Spooky little girls like you

So actually, I have misled you a little bit, because the girls I’m about to brag on are not at all spooky. However, today is Friday the 13th, also known as ALISSA’S BIRTHDAY! and aren’t all Friday the 13th’s a little spooky? I forget why…

Anyway, this weekend two of my besties are turning, um, 30ish and I want to tell you a little bit about them. So here goes:

Alissa, of haley+rose, is one of the sweetest souls in my life. She is thoughtful, kind, creative, loyal, fiercely awesome and is my stationery hero. When I think of her my face lights up from the inside out because she’s one of those people that makes you feel warm and sunshiney, even if you’re not. Happiest birthday to you, lovey! Alissa lives near Hollywood, which, according to Miley Cyrus, is the land of fame and excess. I would not say that Alissa fits the excess mold, but she is famous and I am lucky to know her.

Alissa, Elizabeth and Josie

And Josie – oh Josie! – Josie is my partner in several crimes, none of which you will find out about here. She writes over at She Don’t Know Come Here From Sic ‘Em, where you can learn about a) her pregnancy, b) her love of the law and c) Hubs, an Army dude that supports her in her efforts to take over the world. Josie tugs on my heartstrings because she lives so far away, and I can’t rub her preggers belly like I want to. (She’s filing a restraining order RIGHT NOW.) She turns 29 (again) tomorrow, and if I were in Louisiana, I would bake her a big cake and let her eat the frosting with her fingers.

November is full of friend-type birthdays, so you can expect some similar posts to come. And if you don’t like to read about how awesome my friends are, SUCK IT. Happy Friday!

The one where my head turns into a TV set – the old, console kind.

Have you seen that commercial for Bing, the new search engine? It’s the one where everyone is spouting out all this useless information that has nothing to do with anything, except someone asked them a question and they’re all Search Overload! Search Overload! Part of me thinks that commercial is funny, but the other parts of me want to rip my TV out of the wall when it comes on.

My brain feels kind of like that right now – kind of like Overloaded! Please press f6 to reboot and start over! – but I think it has less to do with the amount of Internet searching I do and more to do with the fact that I have been MIA for the last 5 days because SOMEONE GAVE ME THE FLU. I’m looking at you, BB.

Well, it might not be the flu flu. I mean, it technically could be the flu if you consider the chills and aching and head congestion and coughing and misery and insomnia and WILL SOMEONE PLEASE HAND ME A GUN ALREADY? But I haven’t had a fever (someone told me this was the good news) and I don’t so much think I’m going to die today as much as I thought I would on Saturday, so probably I’m in the clear.

But that’s not really my point. My point is: I have watched so much television in the last 5 days that I am pretty for sure that if you asked me a random reality TV question, I would not only ace it, I would also be able to give you background research and statistics and maybe some genealogy (re: the Kardashians, the Lamases – wait, how do you pluralize “Lamas” when it’s a last name attached to people who should not reproduce?). I can tell you about ALL the balloon boy interviews, the number of houses HGTV helped sell in the last month, how many people are left in the running for the next Iron Chef and that Shakira wore the same outfit to SNL that she had on for last week’s Dancing with the Stars performance. I can tell you that Dexter’s hair is longer this season than last. I can tell you that on October 28th “The Proposal” will be available OnDemand, and also that Nightline is rerunning its story about evangelist Benny Hinn again tonight.

My brain is tired.

I think normal sick people probably sleep, or read books or newspapers or something, but not me. No sir. I have had at least one cat attached to my thighs at all times, and my right hand has the remote. Left hand free for phone, Kleenex, juice, whatever. Right hand on the remote at all times. I woke up yesterday morning and the damn thing was still in my hand, right where I left it the night before. I think I need some help.

So, for those of you who called to make sure that I was alive – not because you were necessarily concerned that I might be dying of swine flu, but because I haven’t posted in days – settle down. It’s taken me 5 days to move myself to the computer and I can’t make any promises until my head has finished exploding from all the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader high kicks.

It’s like that Wilson Phillips song. You know, the one about the chains.

You know, on any other ordinary Wednesday afternoon, I’d be looking out this window behind my computer and thinking that it’s kind of a shitty, rainy day. I’d be thinking that I’m tired after being gone for three days at a sort-of-useless conference, that I haven’t posted to my discussion board in three weeks and that I don’t know what’s for dinner, nor do I really care.

But today is no ordinary Wednesday afternoon; today is the day I met the woman who plans to fix me.

As you know, my well-documented struggle with panic and anxiety has been rapidly spiraling into deeper, darker waters that also are starting to include symptoms of major depression. I’ve been so wrought with overwhelming terror and fear that I haven’t been able to leave my house for days – until, thankfully, Monday morning, when my boss literally carted my ass to a different city. She watched over me and took good care of me and made sure I medicated myself thoroughly, and then she brought me home today so I could meet my new drug dealer psychiatrist who – are you ready for this, Internet? – is going to MAKE IT ALL BETTER.

I should note here that I have placed an inordinate amount of confidence and trust in this woman, and if she disappoints me then I might just have to key her car. But for the first time in my life – EVER – someone sat down with me today, asked me relevant questions about my disorder, gave me a tour of my brain and it’s innermost faults and laid out what Brian likes to call a “battle plan” for my recovery.

It turns out that I am neither fruitbat nor nutbucket crazy. I am not weird, strange or otherwise odd. (Shut up, people.) I merely have some faulty circuits rattling around in my noodle and with the proper medication and cognitive-behavioral therapy, I might be able to rejoin society as a productive citizen.

THIS IS HUGE.

Well, it is. Granted, most everything to me is HUGE because I like to USE CAPS LIKE THIS and GENERALLY EXAGGERATE things and MAKE THEM DRAMATIC and GO APESHIT over the mundane. But today I’d like to think that HUGE is deserved.

There is a bright bare yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling in my tunnel. The graffiti along the walls has changed from words that cause me terror to words that give me hope. There is someone walking with me in that tunnel, offering me a hand – a hand with a whole lot of degrees and years of experience – and today for the first time I can see my way out.

Thank you for sticking with me, for standing by me and for reading to find out what happens to me. It is with your support that I get through each day, which is why I feel like GOING APESHIT RIGHT NOW WITH THE CAPS LOCK BECAUSE HOLY HELL someone is going to fix me and THIS IS HUGE.

I’m off to do the hokey-pokey now. It’s that kind of day.

A fairytale fit for a baby

Dear Future Ward of the State,

Don’t get all judgy right away, kid, your mom told me to call you that – (“please refer to my unborn child as I do, as “Future Ward of the State”) – see? Anyway, I’d like to tell you a little story.

Once upon a time, there were two lovely girls named . . . Margaret and Erin. And they were the best of friends who did most everything together, things like smoking cigarettes (which they so don’t do anymore) and drinking PBR top shelf beer, and writing papers together until the wee hours of the morning. They would talk and talk, and plan their political futures together and occasionally they would sober up and show up to class. One day Erin became very important and she was in charge of Margaret’s living quarters. And she tried  very hard to make sure that Margaret followed all the rules, except she couldn’t. And Margaret broke her ankle on her 21st birthday, and Erin laughed and didn’t call the cops. They were best friends.

One day Margaret called Erin with the most exciting news: “I’m engaged!” she said. “I’m marrying this wonderful boy and I want you to be in my wedding.” Erin cried with excitement and anticipation as she imagined what beautiful dresses she would wear and what charming parties she would attend. When Margaret got married, Erin gave her a silver charm bracelet that had everything from crutches to flip flops to a picture of her grandparents’ wedding day on it. She melted. (Literally and figuratively: it was hot as blue blazes that day.)

Margaret lived happily ever after until the day she learned that Erin, too, had found her Prince Charming. (This is the part about your parents, so try not to barf just yet.) Margaret was so beside herself with glee that she packed her bags and flew down to New Orleans to watch them pledge their undying – if somewhat injured – love to each other. There were twinkly lights and lace dresses and blue slings and flowers and lots of love. It was a magical night. Margaret knew right then that Erin was destined for a life of happiness (with your dad) and that only good things would come to her.

One cool, September afternoon, Margaret got the most exciting news: Erin was going to have a baby! She and Prince Charming had finally settled down in a small town, with a cute (if somewhat ’70s-looking but that’s just because the kitchen is mustard yellow) house and presumably a yard. Erin was working as a law clerk for some judges there and Prince was . . . well, he’s very important and does lots of secret missions that you shouldn’t know anything about. Erin always knew that one day she and Prince would have a baby, but the question of what to name it, well, that was a question for the record books. Would it be Zeus? Would it be Aphrodite? Would it be Vixen? Erin didn’t know.

So Margaret took to the Interwebs and wrote the new baby a story in hopes that one day it would understand why Erin and Margaret were such good friends. Margaret hoped beyond hope that the new baby would love her as much as she already loves it (I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl yet, kid, AGAIN WITH THE JUDGY). Margaret crossed her fingers that she would have enough vacation days to come down and see the new baby, so she could tell it to call her Al. (That stands for Aunt Lizzie. Not for Paul Simon.)

And Margaret and Erin and Prince Charming dreamed lots of dreams about the new baby, whether it would grow up to be a judge or a doctor, a politician or a scientist. And they knew that no matter what the new baby did, he or she would make all of their dreams come true.

THE END.

Now, run off and tell your mama to call me. We’ve got a college reunion to plan.

Trapped; except, not so much really

Dear Exponentially Awesome Friend of Mine,

Last night you kind of saved me. In one of those mutual I-was-thinking-about-you moments, you sought me out and you kind of saved me. There’s something to be said for friendships, beyond what we think of when we think of girlfriends. There’s something to be said about women in your life that provide something more – something like a life preserver when you’re drowning, a bowl of homemade chicken soup when you’re sick, a giant, never-ending glass of wine when it’s a Monday.

You, dear good friend, are that for me. You’re the kind of girl that can look at me, in my obvious state of mental fucked-up-ness, and say, I had no idea, but there are ways to get past this. Sure I could cry on your shoulder if I needed to, but what I needed more is for you to tell me that actually I’m stronger than the beast that tries to beat me, and that you will help me fight if you have to.

At one point during our conversation you said that I was trapped. And I am. But when I am surrounded by people that will willingly and unequivocally tell me to take back the reigns and get some control, I know that I don’t have to be trapped for long. So thank you, first for the wine and your mother-in-law’s pimento cheese and the gluten-free crackers because SHUT UP it’s my favorite, but most of all, thank you for being there for me. When the universe finds you a little gift, all wrapped up in the form of a wonderful friend, it makes life a little bit easier.

Thanks for making it easier.