knowing when to care

So, my therapist thinks I have an anxiety "situation". I know, shocking, right? My giggling when she said this did not help matters. She cocked her head to the side and laughed nervously, nothing compared to my maniacal guffaw.
Geez, ya think? What gave it away? The grey circles under my eyes? Or was it the red rims? Or jeans hanging off my ass which is raw from not having any solid "movement"? Just curious what it was that gave you the impression that I have anxiety.
I wanted to scream "Don't tease me! Write the f***in' script! I know you can do it." Of course, I did not say this, I sat calmly and asked toneless questions.
"So, are you suggesting medication? What kind? Is it addictive? I'm not sure I feel comfortable with this." God, I am so full of shit. But it was a good show, I tell you.
Still no script, I once again have resorted to Zyrtec chased by hot milk.

It's not gonna work.

Junk email

I've been getting a lot of REALLY interesting junk email lately. Not your standard "work from home for $250 a day" stuff. I still get that shit, but somehow the spam folks have upped the ante quite a bit. Now, I can receive an online degree from an accredited university, one that no one's heard of, most likely based out of Delhi or Uttar Pradesh or something. I went to Yale, thank you, don't need the online bogus degree for another 30k.
So, let's combine the online fak-o degree with the "cheap prescription drugs" from first name only senders. "John knows how you can get Klonapin delivered to your door for free." All set, thanks, if I need Lorazipan, Klonapin, or any other mind numbing anti-anxiety drug I have plenty of friends who can hook me up, and I know their last names.
My most favorite new spam is the sex shit. Apparently, some dude named "Carl" thinks I have a penchant for "Latino males with giant cocks, call now!" and in case that's not my style, "Christa" emails me fairly consistently offering up "wet Asian hotties, now". Nice. 'Cause the lack of ready-to-go asian women in my life is really starting to bother me.
Finally, and this is perfect, every other day I receive an offer to "pump up" my penis with a male enhancement device that promises "long, rock-hard results". Yeah, that's just what I need, another penis in my life that happens to be my own.
Fortunately, I have all I need. A set of cahones no man could match and the ability to laugh at it all.
For dinner, popcorn, apple juice, and, yes, the last of my birthday Klonapin.

Duck down and truffles?

I have a facebook account. There, I've said it. No big deal, right? Well, this is going to sound like a confession more than anything else because I don't use the account just for email updates and to find out what friend is picking their ass at that moment and who is looking for love in all the wrong places.
Those status updates can be a bit much, especially the ones that change every five seconds. Those people are kidding themselves. How could their status change when all they're doing is sitting on their asses updating facebook?! It's a quandry.
Anyway, after I've checked my account, sent emails to people I like and ignored the ones who I don't even remember but somehow they have become my "friend", I use the other feature of facebook:
Farmville.
I do have an 8-year-old daughter who manages my farm for me, that way there's an excuse for all of this, but I do delight in watching her collect cyber squash and purchase fake hay bales for the fake horses. What really confuses me about Farmville is the "use" of the animals. Maybe it's my jaded, 30-something self that is totally puzzled by the function of the beasts. For instance, when you click on the little fake pig your options are; Move, Sell, Collect truffles, rotate, walk.
"Collect truffles? What the fuck does that mean?"
"Mom, the f-word."
"Right, sorry. What does that mean?"
"It means that the pig is going to dig truffles for you."
"But don't most pigs on farms get eaten, I mean, shouldn't it say collect pork chops?"
"Not in Farmville, Mom."
Ok, so maybe I'm a bit old-fashioned and have been completely honed to believe that any animal on a farm is going to be in my stomach within the year. Fine. So no pork in Farmville.
But what about the ducks? There are ducks with similar options; Move, Sell, Collect down feathers, rotate, walk.
"Down feathers? What about the eggs? Don't people eat duck eggs, and ducks, especially around the holidays?"
"Not in Farmville, Mom. Taking the eggs would be stealing."
"Right."
So, with every animal that needs attention, none of them will die, ever, at the hand of the cyber farmer with a shaggy hair cut (my choice of customization). Even the baby elephant that my friend Marc gave me is only good for distributing circus peanuts. It has tusks. Ivory is worth A LOT these days. The horse is only good for horsehair...no stud fee for thoroughbreds, no brood mares.
Maybe Farmville will collapse on its own political correctness. Or, just maybe, every creature and human will get what they need to be happy.
For dinner last night, nachos that were unintentially broiled because the numbers and settings on the stove were wiped away by the degreasing agent. Not my doing.

Winter, spring, summer, or falling....

I hate James Taylor. I always have. Unfortunately, everyone in the Berkshires loves him because he spent some time here when he was a total heroin addict and needed to dry out. So, he checked himself into a really expensive rehab joint and "found god" in this sodden piece of landlocked hell. Coure, he thinks it's beautiful here because of his revelation.
Apparently, James Taylor never split wood in the pouring rain on Labor Day Weekend. Nor did he freeze his balls off in mid-November when the gas guy refused to make a delivery the day after Thanksgiving, even though you pleaded with him that your 8-month-old daughter was forced to drink cold formula for two days.
"Sorry, ma'am, C.O.D. only."
Yeah, I bet James Taylor would have some pretty nice ballads to sing about that shit. So, it pays to be a rich junkie. Clearly being sober and poor pales in comparison, but god knows I could write better songs. With my fingerless mittens.
The seasons are changing. Rapidly. It was 60 degrees last week. This morning, I took a digger right outside my front steps. The leaves were slick with SNOW and I was vain enough to wear my cowboy boots because my snowboots are so uncool and clunky. I pay for fashion and beauty.
And for what? I've learned not to wait for some cute puppy to start sniffing at the post, if you know what I mean.
The boots are for me. I fall in them, but I pick myself up and laugh at my own vanity. But they still look good on my feet, even though my ass is covered with wet leaves and my pride is injured to almost behind recognition.
So, James Taylor, have fun with your protected seasons and your blah songs about driving around and shallow friendships. I have my own recovering to do, and no high charging shrink to guide me through.
For dinner, which I know have to mention more out of habit than it actually "going" with the tone of the blog, I had squash soup and a salad and a warming, giggly glass of Malbec. The meal was amazing probably because I was awash in the almost sexual afterglow of a poetry reading. Yes, I am that much of a nerd.

mental check

I'm sitting in the town library, reeking of coffee, and there is a creepy feel to the place. Like I'm too trashy to be here, maybe...but I am reading a Faulkner story from a book that hasn't been checked out in YEARS so...
So, I thought I was getting this big salvation check for doing some editing for a friend of mine. The book is decent but difficult to sift through since this friend is borderline manic with possible traces of bipolar schizophrenia. You can imagine what the writing style is like. The bible one minute and the Marquis de Sod the next. Yikes.
The check was for $200.
Then it dawned on me that none of this, this messy pile we call life is going to be easy to work through. The rescue, if it comes at all, is going to present itself in little dribs and drabs, punctuated by humor and much despair.
I'm hoping, given his mental instability and relative randomness that the next check will be for $30,000.
Hey, a girl can hope, right?!
For dinner, a salad with walnuts and some scraped together honey mustard dressing. For dessert, Zyrtec and a good dose of Pablo Neruda. Probably not the best poetry to pick up when you're feeling low and cold in the middle of the woods, but it is me we're talking about.

Smart people

I have a friend whom I will call Whitney to protect her, me, and her kids, and my kids, and the dogs, etc.
Anyway, Whitney is the funniest bitch I've ever met, in my life, hands down. She is 7 months sober, and is just emerging from the ass end of her second divorce. She has three girls, 16, 8, 3, and it is a wonder that she is not taking Klonapin through an i.v., just to keep sane. Just to keep sane.
Anyway, Whitney made me waffles yesterday.
"I used the Krusteaz waffle mix, so they're as close to homemade as you're gonna get," she said as her 3-year-old jumped onto her stomach for the 5th time, probably rupturing her bladder.
"Umph, god, why do you have to jump on me?!"
She heaped 5 enormous waffles on to my plate.
"I'm not going to eat 5 fucking waffles."
"Eat 'em you skinny bitch, maybe you'll grow your ass back."
I removed 2 of the waffle bricks from my plate and then doused them with Mrs. Butterworth's and margarine. Being at Whitney's house reminded me of my friend Mary's house, where I would eat all the junk food my bloated belly could hold and then have like 15 root beers before being flung back into my mother's puritannical, Mennonite kitchen. Funny because now my mother eats cookies like they're falling off the earth, she should be about 700lbs, but, of course, she isn't.
So, the waffles. The edges were crisp, they were a little hard to cut. I balanced the plate in my lap while I cut, rigorously, and a piece finally broke free. I ate the first piece. It was VERY dense. Whitney must have seen the look on my face.
"Oh yeah, I got confused with 'mix' and 'milk'. I didn't know that they were supposed to be buttermilk waffles and couldn't figure out why the directions called for 2 cups of milk."
I chewed on, laughing while the heavy crumbs of waffle fell to the floor.
"I know, I have a law degree, just opened up my own practice, and I can't figure out mix and milk. I know."
"You said it, not me."
It's the little things that clog us up. We smart people have these release moments, these reminders that we are not supposed to be smart all of the time, maybe not even 60% of the time. It's a relief to know I'm not the only one who has seen the inside of my ass with my brainy eyes.
For dinner, my brother's wife made stir fry and I invited myself over. It was a quiet affair, mostly because I was wolfing down the food, my first real meal in awhile.

FML or LMFAO

I've come to the conclusion that life in its rawest form is about constantly maintaining a balance on the razor sharp edge of hilarious joy and hysterical crumbling. Vulnerability seems to be the thing that prevents you from deciding if you should laugh or cut your own throat with picnicware. Fear not, I have no picnicware in my little cottage out in east B.F. Not yet, anyway.
Speaking of the cottage, well, it's bare bones. Or I should say "bear" bones because I'm closer to hawks and bears than I am to a public toilet and humanity. No internet, hence, the blog will be sporadically timed this week and maybe next, no t.v., no nada. Just me, my laptop, my toxic funny thoughts and the various wildlife living in the basement.
The dirt basement.
I am trying convince myself that this simplicity is GOOD for my little soul, and that complete isolation is somehow enriching me and leading me to enlightenment. So far the only spiritual communion I've had is that a layer of snot in my nose and ear finally popped away, now there are 5 left to drain. Also, I had a bowl of honey nut cheerios. A bright spot....
Actually, I did go bowling Saturday night with a friend of mine and all of her friends from AA.
I've never been bowling sober. Needless to say, my game sucked but I didn't have a hangover the next day. I'm going to see that one as a positive.
I don't have much by way of recipes since I've been living on coffee, M&Ms and Marlboro Lights. But I did hear something funny that relates to eating.
"This separation is like eating shit and laughing about it."
Well said.