I Miss Blogging

I miss blogging. Some day I will get back into it. Until then...

1. Melatonin is the devil's tonic. I am done with that mess. Done. And next time I decide to try diagnose and treat myself for whatever ailment...I will research it first. I would rather not sleep for a year straight than deal with the problems that cropped up after I endorsed it as the best thing ever. Melatonin is like a shitty boyfriend. It worms its way into your life and causes all sorts of other problems, escaping detection because, hey, it's "natural". It's only after you change everything about yourself that you realize...wait, maybe it is the shitty boyfriend (melatonin). Never ever again.

2. I have made peace with my shitty job. After flying off the handle (naturally aided by the melatonin) about the lack of a salary increase; I settled down and got out my calculator. Of course, I still don't think they pay me enough (there isn't an enough); however, I now realize that my pay is in line with what I would make anywhere else that I would have to commute to. At least they pay me to drive to and from work, which actually does make a huge difference. So, for now, I am going to STFU about it and continue paying my bills. It could be so much worse.

3. The new AFLAC commercial is 20 years behind the times. A rapping pidgeon? That would have been pretty funny in 1992. Now, it is just retarded. Although, I do enjoy hearing the bird say, "Major Medical".

4. If melatonin is the devil's tonic, then Biscoff Spread is heaven's manna. I didn't think it could get any better than those crisp spicy cookies available on Delta flights. Until they showed up at Walgreen's. I can have the Delta flight experience right on my couch! Without the hallitosis ridden fat guy sitting too close to me. I never dreamed that it could get better than that. But it did. This weekend, I discovered that some genius had figured out a way to grind the delicious wafers into peanut butter form. I am halfway through the jar. Seriously, get thee to the nearest grocer and purchase a jar. See for yourself. Just stay away from my local grocer. I work this corner, bitches.

5. Occupy Wall Street (or insert metropolitan area here). What exactly are these folks trying to tell us? That commune living is where it's at? There is still plenty of land available in the west. Go there and do it. Yeah, I have been screwed too, I guess. But you know what? I am okay. That is life. I believe that my generation, actually...the elders of my generation, are responsible for this. For every child who grows up hearing, "You can do anything you want to do! You are Superman! You deserve (insert misunderstood constitutional right here)! My kids are my life!" there is a dirty, entitled, loud talker picking at his toenails on Wall Street. I certainly do not advocate crushing your children or their dreams; however, somewhere along the way...people lost touch with reality. These annointed children grew up to find that they are not, in fact, the center of the universe. So now what? They have joined a mish mash of citizens who feel left behind by life and someone needs to pay. But not them. Nope. They are not paying for anything. It seems that it just is not fair for a select few to play the game and win. The activists are waiting for their participation trophies. I look at it like this: Susie and Bobby are playing Go Fish. Susie loses. Instead of starting a new game, and sharpening her strategy, Susie jumps up in tears and goes out to the front lawn and begins wailing about how unfair it is that Bobby won. Do you think Bobby will give up card games forever, feeling bad that there just was not enough "win" to go around? No. Bobby is on the phone, calling Mary to come over and play Go Fish with him, and probably hoping she is a better player than that crazy bitch Susie. I shudder to think what society will become if the playing field was leveled. Survival of the fittest has worked since the beginning of time. Call me Scrooge, I don't care. The world doesn't change to accommodate me, I change to accommodate the world. This is not a popular opinion and there are plenty of people who would line up to introduce me to the exceptions (if this were a widely read blog...which it isn't) and to them I would say two things: 1) I don't have time to meet your exceptions because I have to go to my job. And work. So that I can earn a paycheck. And pay my bills. Because I don't get paid just to simply exist. 2) If you spent half the time learning to play the game than you did looking for the exception to every rule, you would have something else to do besides sitting around stinking up the environment with your B.O. and your rhetoric. Choosing to play the victim only worked for Michael Moore. And he's the fattest victim I know.

6. I was not home to greet trick or treaters last year. This year, I will be home and will welcome the candy seeking masses. I will be implementing my Candy Tier Policy. The CTP is as follows: Tier One includes name brand snack size candy such as Payday, Twix, and Kit-Kat. This tier is reserved for children, aged 12 and under, who show up in costume and state, "Trick or Treat". Tier Two includes suckers and generic candy such as Mary Janes (aka Black and Orange), Dots, and Tootsie Rolls. This tier is reserved for children aged 12 and under who are not in costume, children who mumble, as well as children under the age of three whose parents are begging by proxy. Finally, Tier Three includes candy from Easter and Valentine's Day, peppermints that have collected in my console from Sonic,individual sticks of gum, and pencils. This tier is reserved for children over the age of 12, children of any age who present Kroger/WalMart/Dollar General bags, and children of any age whose costume consists of what appears to be either baby powder or flour on their faces. If a child aged 12 or under presents with absolutely no costume, they actually fare better than a child who puts white powder on his or her face. If a child dresses like a crack-head, he or she will be treated as such. As a personal bonus incentive, Tier One candy is allocated as follows: One for them, two for me. I want to give kids the good candy. It is a win/win situation. If a child approaches my door after I have turned off the porch light, he will continue standing there until his good sense returns and will receive no candy for this effort. This is my way of teaching the world, one child at a time. If you want the good candy, you have to work for it. Be creative. Use imagination. Don't blame circumstances. Don't half-ass. The good candy awaits those that strive. 10 month old peppermints await those that don't, so that while they are shouting about how unfair life is...at least their breath will be fresh.

Granted, numbers 5 and 6 could have, and probably should have, had their own posts. However, I am a stream of consciousness blogger. Eventually, I will always work my way back around to the point. And the point here is...

I have a little to say about a lot of things. I miss blogging.

Eleven Things.

Last night, I talked myself into a bath. That's right, I had to convince myself to bathe. Normally, I take a quick shower, as quickly as possible, then go to bed. Lately, my schedule has been hectic (read: shitty) and I feel my grip on my time loosening with every obligation. It isn't necessarily work, a lot of it is self created. When I get home from work, I feel the burden of all the crap that needs to be done at home; therefore, I usually busy myself with busy work for the short chunk of time that is supposed to be my own. Sweeping, mopping, folding clothes, dusting, organizing, reorganizing, scrubbing....if I had more time, I would address my obvious OCD issues; however, doing so means something would get left unpolished at home. It makes me stressed out when there is something undone. I can't just sit and enjoy a movie when I know that somewhere in the house, there is a dust bunny lurking. It is crazy, I already know. And, I am not at all sure where it came from. I wasn't a tidy kid, my parents are not neat freaks, and in the grand scheme of things, I know it doesn't matter. Am I overcompensating for not having children by cleaning my house like I do? So, anyway...back to the bath. Even that is an ordeal.

Before I can sit in the tub and soak, I have to clean the tub. Not because I am a germaphobe, but because my dog has a weird habit of hanging out in the tub when I am not home. Her dirty little paws leave prints all over it, so much so that it actually looks as though I have some sort of custom painted tub. Anyway, I have to clean up the paw prints. So, last night, I decided it would be worth the effort. I have the process down to a science. Scrubbing Bubbles is a great product for people who want to clean while they wait to clean something else. Spray, scrub (yes, I know it is supposed to do it for me...but Harriet's dirt is tough), rinse. I fill up the tub, add my bath additives, then get in. Harriet comes in and after a big sigh, lies down beside the tub, probably thinking, "I worked so hard on that tub today...damn." As I soaked away my cares compiled my to do list for Wednesday, I noticed the bottle of Philosophy Apricots and Cream bath gel. There is a recipe for actual Apricots and Cream on the front of the bottle. I decided to compile a new list:

STUFF I WOULD DO IF I HAD MORE TIME
I would:
1. Actually make the Apricots and Cream recipe from the Philosophy bottle. I've never had an apricot, so I don't know if I would even like it, but I can't remember the last time I made a recipe just for the hell of it.
2. Sketch. The closest I come to actually doing something creative is dusting my drawing table.
3. Read. Those summer reading books that I was soooo excited about a few months ago? Still in the tall stack I placed them in. Officially changed the name of the stack to Fall Reading Stack and placed a moratorium on any new reading materials.
4. Pet Harriet's pretty little head. I miss my dog when I am out there rushing from client to client. I recently commited to walking her at least 3-4 times a week and am keeping this commitment. I just wish I had more time to actually invite her into my lap and pat her belly. That would require sitting.
5. Sit more. With the exception of lunch, which I normally eat in the car, I eat most of my meals standing up. I have plenty of comfortable seating options, including a lovely rocking chair on the front porch, perfect for enjoying the cool evenings. I need to use that...after cleaning it.
6. Watch all the stuff in my DVR, as well as my Netflix queue. I still haven't seen the final season of Nip/Tuck.
7. Shop. Yes, that is a risky situation. I do shop now, but for things to make life easier...gadgets, tools, food. I mean shop for nothing. Of course, that is a dangerous thing for me, being budgeted to death, but it would be nice to go to some of my old haunts for an afternoon (Celery, Davis Kidd/DK, Fresh Market, Steinmart, Olde Time Pottery, etc).
8. Visit my mom. Sometimes, I crave going home and pretending I am 8.
9. Get drunk. I love wine and liquor, but what fun is it to have a nice glass of wine while sweeping the floor? I remember sitting on my patio on Friday nights, listening to the sounds of the nearby high school football game, needing a blanket, and finishing off a bottle of merlot. How long ago was that? Last year? Two years ago? Funny Sad thing is, my home is no more improved now than then, so what have I been wasting time on???
10. Call my friends. I am not a phone talker. This is yet another example of how different I am from how I used to be. I abhor talking on the phone, no matter who it is. Sometimes I will get a wild hair, and will call up someone I haven't talked to in a while, but then after about 5 minutes, I am ready to hang up. I wonder if Facebook killed my desire to catch up? More than likely, it is the fact that I talk to people that I generally do not want to talk to all day. When I am on the phone, I think about all the things I could be doing if I wasn't on the phone. If I had more time, I would call up my friends and post up for a marathon phone call, without a care about what was left undone.
11. Ride my bike. My boyfriend bought me a fabulous bike for my birthday. It really is awesome. I have ridden it three times since June. There is a limitation on my time with the bike; however, as it is kept at his house because he lives on the bike trail. There is nowhere to ride the bike here at my house. Therefore, riding the bike involves all sorts of scheduling and planning. That sucks.

I'm on to something here...I feel as though I have to perfect things before I can enjoy them, and get so caught up in the perfecting that I have no time or energy for enjoying. I require perfect conditions before partaking. Perfection was never a big thing for me, I was never an overachiever, my parents were of the "good enough" school of parenting, I certainly don't look like a perfectionist with my stubble legs and wild frizzy hair; so what is that about? I should really take some time to sort that out...

but my coffee pot is grungy.

Southern Decadence: A Survival Guide

A summation of what I learned from my weekend in New Orleans:

1. Labor Day weekend is the Annual Southern Decadence Festival in New Orleans. This is a festival that trots out the worst that the gay population has to offer. If you want an overview of all the gay stereotypes and fuel for your anti-gay campaign...this is the place to be. If you basically don't care and have no issue with gay/lesbian/bi/trans/etc...stay far away. Visit St Pete, the weather is lovely. I have no problem whatsoever with gay pride/rights/marriage/etc. I do have a problem with obnoxious people, however. I am concrete and stockstill in my belief that all men are created equal. Gay, straight, black, white, yellow, red, whatever. While I am fairly open-minded...there are a lot of people who are not. Donning a pink boa, wearing the entire color collection of Wet n Wild makeup, and handing out personal lubricant is not going to change anyone's mind.
Wow, thanks, so I forget...am I voting on gay marriage or banning friction?



I was unsure whether I was supposed to stare or not. It was the Freaknik for gays. You don't want to be viewed as freaks? Then quit acting like freaks.

My mother taught me not to stare at people in wheelchairs. But what if that wheelchair is painted neon green and has a sign above it that says, "LOOK AT THIS PERSON IN THE NEON GREEN WHEELCHAIR!!!!" Am I still expected to act like the handicapped person walks amongst the rest of us?

2. Do not listen to the weather channel. Tropical Storm Lee: a story in photos...




Thanks Lee for lowering the temps to the mid 80's, washing away all the Jean Nate and piss, and inspiring me to buy some CUTE rainboots!



3. This weekend was brought to you by The Sibilant S. Everywhere I turned, there was Steam escaping from the mouths of men. What is the deal with this? You are gay, I get it. You were born that way...I'll buy that. But the lisp? It sounds ridiculous. SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. I kept looking in the gutters for snakes. Just another stereotype turning into fact.
Hold on to your men, ladieS...there iS a cloiSter of queenS ahead.

And while I am on the subject of speech, why is everyone talking so LOUD???? Is there some sort of gay hearing deficit plaguing the population? Here's a clue for all those shouting about discrimination: It isn't about your orientation...it is about the fact that you are fucking obnoxious. Why bother wearing bright, loud, and visually arresting garb when all you have to do is open your mouth. Every single restaurant that I walked into had tables full of men shouting at each other. Not just on Bourbon street, where shouting at each other is a standard. Jim and I couldn't hear the waiter, much less each other, at NOLA...which isn't a casual watering hole. Most of our meals were spent watching each other chew food that we could not discuss because of the Loud Talking Competition at the next table. I didn't expect a library environment, but I also did not expect a cattle auction either. SSSHHHH!

4. Um....just because you are not looking at me, that does not mean I am not looking at you. What are you...five?



Dude, they got bathrooms in every single one of these buildings. The world is not your changing room. Once again...the stereotype is shouting: All gays have bad manners. Now, I know that isn't true, but what about the 8 year old kid across the street. The power of one, my friends. That kid is going to remember seeing your lily white inner thighs every time someone mentions gay, New Orleans, French Quarter, queer, decadence, and southern. The kid will grow up with the notion that all gays have shitty manners. He or she will marry a like minded mate and produce offspring that will be taught that same belief. Not really helping your cause.

5. The gay population has the same pratfalls as the straight population. Case in point...I have never seen as many mandals as I saw this weekend. Here's the deal: the only person who thinks that mandals are okay is the person that is wearing them. Straight women abhor mandals. I'd be willing to bet gay men don't like them either. In hundreds of French Quarter hotel rooms this weekend, there was a silent plea being sent up: Please, for the love of God, don't wear those mandals today. And then...a hundred little lies: Yeah, honey, you look fine...let's go. Same thing with fanny packs and knee length cargo shorts. It's universal. People let themselves go, whether gay or straight, and then expect their mates to just overlook things. You know, because of love. No matter if you are gay, straight, bi, confused, or hetero...there has to be something visually appealing there. Call it shallow, it is the truth. And then, there's this:

Clearly, he does not have AT&T. He didn't get the text that read, "Meet at the golden lantern, dress casual". His friends were all, "Oh my God, you guyS, what iS up with Carl? Let'S ditch him at Pat O'BrienS."

6. New Orleans is not the place for families. Actually, I already knew this. I do not understand why anyone would think that hauling your baby and all of it's crap to New Orleans is a good idea. Strollers and cobblestones do not mix. And just because you guys wanted to multiply, that does not give you supreme rights to the sidewalk. Your toddlers are annoying in New Orleans, just the same as Memphis. I overheard one woman tell her child, "You better get back over here, someone is going to snatch you up and take you home with them." No they won't. Take your brood and go somewhere else; a place where the vomit won't clog the wheels of your stroller. A place where you don't have to answer questions like, "Mama, what does twink mean?" A place where I don't have to watch your fat-backed daughter in a halter top upset the pidgeons. Baton Rouge is lovely this time of year. I have no pics of said fat-backed kids to share...as photographing kids is not a good idea. It is the same "don't stare at the wheelchair" argument. Don't stare at the obnoxious 8 year old running around squawking "LOOK AT ME! LOOK! LOOK AT ME!!!!!"

All in all, I had a great time in the Big Easy. The storm was mild, the gays were loud, the kids were fat, the parents were indulgent, and the food was good. I learned that being obnoxious is a universal trait, rain boots with flair can be had, if you watch long enough...a kid will receive an empty threat from it's parent, and the shrimp and grits is just as good when someone is hollering at the next table.

She Put the Blue in Bluegrass

On Thursday, August 25, I experienced some sort of public emotional come-apart. Not how you might think, though...this breakdown occured in the dark (thank god) and was set to some fine fiddling. When my boyfriend, Jim, invited me to see Alison Krauss live in concert, I was all set. I mean, I like her little upbeat tunes, "Now That I've Found You" and "The Lucky One" being two of my favorites. I figured there would be some bluegrass involved, some happy little ditties about mining coal and prevailing against the tough odds. After a dinner of mussels and scallops at Cafe Society (another blog post....I unknowingly ordered the souvenir platter, a plate full of shells), I took my seat in the Orpheum and settled in for a pleasant evening.

What followed was a cruel ass kick.

Tiny little Alison came out on stage with her fiddle (violin? viola? I'm no musician) and might as well have cracked it over my skull. There is something about live music that gets me anyway. It is overwhelming, in a good way. To say this was overwhelming would be an understatement. The tears sprang up with the first song and by the end, I was ready for a nice warm bath and a straight razor. Don't get me wrong...the music was spectacular. Listening to the music without distraction; however, allowed me to feel the whole experience. Lyrics about lost love, heartbreak, longing, pining, dying, regret...she covered all of them. I was actually happy when I heard the upbeat strains of a non-radio played bluegrass type number. WRONG. There would be no prevailing against the elements here. Even hillbillies die with regret and unrighted wrongs apparently. And, it is just as sad.

Sitting next to my guy, I felt a little embarrassed. I had tears brimming in my eyes, ready to start flowing down my face. My nose was stuffed up and I was mouth breathing. I didn't want him to think I was some sort of emotionally unstable sap. I hate crying. Hate it worse than anything. And crying in public? No hotter hell. I try to avoid displays of emotion at all costs. But, then she did "Ghost In This House". It isn't enough that her own songs made me want to die, now she was mining the catalogue of other groups that did songs that made me want to die. The possibilities became endless and I felt a sense of dread. After the song, I had lost eyelid control and my face and collar were wet. During the applause, I did a big sniffle, trying to clear an airway. All those songs that I hummed along with, happily thinking they were sweet, were actually very dark and sad. And then came the encore. I considered myself lucky that "Whiskey Lullaby" had not made an appearance. Of all the songs in the world, that has got to be the saddest. Ever. In the world. We made it to the encore and I felt relieved that I didn't have to excuse myself to the ladies room to pull a Glenn-Close-Sobbing-In-The-Shower scene. Little Alison and her cohorts reappeared on stage and then made the last jab. "La la la la la la la" OH NO!!! DON'T DO IT!! PLEASE!!! I leaned over and whispered to my boyfriend, "I don't think I am going to be able to handle this." He looked at me crazy, he of emotional stability. I didn't even try to restrain the flow of tears at this point. Mercifully, they only did the first part and chorus. Then it was on to a gospel tune. Somehow, Alison Krauss can make meeting Jesus into something heartbreaking.

As we were leaving, I mentioned my suicidal ideations to Jim. He laughed and agreed that the music was sad. I said something about "Whiskey Lullaby" being the saddest song ever. Jim, clearly made of thicker skin than I, asked why I thought so...did that happen to someone I knew. WHAT? Were we not at the same concert, just now? No, I never knew anyone who was dumped and then became an alcoholic and then blew his brains out and then was buried beneath a willow tree. But, I didn't have to. That shit is SAD. This is why I don't like crying in front of other people, they don't get why. I cry every time I watch "The Color Purple". Have I ever been reunited with my long lost sister and my African kids after being subjected to decades of abuse from my Mister? No. In a sense, I am over-empathetic. I try to avoid pain and sadness, but when it creeps up, I am all in. During the dirges, I found myself imagining the saddest shit ever. Abandoned dogs walking in the rain, in search of their homes. Deathbed apologies. Old ladies looking out the window remembering their youth. Dogs waiting at the door for an owner who will never come home. Discarded teddy bears. I don't know why I do this, but it is a slippery slope. My brain just naturally goes there and I can't stop it.

Clearly, I have some issues. I go through my days, not expressing much emotion, trying to keep a blank face. It is my job to be the calm in the storm. And, I am good at that. I hear the bad shit, the worst, day in day out; and then I come home and play with my dog, clean my house, read fashion magazines, and forget about it. Or so I thought. Actually, I am saving up. All that pain and sadness avoidance is taking it's toll. I need to find a way to release some of that mess at the end of the day, so that it doesn't fester and run when I am supposed to be having a good time. In spite of the emotional purge, the concert was great. The music was beautiful, sad as it was. Alison Krauss is an extremely talented musician and the intimate venue of The Orpheum was perfect. I was on the arm of the best date ever and I liked my outfit. Through the tears, I was able to appreciate all of this and be thankful that I wasn't the one under the willow tree.

All Of Me

Seems I remember several months ago, while discussing my planned success with Weight Watchers, I smugly counted my chickens before they hatched. I made a half hearted effort at weight watchers, and threw $60 out the window. I may have lost 5 pounds, maybe. Fast forward a few months...I feel fat again.

I am taking a history lesson this time...I am not spending a dime on something that I, historically, do not see through. Enter the Fitness Pal app for my Iphone. This app tracks my food intake and exercise (he he he) and then spits out an analysis for me. It satisfies my OCD with data. I like entering, tracking, and analyzing data. I just don't like paying to do so. Fitness Pal makes keeping up with calories like a game: only the fewer points the better. Enjoy a glass of milk...plus 90. Walk Harriet...minus 100. So much easier than trying to figure out the point value of everything. I get a 1200 calorie allowance each day. Yesterday was day one.

After it was all said and done (and digested), I got a neat little snapshot of my nutritional habits. I was surprised at how nutritious my diet actually is. I figured I would just track my usual eating habits for a few days, to get an idea of where I need work. I had pretty much decided that my normal diet was about as healthy as cigarettes dipped in salt. Wrong. Take sodium, for example. I was nowhere near the daily sodium intake. And, I dined at McDonald's for lunch (although I did skip the fries.) Another observation is that I should never suffer a broken bone...ever. My calcium intake was right on target, maybe a little over. What can I say...I loves me some milk...and Tums. Eat two Tums...you have half your daily calcium intake. Cholesterol is not an issue either, didn't get close to recommendation. Of course, I realize that this is not necessarily a good thing, a balanced diet is just that...balanced. Both salt and fat are necessary. But, my idea of how I was eating was so bad that I figured I was teetering on the edge of a coronary. Turns out...not so bad.

I didn't feel guilty, the way I did with Weight Watchers. I did go over the 1200 calorie allowance, by 120 calories. This morning, it's a new day! No haunting deficit. One food mistake would follow me around for at least 7 days with weight watchers. I prefer to pay the tax and move on. Not that weight watchers is bad...it is actually a great program, but just not for me. Not that fitness pal is right for me, either...too soon to tell. It is just one thing in a list of changes I feel that I need to make, including cutting back my smoking, working on my procrastination, addressing my neglected creative needs, etc etc etc. Self improvement is my bag.

Lately, I have this overwhelming feeling that I am not enjoying my life. I am living it, but not savoring it. I am basically happy, but kind of on auto pilot...maintaining. Get up, go to work, work long day, come home, clean house, clean me, pet Harriet, go to bed. Repeat. That puts a lot of pressure on the weekends.

I remember many many many years ago, sitting around with some aimless friends. It was a Wednesday. We were making plans for the upcoming weekend. I remember saying to my then boyfriend, "I do NOT want to become the person who lives for the weekend." He had no idea what I was talking about. I'd be willing to bet that he is still living for the weekend. I need to enjoy all my days. Taking better care of my physical self will help my creative self come up with things that will make my emotional self happy.

And with that...I need to get myselves ready for work.

Insomnia...Destroyed

Just woke up from night two of the great Melatonin experiment.

I think it is working! There was only one piece of evidence that I may have had some weirdness in the night. A text sent to myself at 5:15am that said, simply: "Salmon Al Dente" Not sure what that was all about...but it sure beats waking up crying.

I purchased a bottle of Melatonin at Fred's on Thursday. It did not occur to me until I got ready for bed that I had no idea how much to take. Of course the bottle said, "take 1 tablet", but I have never been one to follow package directions. Whoever determined that probably slept good the night before. The dosage for each tablet was 300mcg. I had no idea what an mcg was, or if that was even a real unit of measurement. Some supplements are measured in IU (international units...or something like that) which seems bogus to me. I need milligrams to be sure it is real. So, I googled "therapeutic dosage melatonin" and learned that I would basically need to swallow the entire bottle of Fred's Melatonin in order to achieve the benefits. 300mcg is roughly equal to .3mg. The therapeutic dose is 5 mg. I took 5 and went to bed. Once I got settled, my mind began to run the familiar race. I wondered if I had read it right, then began to worry that I had taken too many. I was a liberal arts major, after all...math was never my strong suit. Maybe if I had done better in math, I wouldn't have to listen to people bitch and moan all day. What if I die? Has anyone ever died from Melatonin toxicity? Then...I fell asleep. Obviously...1.5mg has some benefit. But at that rate, I would be done with the whole bottle in a few days.

Friday I went to Walgreen's, to get some "real" stuff. I purchased a bottle of 3mg (the mg means it works...for real) melatonin and was pleased to learn that it was a BOGO deal! I had enough to last me the rest of the summer and into the winter, which was great as sleeping is not an issue then. Last night, I put on my pj's, took Harriet out, gave the familiar brown bottles of pills the 'Nancy Reagan' treatment, then ingested two of my new and improved Melatonin pills.

Even though Friday was fairly stressful (I had to participate in throwing some dirty stuffed animals away, and my boyfriend and I talked about death), my mind was relaxed and I drifted off to sleep without the usual panic of "OMG WHAT DID I FORGET TO DO TODAY?!?!" Aside from the weird text message, my night was uneventful. I do feel a teensy bit groggy this morning, but it is nothing a nice hot pot of Fresh Market Summer Breeze coffee won't solve. I am working on that now, as I type.

So, it is still early yet, but I am going to go on and call this experiment a success.

Slumber Fail

I am having some trouble sleeping. Not so much falling asleep...I could fall asleep on a busy train track. But, staying asleep is not working out. So, I have been forced to turn to chemicals for assistance. Before I go on, I acknowledge that I was quick to pass judgement on my crackhead childhood friend in an earlier post. However, my situation is different. I have no children to witness my drug induced stupor, I am not currently involved in any sort of legal battle, nor do I obtain sleep aids from a myriad of doctors. Now that that's out of the way...

In my bedside table, I have a small pharmacy featuring both OTC and prescription medications. I obtained a prescription for a supply of pain pills recently, because I was actually in pain (OW MY LEG!!) and I found that in addition to easing my old-lady knee pain, the pills also provided me with a full night's sleep. I feel guilt every time I take a pill...knowing that my supply is dwindling. My knee has returned to human proportions, yet I continue to reap the sound sleep benefits.

I have used over the counter remedies before: Thera-flu, Nyquil, Advil PM, Benadryl, etc. This insomnia is nothing new to me. Trouble sleeping has plagued me for years during times of turmoil. If it weren't for Bendaryl, my divorce would have caused me to have a car accident. Thera-flu helped me sleep away my last serious break-up. Advil PM assisted me in forgetting about being unemployed. When the shit hits the fan, I hit the familiar foil sealed packs of snooze. In college, I didn't sleep for days, finally going to the campus infirmary (because I could not afford luxuries like over the counter medication). The "doctor" there gave me a sample pack of a new drug, one that was guaranteed to put me to sleep and keep me asleep, for only 8 hours, then I would wake up feeling refreshed. This was my first and last experience with Ambien. Oh it worked...and worked...and worked...and kept on working. How in the Hell was I supposed to function on that shit? I felt like I had smoked 10 blunts...and that was AFTER a full night sleep. No thanks. So, anyway, I have had off and on periods of living out a bad Huey Lewis song for nearly 20 years. (in case you missed the pop culture reference, it's "I Want A New Drug").

I enjoy having a drink here and there, but am no drinker. Therefore, alcoholism is out. It is too facking hot to do any sort of exercise, I consider getting through the day to be exercise enough. I don't chant. I don't do yoga. I don't meditate. Warm milk is creepy and god forbid some sort of gross skin forms on the top, because then I would have to give up all milk. I usually don't drink coffee after 9am. My insomnia is all in my head, truly. I worry. A lot. Usually, I can keep a handle on my anxiety and it generally does not affect my day to day life. However, when things pile up, it becomes unmanageable and there I go...reaching for the blister packs. For once, my anxiety does not focus on my personal life. My personal life would put Dave Attell to sleep...which is a good thing. Work really sucks right now and it keeps getting suckier by the day. It seems like the more I try to catch up and control things, the worse it gets. There simply isn't enough time. I could work an 80 hour week and still be behind, that is the nature of the job. Dealing with people is bad enough, but dealing with people who, by nature, have ongoing drama is the worst. They never close. They never shut off. The drama just keeps unfolding. And when I notate one thing, my phone rings and it is just another twist in the soap opera that I am being paid to watch. And so on until I am awakened at 2am by a panic that I didn't sign off on someone's utility assistance request, or I didn't remember to write down someone's appointment, which means I will have to phone them, which means I will have to invite additional conversation about shit that I really don't care about. And once I am awake...it's off to the races.

So, you can see where a dead stupor would come in handy here. Until last night. I opted for an old school pill last night, to make an effort to conserve my current supply. I don't even know what it was, Lortab or something like it, prescribed for some sort of dental procedure from long ago. So, off to dreamland I go. Little did I know, I had purchased a ticket on the crazy train and I rode that train all. night. long.

At some point, I woke up, laying on top of the bedding...freezing. Covering up, and quickly drifting off to sleep, I then had the longest, weirdest, and apparently(judging from the racking sobs that I woke myself up with)saddest dream ever. I won't go into details here, but will say that it involved someone I used to know, death, and pleading. Heartwrenching. Anyway, I woke up crying and after finally pulling myself together, I made another attempt at slumber. I then had a very happy (but strange) dream and slept the rest of the night in a pool of sweat. I got up with the alarm, drank a pot of coffee, and was applying make up when I realized that I did NOT win 5th row tickets to see Journey in concert.

It was then that I had my Huey Lewis moment. Haggardly looking into the mirror and thinking to myself that I needed a new drug. Maybe not a narcotic. Perhaps I should try Melatonin. Or Valerian root. Something, anything, that will put my mind to rest, without breaking my heart. Something that will neither raise or lower my body temp by ten degrees. Something that will not allow me to get up, prepare and eat a sandwich, and make TWO very ambitious to-do lists....all with no memory of the event. Something that will make me feel like I have had some sleep after I have had some sleep. Because if I don't get some good quality sleep soon...someone is going to get cut.

Things I Hate About My New Neighbors

As if on cue, just as I completed my patio paradise, something came along to blow it up. July 4th weekend, I got new neighbors. I didn't even realize the house next door had been vacant, the lady that lived there pretty much kept to herself. All of a sudden, raggedy pick up trucks were all over the scene, unloading a house full of bad decisions.

First, they unloaded the trampoline. Then the see saw. Then the various yard-ape accessories. Next, they applied Round-Up to the ENTIRE yard. Easier than cutting the grass, I guess. And really, a dirt yard seems to be what they are used to. All of the yard accessories were placed right next to the fence, so that as they enjoyed their things, they could keep an eye on what was happening in my yard as well. Neat. Oh! Then, the extra large batting cage. After all the hard work in arranging Six Flags Over Tipton, they relaxed by riding their four wheeler around the front yard. The lot is maybe 1/4 of an acre...and that is being generous. A child's bedroom suite sat out in the front yard, still on the trailer, for 3 days (and nights). That's gonna smell real nice when Junior finally gets to sleep in his own bed. There are three adults and what appears to be two kids, a young girl and a large (weight problem) pre-teen boy. It appears to be an arrangement that is quite common in these parts: early thirties/late twenties male, late to mid twenties female, late teen girl (an early start child or wayward sister), her toddler, and someone's loud obnoxious boy child who is obviously managed with food. It is a two bedroom home.

Terrific. Yes, I am a fairly intolerant person...I will be the first to admit that. I don't give people the benefit of the doubt, I pass judgement immediately...and guess what? It usually turns out to be right. I can spot a "situation" from miles away. And now, I have a "situation" next door. Next door to my tidy little home, in my tidy little neighborhood. I have an idea that this situation is fresh from the Hatchie River bottom. Something tells me that they lost their trailer, either to the Spring floods or the bank. Were there not any rental properties available in the county? On any given day, there are various vehicles in various states of disrepair parked in the front yard. Each night, there's a party on the 10'X10' deck. And all their rowdy friends are coming over tonight, to quote Bocephus.

So, in honor of my new neighbors, I have compiled a list of things I hate about them. This helps me laugh about the situation, until I can get a nice privacy fence built.

I hate:
1. Their olde English lettered tatoos.
2. Their Nickleback cd collection.
3. Their Fingerhut wicker bathroom collection complete with the "BATH" clock.
4. Their "Intimidator" Dale Earnhardt velvet wall hanging.
5. Their "Bless This Mess" kitchen wall hanging.
6. The velveteen waterwheel scene couch with wooden arms, complete with rings from the countless sweating Milwaukee's Best cans.
7. The shaved heads on the males, to help with the apparent lice issues.
8. The framed print hanging above the waterbed, an angel helping the two small children cross the rickety bridge...a hostess gift from the Home Interiors party.
9. The shellaced wooden "taters" and onions holder.
10. The cobalt blue and fuschia hair feathers that mama is saving up for.
11. The GED study guides.
12. The empty Dr Pepper two liters, bags of Doritos, and Oreo crumbs that litter the living room. All name brand because Junior's seasoned palate KNOWS the difference.
13. The high dollar Nissan Armada that they all spill out of during their weekly trips to the Cash Advance.
14. Their dream vacation to Magic Springs.
15. Their tan sheets...the after effect of hanging out in the dirt yard.
16. Their poor man's lottery of athletic ability improving gear...here's hoping their fat kid can go on to the MLB, NBA, or NFL to pull them out of poverty.
17. Their flagrant disregard of the leash law for their dingy dog.
18. The tension of having two hens in the roost.
19. The thick french manicured acrylics that are a week overdue for a fill-in.
and finally:
20: The $578 in combined food stamps that they unofficially receive.

Quick to pass judgement? Always. Accurate judgment? Maybe. Probably. Could it be worse? Of course. I can accept the fact that not everyone lives like I do...privately, neatly, and considerately. And I completely understand that my rights end where another's begin. And, apparently, serenity ends at the fence line. So, for now, I will just not wear my eyeglasses while outside; that way the line of demarcation is blurred into a jumble of earth tones and wife beaters.

Breakdown Ahead

Remember a few months ago, when I bragged about being a "do-it-myselfer"? I should have kept my mouth shut. La la la la, I fired my lawn guy. La la la la, my boyfriend loaned me a riding mower. La la la la, I will save so much money. La dee dee da dee da. Screw that.

It all started with the weedeater. The NEW weedeater that I purchased in the name of saving money. Gotta spend money to save money, right? So, off I go, with my new Ryobi trimmer, my slightly used riding mower, and my ol faithful Toro Power push mower. Oh, and my high dollar "professional" blower. I don't remember the exact chain of events, but let's just say that the weedeater went through a tank of gas in about 3 minutes, the blower puffed and then died, and ol faithful had a coughing fit. The loaner mower worked great! Great until I got to the surprisingly steep slope in the front yard that threatened to roll me right on out of the seat. "Ok, no worries", I said. I got more gas, added oil, made some adjustments, and came up with the following yard maintenance routine:

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Use push mower on slope and ditch.
3. Use weedeater on steeper ditch and edges.
4. Blow off driveway and carport.
5. Relax with Corona.

Done and done. That lasted a week. The routine then turned into:

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Use push mower until it mysteriously shuts off.
3. Use weedeater for 3 minutes, add more gas, use 3 more minutes, add more gas, use 1 minute, untangle string, use 2 minutes, add more gas.
4. Blow off area around shed, attempt to restart blower, abort mission and sweep driveway with broom.
5. Mutter expletives while chugging a Corona and giving the yard the evil eye.

This went on for a couple of weeks. Then it got hot. The routine evolved into this:

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Haul push mower out of shed and attempt to start. Slam it down on the ground and declare loudly, "THAT'S IT! I AM SELLING THIS FACKING HOUSE AND MOVING INTO A GOTDAMNED CONDO."
3. Roar at boyfriend when he gently suggests adding gas to the mower.
4. Attempt to crank weedeater. Watch as bits of flesh fall to the ground from fingers. Cry in frustration. Laugh in a hyena-like fashion when weedeater finally cranks. Consider drinking the contents of the gas can when string immediately becomes tangled.
5. Watch helplessly as boyfriend skulks off to Home Depot for fix-it supplies. Wonder if he is ever coming back.
6. Get misty eyed remembering a George the lawn guy montage.
7. Attempt to start blower. Give up.
8. Watch as boyfriend repairs weed-eater, fills up mower with gas, and finishes yard.
9. Wonder why marriage never works out for me.

This lasted a couple of more weeks. Then...it all fell apart.

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Cut slope and ditch with 'ol faithful push mower.
3. Trim edges with weedeater with new and improved trimming head that does not use string, but dull plastic knives. Notice gas trail. Answer questions from nosy ass overly helpful neighbor about said weedeater.
4. Refill gas and tighten cap to Vulcan strength on weedeater and attempt to restart in carport, safely away from prying eyes. Exert brute strength on pull start. Punch side mirror on car with said brute strength due to cramped quarters. Watch as hand doubles in size and turns purple.
5. Work through pain and get it done.
6. Cry into beer.

Intermission: birthday, trip to Florida, twisted knee and subsequent limp.

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower. Consider taking chances on slope with riding mower but chicken out at last second a la "Footloose" tractor scene.
2. Feel optimistic as push mower starts on first try. Cut ditch and watch in disbelief as clouds of white smoke billow out over the neighborhood. Panic as the realization sets in that the smoke has reached the neighbor's house. Attempt to hobble the mower, sans power feature, back up to the privacy of the backyard before neighbor can make his way over to conversate. Fail.
3. Answer questions about smoking mower with standard, "yeah." "thanks." "yeah, it will be fine." "ok." "alright." "yeah."
4. Wish someone would stop and offer me $100K cold hard cash for the purchase of my home right then.
5. Start weedeater, now known as weed-caresser. Attempt to finish ditch by gently caressing the grass with machine. Recognize the futility. Abort mission.
6. Plug in electric blower, provided by sweet boyfriend, feel optimistic as clippings scatter down the driveway...until cord runs out...halfway down. Sweep the rest.
7. Look up symptoms of heat stroke on google.

Which brings us to last night...

1. Watch newscast about 110 degree heat index and decide to put off lawn work until sundown.
2. Haul push mower out and cross fingers that white smoke issue will have magically resolved itself during the week long time out in the shed.
3. Successfully cut two strips of slope. Consider laying down in the street when the familiar plumes of white smoke appear. Remember the episodes of "LOST!" where the white smoke comes to atone someone for their sins. Wonder what sins I am atoning for.
4. Hobble non working mower back to shed for permanent time out. Remember doctor's advice, "Stay off the knee." Wonder if doctor is married and who cuts her yard.
5. Crank weedcaresser. Attempt to trim calf tall grass with plastic knives. Run out of gas. Sling machine to the ground. Wonder if anyone is peaking out their windows at the impending nervous breakdown taking place. Exhale and watch sweat fly off face. Remember Michael Douglas movie, "Falling Down". Consider falling down.
6. Notice that entire exercise took approximately 2.5 hours...net accomplishment: 1/1000 of yard cut.
7. Sit on porch and smoke. Think about tomorrow, another evening of lawn maintenance. Remember that there is an entire backyard that needs cutting as well. Calculate time spent on yard. Realize that 75% of free time is spent on yard. Remember how important free time is. Wonder how other people do it so easily. Weigh out emotional toll versus monetary savings.
8. Pull out phone book, newspaper, and log in to Craigslist.
9. Compile list of people who make a living worrying about grass.
10. Cross my name off that list.

Saving The World, One Bear At A Time

Is it possible to have writer's block when you are not actually a writer? I picture a frustrated middle aged writer slumped over an old Smith Corona typewriter, doodling with a pencil, half full cup of coffee getting cold, the sound of a fan in the background whirring stale air. Ok, that isn't me. But, I just can't seem to get back into the habit of blogging. There are thoughts that cross my mind all the time, I just don't have enough to follow to make it worth my (or yours) time to enter it. Currently, I am watching an episode of "Hoarders" on A&E. On this episode, a former nurse hoards stuffed animals and dolls. Which brings two points to mind. One, it just affirms my belief that all. nurses. are. crazy. Secondly, stuffed animals-in-peril is a problem close to my heart.

If I won the lottery, I would open both a dogs-in-peril rescue sanctuary; as well as a stuffed animal rescue. It breaks my heart to see a teddy-in-peril. I hate to see bears that have fallen out of cars. Bears attached to the fence in front of a dead person's house...out in the rain. Bears in the trash. It near about kills me! It is my mom's fault. She thought it would be a good idea to give inanimate objects animation and feelings to entertain me as a child. However, she quickly found that it would be an effective tool to get me to do stuff. When I didn't clean my room, it made my stuffed bassett hound cry. If I said a cross word, my panda wept. Arguing upset the bunnies. So, instead of entertaining me, the sensitive stuffed animals basically gave me a huge guilt complex. To this day, I have never been able to throw a stuffed animal away. I can just imagine him sitting in the trash, thinking of why I didn't love him anymore, and it depresses me. Rationally, I know this is ridiculous. Emotionally, I feel attached to every stuffed animal I encounter. I have a rule in retail...if I pick it up, I am required to buy it. This applies to my shopping companions too. As I see my friend reach towards the pillowy soft toy, I blurt the rule out, "IF YOU PICK THAT UP, YOU WILL HAVE TO BUY IT!" This usually leads to a quick explanation of why this is, because if you pick up the stuffed animal, you get his hopes up that he is going to his forever home, only to have his hopes dashed when you discard him back into the pile of unwanted toys. This explanation usually leads to fewer shopping trips with said companion, which leads to fewer phone calls, and eventually, I become a joke shared between said shopping companion and his/her new best friend/shopping companion. Also, I should mention that my mom is a nurse.

So anyway, with my lottery winnings, I would purchase a large van. I would ride around and look for bears-in-peril. Not just bears, all things stuffed would be included. The bear would then be transported back to my shop (also purchased with lottery winnings) where he would be treated to a fine rehabilitation. The bear would then be displayed proudly. Not for sale. Not to give away to some ungrateful snotty child. Displayed and loved. By me.

Now, before someone calls A&E or Adult Protective Services, I am not crazy. My house is clutter free. I just have a tender heart and a very vivid imagination, which at times is not such a good thing. I am not a weirdo who hoards dolls. I would spend the majority of my lottery winnings on normal things, such as a condo in Pass-a-Grille and diamond bezel cut earrings that I would wear while playing tennis with the mediocre player that I hire to be on call when I feel like playing tennis. And, probably, some good intensive psychotherapy...which I think everyone could use a little of. But, it would make me seriously happy to give the "Velveteen Rabbit" treatment to every poor sun bleached soggy discarded stuffed animal I happen upon.

As I mentioned before, my home is clutter free. I find it only fitting that all those stuffed animals that I just could not bring myself to throw away, for fear of hurting their "feelings" are comfortably situated....

at my mother's house.