Squee! It’s Glee!

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.

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.

Because next year there might not be as many

I guilted myself into going to the family reunion today – and it was ALL FOR YOU, LawyerMom! Well, not really. It was also for my great-aunt Ernestine, who turned 90 over Labor Day weekend.

And it was for Daddy and his sister:

And it was for Cathy and Burt and Frank and Mack and Marie and Michael and all the Mollies and all the Cindys. (There are more than you might think.)

And even though the crowd was smaller, and even though the food wasn’t as homemade as last year (we’re all too old and exhausted to cook anymore), and even though not all my favorites showed up, I did not have to suppress the urge to tell an old wrinkled person to fuck off, NOT ONE TIME. Incidentally, I noticed at the park this afternoon that the leaves are starting to turn. I also noticed last night that it’s dark at 7:30 now.

You know what this means? This means that the universe has given me reprieve! This means that the air is changing! The heat – DEAR GOD THE HEAT THAT TRIES TO KILL ME EVERY SINGLE DAY – is dissipating! I would marry the fall season if I could. I would even buy it a ring and plan a big fussy wedding with a ball gown and a 30-piece orchestra. And I am so not exaggerating.