American Girl

It’s late, and my nap on the couch after dinner wasn’t a good idea. I’ve been so tired lately, probably from too much exercise of the mind and not enough exercise of the body.

Winter missed us completely; a very short spring has made way for an early summer and the heat exhausts me already. It’s not hot to some, but for me 87 degrees plus humidity and a giant pile of pollen has taken its toll. My head aches, my eyes itch, my general demeanor is unpleasant.

Tonight I can’t stand stand the stuffy air in our bedroom any longer. I wake Brian and beg him to reach the switch that turns the fan the opposite way. Long strings of dust fly around the room, landing in my hair, all over the blankets, covering the floor.

We’re not good housekeepers.

Today I realized that I’ve lost command of an aspect of my job that I should control completely. I’m not proud of myself and I feel that I’ve failed. I’ve been snappy and short, and am utterly tired of faking smiles and feigning interest in other people’s lives. It’s hard to overlook my shortcomings and my preoccupation with myself is becoming obnoxious.

Trying not to hate this time of year is always an effort and, in the same way people with SAD dread the winter, I dread the spring. I want to stay inside and admire the flowers from behind a window. I don’t want to socialize or make small talk or pose for pictures in a dress that makes me uncomfortable. I want to decline invitations to parties and mail the half dozen birthday presents to family instead of delivering in person. I feel sick thinking about how hot I’ll be until November, so I sign up for a summer school class. Partly I’m excited to be a student again, but mostly I’m relieved to have an excuse to keep to myself until July.

Will I go back to school? Will I close my business? Will I fake a smile and dance until my feet hurt and pretend that I’m enjoying myself? Or will I shut myself inside my house, shivering in the air conditioning, reading stories about slums in Mumbai or lost childhoods in Africa?

I’ll probably do it all. It’s the way life moves forward, trudging on some days and flying by on others. We keep doing what we’ve always done, and we’re surprised when the outcome isn’t different.

Maybe we’re fools. Or maybe it’s just me.

Songs for a Road Trip

I love nights that come together perfectly. Friends and food and wine that’s good but cheap. Last night we had a birthday party for our good friend and after supper, we sat outside with a few smokes, the last of the wine and nothing but stars. After a day of thunderstorms the sky suddenly cleared. The humidity had waned for a little while and we could look up and see planets and stars. The only thing missing was some good music and all 3 of us whipped out our phones to a) be cool and b) to get some tunes. Funny how that worked out, except it didn’t because everyone’s programs were “buffering” and then Pandora couldn’t get a connection and the antenna was too short on the real live plug-in radio we had.

Tonight I started listening to 8 Track (if you don’t have that app, download it immediately), and it reminded me of the days when we would make tapes FOR things. And give them Titles of Importance. My favorite tapes of all time are the ones other people made for me in high school, when we were digging music that was a little off the beaten path – this was way before “hipster” and “indie” entered our vocabulary.

I remember though, in college, sitting on the carpet in Josie’s room, smoking Camels and listening to her music, which was far less mainstream than what I listened to. Her bands were super sharp and edgy and I felt very cool listening to them. She made me a CD later on as a Christmas gift and did that for several years after for friends. I drank a lot of Bud Light in that room.

Lindsey and I loved fierce chick singers and we had this great ritual for every time we crossed the state line back into NC: light a Marlboro, honk the horn and turn on the Indigo Girls because we could harmonize. We harmonized the SHIT out of the whole Indians & Saints album, over and over.

Then when Tarrah cleaned on Sundays she would bust out the good tunes on the Top 40 station. She would bring her ironing into my room, where I was drinking cold beer in the afternoon and watching Lifetime movies. I did her ironing and then would head next door to rock out to the same shit everyone else was listening to. This was all until that night we ate Taco Bell drive through – for me the first time ever – and we sang Jo Dee Messina. Tarrah was then my country girl.

And Kristen used to play “Life in a Northern Town” on repeat in her room. Mostly it was to drown out the reminder of her crazy ass roommate and my CERTIFIABLE roommates. It totally worked. I hummed that song forever on my walks to and from the metro station.

Is there even that kind of shit anymore? Does anyone make CDs or MP3 lists or whatever FOR anyone anymore? Do they Title them with the Importance of the songs contained within?

I fucking doubt it.

Kids these days.

War on Drugs

I’ve just spent the better part of an afternoon doing two things: first, crying inside because I have a migraine and my office is THE LOUDEST PLACE ON THE GODDAMNED EARTH and second, reading articles by Penelope Trunk and Cat Marnell and Rolling Stone about pharmaceuticals, both prescribed and abused.

Yesterday I lost my temper in the office. I let someone get under my skin something fierce and I literally had to remove myself from the situation and walk out. I had that fiery red face, the hot flash, the bright sparks of light flashing in front of this person’s face and I just LOST IT. I had shaky hands and sweaty palms until bedtime last night. It was the most rattled I’ve been in, well, I don’t know how long. But actually for the last two months, I’ve felt the panic start to rise again. I have never been happier teaching my class, work is fine and home is fine, but still I feel the anxiety simmering right under the surface. When people talk to me their voices are extra loud. When I have phone conversations my mind wanders and I have to force myself to focus, lest I forget who I’m talking to. I fidget in meetings, poking people’s backs or kicking them from my chair, just to feel myself doing something. This sensation of detachment could have a lot to do with allergies, believe it or not. It could be the very early change in seasons, or the down time I have at work right now. Who knows?

The drugs I take are, I believe, absolutely essential to my daily function. Perhaps this is psychosomatic, but I think I can feel the edge of panic more if I take my medication off schedule, like if I take it at dinner instead of breakfast. I guess this means they are working correctly, but I don’t really know. I don’t have another appointment with my doctor until April, so I suppose I’ll ask her then.

About a year ago I got the stomach flu and I didn’t take my drugs for a few days. I freaked the fuck out one day when Brian wasn’t at home with me, and that was the moment I realized that I can’t live my life in a normal, manageable way unless I’m on these things. If you can do it right and do it like you’re told, the right prescription can mean a world of difference.

Not everyone can do that, though. I know addicts. Like, know them know them. I know that for some people, drugs are just joints that float to the top on a Saturday night at a neighborhood party. For other people they are prescription pills that feel just a little too good to stop asking the doctor for them. For still others, they are shot glasses or fifths of bourbon or three bottles of wine. Addicts don’t have to use needles or lighters under tin foil. “Bad” drugs aren’t always illegal. I’m not saying anything here that you don’t already know.

My Nancy Reagan moment is here and I’M OWNING IT, BITCHES.

This stuff is slippery, y’all. There’s a fine, almost indistinguishable line between fixing a chemical imbalance and just a fix.

Some people judge me for writing all of this here, and to you I say WELCOME TO THE CRAZY. I am not nearly as crazy as probably 97% of the population, so probably you should step out into the world and meet some more folks. Diversify a little. For those that aren’t so judge-y but look at me as if I were an ostrich with six wings, who gives a shit? Really. And for those that read this and understand what I mean, HONEY, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. You take those prescribed medications just like your doctor told you to. You pick up that bag at the pharmacy with pride, because you were brave enough to get what you need to be who you need to be.

And finally, to those of you reading this who think pharmaceuticals are something to enjoy, something to take the edge off, something to make it through the rest of today and maybe tomorrow morning, get some help now. Drugs – in whatever form they come – are dangerous little fire pokers. They’re useful, they cause pain and relieve pain, and before you know it they will burn a hole in you so deep it will take years to heal.

Take it if you need it. But remember this: you’re not always the one who knows what you need.

ABC is actually not as easy as 123

I wrote this a few nights before Christmas and, for some reason, it’s been sitting in my drafts folder. But I’m publishing it now because I felt this way and still do.

I miss her every single day of my life. I miss her when I pass by the cemetery. I miss her when I drive by her house. I miss her on her birthday, my birthday and most especially at Christmas.

When I was little I would go with them to Raleigh on the weekends to see the symphony. She taught piano, he loved piano and I was a student with some budding talent. We would watch and listen from good seats, looking at the gleam of the horns, straining to hear the sound of the woodwinds. I loved it, though sometimes I found it boring. I never found The Nutcracker boring, however. I loved getting dressed up every year and going several times. My Girl Scout troop would go and then my grandmother would always take me. “Sit to the left of the stage,” she would say. “You have to be able to see the hands of the pianist, even if they’re in the orchestra pit. If you can’t see the hand positions you can’t understand the movements.” My grandfather would watch, mesmerized, as the musicians played their instruments feverishly and ballerinas twirled around candy canes and Christmas trees.

Tonight on public television there was a Russian version of The Nutcracker, which I watched beginning to end. And then I found the Raleigh handbell choir performing holiday music, which included pieces from the ballet as well. I played handbells as a child, and I will never forget our recitals in church, getting dressed up again in my Christmas dress, running down the halls by the Sunday school classrooms, waiting for my turn to walk into the sanctuary, play my alto bells or my flute or the piano, and see them smiling from their pew in the middle. She would close her eyes and bob her chin a little, nodding her head sometimes to indicate emphasis, or to help me remember something she had told me to do. Lift your wrists a little more. Start soft and then build to a crescendo. Not too fast! If you rush I will know it.

I can’t help but sob right now thinking about her. My heart aches and my stomach hurts and I can’t see through my tears. I want them back so badly.

What the hell, Santa?

I’m in a funk, y’all. It’s not a Bah Humbug-y kind of funk, it’s just a fierce wish that Christmas vacation will get here TOMORROW DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN kind of funk.

There’s frustration in the air around here with everyone I know. We’re frustrated that deadlines are passed or attention isn’t paid to them, we’re frustrated that cars or houses need to be repaired, and we’re frustrated that extra bills are coming due right here at Christmas.

What’s a frustrated girl to do? I don’t know, y’all. In the last few days I’ve been trying to come up with some low-cost or free ways to relieve stress and have a little fun while I’m doing it. So far I’ve bought HBO, but that didn’t really up my jolly factor to be honest.

Every night when I go to bed, I think “I hope tomorrow will be better,” and y’all, it’s just not. The end of any semester is always hectic, but this one is particularly so. Reports are due, papers are late, grades haven’t been put in and I don’t have the energy to work when I get home – even though home is the only quiet place I have. Sort of.

Wow, this is depressing.

Next Thursday I will start my holiday vacation and it will run until January 3^rd. We haven’t been out of town all year long, so I’m hoping that somewhere in that 2 week span I can scrounge up some extras to plan a little overnight stay somewhere. I will also be spending my break moving my house back around into some kind of order that doesn’t suffocate me. (Two years ago we rearranged to accommodate my business, but we didn’t do it right, and now we’re stuck under piles and piles of heavy, too-big furniture with nowhere to move and no way to fix it.)

So there you have it. I’m crabby, I’m tired, I’m at a loss for how to get happy again and I’m about to spend the last $1000 I have on car repairs. Santa, oh dear sweet Santa, WHERE ARE YOU?!