to successfully sneak out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">If
you stop here and think about it, the real miracle is, as I recall this, that my
father lived as long as he did. He had 4 daughters and was principal of an
all-girls Catholic High School. A lesser man would have crumbled under that
weight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Back
to the story - Joey comes to the house
to see me and instead of coming to the door, he honked the horn for me to come
out to see him. As I went for the door, my father stopped me and said, “You are
not going out there until he comes to the door and rings the bell.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I
was furious. I cried, I screamed, I pleaded. Joey honked the horn a few more
times and then, I suppose, assumed I was not home and went away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I
was beside myself with anger toward my father, toward Joey, toward all the
injustice of being thirteen years old, but my father held his ground and said,
quite plainly, “one day, you will thank me for this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">No
doubt I disagreed and likely expressed my displeasure in all sorts of unpleasant
ways. It took a few years, but I did eventually thank my father. I thanked him
for taking up for me when I did not know how or why I should. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">My
father was a good man. The story I told you was one of thousands where we
disagreed. For a long time, we could not agree about anything - from politics
and religion down to color preferences and pets – I love dogs and Dad was “allergic”
to them. Everything was always so important to me back then. Getting him to see
my point of view and all the ways he was “wrong” was my second job for a while
there. And, as tends to happen, as time marches on, things and issues lose
their significance and what bubbles to the surface is not words or beliefs, but
actions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">During
the hurricane fiasco, when we were homeless evacuees wandering the state of
Texas, it was my father who stepped up to care for my dying mother. He sprang
into action with his list. Yes, if you knew my father, you know the man didn’t
do anything without a carefully planned list. He organized setting up their Houston
apartment and making sure my mother was taken care of at MD Anderson. He did
all the housework and grocery shopping. And although I had to show him how to
work the washing machine, once he learned, he did all the laundry afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I
thank my father for being steady and consistent. My sisters and I often teased
him for his predictability and fastidious nature, but in reality, we never had
to worry about anything because he took care of everything for us. When Alice
and I were at the funeral home with Gail, Alice remarked that this seemed more organized
and easier when Mom died. And I said, “It was, because Dad did everything and
made all the decisions.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He
mostly planned his own funeral as well. I can picture him orchestrating all of
this from heaven, where he was positive he would spend eternity. He told me,
one day not long ago, that perhaps he would not go to heaven right away, but he
was pretty confident he would end up there eventually. And how could I argue with
that? It was, after all, on his list. “Go to Heaven.” Check.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">My
father, on top of being highly organized, was also in his own way incredibly
flexible. He loved to travel and was very good at it. As a frequent flyer
myself, I can tell you, letting yourself and your fate be at the mercy of the
airline is not always easy. But, Dad was an incredible traveler and always went
with the flow. I suppose being stranded at an airport for a few hours is child’s
play compared to being responsible for 1500 hormonal teenage girls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<h3 style="background: white; line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .05in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Dad also, while being
the serious one in our family, also went along with the craziness more often
that you would expect. He and Mom had come to visit Mike and me in Houston once
and when I declared I was going to pay for everything in </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;">Sacagawea dollar
coins because I had taken to wearing my hair in braids, he offered to bring me
to the post office to get some. I was in my thirties at this point, so it’s not
like he was placating a child. He was an active participant in the Murphy
Family craziness.<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<h3 style="background: white; line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .05in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></span></h3>
<h3 style="background: white; line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .05in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;">Dad was also the official videographer of the Murphy
Family. So much so that we used to joke around that the grandkids were going to
grow up thinking Grandpa had a video camera and tripod growing out of his face.
We would hector him mercilessly for this insistence on filming every occasion,
but the end result is thousands of hours of family memories captured. It was a
couple of months ago that my Dad passed his video camera onto my sweet husband,
Mike and dubbed him the new video man. He knew he was leaving this world and
that he would not need his camera anymore. His work was done. And he did it
well.<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I
loved my father and I will miss him. It is an odd place to be in this world
without living parents. We are lucky to have a host of friends and family like
Sue and John Barker who can remind us all of the good times from years past,
like trips to Grand Isle and Mardi Gras Days spent chasing floats and counting
children to ensure none were left behind in the chaos. My father adored his
best friend John Barker and I am so grateful we have remained close to our Asher
Street friends. Aunt Mary and Uncle Bill have also stepped up and filled some
of the void left by the departure of Mom and Dad and for that, I am so very
grateful. And of course, we have Gail, our Stepmother who has accepted this
crazy family as her own. After Dad passed, she expressed concern about losing
us and we laughed at her silliness – does she really think she’s going to get
off that easy? Nope, she is stuck with us. She is GG to 11 grandchildren.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I
happened to be at my Dad’s bedside when he died. We were all at his house and
people were wandering in and out of the room. I wandered in to sit at his computer
and for some reason, turned around to hold his hand. And it was then, that he
took his last breath. It was peaceful and calm and he simply slipped away. It is the way he wanted it – a peaceful death
without lingering on. It was on his list.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Goodbye
Dad. I love you and I will miss you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-60817155633483233532011-10-05T15:46:00.000-05:002022-01-03T12:17:33.356-06:00Love You Forever<div class="MsoNormal">
This past Sunday, when it was time for bed, Max and I climbed into his bed so I could read him some books. We chose “Are You My Mother” and then he specifically asked for the blue book with the baby on the front that we had read the night before Christmas. Seriously, how does he remember this stuff? I finally figured out he meant “Love You Forever.” I both love and hate this book. It is a beautiful little story of a mother who, every night, after her son is asleep, picks him up and sings to him:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll love you forever,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’ll like you for always.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As long as I’m living, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My baby you’ll be<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She does this until he is an adult – she drives to his house with a ladder and climbs in his window. Finally, when he is grown and she is older, he goes to see her and she is too sick to sing, so he sings to her. And then he goes home and sings to his baby girl. By the time we finish this book, every single time we read it, I am choking back tears. And last Sunday was no different. I read it quickly, choked back some sobs and turned off the light. It has been a big day – we had gone to my sister’s for lunch and then over to Grandpa’s (my dad’s) house so Mike could move some furniture around as hospice was bringing the hospital bed over on Monday.<br />
<br />
As we lay there in his bed, Max asked me if I would miss him when he grew up and moved to New York City. He told has told me more than once that he and his wife and their three children – Fergus, Felicia and Laney, will live in New York City at the Plaza Hotel and he will write and illustrate children’s books. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said that I would miss him, but that I would come visit him and he would come visit me. He then asked if I would sit in his room after he was gone and cry and would I sell his toys at a yard sale (I think someone has been watching Toy Story 3) and I said, I would not sell his toys that I would put them in the attic. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was quiet and then he turned to me and pushed his little face into my shoulder and began to cry, “I don’t want to grow up, I am not ready to grow up.” <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And of course, I began to cry and said, “I am not ready for you to grow up either, you are not grown up yet we have lots of time and you do not ever have to move out of our house! You and your wife and Fergus, Felicia and Laney can all live with us!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we lay in bed crying next to each other until I kept hearing a popping noise over and over again and went out to the den to find out what was going on. Mike told me there were fireworks for some reason so I got Max and we went out on the roof to watch them light up the sky. He stayed up too late and the fireworks went on and on, but time is short and he will be grown up soon and won’t let me read books to him or lie in bed with him, so I want to make it count. I am not ready for any of this this, but I will do it anyway because he is my little boy and for as long as I am living, my baby he’ll be.<o:p></o:p></div>
Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-6277194305386165012011-05-23T12:11:00.001-05:002022-01-03T12:17:32.930-06:00I find myself frustrated at work and to deal with that, I look for other jobs online. And I daydream about that perfect job, even though, I know it does not exist and the real problem is my ever changing moods. I like to work, I like the challenge, but sometimes, I hate the follow through and wish people would just freaking do things the way I expect them to the first damn time. I don't want to be hounded with questions - just do it.<br />
<br />
Now, I know dam well, that not giving people enough details around what is expected and then expecting them to perform a certain way is insane. I am well aware of that and I suppose that is progress, but now I guess I need to move on to more progress and stop doing that insane behavior.Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-59792942341017274792011-05-19T13:55:00.000-05:002022-01-03T12:17:33.065-06:00Ya Dig?I haven't written in so long and I am not sure why. Yes, I am busy, very busy with work. But, I was busy before and managed to write. Have I used up all my stories? I wonder why I am not writing as much. Part of it, I suspect, is my ego. I confess, I like the praise I would get after a good post, but each post, I felt like, needed to be better than the next so that people would not get bored. At some point, this blog became, or maybe always was, about me getting an ego boost from other people. I think, unexpectedly, it also became very cathartic for me. I managed to purge my soul of the stories that were swirling around inside of me and now, I don't have much left. Which is ok, I guess. But makes me feel a little swirl-less.<br />
<br />
But I miss writing. I like to write. I like words, and unfolding plot lines and choosing just the right adjective for just the right noun. I used to write on planes a lot and now I spend it either reading or staring straight ahead wishing I was home.<br />
<br />
Truthfully, I am a little bored with all of my online activity lately. Facebook is a drag and makes me wonder why I check it each day. I hear people saying they are going to take a break from it and I think I should do the same, but I always go back just to check in and see what is going on or post a cute picture or something like that. But, instead of making me feel more connected to the world around me, I get kind of sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It is the same feeling I would have as a kid on school nights as it approached dinner time. I don't know why, but that time of day depressed the fuck out of me. I can almost smell the frying paneed meat in the kitchen of the house where I grew up and my mother standing over the stove holding the spatula with a far away look in her eyes. Now that I am grown up, I am sure she was wondering how she ended up in a house in the burbs with 4 ungrateful and lazy children.<br />
<br />
So, I will attempt to write more often, if nothing else to complain that I am not writing enough. It is not a should thing. I don't feel like I "should" write more, I just wish I DID write more often. It is calming and provides me with a sense of being alive and having some other purpose than work, work, work for the Man, Man, Man.<br />
<br />
Ya' dig, my brother?Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-26710483131829183692011-02-26T18:05:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:32.974-06:0030,000 Feet and Nothing To Do<div class="MsoNormal">The person who invented the mammogram machine did not have boobs. Or possibly hated boobs. And also severely underestimated the usefulness of gravity. I am done. I am not having any more mammograms. There, I said it. I will not subject myself or my tits to the horror of this obnoxious and useless procedure. My mother had breast cancer which is why every doctor has gone all bonkers about making sure I get mammograms, however, my mother had an estrogen feeding breast cancer, which is not hereditary, and she found hers herself, it was not detected by a mammogram. Oh, and did I mention that the treatment for that cancer is what caused the cancer that eventually killed her? Oh, and of course, we can’t forget that it was hormone replacement therapy that probably caused the initial cancer that resulted in the radiation treatment, which caused the radiation induced sarcoma that did her in?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that, my friends, is why I say pooh-pooh to modern day medicine’s version of leeching. </div><div class="MsoNormal">What I think would be really nice is to have a doctor who said I should have my boobs removed and replaced with perky, store-bought ones. And, to have a doctor say I also needed a hysterectomy and while he or she was there, he or she would do a little tummy tuck, too. That would be really nice. Much nicer than once a year putting my already beleaguered breasts into a flattener. That shit hurts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am on a plane.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is not a surprise, is it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, it is not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Planes are where I read, write blog entries, day dream about cosmetic surgery and figure out how I am going to get out of being a road warrior by the time Max is 7. Because that is the oldest he can be for me to keep doing this. Little kid means little problems. Big kid means big problems. And I want to be there for him. I don’t want him to turn 16 and start smoking and doing drugs and blame it on the fact I was never there. Plus, worse than a mammogram, would be dying in a plane crash or getting cancer from the full body X-rays at airports now. That would suck.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What would suck more is something I read in People magazine a couple of hours ago. A man had tongue cancer and had radiation and chemo to treat it. It caused the lining of his esophagus to slough off like snake’s skin and he had to “pull it out of his throat while coughing and vomiting.” I just threw up a little in my mouth and shuddered.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can agree with my father’s decision to forego chemo 100%. I did not even try to talk him into it. He has inoperable lung cancer and the chemo would be palliative, perhaps gaining him a month or two…a month or two of horror, pain and suffering. He has no symptoms right now, and perhaps, as it gets closer, he may change his mind, thinking 30 more days alive and in pain is perhaps better than 30 fewer days. And I will support him then, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He and I are not as close and my mother and I were. I don’t know why. Maybe because my mother and I had the same sense of humor – bitter and dark. I don’t know the reason, but I know I will miss him when he is gone. There will be no one left in this world who loves me more than themselves, no one who can fill me in on the tiny details of my childhood, no one to compare my son to me at the same age, and no one to record our lives’ special events. I doubt anyone will take up doing the filming. We all poke fun of him for recording our every gathering, even saying the children will grow up thinking Grandpa has a tri-pod growing out of his face. But he will leave us with close to 100 DVDs, I think, full of the birthdays and holidays and Sundays at mom’s house for roast, rice and green peas. Or as Nick used to call it, “the brown meat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would give all those DVDs and much, much more to have Mom back and Dad cancer-free, even for just one more Sunday. But I am grateful for the time I had with them both. I could, however, do without the gaping hole in my heart, thank you very much. </div>Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-65595035504949782692011-02-07T20:28:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:33.366-06:00Hidden From ViewToday, while cruising Facebook when I should have been working, I almost wrote on someone's wall who is constantly complaining about everything in her pompous way, that she was too judgmental. Until, of course, I realized that I was judging her. Which I am. She is so self righteous - that commercial offends me, that person should be ashamed, etc...but she does it all in the name of defending others. It. Drives. Me. Bonkers.<br />
<br />
So, instead of accusing her of being judgmental, (which she is. And, yes, we have already established so am I.) I hid her on Facebook. Oh the power the "hide" feature gives me. It is a silent "Shut the Fuck Up" to the annoying people who call themselves my friends on Facebook. I love wielding the power of the little "x" and, poof, they are gone, erased from my feed, erased from my mind. Oh, but if life had a hide button, then all would be right and good in the world. I could, in one fell swoop, have peace and quiet and be done with the annoyances of my world.<br />
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There are days when there would be no on in the news feed of my world. And then there would be days when everyone and their mindless blather would be welcome. Even the cousin who repeatedly offends with his anti-gay, pro-military, pro-hate everyone who is not white, straight and conservative status updates. But, really, I would practically have to be high or the recent recipient of a frontal lobotomy to unhide that clown.<br />
Because, as we've established, I am judgmental, and frankly, so are you. So pipe down and stay hidden.<br />
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I suppose I could just stop looking on Facebook. That too would achieve the same thing and free up a lot of time.Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5881975458694708284.post-10440727284212495552011-02-03T20:04:00.000-06:002022-01-03T12:17:32.938-06:00The Lazy Woman's PsychiatristI found the following post in my drafts...I am no longer in this state. I guess Sudafed and caffeine work.<br />
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I am battling a depression. I am trying to make it go away before it comes by drinking lots of caffeine and occasionally popping a few Sudafed. I mean, thousands of Meth addicts can't all be wrong, can they? This is a familiar depression. It is the one in which I wish so badly that I did not have to work and could be a lady who lunches that I actually have to fight back tears at my desk. Usually it comes upon me in the Spring, right before Jazz Fest, but this year, the beast has reared its ugly head right smack in the middle of Janaury.<br />
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During this time I dream about quitting my job and becoming a cashier at Whole Foods. That is my dream job. I get to wear jeans, it is rote and with a limited set of tasks, and I assume I would get a discount. Of course, even with the discount, I doubt I could afford to shop there.Fish Out of Waterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15483391844212535708noreply@blogger.com0