It’s not Wednesday anymore, but it IS another day

Internet. We have to talk.

Something’s happened to my mojo, my inspiration, my desire to get out here and kick blogging ass. What is it? I don’t know. Let’s explore:

1. First of all, I’m a big fat liar. I said that I was going to provide you with a little video where you [finally] get to hear my voice in all its awful glory but y’all, I swear I haven’t had time. It’s on the to-do list this weekend. Really. It is. See? I can’t even keep my promises, much less get inspired to blow you away with my blogging prowess.

2. Birthdays abound this week, as do visits with people I never see. All this social excitement is apparently taking away the usual excitement I have for writing things down here. Don’t get me wrong: I realize this interests you none. But it is worth exploring for the purposes of figuring out where my mojo’s gone.

3. I am on . . . medication. Not the OTC pain relievers, not the good stuff with the codeine that the doctor gives you when you have a sinus infection, but the really good stuff. The stuff that makes me measurably less crazy than I was before I was on it. That’s the up side to this. The down side is that my husband is going to have to hire a hooker one of these days and again, I can’t blog to save my soul.

4. I got this new monitor at work, which I adore, but for some reason office visitors feel like it’s license to walk around to my side of the desk. If anything, I thought that this would be one more barrier between me and the panic-causers, but that’s not the case. Alas, I minimize screens a lot and body block with my feet on my desk. It’s not attractive, and it wastes time. (Time that should be spent working? No, silly! Time that should be spent blogging.)

Alright, so here we have four whole reasons that I think this blog has suffered lately. Feel free to post additional reasons below. But not before you peek at this picture of my mommy and me, taken last night at dear Ruthie’s fabulous birthday party.

Look how pink I am. I'd prefer to think that it's from the wine, as opposed to what it actually was: a hot flash. Damn you, good medication!

I’m still a little bit in shock, really.

So you know how when you wander around on the Interwebs, discovering bloggers and blogs, and seeing people all over Facebook and such and you’re all Hey! Check out that chick! and stuff? And while you’re doing that, you picture them in your head except not really because you’ve probably already seen their picture and so in your head you just imagine their voices and their gestures and stuff?

I’m completely disturbed at how off base I was about one of my blogger idols, Jenny Lawson aka the Bloggess. For some reason I thought – no lie – that she would have this sort of authoritative voice – not boomy, but just in-charge sounding – and Y’ALL. She totally does not. She’s got this tiny little girl voice that makes me want to put her in my pocket and carry her around, wig and all. No lie.

That said, I started thinking that maybe you all wonder what I sound like. Do I have a Southern accent? Do I say “y’all” and “um” a lot? The answers are YES and YES. Would you like to hear? Should I promise (this time with makeup and un-scary hair) to post a video here tomorrow? Or better yet, after a glass or 6 of wine TONIGHT?

Renaming New Year’s Eve

Conversation between Kathy and me this week:

Me: Dude, this year has sucked some major balls.

Kathy: Um, yes.

Me: I mean, really. Think about all the shitty stuff that’s happened. I am SO over 2009. I should make a list.

Kathy: I don’t think we need a list to remember all the bad stuff.

Me: Maybe not. But that’s not the point. The point is, 2009 needs to be done.

Kathy: Yeah, I am with you on telling 2009 to peace the fuck out already.

And so this, Internet, is my new mission. Get through the end of the year, get through the messy holidays, the impending bad stuff, the doctor’s appointments, the final exams, the WHATEVER, and get to New Year’s Eve. This year, New Year’s Eve will be known as “Peace the fuck out already, 2009″ Night.

You think if I sent out invitations to a party celebrating “Peace the fuck out already, 2009″ people would come?

Wherefore art thou, readers?

This little spot on the Interwebs has suffered in the last month, thanks in no small part to my lack of posting some decent content. I blame this on many things, but mostly on illness, anxiety and distractions. There are so many things that have gone on that I haven’t posted about (the Peanut Festival! the All-Stars reunion! the Demise of Tonya on RW/RR Challenge!) because . . . well, I don’t really know why. In my head, the creative juices are flowing, sort of, but somewhere deep in the confines of my brain, the things I want to say are getting stuck – bottlenecked, if you will – in the traffic of my anxiety.

A couple of months ago one of my blog posts was submitted to Creative Nonfiction for consideration in its “Favorite Blog” contest. The winner will be published in the premiere issue of their redesigned magazine. Friday morning they released the 15 finalists, and Half Baked, Twice as Good was not among them. Surprised? Yeah, me neither. But that’s okay, because the blogs they did select as finalists are some really, really great ones. Anyway, all of this is to point out that there are far better places you could spend your time online, but I specifically want to thank the 8 of you that come here – you are my 8 favorite people in the whole wide world.

Also, Monday listing has been on hiatus for the month of October as my head has been too far up my ass to write anything. I was going to try to overcome that today, but instead I thought I’d wait for next Monday. It might take me a whole week to come up with a list. This is sad.

I will, however, treat you to some pictures from the 39th Annual Power Tool Pumpkin Carving party at my brother’s on Friday night. There was Funkin’ Punkin’ Ale, power tools galore, lots of Jello shots in spooky shapes, and one very rambunctious kitten. We left at a decent hour in order for BB to get up at 5am the next morning, but apparently just as he was getting ready for work, the party was winding down. Who, I ask you, can still party until 5am at 30 years old? Not I, friends.

Mmmm, jello shots in bat, ghost and pumpkin shapes

That's me with K. Cat, except that I'm not wearing a pumpkin on my head. It just looks that way.

That's my mother, the skinny movie star. She's holding Gravy, a rescue kitten whose brother is Biscuit (formerly known as Big Rig).

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.