Thursday, April 26, 2018

Bye Bye Baby, Baby Goodbye

It is the end of an era, and I'm finally drunk enough to write about it.

This will probably be the last blog post ever about how codependent my animals are, because the most codependent of them all has passed on.

I lost Percy yesterday. And I'm shocked at the pain, at how much it hurts. At how wrong the house feels without him in it.

When the week started I didn't think, didn't realize that I would be finishing it without him. Last week, both he and Puckett went to the vet for different issues, and the diagnosis for both ended up being surgery. Puckett had a few bad teeth that needed to be pulled, and Percy somehow ended up with hyperthyroidism. I didn't understand everything the vet said to me, but what did sink in is that hyperthyroidism was the reason he couldn't settle down, the reason he was bouncing off the walls and tearing through the house, the reason he would dig to China in his litter box, the reason he ate and drank like it was going out of style, and then would pee a lake three times a day.

I thought he was just being an asshole.

He was sick.

I was the asshole. And I'm still the asshole. I've been in a terrible mood the last two years, much of which I took out on my animals, and that's on me. My last relationship did it to me - it's never good to get involved with an alcoholic - but I'm not blaming him. It's not his fault I didn't see the red flags and just fell headlong into a relationship anyway, even though that damned little voice kept warning me away.

And the animals hated the relationship. They were under constant stress during that relationship, Percy included.

You know when they weren't under constant stress? When I was in a relationship with the Cowboy (who still sits for them whenever I go on vacation), and, God help me, the Drug Dealing Felon, because Drug Dealing Felon aside, that was one of the most comfortable relationships I've ever been in.

But I digress.

I took Percy in on Monday for his surgery. Surgery he passed with flying colors. I have the best vet in the world. He's a master surgeon on animals, the best in the county. If you need shots for your pets, you can go anywhere. If you actually need something serious done on a pet, you go to this guy. You don't go to anyone else, ever (Drug Dealing Felon's sister included, as she is a very accomplished vet too).

What ended up happening to Percy was a blood clot. A pulmonary embolism is most likely what took his life, and the vet said that he probably had that clot floating around his heart for a while, and it would have eventually killed him anyway. And if I hadn't done the surgery, his hyperthyroidism would have killed him. There were other options - diet, pills - but I trusted the vet when he said Percy was a strong candidate for surgery and surgery was what he recommended and what he would do for his own cat.

It was that damn clot. With or without surgery it would have taken him.

I never thought Percy would be the first to go. God forgive me, I thought it would be Tess or Puckett, and while I wouldn't say I was prepared or ready for anyone to go, the shock of losing Percy so quickly and so suddenly has thrown me into a tailspin. I was driving back to work from getting lunch yesterday when the vet called and said Percy was deteriorating rapidly. He couldn't breathe, his heart rate was too fast. So I told the vet, tears streaming down my face and sobs choking my voice, that i would be right there. That I was on my way.

It was all I could to keep the speed limit. I didn't want to get pulled over when I needed to be with Percy in his last few minutes.

When I got to the vet, I pushed open the door, and the receptionist took one look at my face and hurried me to the back room. I saw nothing, heard nothing, except for the distressed wail of a cat in horrific pain.

I've heard that wail before. I stayed awake all night with a cat in such terrible pain before, when all I could do was hold her until she finally died in my arms.

I was not going to let a cat suffer like that again, especially not my Percy.

A vet tech had an oxygen mask over Percy's face while he screamed. Puckett was in the cage above him, having just come out of her own surgery, but I didn't even see her. I fell on Percy, screaming "Oh my God, Oh my God," sobbing and begging the vet to put him out of his misery. I asked the vet if there was any chance for Percy to come through. The vet had said that he hated to end it after all we'd been through, the surgery, the careful montitoring, the IV and the calcium drip, and the horror of all of it.

He was one hundred percent honest when he said he truly believed Percy would not make it, and that he was in pain.

I had to make the decision in a split second, so I did. Put him down, it was the humane thing to do.

And I held him as they injected the euthanasia in his IV. I cried as I held him, and told him how much I loved him, and how much I was going to miss him, and how sorry I was.

I held him for a long time after he died.

I've lost a lot of pets in my life. I've loved a lot of animals.

Percy was hands down the absolute worst.

Percy was not just a cat. He was a personality. Even people who said they didn't like cats met Percy and fell in love with him, wanted to steal him away from me.

The vet has been absolutely amazing. Him and all his techs and receptionists. They've all been great. They did everything they could to save him. They did their best, and I will be forever grateful to them. As long as I have animals, I want my vet to be there, taking care of them, because as far as I'm concerned, he is the absolute best.

I spent the whole next day in bed - today actually. I wasn't this broken up over my last breakup. I wasn't even this broken up over the Drug Dealing Felon. I might have spent four months in the bottle, but I got up. I did stuff. I lived my life as best as I could despite everything.

Today I couldn't live my life without Percy.

There was no one waking me up in the morning, flinging litter everywhere as loudly as he could, scattering it all over the floor.

There was no one playing peekaboo in the shower with me.

There was no one squalling loudly for his breakfast.

There was no one to pick up and snuggle me under the chin, head butting me and purring so loudly the neighbors could hear him.

I had no idea how quiet my girls are until Percy was no longer with us.

Tess paced all night, looking for her friend. I'm clinging to her as if to say, "Don't you leave me too."

Puckett stayed downstairs by the food bowls, constantly trying to eat and being unable to because of her teeth. She'll feel better in a few days. But I don't think she's quite right either, sticking to the food bowls, moving from one of my kitchen chairs to another as if she's waiting for Percy to join her for dinner.

Does she understand that she will never play fight with him again in the mornings?

Willow, I think, is glad he's gone. I don't judge her, though. She's on the bed, fast asleep as I write this. I binged on wine, sushi, and chocolate cake (completely packed with gluten, speaking of judging) and she glared at my sushi like it was the most disgusting thing ever.  Funny thing for a cat to do, considering sushi is raw fish.

I'm starting to believe Percy was the glue that held us all together. I'm simultaneously numb and devastated, puddling up every hour when I think about him climbing into the toy box or playing with his favorite catnip mouse. And I'm making plans to bring Willow to my best friend because her eight year old daughter would absolutely love her.

Willow deserves a person of her own, and my friend's daughter could very well be that person.

And I'm making plans to bring Puckett to my mother, who has said in the past that she would love to have a cat like Puckett.

And I'm going to hang on to Tess as long as I still have her, because she and Percy were my first, my babies, my best animal friends. They defined my thirties. They helped me through my breakup with the Drug Dealing Felon, and sat with me through the long nights alone, and crawled into my lap the two awful weeks when I had the flu; when one night I couldn't take it anymore and sat down on the top step of my stairs and cried for two hours, Percy in my lap, and Tess snuggled up beside me.

It is the end of an era.

It is the end of this blog.

I will never forget Percy. I will never forget my precious black witch kitty, who could always make me laugh even when I was at the bottom of a hole, in the depths of despair.

Most people would say, "Hey, he was just a cat. There are plenty of homeless cats out there. Just get another one."

When pets are all you have, when those are the creatures that are with you through your bad times and your good times, your barometers for when you're in a horrible situation, and your sounding boards for when you're happy, no one is "just a cat."

I feel like I've lost a limb. I can't go downstairs to my living room where Percy's toy box is, where he used to sleep and play and roll in catnip. I can't do it, so I've been in my bedroom all day, except for when I took Tess for a walk, binge watching The New Girl, and then bingeing on gluten and sushi and wine.

I don't know how I'm going to make it without him.






Bye, bye, baby, baby, goodbye...




Wednesday, March 14, 2018

In a World of Shit

There is a line from Sex and the City, where Carrie is telling Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte all about how Mr. Big called and left a message on her machine while she and Aiden were in bed (this was the second time around with Aiden, post "cheating on Aiden with Big" storyline).

Samantha has a lot of opinions about Carrie just ignoring it and forgetting it ever happened, and not to try to talk about it with Aiden.

Then when Charlotte mentions she is quitting her job in order to pursue having a baby with her husband, Samantha cuts in with," Well, be damn sure before you get off the Ferris Wheel, because the women who are waiting to get on are twenty-two, perky, and ruthless."

To which Carrie replies, rather huffily, "You seem to have a lot of opinions today."

That was me the other day. I have a lot of opinions and judgments about things that are probably not my business and make me seem like a very nasty person.

For instance: I just cataloged a book compiled by Beau L'Amour called "Lost Treasures," which is essentially a collection of Louis L'Amour's unfinished manuscripts and lost notes. L'Amour is a well-known, best-loved western author with many contributions to the world of books. I myself have never read any of his novels, but I know he has a ton because we have them all in our collection. Upon cataloging this book, my first reaction was not, "Oh, that's cool, more material for L'Amour lovers." No, my reaction was, "This is a terrible thing to do to a writer! Why would anyone in their right mind take someone's unfinished work and notes and put them together to publish and sell for the general public to read? I would die if anyone ever looked at any of my first drafts or beginning work."

Second thought was, "Anything to make a buck off Dad, eh, Beau?"

Not a very generous thought, I admit. I'm still horrified that anyone would do this to a writer. Beau was probably just trying to honor his father. Or something, I don't know. But really, Beau, not every piece of writing should see the light of day.

It's sort of like publishing someone's journal or diary.

Another example: Me bursting out laughing and basking in a glow of schaedenfreude when I read about the Drug Dealing Felon getting arrested and picked up by the cops in the weekly police reports. I had a few choice words about karma being a bitch, people deserving what's coming to them, and pieces of trash in general, and I admit. It didn't make me sound like a very nice person, and what's worse, I didn't, and still don't feel bad about it.

Then there was this thought: There is a special circle of hell for people who let their dogs shit wherever they want (particularly on my walkway at the foot of my front stoop), and if it happens again, I'm getting the arsenic.

I'm kidding of course. I have no idea where to buy arsenic, I would never ask, and I would never poison a dog anyway. That's mean.

That of course didn't stop me from grumbling to myself about the irresponsibility of pet owners who just let their animals wander the neighborhood, going wherever the hell they feel like it. Like I don't have enough shit of my own to clean, now I'm cleaning the neighborhood dogs' shit as well? Are you kidding me right now?

And do people who allow this of their dogs not stop to think for a moment that what they are doing is just insensitive, rude, and self-entitled? Are they too busy sitting inside eating bonbons and watching soaps that they just cannot be bothered to put on their snow boots and jacket and go outside with the damn dog? Yes, there is about a foot of snow on the ground, but for cripe's sake, if you are going to own a pet, take care of the pet.

See? I have a lot of opinions.

I just hate dog people anymore. The situation is deteriorating into me not really caring for dogs in general anymore. I don't like any dog but my own. And she is essentially a robot. She's a push button dog. And a mind reader. I have zero issues with this dog now that I no longer load her into the car to drive two hours to visit California Guy. Well, she is getting sick of the below zero weather and it's making her a little cabin crazy, but otherwise, Tess is about as perfect as a dog can get.

I don't know what it is about dog owners these days that makes them believe that their precious poopsies are so adorable that everyone and anyone should be subjected to them. I remember one afternoon I spent scooping shit along the walking path by the river a block from my house because some people hadn't bothered to pick up after their dogs. Not just one person. SOME people. The entire walking path was bordered by a parallel line of shit. I think I filled ten bags. And I cussed the entire time I was doing it too.

There was also the one year when the spring thaw revealed that someone's mutt had spent the entire winter shitting in my front yard, leaving several piles under the melting snow. Once again I was out there for the better part of an hour, scooping and cussing. I must have been overheard because that never happened again. And then those people moved away, and took their stupid dog with them.

Now some neighborhood dog is coming over and actually shitting on my walk way. It can't get into the actual yard due to the foot of snow, so what, it just decided to take a shit next to the car? and I'm not exactly sure which mutt it is, either, as it could be one of several culprits. I'm getting very tempted to just scoop up Tess' ginormous shit from my backyard, and deposit it in each possible culprit's yard.

That'll show them.

And is it bad that I secretly hope the damn dog goes and plays in traffic one day since my walkway isn't really that far from the street? Which leads me to my next opinion, if my walkway is THAT close to the street, then how irresponsible does a dog owner have to be to just let their dog wander around out there? I don't actually hope it will get hit by a car, but the truth is, it can very easily get hit by a car.

Besides, I thought it was against city law to allow one's dog to run loose in town.

Don't get me started on the abuse of "emotional support dogs" and the people who think they need to take their four-legged attachments everywhere. If I did that to my dog, she would be the one needing an emotional support animal. She gets anxiety leaving the house for any reason other than going for a nice long walk. Now granted some people need a service dog and they should have them. But I can tell the difference between a real service dog and one that is just a live security blanket being dragged over God's green Earth for the benefit of some self-entitled jackass. Real service dogs do not jump on my leg and try to hump it, and real service dogs do not yank at their leashes and practically drag their handler across a room in an effort to throw themselves at an unsuspecting person.

If someone is so emotionally crippled that they cannot set foot outside the house without a Chihuahua in a purse, then maybe they should look into some medication. Or therapy. Or move to Europe where it's acceptable to bring your mutt into a restaurant provided you don't allow said mutt to urinate on the buffet.

My dog isn't allowed to hang out at the table when I'm eating so why they hell would I want someone else's mutt drooling over at the next table while I'm out enjoying a meal?

Some people have the opinion that animals are so much better than people so those of us who don't like them out and about should just get over it and learn to "share the planet with other creatures." I agree with these people. Animals are so much better than humans. Sometimes I think the whole planet would be better off without the human race, me included. So let's start with these overzealous animal lovers who feel the need to inflict their fur babies and their poop on everyone else. Eradicate them from the Earth, because hey, animals are better than people anyway. I bet their pets would be happier.

I really don't dislike animals. I dislike most people who own animals. And yes, I am well aware that I own animals. And I don't dislike all pet owners. There are some very good, responsible pet owners out there, and I appreciate their efforts.

So in the words of Carrie Bradshaw, "You seem to have a lot of opinions today."

Yes, I do. But I've had it. I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. If people cannot be bothered to pick up their dogs' shit, then they have no business owning a dog. If you don't like the idea of cleaning up waste, then don't get something that generates it. If I don't think I'm too good to clean up my pets' poop, then you aren't too good either.

Poop is a part of life. Deal with it, and clean up after your pets.

After all you wouldn't let your kid go squat in someone's yard, would you? And if you did, I could have you arrested.


I think I've earned some wine and chocolate these last couple of weeks.

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Waterworld

Boy, I tell you. It is always something with cats.

In the last couple of months Willow decided that the water bowl is her personal plaything. I'd fill it up in the mornings, and she would respond by sitting by it, pawing in the water until the bowl was mostly emptied all over the floor. I kept the bowl on the tile floor downstairs, but still.

A huge lake of water on the way to the couch was not a good situation. I skidded through puddles several times and nearly killed myself.

To say nothing of the fact that the other cats never got a chance to take a drink. The bowl was usually empty by the time they got to it, unless they wised up and ran down there to drink first. Percy usually got to it first, but after him, Willow would take over.

She didn't just paw and aerate the water. She would swipe her paw through the water with such force that it would arc out of the bowl and splash across the floor. And she would sit there and watch it, so I know she knew exactly what she was doing.

She eventually lost interest in her own bowl and started seeking out Tess' water bowl upstairs as it is bigger and metal, and I don't know, maybe she liked to look at her reflection while she was soaking my carpet.

Two instances of a completely soaked carpet prompted me to either keep Tess' bowl outside, or on top of the dresser. I'd put it down periodically in the evenings so Tess could drink.

Willow managed to get up on the dresser, despite the obstacles I set up to block the bowl and still ended up drenching the books sitting on my dresser.

Boy, was I mad.

And also, she's not allowed up there in the first place. The placement of a water bowl does not change the rules just because she is so damn spoiled that she thinks a water bowl means she can play in it, no matter what.

After I managed to keep Tess' bowl completely out of range, she went back to the smaller bowl. Day after day of wet tile was starting to get on my nerves. Then she started doing it at night too. As soon as I went to bed. I'd turn out the light, close my eyes, and like clockwork, I'd hear bloop, bloop, bloop! SPLASH!

She earned her nights in her kennel after that.

Needless to say I was getting super frustrated. I started supervising the water drinking, and removing the bowls when I wasn't home. Or if I didn't feel like watching the bowls, I'd stuff Willow in her cage. It wasn't a good situation. The cats couldn't drink whenever they wanted, and really, I couldn't just keep Willow in her cage indefinitely. Plus, making sure everyone got enough water was a full time job.

Who's codependent, me or the cats?

So finally I went online, looking for a solution. I typed into my friend Google, "How to stop cat from playing in the water bowl."

There were a ton of sites addressing this apparently very common issue.

Sheesh, if there is an issue out there, one of my cats has it or will develop it. As soon as I solve one issue, they develop another stupid habit.

Every site suggested purchasing a kitty water fountain, and one site went so far as to tell me that if I'm not currently using a fountain, I'm severely endangering my cats' health because only a fountain can ensure they ingest enough water. Cats like their water fresh, aerated, and moving, and how dare I still use a bowl which infringes on their ability to drink properly?

Well, I was really more concerned with the fact that I really don't have the time to sit around monitoring water drinking, and if I don't monitor it, Willow will empty the entire bowl on the floor and everyone will go thirsty anyway.

So I took a chance and went out to purchase a fountain. It's really cute. It's a little bucket with a water pump attached to the bottom that pushes the water up through a filter and a plastic daisy to form four streams of water, and a pool bubbling out the middle. It wasn't overly expensive, and I didn't want one of those fountains that cascades into a bowl. I think that would just exacerbate the issue. Then not only would Willow have moving water to flick around, she would still have a pool that she could swish her paw through, splattering water to the other side of the room. Plus there would be twice as much water, and she could do it all day long before the stupid thing would finally be empty.

I shuddered at the thought of that mess.

I brought the fountain home, assembled it, plugged it in, and stood back to gauge everyone's reaction.

Percy was immediately in love. He marched right over and began to suck down water like he hadn't seen any in a week. Which he probably hadn't. That poor cat drinks a gallon of water a day. People ask me if he's diabetic, but he's not. He drinks a gallon, pees a gallon, and then starts all over again. And with the recent issue of not having water constantly available to him, thanks to Willow, he probably wasn't getting enough.

So Percy was thrilled.

Willow, on the other hand, was terrified of the thing. Go figure. She wouldn't go near it. And Puckett was just too fat and lazy to haul her ass up to the kitchen where I had the fountain plugged in, so I still had to leave a water bowl out for the girls over the weekend. I figured it was fine, as I was home all weekend and could watch.

Willow doused the floor twice in the two seconds my back was turned, and I decided, "You know what? You can either get used to the fountain, or die of dehydration." It's not like she's drinking the water out of the bowl anyway. She just wants to make a mess.

I removed the bowl and ignored the irritated looks I got from both Puckett and Willow. Puckett eventually gave the cat equivalent of a shrug and gave the fountain a try. She seemed to be fine with it and went on with her life. It took Willow a day longer to finally resign herself to the fact that she is now going to have to live without a water bowl and drink from a fresh stream of aerated water.

The horror.

You'd think I was asking her to actually get in the fountain and take a bath. The drama involved when anything tiny changes around these cats. It's like the world has ended and things will never be the same.

When I last left them, all three had happily partaken in the water of the fountain and seemed quite content with it. Plus, no one has to take turns anymore. They can all drink at the same time. So I'm hoping this will solve the latest issue.

Until Willow comes up with something else stupid.

And don't worry, she will.





Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Why are We Depressed?

I've been reading the book, “Lost Connections: Uncovering the Real Causes of Depression – And the Unexpected Solutions” by Johann Hari. Hari is actually a world renowned journalist, not a mental health professional, and because of this he got a few bad reviews on Amazon, reviews that stated since he was only a journalist, he is ill qualified to make any assessments or conclusions in the field of mental health.

The funny thing is, if one actually reads his book, one realizes that he's not so much making assessments or conclusions as he is doing what journalists do best: trying to find answers. And because he is a journalist, he goes all in, traveling around the world, interviewing doctors and experts alike, asking the deep questions nobody really wants to ask, and researching.

He never once claims to be any kind of expert – and yet cites many of those experts and doctors in a well-researched, logical book that, when one really thinks about it, makes a lot of sense and is almost painful in its simplicity. He has thirty-six pages of notes and citations, and a full index backing up and supporting the research in his book.

I can't understand why anyone would give this book one or two stars in a review except maybe someone who is still in denial. Although one one-starred review was given strictly because the reviewer claimed Hari as an atheist, and there is no way one can not be depressed if they don't have spirituality and religion in their lives.

I discount reviews like this. They have nothing to do with the subject matter of the book, and they just make the reviewer look silly.

I have long been a skeptic of modern medicine and doctors, and no, I am not anti-vaxxer. I'm not against antibiotics or doctors or hospitals. If I break my leg, you bet your boots I'm going to call an ambulance and have my ass hauled to the emergency room to get it set, and yes, to get a nice prescription of painkillers.

I just don't believe that doctors know everything, and I don't think the almighty pharmaceutical pill is the answer to all our woes. And anyone who thinks that the pharmaceutical companies actually want to help people feel better are extremely naïve. This is a country of capitalism, and the first goal of any company is to make a profit. If you don't believe me or Hari, just YouTube an antidepressant commercial and set your stopwatch for how long it takes them to list the side effects. No, I believe if you want to feel better and healthier, it is your job to take your health into your own hands and do as much reading and researching you can to figure out what works best for you.

I've struggled with depression and anxiety for several years now, and I am in treatment for it. The one thing I absolutely refuse is to take antidepressants. That's my choice. But I understand why people do take them. As Hari points out in his book, clinical depression is defined as a chemical imbalance in the brain, as if something has gone haywire, one's supply of serotonin has run out, and one is then prescribed an antidepressant to boost serotonin levels and bring the brain back in balance.

Hari actually discusses in Chapter 2 the history of how the, as he calls it, “serotonin story” first began, and it was quite by accident. I guess this made a lot of people angry, because as long as we hang on to the idea that there is something wrong with people's brains when they are depressed, then there is an easy way to fix it (antidepressants) and we don't have to talk about it so much.

Or you just sweep the loonies under the rug with their drugs, and call them cured. I have actually likened antidepressants to a lobotomy in the past, but only in my own situation. I can't even take Midol without going a little crazy, so pharmaceuticals have never really been my bag. As Hari points out in his book, he is not trying to take away antidepressants, or tell people they can't take them. If something is helping someone, by all means, they should continue its use.

What he is saying is, what if there is more to the story than just serotonin levels? What if instead of just putting a pill shaped bandaid on a person's mental health, we dig deeper and try to discover what is really going on here?

And this is what I think is so painfully simple. It really isn't that far of a stretch to believe that someone is severely depressed after they discover their spouse of twenty years is cheating on them. Or after the death of a child. Or because of some repressed trauma from childhood. Or being fired from a job they were working for fifteen years and then suddenly, pink slip. Or even some physical illness or pain that won't go away. These people are given an allotted time to grieve, and then told to get over it and move on with their lives, as if there is some kind set-in-stone time period for grieving.

I started getting depressed about the fact that for almost a year I had constant stomach issues and no doctor was able to tell me why, and then all they did was prescribe Nexium and tell me I had acid reflux. When every single thing you put in your mouth is a perpetual minefield, that starts to weigh on your mood. It's of course not the only thing that was causing my depression, but it was a good bit of it. So I got Nexium for my stomach and Prozac for my depression, and no one, except my naturopath practitioner thought to ask, hmmmm, are these two things connected and what can we do about it?

It's ridiculous to me that more people don't wrap their heads around the fact that our bodies work as a unit. We so often treat symptoms. Stomach ache? Here's some Pepto. Allergies? Here's some Allegra. Depression? Let me get the Prozac. But is it really so hard to believe that an issue with one body part might have something to do with another body part not working right? Dr William Davis of Wheat Belly and Undoctored fame says that all health begins in the gut. When the stomach ain't happy the rest of the body is miserable. But of course people don't want to adhere to that when it means that most of what we love to eat is the number one problem. Me included. I have to give up wine? And chocolate? And horror upon horrors, CHEESE? Well, shit.

Hari outlines nine causes for depression and anxiety in his book, at least the nine he feels he has uncovered so far. There are probably many more, he writes, but these are the nine he focuses on.

Cause One: Disconnection from Meaningful Work

  • Basically, we are trapped in a rat race of the most mundane, ridiculously boring work that takes up twelve hours of each day, and pays us shit. And what's more, companies don't care about their workers, won't give them decent health insurance or care, and can fire them on a whim (my state particularly is a right to work state). There is more to this story, but that about sums it up.
Cause Two: Disconnection from Other People

  • People are lonely. They can't figure out how to connect with each other anymore so they withdraw into that twelve hour work day that treats them like garbage, the Internet, or overindulging in substances or food. There was an interesting anecdote Hari added about gaming addicts, and how some people are so starved for some kind of connection they get hooked on online games just to have someone to talk to. I have actually seen this happen to a couple people in my life.
Cause Three: Disconnection from Meaningful Values

  • We are obsessed and addicted to stuff, and acquiring more and more stuff. Materialism has taken over. Every three years people buy new cars. They try to keep up with the Joneses. I'm guilty of it too. I've become obsessed with collecting tea sets. One really only needs one teapot when you think about it, but I just love them, so I have four.
Cause Four: Disconnection from Childhood Trauma

  • People who have suffered horrible things in childhood tend to be more depressed and anxious into adulthood. This is not to say that everyone who suffered childhood trauma is depressed, or everyone who is depressed has suffered childhood trauma. It's just another big factor.
Cause Five: Disconnection from Status and Respect

  • There is a reason why Facebook exists. It gives people the opportunity to post about themselves, screaming "look at me, look at me!" Hari discusses an interesting anecdote about baboons and the relationship between stress and status in baboon tribes. The omega baboon is infinitely more depressed than the alpha, unless it's "Fight for position in the tribe" time. And then the alphas are more stressed, trying to protect their status. Now we are not baboons, though we are related to them genetically (although, come to my job with me for a day, and tell me we are not baboons).
Cause Six: Disconnection from the Natural World

  • We crave nature even if we think we "don't do nature." I actually took that from Hari, who readily admits that he "doesn't do nature." And I laughed out loud. How do you not do nature? It's everywhere. A thirty minute walk outside with my dog peps me up more than anything else sometimes. I've started gardening every summer, because just being outside in the dirt is therapeutic. I don't have much a green thumb, but I still try. And waking up every morning to see the mountains in the near distance has still been one of my favorite things in the world.
Cause Seven: Disconnection from a Hopeful or Secure Future

  • Depressed people can't see the forest for the trees (to use an overused cliche), and I've been right there with the rest of them. It's almost impossible to look into the future and see anything good when one is at the bottom of a well of despair. 
Cause Eight and Nine: The Real Role of Genes and Brain Changes

  • This one I really found interesting. It's almost a chicken or the egg question. Are depression and anxiety caused by a changed brain, or do depression and anxiety change the brain? And as it turns out, according to one neuroscientist, the brain is always changing. And of course experiences over the years, and life in general is going to change someone's brain. The brain looks different from when someone is severely depressed as when that person is no longer depressed.
What it comes down to is that it's easier to “fix” a problem by doing nothing other than swallowing a pill. To believe that a problem stems from a chemical imbalance and all one has to do is take a pill and “fix” it, like an antibiotic, is intoxicating. One doesn't have to face issues. One doesn't have to change one's lifestyle (buy less, eat healthier, exercise, actually get outside and enjoy that tree). And the big one, society doesn't have to face the fact that in actuality it is sick and needs to change. One quote from the book stood out to me: "In a world that thinks there's no such thing as society, the idea that our depression and anxiety have social causes will seem incomprehensible" (pg. 258). And then, "But it turns out we are all still living in a society, even if we pretend we aren't. The longing for connection never really goes away" (pg. 258).

And maybe that's why Hari got one star reviews on his book. Demanding that society change is always a risky business.

And yet, having just looked at Amazon, the book is temporarily out of stock and listed as a bestseller.


Tuesday, February 6, 2018

I'm Tired

I've been channeling a lot of Designing Women lately.

That could be because a lot of their episodes just resonated with how women think, feel, and act. Even thirty years later (since Designing Women aired in the eighties) the conversations they had and the issues they dealt with are still relevant.

One episode in particular sticks out to me this week when Mary Jo sat on the couch looking a bit dejected and said, "Boy, I tell you Julia, I am tired. Tired of going to the grocery store. Tired of standing in the checkout line. Tired of doing the laundry. As a matter of fact I pulled this shirt out of the dirty clothes hamper this morning and pressed it."

Julia: "Mary Jo, I can't believe you did that!"

Mary Jo: "Oh, come on, Julia. You live in another world. Everyone has done that at least once in their lives except you, and maybe Queen Elizabeth. I'll tell you something else, I'm tired of shaving my legs. I'm not dating anyone. So what's the point? It's not like the kids care. They don't say, 'Gee, Mom, your legs are so smoooooooth.'"

Boy, I know how that feels. I'm tired of going to the grocery store. I'm tired of doing the laundry, especially since I know any day now, that wash machine and dryer are going to go completely kaput and I'm going to have to replace them.

I am definitely tired of shaving my legs. To say nothing of other areas. And I'm not dating anyone anymore, so what is the point?

And honestly? The thought of starting to date again, or "Get back on that horse" as people who are happily coupled up like to tell losers like me who can't seem to keep an engagement together, just exhausts me even more. It's like one more thing to do on the errand list:

Go to the grocery store
Do the laundry
Vacuum
Dust
Pick up dog poop
Clean that infernal closet
Clean cat boxes
Clean cat boxes again
Clean cat boxes a third time
Date in order to find new relationship

And the thought of all that just makes me want to go back to bed. That just means I'll be back to reading Evan Marc Katz's blog, reading articles on how to understand men and what they want in a relationship, and how to avoid red flags.

Those articles themselves are exhausting. For example, click on this one and learn all about why men pull away and how to deal with it. By the time I finished reading the article I had lost interest in the man in question, and I wasn't even dating him. Honey, if it's this much work to keep you interested, then I'm no longer interested. There is a nap I could be taking instead.

Which brings me to my next question: Where are the articles for men, Why Women Pull Away and How to Deal With It? Where is the book, The Men Who Love Too Much? Where is Evana Mary Katz and her blog for men on how to understand women?

Exactly, because men don't read stuff like that. Because men don't care about how to attract women (unless it's to attract lots of women in order to have sex with them and up their numbers) or how to keep women interested or how to understand women. That's because in this world, there is always another woman out there for these men, and if one doesn't work out they happily move on to the next one.

And on that note, there is a reason I don't Google my favorite celebrities or read about their personal lives, and the reason is this:  Most of them are pigs. I broke my own rule the other day out of blatant curiosity when I scored tickets to a Bryan Adams concert in June. I have loved Bryan Adams since I was thirteen, since before Viggo Mortenson but still after Luke Skywalker. My favorite album that I wore out listening to was Waking Up the Neighbors. I joined his fan club and was a member for about six years. So I learned all kinds of fun facts about him like he's Canadian and lives in Vancouver, he loves animals and advocates for whales and is vegan, and he has a soft spot for women and advocates for breast cancer research.

He also really loves women.

The man slept his way through the Victoria's Secret lineup in the 90's. I stopped reading about him when I dropped out of the fan club and decided to leave him on the stage. Then he stopped singing and performing for a while when he decided to do photography, and I kind of forgot about him (especially when I discovered Viggo Mortenson).

One day a few years ago, Bryan Adams was blessed with a daughter. I thought well, how cool is that, and went on with my life. Then the other day, after scoring tickets to this concert because seeing Bryan Adams perform live is on my bucket list, I made the mistake of Googling him and discovered that he was with his long time girlfriend when he slipped up and impregnated his personal assistant with said daughter, and then refused to admit to it for the longest time. Girlfriend #1 cut and run, and he tried to reconcile with her but she was having none of it. He finally ended up settling down with personal assistant and mother of his child, and had another child with her.

But I bet he's still seeing models on the side.

Creep.

This will not stop me from going to see him live and enjoying his music, but that fun dream I had about him a few months ago where we got married and everyone in town turned out for the wedding, well, that remains a dream. I don't want to marry him. The man is a pig. Any woman who willingly goes for him is doing it for star power, bragging rights to "I slept with Bryan Adams," or the money. After all, he owns three or four houses in various foreign countries and his net worth is more than I will see in three lifetimes (see how much you can learn on Google?). I'm not saying there is anything wrong with this, but if you are going to get involved with Bryan, just make sure you are aware that he is a pig and will probably eventually cheat on you.

Kind of like the Drug Dealing Felon, but that's another story.

Talk about a pig.

The thing is, if someone wants to be unfaithful or realizes that they can't be monogamous, that's fine. Just be up front about it. Just tell prospective dates, "You know, I really like you, we have a lot of fun, but I have to be honest. I am not the monogamous type, and I  just can't be faithful." Then that person is free to make a decision based on the information presented. Then if that person gets upset at infidelity, they only have themselves to blame. Quite possibly going into a relationship with Bryan Adams, knowing this information, maybe I could have a whole ton of fun with him for three months or so, before releasing him back to the wild to find a new plaything. But at least then, I would have all the information, I could make a decision accordingly, and I could guard my heart accordingly.

But people want their cake and eat it too, and I'm already exhausted just thinking about a relationship with Bryan. I will never have one with him, thank God. I already know without the shadow of a doubt that I would not be able to handle it. He would be like one more pet to clean up after. I'd have one dog, three cats, and a Bryan, all of whom make nothing but messes for me to clean up. Instead of going home to clean litter boxes and scoop poop from the backyard, I would also be chasing after my man's many infidelities, trying to keep him from completely humiliating me and populating the world through five other sister wives.

Of course we are talking about celebrities. Most normal civilian men are probably not quite as much work as this, though they probably still require infinitely more care than my animals. And my animals are higher maintenance than most.

I mean, the Drug Dealing Felon was super high maintenance, and he wasn't nearly as cute as Bryan Adams.

And frankly, I just don't have the energy anymore. I'm not just being down on men. I wouldn't wish myself on any of those poor bastards either. If they are too much work, I can only imagine how much work me with my baggage of crazy pets and mental illnesses can generate. I exhaust myself.

It's all I can do just to get through the day sometimes, just going to work, then coming home and cleaning everything. Then there is still dinner to cook, laundry to do, novels and short stories to work on.

So I tell you, like Mary Jo, I'm tired. My energy is dwindling.

And apparently, according to Bryan Adams who is 58 and has tons of energy (loosely quoted from some dumbass interview I read after Googling him), going vegan is the best decision you can do for you health and body.

So if I go vegan I will be more energized to do the grocery shopping and the laundry and stop being so tired of my life all the time?

Maybe, but I'm still not going to want to marry someone like Bryan Adams.


Seriously, Bryan, what is going on with your hair?
But, still a cutie.

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

White Chocolate and Rosé

White chocolate is the Rosé of the chocolate world.

I believe white chocolate gets a bad rap, and my personal opinion of why (based purely on non-scientific study) is that what most people think of as "white chocolate" is actually not chocolate at all. Good quality white chocolate consists of cocoa butter, sugar, milk products, and an emulsifier. Other types of "white chocolate" are mostly made of sugar, milk products, and oil.

Now some chocolate snobs will still maintain that even quality white chocolate is not really chocolate because it has no cocoa powder. I think that since it contains cocoa butter, it can still technically be considered chocolate. It should have at least 30% cacao content, and 40% is better.

Of course, some chocolate snobs poo poo milk chocolate as well, and as that is my favorite chocolate, I poo poo the chocolate snobs.

But I digress.

So that stuff in baking aisle called "white baking chips" or "white baking squares"?

Not actual white chocolate.

They do work in a pinch. I've used them to make truffles (practice truffles), and frosting for cakes, but to break out in true truffle-making fashion, I used real white chocolate. I've started using Lindt white chocolate bars because Ghiradelli, my favorite brand to make truffles with, faked me out. They don't actually make real white chocolate chips. Theirs is just "white baking chips."

Darn them.

Lindt is a Swiss company, or a French one. I don't really know, but if it's one or the other, you know they have to be on the level.  Or at least they should be.

When I say white chocolate is the Rosé of the chocolate world, I mean that Rosé gets just as bad a rap as white chocolate. I never used to like white chocolate (or I thought I didn't), until I tried a good quality white chocolate bar, in this case Green & Black's Organic White Chocolate. It had Madagascar vanilla added to it.

YUM.


And just like that I was sold on the white chocolate.

Same thing happened with Rosé. I'm not the wine snob my father is, but I still enjoy fine wines. I'm probably a bigger snob than most of my friends, but when I mentioned to these people that I actually drink and enjoy Rosé , they all gave me the nose-wrinkled "EW!" look, like I had just announced that I enjoy drinking pureed dog feces.

Hey, Rosé is some good stuff. You just have to be smart about it. Again, like white chocolate being associated with stuff that's not really chocolate at all, Rosé is associated with that awful pink Zinfandel one can buy for four bucks at the liquor store. It's mass produced, super sweet, and frankly, disgusting.

Sort of like Chardonnay, which also gets the wine snob nose-wrinkle. I tried a lightly oaked Chardonany from the Weston Wineries 307 label, and it was very good for a white wine. Take that, wine snobs!

But that's another blog.

I'm sure I'll have a truffle for it too. I'm already working on it.

But back to the Rosé. I have tried a few bottles of imported, dry Rosé. One from France, one from Portugal, and one from Spain. They were very good. Not too sweet, crisp, with a fresh finish. And they pair well with white chocolate. Sort of a nice Christmassy combo there, if you want my opinion. Chocolate and wine are always good, but if you're looking to spice up the party with something different than the usual party favors, pair a Rosé with a white chocolate truffle, and voila. Instant festivities.

It's a great idea for an afternoon wedding shower, too.

Milk chocolate pairs well with Rosé too, maybe better than the white chocolate. With chocolate/wine pairings it always depends on the bottle of wine.

This weekend, I tried a Garnacha Rosé paired with just a classic unflavored white truffles. I didn't add anything to my ganache, though I've used peppermint, anisette, and vanilla in my white chocolate ganache before. The result actually improved the wine. The wine on its own was almost too tart for me. I like dry, but not sour. It was close to vinegary. Food smoothed it out (I had some with my butternut squash soup). And the white chocolate really smoothed it out, giving it almost a candy/berry flavor.

All in all, a lovely pairing. I'm going to try the 307 Rosé  with the truffles next, because that's one of my favorite labels, and because their Rosé is a great one to try if one is looking to leave behind their snobbish ways and dive into the new party that is Rosé. Also, I want to try some milk chocolate with a Rosé as well, provided that this time I don't mess up my milk chocolate truffles like the last time (gooey mess everywhere).

 

I also tried a dark, espresso flavored truffle with the Rosé and surprisingly, it was not horrible. Dark chocolate still pairs best with the bold, darker red wines (like Syrah or Zinfandel), but it was palatable with the Rosé. That might have been due to the sourness of the Rosé, but still, a good experiment.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Ignorance is Bliss

It's the loss of innocence, I believe, that haunts me the most. The knowing. And the knowledge that once something is known, it cannot be unknown. You can't go back. You can't take it back.

You can't unsee things too, like the back of that lady who should not have worn skintight leggings with no underwear. That haunts me too.

Some people want to know. They would rather know than not know, and I think I've gotten to a point where the not knowing hurts less than the knowing. Ignorance is bliss. I've reverted to the belief that everyone deserves to be happy, and I hope they are, but I sure don't need it rubbed in my face.

For me, it seems like the more knowledge we acquire, the more miserable we seem to be. And it becomes addictive. The more I know, the more I want to know. And I can't rest until I know everything. But as soon as I know everything, I'm not any better off. I'm not any happier. The only difference is, now I know. Now I have to navigate the world with a little less innocence.

I think I was a lot happier before I was diagnosed with every mental illness under the sun (yes, I have a flair for hyperbole and tend to lean toward the dramatic). It just seems like now the more I learn about my host of mental illnesses, the easier it is to manage them, but I'm more miserable about it.

I don't want to be like this.

And yes, there are several ways to look at it. One can take the pessimistic view of, "This sucks and I don't want to be like this." Or one can take a more positive outlook of, "This is the way I am, and I will just do what I can to handle it and not make it everyone else's problem." After all, everyone has warts, everyone has issues, and no one is perfect. It doesn't mean we are broken. It just means we each have a unique set of problems to learn to navigate, and that's our lot in life.

Or maybe it does mean we are broken. I feel broken a lot.

My own personal view of the Adam and Eve story is that God didn't necessarily want to keep the two of them in the dark. He just wanted them to realize that there are consequences to wanting to know everything. They decided they wanted to know anyway, and thus found themselves in a world of misery and shit.

Literally.

I know my world is full of shit. Literally. Just ask my cat who takes a dump four times a day, and if he runs out of actual poop, he still manages to squeeze a drop of something into the litter box after I've just cleaned it.

My other world of shit is that my flash drive just died, taking a whole folder full of edited short stories with it that I apparently forgot to back up.

The fact, is now I'm well aware of how much work went down the commode because of one faulty flash drive. I know things. And I'm miserable.

I also know I should make sure I back up, and I still managed to somehow forget. I don't think that kind of knowing has anything to do with what I'm talking about, I'm just saying I know. And because I know, I'm angry. At myself. At this flash drive. At my computer.

When I was younger I would have thrown a small tantrum, shrugged it off, and gone immediately to work to rectify the problem, because when one is young and ambitious, one tends to see the glass as half full.

The older I get, the less full that glass is. And you know, it really isn't helpful when people keep pointing out that my point of view sucks and I need to change it.

Yes, thank you, Dr. Phil.

The half full side of this whole debacle is that I do still have the first drafts of the original stories. I just don't have the hours and hours of editing and formatting that went into them afterwards. Because that is all on my flash drive. That died.

Ugh.

But back to the mental illnesses. Over the last ten years I've had a host of illnesses tossed my way: hormone imbalance, gluten intolerance, adrenal fatigue, panic anxiety, atypical depression, low stomach acid, Candida, codependency. With each diagnosis, I am seized in an overwhelming desire to understand my condition and deal with it in the best possible way.

And so that I don't become a burden upon society. I just unleash it all in this blog, and if you don't want to know about it, you don''t have to read about it.

The problem is the more I read and understand my conditions, the more depressed I become because I keep thinking, wow. That's a lot of static and stupidity going on in one messed up head. True, none of my conditions are terminal (yet, there is always the possibility that I lose my will to live), but sometimes I wonder if that makes it worse. Because I know what I'm waking up to every morning. I know that each day it's going to be a struggle just to get through, and sometimes the thought of just not having to do that anymore seems like a better option. And instead of waking up to enjoy life, I'm waking up to another day of exhaustive managing of illnesses.

One thing in particular is the more I understand my codependency, the less I want to subject other people to it. I dismantled my relationship and engagement partially because my codependent traits got so far out of hand, I was making myself miserable. The only way to get out of the rat maze that was my head was to cut everything and run. My anxiety over the codependency was running at about a fifteen on a scale of one to ten. This all triggered a seriously deep funk of depression, worse than I've experienced before, and there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

So many people have to deal with such things. Some with mental illnesses, some with cancer, some with diabetes, or poverty or malnutrition or something. So many things can cause anxiety and depression. Anxiety is actually the not knowing that is causing misery, but one also knows that the anxiety is completely irrational. There is just no way to turn it off. You know, yet you don't know. It's the need to know everything right this minute at a much higher scale, and while you don't know, you obsess about how you don't know.

It's exhausting.

We know that cancer can be terminal, and often it is. We also know that cancer may not be terminal and can go into remission. And some people who are terminal learn to accept this and end up being joyful and living out the rest of their lives happily because they will soon walk into the unknown, a new adventure.

If I had a possible terminal disease I'd be having anxiety over that. I'm a mess just as I am right now. I can't even imagine how those brave souls manage.

Some people are in so much pain that all they know is pain and they know that is all they will wake up to each morning, so they too are eager to walk into something new and unknown.

Where they don't know anything.

And maybe they can be happy again. Maybe we can be happy again.

Spirituality works like that a lot. Much of the science world wants us to embrace the idea that spirituality and God and religion are just fantasy, and we are all going to be worm food when we die. They study and study and study and write and publish, desperately trying to prove the nonexistence of anything in their desperate desire to keep on knowing, knowing, knowing. And then they develop a kind of arrogance about it.

And you know what? They are probably just as miserable as the rest of us. That arrogance is a mask to cover up the terror and misery. Because even they don't know everything, and I bet that causes a bit of anxiety for them too. The vicious cycle.

Hell is the eternal separation from God. The definition of God is trickier, because He is basically whatever people want him to be. And knowing too much separates us from our spirituality, from God. And makes us less happy.

In other words, we might just be in hell.

Or on our way there.

Not because hell is a fire pit of endless torture because we have sinned and are "bad," but because it is the eternal misery. who wants an eternity of misery?

Not me.

I believe another fifty years of being a codependent neurotic mess spinning in my own head over and over sounds a lot like hell to me.

I just reread this post and realized it makes absolutely no sense. It is, however, basically what goes on in my head constantly. I can't seem to ever turn it off. Not even during yoga. Not even when I'm trying to fall asleep at night. Not even when I read my devotionals.

Probably drives God nuts that I can't focus for five seconds on talking to Him without being stuck in my own head.

I'm not trying to get anyone to feel sorry for me. We all have our own version of hell and we are all living through it. We try to distract ourselves. Sometimes we even believe we are joyful or happy.

All I know is that this isn't where we belong. If it is we are already doomed.





Padme: the original Star Wars codependent
I guess I don't have it as bad as her. I didn't get pregnant by a raging sociopathic narcissist

Monday, January 15, 2018

The Face that Time SHOULD Forget

The other day I looked in the mirror and screamed.

My reflection put me in mind of a line from Designing Women when Mary Jo - discussing "that time of the month" - made a comment about, "Personally, I have one day every month when I look like Broderick Crawford."

For some reason every time I get around my period, my face decides to do something weird. I never had this problem in the past. In the past, when I was a couple of days from my period, I would feel all bloated, eat everything in sight, maybe get a pimple here and there, but my face, for the most part, would remain something that I recognized.

The last few months, I've noticed that whenever I look in the mirror around two or three days before my period, my face has become this discolored, blotchy, dry, itchy thing that I just want to peel off and toss across the room.

What the hell?

To add insult to injury, I was recently at a concert for a used-to-be-favorite local band and everyone there was twenty years younger than me, and fresh-faced even without the makeup. Girls that age don't even have to be pretty and they're pretty. They have smooth, even skin, like butter. Sure, they wear makeup, but they don't need it. Sometimes the makeup actually makes them look older and less attractive. They have that dewy young skin that just glows no matter how many drinks they consume or how many burgers they chow down on.

I remember when I first started going to this guy's concerts. That was back before he was big. Now he's big and a huge prima donna on top of it, so he's just not that much fun anymore. When I used to go, I was fifteen years younger, had that dewy, fresh-faced, glowy look, and my makeup looked good on me. Now, when I go to this guy's concerts, I feel old, I'm kind of over him, the place is crawling with girls young enough to be his daughter (okay, that's an exaggeration), and it's so loud I can't hear anything when I leave the building.

You know you're not that twentysomething-year-old anymore when the couch, the German shepherd, a blanket, and Netflix sound like a much better option than getting your ears blasted out by some overrated country western star who still acts (and drinks) the same as he did fifteen years ago when you discovered him.

I have grown up. He has not. And I don't miss him.

Before the concert, I was to meet my girlfriends for dinner, and in the past the joke was always that I could be ready in twenty minutes while everyone else took hours to get ready. This time I was late getting to dinner because I had two makeup malfunctions, and by the time I attempted to fix the second one, I just said screw it. I was already five minutes late, not dressed, and still had to fix my eye shadow.

I used to be able to throw on some tinted moisturizer, some eyeliner and mascara, do a smoky eye, and apply some lip gloss, all in twenty minutes, and out the door I'd go feeling and looking fabulous.

This time the smoky eye made me look like a forty-year-old crack addict who attended one too many parties. I took it all off and started over with a lighter, more shimmery gold, look. The shimmer settled into the lines on my face, making me look like a sixty-year-old trying to pass as a thirty-year-old. The tinted moisturizer did nothing to even the blotchy, red complexion I'd been toting around the last few days, and I had a zit cropping out on my chin.

I gave up and went out anyway. It's not like I was looking for dudes or trying to hustle the prima donna of said band. I just wanted to stand in a corner and listen to the music, which was too loud for me to enjoy anyway, so I ended up pulling a Cinderella and going home before the coach turned back into a pumpkin.

I have officially hit middle age. I'm not even forty yet.

I don't get it. I rarely use makeup, I eat a healthy diet rich in greens and bone broth, I get plenty of sleep, and I drink plenty of water. I don't smoke, drink soda, consume too much sugar or gluten (or grains really), and while I don't exercise as much as I should, I do exercise. I also drink alcohol, but I'm not sucking it down night after night. I drink one or two drinks a night on the weekends, sometimes more, sometimes less. Lately I haven't been feeling it at all, so I haven't been drinking. I use all natural products on my face, smear it with coconut oil, use clay or charcoal masks once a week, and exfoliate.

So why the hell does my face look like this? At thirty-nine??

Maybe I'm not forty yet, but I will be in about two months, and while I'm not exactly dreading it, I am wondering, "How on Earth did this happen?"

I'm sure everyone feels that way as they rapidly approach forty. No one ever pictures themselves at forty. I thought thirty was hard. Actually thirty-four was hard. I guess I had always assumed I'd be living some fabulous life, married to someone fabulous, and maybe have a book or two published by now. Instead, I can't seem to get my writing together, I still work at the same library job where there is no opportunity to move up or forward (and it isn't like I haven't applied to other jobs), I live in a pretty dead-end town that people are fleeing from (at least a lot of my friends are), and I have a broken engagement to show for my troubles.

I am, after all, a complete and utter relationship failure. At least now I can say I have one broken engagement under my belt.

Yes, I'm a little bitter.

Maybe that's the problem. They always tell you (who the hell are "they," by the way? And why do "they" have so much to say all the time? Can't "they" just keep their yaps shut?) that age is just a number, and you are only as old as you feel. I don't think it's so much forty that bothers me as it is what forty means. As ridiculous as it sounds, forty feels to me like it means total failure.

Well, not total. I have managed to sock away enough money in savings that I am not panicking now that my dryer literally blew something out and quit working the other day. It was drying away and suddenly, I heard this very loud pop, like a gunshot, and the thing just quit. And wouldn't turn on again. And since it and the washer are the same age, and the washer is starting to make really loud squeaking noises, I might as well replace both of them.

God, remember when things like that were your parents' problem?

If I have anything to show for forty, I have learned to responsibly adult. I have learned to put money away for a rainy day so when this kind of shit happens I can deal with it without having a total panic attack.

Because that is what else forty means to me. Instead of growing up and becoming more comfortable in my skin, I have discovered a host of psychological problems and mental illnesses that seem to be getting worse as I get older, and not better. And they aren't even getting better with the copious amounts of treatment I fling myself into. On the one hand, I am adulting better than ever. On the other hand, I can't seem to get my shit together so I can actually leave the house without wanting to heavily medicate myself. I suffer from panic anxiety, atypical depression, social anxiety, codependency, and a general feeling of worthlessness and low self-esteem. Most days it's a struggle just to get through.

And my face isn't helping matters. At the very least, it could help me out a little by not insisting on looking like something the cat dragged in last night and then peed on.

See what I mean about that low self-esteem?

The reward for getting older is that you're supposed to feel wiser, or at least feel like you've learned something and aren't making the same damn mistakes over and over. I haven't quite learned that, and I guess I feel that by forty, I should have figured a few things out.

More than just, "Hey, that smoky eye really doesn't work for you anymore, face."

The smoky eye was hard to give up. I remember how much it hurt to give up my favorite glitter pencil that I used on my eyes in my twenties. "They" say women in their thirties shouldn't wear glitter, and "they" are sure right about that one.

Turns out "they" are also right about the smoky eye and women pushing forty.

I guess, if I'm going to steamroll right into my forties, then I should start looking for a new signature makeup look. At least then I can say I've learned a little something.

Baby steps.


I can no longer get away with all this eyeliner. Now, when I attempt it, I end up looking like someone punched me in both eyes.

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

I Was Pretty Enough to Assault

The whole world has gone crazy.

Accusations are flying, people are losing their jobs, men are blaming women, women are blaming men.

I remember one of my favorite Designing Women episodes, "Reservations for Eight," when the whole clan (the girls and their boyfriends) went away together on a ski vacation and ended up getting into a huge battle of the sexes. Julia, naturally, had the best comeback that shut everyone else down:

"It has been the men who have done the raping and the robbing and the killing and the war-mongering for the last two thousand years.... and it has been the men who have done the pillaging and the beheading and the subjugating of whole races into slavery. It has been the men who have done the law making and the money making and most of the mischief making, so if the world isn't quite what you had in mind you have only yourselves to thank!"

To which Reese responded with: "Oh yeah? That's what you think about men? Well, let me tell you something about women............... They're always late."

Now, there may have been a double entendre there.

Julia Sugarbaker was known for her big mouth and liberal ways, but she also had a heart of gold, and she really wasn't wrong. She could be outrageous and sometimes out of line, but she also spoke the truth about the treatment of women even back in the Eighties.  Designing Women did several episodes on things like the objectification of women, women not being allowed to be pastors in their churches, and domestic abuse.

With all this garbage going on in Hollywood now, as well as in the political circle, the lines have clearly been drawn, and the outcome is worse than the beginning of a Junior High dance. Men on one side, women on the other, and both parties think they are right.

And both parties are right. To a degree. Not all men are sexually abusive pigs treating women like objects. Women should come forward when a crime has been committed against them. The police should not poo poo a woman when she does come forward, insinuating that she had it coming depending on how she was dressed or how drunk she was. Women do have a responsibility in what happens to them as well when they get blitzed out drunk. In a perfect world, one can get blitzed out drunk and lie in a ditch somewhere without having to worry about what might happen to them, but in this world, that is unrealistic and we should take steps in protecting ourselves. That is not victim blaming, that is just a fact. I've been guilty of it too, drinking too much and getting myself into a less than desirable situation. I've also seen the other side, when I helped a young lady who showed up at my car one night at 2 a.m. claiming she'd been raped. I drove her to the emergency room, where she was examined and I was questioned. The cop questioning me actually did say something along the lines of, "Who knows what really happened. The girl is drunk, and look what she is wearing." While giving me a knowing smile.

Holy hell. He's supposed to be protecting his citizens and he basically implied that the girl got what was coming to her because of her clothes and the fact that she'd been drinking. She did the right thing, finding help for her situation, and I took her to the hospital immediately, and yet, we were both treated like silly little females.

And people wonder why women don't always come forward?

The biggest beef men have now is that women are accusing everyone willy nilly and they are afraid to even say hello to a woman anymore for fear it might come back to bite him in the ass. Every man is an abuser! Every woman is an accuser! Hey, that rhymed!

The thing is, I'm not sure this is about sexual assault so much anymore. Sure on a level it is. And yes, women coming forward ten to thirty years later does diminish their credibility. But this is all the symptom of a larger disease. Men are raised thinking they have this entitlement to women's bodies and women are raised thinking that this is just "how men are." So we accept it on both sides. Look at college frat parties. The guys think it's okay to drink like idiots and bang everything in the vicinity, and the women line up, willing to be banged in order to get in good with the frat guys because they think that's just how it's done. Because that's how it's been done for years. It never crosses the girl's mind if she wants to or not.

It's just "what you do."

And I think that might be what has finally stuck in my craw. What I've grown tired of is the blatant sense of entitlement over women's bodies. And not just by men, by other women. By society as a whole. It happens when a group of people think they can tell a woman what kind of birth control to use. It happens when a group of mean girls spreads rumors or speaks snidely of another women wearing a miniskirt, saying they hope she gets gang raped to teach her a lesson. It happens when a man expects sex from his wife in return for doing the dishes. It happens when a man expects a blow job on a first date in return for buying a woman dinner. It happened to me when an ex-boyfriend, drunk after hours of drinking with "the guys" called me up and wanted me to come over because he was horny and I'd better be prepared because I was "in for it" due to his drinking. Then got mad when I refused to come over. It happened when another ex-boyfriend took it personally and got offended when I refused to swallow after sucking him off.

And we are told to suck it up. Literally and figuratively I guess. Blue balls are a thing. Tit for tat. I do this, you pay for it with your body somehow. Don't want to give me a blow job? Give me a hand job instead.

My God, I'd rather just pay for my own dinner.

I apologize, I just read Denis Leary's new book, Why We Don't Suck: and How All of Us Need to Stop Being Such Partisan Little Bitches. Apparently his dirty mouth has rubbed off on me some.

And for the record, Denis Leary wrote a whole chapter in his new book about how he admires women, and how this country will be a better place when we finally elect a woman president (but not Hillary, he didn't advocate for her any more than he advocated for Trump. But I'll end the fangirl rave over Denis here).

There are all kinds of weird sexual proclivities alive and well in this world. And that's fine. I don't judge. As long as there is consent. If she wants to swallow and gets off on it, great. If she doesn't, guilting her into it or telling her that's offensive is not okay. If a guy wants to buy a woman dinner and have the pleasure of her company because he found her interesting enough to ask out, then that's what he signed up for. She does not owe him sex or a kiss or a blow job at the end of the night - unless she wants to do it because she's just as horned up.

And then we run in to, "Well that guy was just a jerk. Just don't go out with him again." But WHY is he a jerk? WHY does he expect that? It's like the situation I got myself in to. Yes, I should have shut it down, and I have taken responsibility for that, but why did he think my body was his right? And why did he think it was okay to get angry when I finally did shut it down?

Men are running scared, and that's sad. Even good innocent men. They are walking around on eggshells, terrified that they might piss off a woman, and then they blame women for it. Well, it's just as frustrating on my end when I make a comment about how sick I am of women being treated like property and I get, "Oh, you're one of those?"

Well, I don't want to be, but hey, buddy, I have been harassed, I have been assaulted, and I have been objectified. I'm not saying you're the one doing it, or that you ever would, but I am saying we need to be aware that this can no longer be acceptable. It's not acceptable to falsely accuse a man of wrongdoing just because we can. But it's also not acceptable for a guy to ask me, "Well, what were you wearing?" when some stranger gooses me at the bar. Or even worse, "That's a compliment!"

I had a conversation with two friends the other day, and one friend made the comment "Men now have to not sexually harass or rape us, and they think that's unfair." This is a person who loves men, has a great husband, great brothers, a lovely dad, and several upstanding, sweet men as friends. She was always one who looked on the bright side, saw the good in everyone, was the first to forgive. And even she has had enough of the misogyny that is flying everywhere in response to women speaking up and saying, "Hey. I want you to treat me like a human being."

And that's really what it is. Some women have stepped up and spoken out finally about how they've been treated and this is what they get in response:

"Soon no man will be safe."
"Why did she wait so long to come forward? I have no sympathy for her if she doesn't report the crime when it happens."
"Another man getting knocked down in this witch hunt."
"Cory Feldman has been speaking out about abuse for years and no one listened to him because he's a white male." (for the record what happened to Cory Feldman was a tragedy, but he was abused by the same pigs and they got away with it, so I'm thinking he probably knows how women feel).
"No wonder men want nothing to do with American women anymore." (as if the sole problem here is American women).
"Women have it great in this country. It's worse in other places." (yes, I should be thankful I don't have to wear a burqa).
"These women were just furthering their careers. If they hadn't cared so much about their careers, they would have reported this sooner."

And on and on and on. Now some of these statements may have a grain of truth. I certainly feel for Cory Feldman. Who by the way is a victim of this greater problem, that some men are in such high positions of power in this society that they think they are entitled to everyone and anyone's body.  But the problem with these statements is that they have managed to make a very real issue about sexual abuse and harassment all about men. And how this is making them feel. And how it is ruining their lives. And making things more difficult for them.

It hasn't been any walk in the park for us either.

There is no easy answer here. There will be women who take advantage of this situation to throw innocent men under the bus. There will be more women not believed because it's become such a shit show. This is a country of extremes, always has been. When something bad happens the response is to swing so widely to the other side that the pendulum nearly falls off the clock and lands in left field somewhere. All that does is cause a host of new problems.

It causes division.

Hell, it causes massive fissures, even among victims. "My abuse was worse than yours." "You did everyone a disservice for not speaking out sooner." Men hate women, women hate men. Women hate each other.

This is not a partisan or a political issue. This is a basic human rights issue. I'll leave you with this thought: On Facebook the other day I saw a post supporting President Trump with a picture of Melania and another picture of an elderly woman. It said "Trump is married to this (Melania) and he forced himself on this (elderly woman). Not buying it, liberals." Regardless of whether one is a Republican or a Democrat, a Trump supporter, or not, that post is offensive. What it is basically saying is the second lady was too old or unattractive for Trump to assault. Why would he when he is married to such a beautiful woman? The second lady must be lying if she's accusing Trump of assault.

So, I guess that means I was attractive enough to be assaulted. Which puts the blame back on me and my pretty face.

As if assault and rape are not about power. As if elderly or unattractive women never get assaulted or raped.

As if assault and rape are some kind of compliment.


Julia Sugarbaker