Forget I said that. I've been reading these memes all day and I've got a jones to fill it out myself. Hey. It's better than putting away the 24 loads of clean clothes that are piled in my living room.
2004 in review - a few questions
01.what did you do in 2004 that you'd never done before?
See previous post.
02. did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Last year I resolved to lose at least 10 pounds by the end of February, which was accomplished. Seriously, I really don't make resolutions. If something needs fixing, I try to fix it ASAP. If I were a resolution-making kinda gal, I'd resolve to not get hauled to the dog pound again.
03. did anyone close to you give birth?
Why, I gave birth in 2004, as did many of my friends. I'm in a moms group with three great gals - Angie, Jill and Christy - who gave birth to daughters the same week I had Clara Jane. My dear friend Sal had the fabulous little Oscar in August. Pastor Beege had Linnea two weeks before Clara Jane was born. I know I'm forgetting some.
04. did anyone close to you die?
My cat, Whiney.
05. what countries did you visit?
None.
06. what would you like to have in 2005 that you lacked in 2004?
Peace and sleep.
07. what dates from 2004 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Feb. 14-15 because that's when I labored and delivered Clara Jane.
08. what was your biggest achievement of the year?
I made another person and fed her with stuff from my own body!
09. what was your biggest failure?
I lost my temper a few too many times.
10. did you suffer illness or injury?
I had a C-section run amok that led to a really bad infection. Earwigs. Panic attacks/post-partum anxiety and depression. Yep, we blew through that medical flexible spending plan this year.
11. what was the best thing you bought?
Diapers on clearance!
12. whose behaviour merited celebration?
My husband. He nursed me back to health, physically and mentally, and he's Daddy Extraordinaire.
13. whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
I'm not touching this one.
14. where did most of your money go?
Clara Jane, iTunes and Target.
15. what did you get really, really, really excited about?
Clara Jane and all of her firsts. Seeing Bruce Springsteen and REM live on the same stage.
16. What song will always remind you of 2004?
"Tender" Blur (not from '04, but I listened to it over and over when I was in labor.)
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? happier
b) thinner or fatter? thinner (I was 8 months pregnant at this time last year.)
c) richer or poorer? about the same.
18. what do you wish you'd done more of?
Enjoyed myself and my kiddo.
19. what do you wish you'd done less of?
panic
20. how will you be spending christmas?
Doing family stuff and pulling wrapping paper out of my daughter's mouth.
21. did you fall in love in 2004?
Of course!
22. how many one-night stands?
Nada
23. what was your favourite tv program?
King of the Hill
24. do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Hate's a very strong word.
25. what was the best book you read?
I didn't read nearly as much this year as I normally do. Wonder why? I did read some really good stuff, though. The Liar's Club: A Memoir by Mary Karr, Children of God Go Bowling by Shannon Olson, PLainsong by Kent Haruf, Nobody's Fool by Richard Russo, and Eight Silly Monkeys by Steve Haskamp
26. what was your greatest musical discovery?
iTunes! I rediscovered Uncle Tupelo this year after being on a huge Wilco kick. The Black Keys, Soledad Brothers, Bright Eyes, Rilo Kiley, Jesse Malin, Franz Ferdinand. Yep, it was a very good year.
27. what did you want and get?
A healthy, happy daughter.
28. what did you want and not get?
Sanity and a Mac G4 laptop.
29. what was your favourite film of this year?
I only saw one movie in the theater this year. All others were watched at home in 15-minute intervels. I don't have a favorite.
30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 32 and cancelled all future birthdays.
31. what one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Having my panic disorder under control.
32. how would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?
Covered in spitup.
33. what kept you sane?
My drugs. Writing. Happy baby time.
34. which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Bono and Jack White.
35. what political issue stirred you the most?
The war. The election. Gay marriage. Stem cell research.
36. who did you miss?
My cat.
37. who was the best new person you met?
Clara Jane, first and foremost. Angie. Holley. Leesa. My therapist. The members of my knitting group.
38. tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2004.
There are few problems that can't be solved by blowing a raspberry on a baby's belly.
39. quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
Tender is the night
Lying by your side
Tender is the touch
Of someone that you love too much
Tender is the day
The demons go away
Lord I need to find
Someone who can heal my mind
Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it
Come on, Come on, Come on
Loves the greatest thing
Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it
Come on, Come on, Come on
Loves the greatest thing
That we have
I'm waiting for that feeling
I'm waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling to come
Oh my baby
Oh my baby - Blur
I'm generally pretty unsentimental about the end of the year. I mean, there's really nothing different when one year begins and one ends. It's just a marker put in place by us feeble humans so we don't go completely nuts in the ultimately uncontrollable whirl of time.
Holy crap, I'm deep today. Anyway, I generally don't do a lot of year-end reflection, probably because I spend way too much time reflecting as it is. But as the year ends, my thoughts have been about how many new things I did in 2004 - things I never, ever did before. Did you think you could escape being privvy to the list? Of course not. So here it is:
Things I Did in 2004 That I Never Ever Did Before
Had another human being surgically removed from my body.
Made milk and had it extracted via mammary torture device.
Loved someone, who I had just met, more than I've ever loved anyone or anything.
Made the decision to mercifully end a beloved pet/friend companion's life.
Learned to knit and actually completed fairly large knitted projects numbering well into the teens, some of which you can view here.
Became politically active.
Drove in a vehicle with puddles of New England clam chowder in the backseat.
Blogged. Tivoed. Gmailed. Took pictures with my phone.
Had a wreck where I was behind the wheel and *gulp* at fault.
Made Thanksgiving dinner in the middle of May.
Spent an hour a week in a therapist's office, fixing myself.
Sat in the next-to-top row at Gund Arena in Cleveland.
Had my luggage lost by an airline.
Ate marinara sauce made by an Italian-American women who's well into her 90s.
Had a police complaint/summons filed against me.
Pretty eventful year, don't you think?
B. can't find either of his to-go insulated coffee cups, so I got to have my coffee this morning, followed by his coffee. From now on I'll be hiding his go-cups daily because dammit, I feel great!
Last night I was in bed, trying to fall asleep without much luck (So, obviously, I need to double my daily caffiene intake. Right now I'm getting enough caffiene to keep me awake at night. I should increase it to an amount that keeps me awake, but so wired that I enjoy the sleeplessness.) Anyway, while I was tossing and turning, I thought of something to write that was so good I almost got out of bed and posted it right then and there. I should have, because now I have no clue what it was.
The latest in Operation Redneck War: The neighbor who filed the complaint, who we shall call Lurleen, seems to have a beef with my next-door neighbor, Boy's mom.
A little background to the newcomers: Boy is a 9-year-old precocious tot who tends to wander into my house if I'm not diligent about locking the doors. Boy's father is best known in the blog world for having a "Cops"-esque fight with another neighbor a few months ago that probably involved whiskey bottles being cracked over skulls. I like Boy's family. A lot. We even rolled back a section of the chain-link fence between our yard so that our dogs can cavort together.
A few months ago Lurleen was spending much time standing in the middle of the street, screaming obscenities at our dogs. Because, as we all know, the way to make a dog stop barking is to scream obscenities at it. Boy's Mama confronted Lurleen about this. That, I knew. Yesterday I got The Rest of the Story. Well, enough of the story to better understand yesterday's trumped-up charges. Let's just say that the cops had to get involved in that neighborly disagreement, too.
Now, let's pause for a second and take a deeper look at my life and my place in this fracass. I grew up blue-collar, and I've always been proud of that. I joke about it, but truthfully, I wouldn't want to be anything but a salt-of-the-earth, down-home, chicken & dumpling-making good ol' gal who occasionally slips into a bit of an Ozark twang when emotions (or liquor bottles) are elevated. My roots reside peacefully with the hipster-doofus indie chick part of me that emerged during my adolesence and decided to hang around.
One of the things I liked about this neighborhood was that it reminded me of the one where I grew up. Except my childhood neighborhood didn't include dune buggies running up and down the street at all hours. Or people screaming obscenities at dogs. Both neighborhoods have a high concentration of mullets, but I lived in my old neighborhood in the 1980s. There's no excuse for that now. Nor is there any excuse for one of our current neighbors, '80s Lady. I can't even begin to tell you about '80s Lady right now. Suffice it to say it involves lots of Spandex and Olivia Newton-Johnesque headbands
That being said, I think the hipster-doofus indie chick part of me needs to get a little more gumption about her, because yesterday, during a conversation with Boy's Mama I heard myself declare, "Well, Lurleen's fuckin' with the wrong side of the street. I thought 'bout goin' to law school once. If I cain't beat her in court, then you can beat her ass in the parkin' lot."
Holy fuck, we need to move to another neighborhood before I buy a framed print of Toby Keith and his American flag guitar and start wearing t-shirts with pictures of my offensive dogs
Quick! Somebody toss me some red lipstick, a pair of clunky Mary Jane shoes, a venti decaf fat-free extra foam capp from Starbucks and (oh God, this is gonna hurt bad) a Morrissey CD before I get sucked into the vortex!
Did you miss me? Because I sure missed you!
No, I didn't neglect to pay my webhosting bill, despite what the stupid-ass message that resided at poppymom.com for two weeks implied. There was an issue with some comment spam left on one of the blogs on the server, which led to an investigation. Blah blah blah bullshit farm blah blah blah, but now I'm back.
Some of you were able to find me at my temporary blog digs at popmom.blogspot.com. If you didn't find me there, here's what you missed:
1. I started - and am loving - treatment for panic disorder with agoraphobia.
2. Whiney, my ancient cat, broke my heart and died.
3. My holiday pary tanked.
4. I ruminated about Boobah, the Most Obnoxious Christmas Gift Ever, and how my dead cat almost wound up under the Christmas tree.
5. I pissed off some people.
6. I got paranoid about the impending holiday visit from my in-laws.
7. I ate Taco Bell, which made me miss my cat.
8. I pissed off some more people, but also shared gorgeous holiday photos of Clara "Mom's Lil' Agitater" Jane, so it all balances out.
9. I watched my mom make one of my daughter's toys utter obscenities repeatedly.
10. I wallowed in post-Christmas , pre-New Year's limbo.
11. And finally, I did my family proud by entering a white trash pissing contest.
Yep, it was an eventful two weeks and a bad time to be blogless. But I'm here and I promise to never leave you ever again. No matter how many restraining orders you file against me.
This is a nice break from my breakdown. Besides, I know Wendy really would make me eat a spider if I didn't do this.
3 Names you go by:
Robin
Poppy
Mama
3 screen names you have
robindawn
poppydawn
poppychow
3 things you like about yourself
My sense of humor
My creativity
My utter lack shame
3 things you hate/dislike about yourself
My fucking anxiety.
My goddamn impatience.
My utter lack of shame.
3 parts of your heritage
Irish
Scottish
Dutch
3 things that scare you
Snakes
Death
Really big snakes
3 of your everyday essentials
Baby smooches
Good-quality coffee
My big red comfy chair
3 things you are wearing right now
Lambswool hoodie
Bejeweled hair clip
A cat
3 of your favorite bands/artists
U2
White Stripes
Wilco
3 of your favorite songs at present
"Vertigo" U2
"I Wanna Be Your Dog" Uncle Tupelo
"Merry Christmas from the Family" Robert Earl Keen
3 things you want to try in the next 12 months
Learn to deal with my anxiety.
Knit a sweater.
Land some more freelance writing work.
3 things you want in a relationship
Compassion
Honesty
Fun
2 truths and a lie
I was once busted by the cops for being in a cemetary after dark.
I got the scar on my eye in a barfight.
I'm flat-footed.
3 physical things about the opposite or same sex that appeals to you
Mouth/smile
Eyes
Hands
3 things you just can't do
Stop panicking
Change a flat tire
A cartwheel
3 of your favorite hobbies
Reading
Cooking
Knitting
3 things you want to do really badly right now
Take off my bra
Sleep
Blow my nose
3 careers you're considering
Teaching classes at Viking
Writing a St. Louis travel guide.
Opening a restaurant
3 places you want to go on vacation
Provence
NYC
Tuscany
3 kids names
boys: Milo, Charlie, August
girls: Delilah, Caroline, and of course Clara Jane
3 things you want to do before you die
Publish a book.
See all of Europe.
Restore an old house.
3 people who have to take this quiz now or eat a spider!
Kara
Kristina
Holley
Thanks for all the concern and offers for help. I can't begin to say how much I appreciate it. But know that I do. Knowing that there are so many people looking out for me does make this easier.
I'm doing somewhat better. I've had a couple of attacks today, but nothing that compares to the hell of last night. I made an appointment with my MD tomorrow to see about adjusting my meds. Wednesday, I have an appointment with an anxiety specialist. My mom is coming to lend a hand for a few days.
The cat seems to be back to herself. No more bleeding, and the perpetual drool has abated. She's eating normally, and just spent half an hour perched on my side while I was lying on the couch.
I spent some time this afternoon with a friend who's been through this, which helped immensely. I'm still not keen on being alone and I'm looking forward to my mom's arrival tomorrow.
In the past the anxiety and panic has felt like an inconvenience. Last night, it suddenly began to feel like an illness. I need to give myself the same care now as I would if I had bronchitis. No catering this week. I'm just going to work on taking care of myself and getting help.
I did something last night that I've never had to do. I was so overwhelmed with anxiety, depression and panic that I called a help line.
The day had been a fairly normal affair. I had been a bit on edge but lately, that constitutes a good day for me. Shortly before bed, I sat down in my big red chair to do some knitting. Whiney, my ancient cat, was lying on the back of the chair. I reached to pet her, felt dampness on my hand. When I pulled back, there was a bloody spot on my hand from the blood dribbling from her mouth.
I screamed for B., who tended to the cat. She wasn't in pain; wasn't doing anything out of the normal. Just bleeding from the mouth. As I began to melt down, B. sent me to the bathroom.
Whiney's doing fine today. As best we can tell she lost a tooth. This morning she's climbed my desk like a mountain goat, eaten a hearty breakfast, and acted as if nothing happened.
I wish I could say the same.
I spent hours last night lying flat on my back in bed, crying, while B. searched for the various help lines offered through our insurance company. I talked to a counselor briefly, who did what counselors are supposed to do - listen, validate my feelings, and suggest I take a hot bath and drink some chamomile tea.
She did tell me that I seem to have a good understanding of what's happening to me, and what needs to be done. She reassured me that I'm doing all the right things in treating these illnesses, and that I do need to get some anxiety-specific help. I'm playing phone tag with the good people at the anxiety center.
This morning, I was so worn and shredded that I got halfway through buttoning my shirt and finishing became too much.
I feel like I'm living my life under a microscope and it's slowly burning everything.
I also think - and hope - that last night was The Bottom. The place where it cannot get any worse and everything moves up from here. I can't imagine survivng anything worse than the way I felt last night.
Well there was an old cowboy,
Name of Pete.
Spent 17 hours a day
Standing on his feet
At a factory job that wore him to the bone.
He had a girl
Spittin' image of Pete
When she was little
Ma dubbed her Repete.
They were as alike as a pa and girl could be.
One Christmas season
Pete and Ma
Made the drive to St. Louie.
Man, it was a haul.
Just to spend some time with Repete's family.
They went to Chesterfield Mall
And Pete faked ill.
He headed to the john
But they all knew his will
To buy a fancy Santa for dear ol' Ma.
They left him at Dillards
And away they did shop.
And the minutes did pass
But where was Pop?
Gone for almost an hour, they started to worry and fret.
Ol' Pete had a big heart
He loved everyone
He also loved ribeyes
Cooked very well-done,
Which made that big heart prone to sudden attacks.
Maybe he had passed out
In the bathroom stall
Or perhaps he'd tripped
And taken a bad fall,
Bumping his head on the escalator all the way down.
Ol' Ma tried to call him,
And Pete's cell phone did ring
But when he'd answer
He couldn't hear a thing
For Pete was deaf and not technologically inclined.
After nearly an hour
The family found Pete
Leaning against his truck
The boots on his feet
Stomping the concrete ground in anger and disgust.
He hadn't been sick,
As everyone had figured.
He went to buy a Santa
And was worn and beleagured
By the run-around he'd gotten at the store.
Then he laid eyes on the photo
Of his girl's girl Clara Jane
Perched on Santa's lap,
Smiling and plain-
'ol happy to have her first visit with Mr. St. Nick.
Well, Pete saw red
And he pulled Repete aside.
Sent the family to the car
And showed her the side
Of the $100 Santa he'd bought for Ma.
He's spent way too much
And they made him wait
For 45 minutes
When they said it would take
Only 5 minutes to wrap that gift for darlin' Ma.
He asked and inquired
Of the store clerk, Janet
About the wrapping hold-up
It took all night, dammit!
He was missing precious time with his little family.
Come to find out
Janet was completely retarded
She'd left the unwrapped gift
Right where it had started.
And it sat all that time without a ribbon or bow in sight.
So, the whole family was scared
That Pete mighta died.
And Pete was angry
That his entire evening had been tied
Up by a completely inept part-time Dillard's clerk.
But it was when he saw those pictures
Of Clara Jane on Santa's lap
That ol' Pete blew a gasket
And Repete knew there was gonna be a slap
Across a dumbass store clerk's smug and smirking face.
The two marched back in,
Leaving the others in the truck.
The pair was on the warpath
For the miserable fuck
Who'd ruined their night and stomped their jollies flat.
Since ol' Pete gets flustered
And he ain't good at talkin'
Repete stepped up
And she started a-squawking
About how Janet totally fucked up their holiday night.
It took two managers
And another forty minutes
To refund Pete's money
For they were all idjits
Who blamed the computers and the long, long hours that they'd work.
Janet, she did whine
That's she'd been there since 5,
And it was going on 10 -
She was barely alive!
Repete wanted so badly to punch her in the throat.
They were offered fancy chocolates
And a Dillard's gift card
But they declined,
Said these gifts were too hard
To stomach in the face of such ineptitude.
"It's past my baby's bedtime,"
Said Repete to the clerk.
"Oh, they don't like that!"
Said Janet the jerk.
"Neither do their mothers," growled Repete with a glare that could cut leaded glass.
For she was Pete's daughter
Through and through
And when she's pissed off
Her anger can cut right through
Any bullshit posed by any gift-wrapping chimp.
And the night did end
With no Santa for Ma
And nearly an hour and a half
Without our Pete pa
As he toiled in Dillard's bullshit factory.
But the saga had some good,
For it brought about some peace
In the troubled relationship
Of Pete and Repete.
They'd worked together and came out right on top.
When Ma was told
About the tale
She asked ol' Pete
If Repete and wailed
And did she rip that clerk a brand-new bright red asshole.
Pete just smiled and looked down.
Then he looked at Repete and said,
"She took care of me,"
As he patted her on the head
And they bundled up for the cold and blustery night.
And for the rest of all times
The family will tell
About the time
Pete and Repete raised hell
And made that stupid-ass Dillard's clerk almost cry.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a Scrooch. Nor am I one of those hyper-Christmas lunatics. There are many things I love about the holidays, and they're the same things everyone loves about the holidays - the togetherness, the food, the gifts, all that holly-jolly crap. I think we're much more varied and unique in the things we dislike about the holidays.
You know the #1 thing I absolutely, completely, totally and udderly despise about the holidays?
I have entirely too much of my self-worth tied up in Christmas cards.
Now, you know that the Christmas decorations have been up in stores since mid-July. Since the second week of November, I can't look out my living room window without seeing the perpetually deflated Godzilla-sized Santa and snowman on my neighbors lawn, threatening to gasp me a la Faye Wray in a rubbery clutch, scaling the side of my house and swatting at low-flying aircraft.
Despite these early displays of making merry and bright, do you know how many Christmas cards we've received here at Chez Poppy? Do you?
One.
It's December 10th, for God's sake! And we only have one card! Jesus fuck, People! What the hell are you waiting for? St. Pat's Day?
I know I'm a well-liked person. I know I have a large, loving family and many friends. I know I'm a good person, deserving of a piece of cardstock and a 38-cent stamp. Is that how much it costs to mail stuff these days? I have no idea.
Despite being socially well-adjusted, everyday I go to the mailbox, and when I find it cardless, I catch myself mentally making a list of all the people who've recieved cards from me. Then I picture myself with a giant red Sharpie, scrawling through their names with such venom that the paper rips, leaving a blood-red permanent stain all because they can't take the time to send a motherfucking card!
Last year, I was horrifically pregnant at Christmas. I had so little energy. So very little. And yet, I took the time to prepare 40+ holiday cards, each hand-signed with a personal message. And when I was finished I walked in the snow all the way to the post office, lovingly affixed the stamps with my own saliva and said a little prayer for each card recipiant as I gently slid each card down the mail chute left every single goddamn card lying in a chair in my living room until I finally admitted defeat and threw them away about a week before Clara Jane's birth in February.
OK. So I didn't send cards last year. At least I went to the effort! At least I spent the money! I'd like to think that somewhere out there, there are hundreds - ok, I'd settle for tens - of holiday cards, cast upon living furniture with my name, just waiting helplessly for someone - anyone! - to drop them in the mail.
And no, I haven't sent any cards this year. Why do you ask?
I have purchased cards. The kind with a cute little cut-out for our family portrait, which I didn't order until last week. "You didn't want these in time for Christmas, right?" asked the photographer. I still don't have a good answer for that question. Not that it matters, because the next day I realized the cards I purchased are vertically oriented. The family photo is horizontal. If we were to put the photos into these cards, it would look like my family is surrounded by a forest of felled Christmas trees, sadly lying on their sides, possibly in agony, definitely dying, much like my Christmas card-less soul.
And still I wonder why we've only recieved one single, solitary card. I guess it's just another sign that our society is becoming further and further removed from the social nicities of bygone eras. Motherfuckers.
Our Christmas ornaments are in the basement. Our tree is at my mom's house. We might just keep it that way this year.
That wet spot on the couch? My cat drools.
Why yes, the large pillows blocking every doorway are there for a reason. They're called "baby speedbumps".
The towels all over my desk? Just drying the glass of water that was dumped into my wireless keyboard and mouse today.
If you remove your shoes, please be careful and don't cut your toe on the 3,652 screws the previous owners drilled into the hardwood floors.
Eat a damn cookie already. I made them myself.
That horrible sound? The one that's a mix of snorting, slurping and chewing? Don't worry. That's just our special little dog Murphy, pleasuring herself orally. It's best to just pretend it isn't happening.
Go on. Finish your cookie. Why are you crying?
Why yes, it has been two years since we started painting the kitchen. No. No, we don't intend to leave one wall yellow, half the cabinets white, and the other cabinets red forever. However, it is growing on me. Here. Have another drink.
Would you like to watch a few episodes of King of the Hill? I know all the lines and would be happy to re-enact the episodes for you. I'll even let you be Dale Gribble, if you want.
Why are you leaving so soon?
I've decided that I'm only going to post about two topics this week - pets and panic. There is no panic to discuss at the current time, but several good dog-related stories.
Actually, this first story is more about my stupid-ass cousin than a dog, but it involves dogs. I have this cousin. Since her name is quite unusual and she spends a lot of time online (but doesn't know about this site, thank God), I will give her a nickname. Let's call her ... Tedda.
Tedda is ten years my senior and is dumb. Real dumb. I could create an entire blog that solely details stupid shit Tedda does and stupid shit she says. However, I would probably only last a week before I'd wind up in the hospital from slamming my head onto my desk in frustration at the sheer stupidity.
Tedda and her husband, William "The Refrigerator" Perry (also not his real name) are always flat broke. They have two daughters. The four of them almost became homeless recently because they didn't see the importance of making their house payments.
They do, however, see the importance of pets. Expensive pets. Primarily, expensive little dogs that do lots of shivering, like Italian greyhounds and pappillons. Dogs that are tiny enough to carry in your purse, especially when purse real estate isn't being used to house money, because you spent it all on tiny, shaky little dogs. They are also a foster home for rescued full-sized greyhounds. While that's a cause I wholely support, don't you think it would be better to make sure the foster dogs - as well as your own kids - have a roof over their heads? That's what I thought, too, but I digress.
Recently Tedda's shivery little Italian greyhound became ill, and the news wasn't good. It seemed the poor thing was loaded with tumors. Now, I'm obsessed with my pets to the point of it not being healthy, so I don't have room to pass judgement. And yet, if one of my pets was that ill, and I was struggling to keep my family in house and home, I think I would make the awful decision to end the dog's suffering.
Not Tedda and Co. They shelled out a ton of cash so their little dog could endure a series of major operations.
But that's all background information to what I really want to tell you. My family has a ton of birthdays this week, and on Sunday a bunch of my relatives got together to celebrate. We obviously weren't there, but as with every gathering involving Tedda I got a blow-by-blow from my mom, who hasn't forgiven me for the fact that several years ago I made the decision to avoid any family get-togethers involving Tedda. Mom's a bit resentful that I have this option and she hasn't devised a good excuse to do the same, so she does her best to bring the pain to me as directly and quickly as possible.
So, after the birthday celebration, my mother promptly called me to share the gory details. Tedda arrived at the restaurant and announced, "I don't want to gross anyone out while they're eating, so I want to show you these before the food gets here."
She then whipped out a pile of photos - 8 x 10 glossies, no less - of close-ups detailing her dog's surgical wounds.
8 x 10s, people.
I asked my mom my usual question involving anything Tedda does, a question that never has an answer. "Why? Why for the love of God and dog did she do that? What's she going to do? Frame them and put them on the mantel just to freak out the repo man when he comes for the house?"
8 x 10s. Honestly.
The next story is more brief. As you might recall my beloved basset hound Chloe has been taking a little spa vacation at my parents' farm. She's been there since Thanksgiving and will be returning this weekend.
If you know anything about bassets, you know that they're the sweetest, most docile, least aggressive dogs. It takes a lot of piss off a basset. Chloe is no exception. In the five years we've had her I've never seen her get angry or commit any act of violence. Sure, she likes to wrestle and will occasionally throw an inappropriate hump on inferior dogs (or, on one unforgettably hilarious occasion, my dad's head), but overall she's sweet and gentle and kind.
That is, until she spent two weeks with Chigger. She seems to know that she has a moral obligation to not stomp the fuck out of him, despite his nipping and humping and chasing and yipping. She tolerates it with little more than an occasional growl before she removes herself from Chigger's Orbit of Terror.
Yesterday, though, something had to give. Chloe was in my mom's backyard, ambling along when she happened upon a small bird perched on the ground. The bird caught her attention and she inched towards it until she was nose-to-beak with him.
Then, with a snarl, she chomped the bird, spit him out, and continued her walk to the house.
My dog has become Ozzy Osbourne - slow and dim-witted, shuffling through a world filled with obnoxious yappy puppies that shit everywhere. No wonder she snapped and killed a bird with her bare fangs.
I'm hoping to have the 8 x 10s of the dead bird ready in time for Christmas dinner.
First and foremost, thank you all so much for your words of support. Knowing that I've got lots of people who care about me makes this process of getting well seem much less daunting. A big, huge thanks to the no-longer-anonymous poster. The poster emailed me yesterday and I've learned so much from what this person has experienced. I know our therapy experiences will be different, but at least now I don't feel like I'm completely clueless.
Where do things stand? I've got my insurance info in hand and I'll be calling a local anxiety treatment center (which I had no idea existed until yesterday, again thanks to anon.) and making an appointment. I'm really excited at the prospect of making some changes that might lead to a better life.
Now, a few reasons why I have been able to throw my recent worries about my 16-year-old cat into the trash.
#1 - Even though she has cateracts in both eyes, yesterday she shot across a large room, bounded over several major pieces of furniture and stalked a squirrel outside the living room window. A real squirrel. Not some elder-dementia-induced imaginary squirrel. Granted, the squirrel probably outweighed her by five pounds, and she probably wouldn't have been able to take it down, what with having no teeth and all, but dammit if she didn't want to.
#2 - She'll knock the hell out of any dog that gets between her and an au jus spill.
#3 - She runs on rocket fuel. Let me elaborate ...
We had some issues with our cable last week. Well, one issue, really. The wire the technicians snipped while try to disconnect our deliquent neighbors was actually the wire that leads to our house. On Saturday a very friendly, very beleaguered cable tech came to our house to make sure that the reconnect hadn't fried our TiVoesque piece of equipment.
We keep one door on the entertainment center closed, which conceals the rarely-used VCR and the ancient cat who thinks said VCR is her own personal heated bed.
I forgot to mention this before the cable tech opened the cabinet.
Whiney yowled and shot out of the cabinet like she had finally burst into flames from the handfuls of cathair that are probably stuck in the VCR's power supply. The cable tech yowled and threw himself against the window hard enough to make it rattle.
(For comedic effect I could exaggerate and say that he threw himself out the window and onto the hood of my truck, one story below, but I'll refrain and stick to the truth.)
And the truth is, few things bring excitement to a boring Saturday afternoon quite like a cable tech having a heart attack induced by an elderly rocket-propelled cat.
I'm not worried about my cat. Not in the slightest. Still a little concerned about the cable guy, though. I should send a bouquet. Maybe made with cattails.
I've finally had enough. The drugs aren't helping with the panic and anxiety the way they should. I've done enough mental "work" on my own to know what's at the root of my disorder (the Tyler family). However, that doesn't seem to be enough to manage it properly.
Last week someone left an anonymous comment recommending cognitive behavior therapy as an effective way of treating panic and anxiety. Whoever you are, thank you. I wish you'd drop me a line so we can talk a bit more about this. The comment prompted me to do a bit of research, and it does look like something that might be worth my while.
I'm scared, though. If there's something awful in my past that I've repressed, do I really want to know what it is? Is living with the truth worse than living like this? Granted, that's most likely the anxiety talking. That's the kind of thing the anxiety says - it finds the worst possible scenario, then vividly describes it in gory, graphic detail until something in my chest explodes.
I do know where much of this is rooted, and it has nothing to do with the Tyler family. Remember - I make fun when I can't deal with difficulties directly. When I was four, my grandfather died. It's cliche to say a part of me died, but apparently that's the case. I have so many vivid memories in the year prior to his death, then nothing from the time he died until I started kindergarten almost two years later.
Last year, during my pregnancy and the apex of the panic attacks, my mother told me that I had similar attacks after his death. I also quit talking and eating. This was 1976 - not exactly a heyday for psychotherapy in rural western Missouri. But after being told I would get over it by one too many doctors, my mother found a child psychologist and I got some treatment. I have no memory of this. The only thing I remember is once, being in an office, and playing with one of those sand art toys, where colored sand drifts into dunes as you turn the acrylic recepticle. Mom tells me that was a toy in the waiting room.
My panic and anxiety always center on death and loss. Always. Never my own death, though. In fact, I could probably benefit from developing a bit more self-preservation. My nagging, obsessive fears focus on losing those I love. We all have that, but I take it too far. Here's an example: Last week I was having a phone conversation with my mom when she got another call from her neighbor. She took that call with a promise to call me back. When she didn't call back in ten minutes, my first thought - completely irrational and driven by fear - was that the neighbor had found my father, injured or dead, in the yard. Panic button: activated.
This also applies to my 16-year-old cat. I spend an inordinate amount of time checking on her, making sure she's breathing, she's healthy, etc. I'm fighting the urge to do that right now. It doesn't to any of us any good.
I told B. this weekend that my fear isn't so much about the loss. I've dealt with loss before and have made it through. My fear is regarding how I will react to loss. When my grandmother died, I spiraled into one of the worst depressions of my life that lasted for two years. I was 19 and a freshman in college. With that paralyzing depression, I turned from an ambitious, responsible young woman into a drunken slack. When my grandfather died, I lost two years of my life.
Obviously, there are issues to be fixed.
So, I'm getting ready to take a scary plunge. I'm going to call the mental health line through my insurance company and see what they recommend I do next. And maybe, with any luck, once I have found a good therapist, I will quit splattering my mental illness all over this blog and we can return to more entertaining things, like throwing poopy diapers at bad drivers.
I'm not one to brag about my child. At least, not intentionally. I know she's fabulous, and I assume everyone else realizes this without me having to tell them. However, I would like to take a moment to brag.
My lord, we can take Clara "Partygirl" Jane anywhere. Anywhere!
In the past ten months of parenthood, we've had to adjust every aspect of our lives. Nothing has gone untouched. While adjusting has been hard, it's all worthwhile. That doesn't mean that I don't occasionally miss some of the things from our old life, pre-baby.
Yesterday I caught myself longing for those weekend nights when B. and I would go out for dinner and then walk around a mall or one of the bookstores. Maybe even Target. Not exactly the most glamourous way to spend an evening, but it gave us a chance to get out, spend some time together, relax, and possibly take care of a few errands. This isn't something I expected to miss, but I do.
So last night I decided we were going to give it a shot with Clara Jane in tow. And you know what? It was just like the old days, but better.
We shopped. We had dinner. Clara Jane laughed and giggled and squealed and didn't fuss once. Not one bit. She seemed to be having even more fun than her parents.
At the restaurant, we were approached by an older couple. "We just had to tell you how good your baby is. Our granddaughter would never handle going out like this." Granddaughter's age? Same as Partygirl's.
It was well after 10 p.m. when we left the restaurant with our happy, full girl in tow. She fell asleep during the drive home, happy and content.
Feel free to tell me how lucky I am, even though I already know.
I'm back to work this week. That means Catered Tuesday! This week's menu:
Brisket with Mushrooms & Cranberries
Potato Pancakes
Winter Salad
Want some? If you're in St. Louis and you like to order this yummy feast, drop me a line at robindawn at gmail.com before noon on Monday.
Clara "Snerfles" Jane's cold has brought life at Chez Poppy to a stand-still. I'm trying to stand as still as possible so that she might possibly stay asleep!
Poor kid - she's just a snotty, snuffling little mess. She feels bad because of the excess mucus, but feels good enough to get frustrated because she doesn't feel good enough to play.
Is there anything worse than a snot-covered child, trying to play with her blocks and crying at the same time? I think not.
She's been napping for over two hours. I can hear her through the baby monitor, snerfelling in her sleep. I'm on the other side of the house, hoping to God that my typing doesn't wake her. Whiney, my ancient cat, is doing her part. She's sitting on my hands as I type, muffling the clicks with her ass. Thanks, Whiney. It's good that everyone in this family, no matter how old, feeble and feline, is willing to pitch in during times of crisis.
Snerfels and I did get out for a bit yesterday, which was a disaster. If you happened to be at Artmart at the same time as us, I whole-heartedly apologize for the combination of blue-faced baby screams and nails-on-chalkboard screeching stroller wheels. When I set out for Artmart, my intention certainly wasn't to conduct a two-person parade of The Worst Sounds in History. It really wasn't. I just wanted some polymer clay and maybe some yarn, if you had it. Which you didn't. So maybe my little parade serves you right.
In other news, my anxiety's mostly gone. Any traces of a cold I might have had are gone, too.
In the world of Chigger, my mother hasn't set him free yet, although the thought is crossing her mind at frightening regularity. She's changed his name to Merle. Officially, he's a Red Merle Heeler. Also, she keeps muttering the lyrics to Merle Haggard's Mama Tried under her breath when she's cleaning up puddles, poo, and prying the little shit's teeth from her upholstery.
I'm not sure my dad is aware that he has a puppy.
B. will be home in three hours. Not that I'm counting. But in three hours and seven minutes I'll be out the door and on my way to have a drink with Kara. I hope to God she doesn't have a snuffly nose, because I'm declaring tonight a No Snot Zone. No Snot! None!
...the common cold! Not earwigs, not anxiety disorder, but it's the good ol' common cold that's bringng misery and snot to the Poppy household. I've got it. B.'s got it. And Clara Jane produced enough snot last night to lubricate a stock car engine. It's 10:10 and she's still sleeping.
The two pairs of rain shoes I ordered last week? They finally arrived today. I love them. I'm wearing one of each pair right now. However, it's bright and sunny. Wear the hell were the shoes on Monday, when I was slogging through giant parking lot puddles, the hem of my boot-cut jeans splashing freezing-cold rain water onto the bare parts of my feet? Huh? If this cold turns into pneumonia, I'm going to hold Urban Outfitters responsible for not shipping my rain shoes faster.
No appearances by Mia Tyler bearing a bucket of chicken in my dreams last night, unfortunately. I was really looking forward to that. If this cold continues or gets worse, though, I'll have fever dreams to look forward to. Oh, there's nothing I enjoy more than a good fever dream. Almost makes sickness worthwhile.
I have figured out what's at the root of my panic and anxiety problems. The Tyler family. Steven and Liv, to be precise.
Night before last, I dreamt that I was in the audience of a talk show hosted by Leeza Gibbons. Liv was a guest, because she had gotten pregnant after being "neutered" (Leeza's term, not mine, but I do think that's hilarious and I'd like to know what's up in my brain to come up with that nugget.). Eventually Dr. Phil came out and helped Liv solve any neutering-related troubles.
Last night was much more enjoyable. Steven and I were a part of a group cleaning a filthy house a la How Clean is Your House. After we finished with the filth, Steven offered me a ride on his Harley, and we made out while zooming down the street. I think I was more amorous about the bike, but it's hard to make out with a bike and easy to make out with the guy you're clinging to like skin on pudding.
Tonight I'm hoping to conquer more unresolved Tyler issues by dreaming that I'm eating greasy fried chicken with Mia Tyler.
