Natural Prozac

My Husband Wants to Drive Me Over the Edge--I'm convinced.

My husband has a habit of pointing out and / or stating the obvious...even when the obvious is something you were trying very hard to block from your mind. He read my post Saturday. On the way home from our assembly yesterday he nearly made me have a semi-panic attack outside of the sushi bar when he made this comment out of absolutely nowhere:


Corey: You know that if the car were to roll down the side of the mountain that holding a pillow to your head probably wouldn't do anything to save your life.

Me: Oh my freaking...SHUT UP! Why do you have to put new ideas in my head?

(Insert pause for thinking and attempting to maintain an even breathing pattern.)


Me: Great. Now I'm going to have to keep a football helmet in the car.

You Can't Reason it Out of Me--I've Always Been this Way and. I'm. Stubborn. to. Boot.

Admittedly, I'm not the most calm and collected person in the world. I've never claimed to be--in any way, shape, or form. I know that I can be (at times) completely neurotic and irrational. I fully embrace these tendencies despite all of the time consuming and mentally deteriorating work my mother put forth trying to "insult this out of me" from childhood.

I often envision the "worst case scenario" when faced with a difficult situation or frightening circumstance. My husband lovingly refers to me occasionally as the "Queen of What If's". I attempt to excuse reason away my paranoia to the very best of my ability. In MY world all of this makes absolute sense and is only preparation for what potentially may happen. If I think things out completely, I will know how to react for whatever consequence befalls me. Yep. Truly, I'm not a big fan of surprises.

After all, how imposible is it really that the car may go off of the road and roll down the mountain? If it did, I just know that my window could bust on a giant rock. This rock would crush my skull and I would then bleed to death on the mountainside. All because there are NO GUARDRAILS.

I mean, really...it could happen.

These kinds of thoughts are the VERY reason you may see me riding around the north Georgia mountains in the passenger seat of our car with a pillow secured against the window and me clutching it as if it were to move, I'd surely die. Because you know, that pillow will prevent my brains from being some racoon's dinner later that night if this little scenario really DID pan out.

Ok...so it sounds a little crazy all written out like that. BUT IN MY HEAD IT IS A VERY REAL POSSIBILITY. I already know I need drugs, so save yourselves from unwanted advice and concerns. It's never worked for anyone else and I seriously doubt that you will be the one to turn my life all around.

I love you anyway.

I was reading something earlier today that inspired this post. I started to think back to where this all began... I don't know if this is the FIRST episode, but this is the first that I can recall:

I remember lying in bed as a little girl on many cold winter's nights in sub-zero Ohio dressed in layers of clothing that included two pairs of socks and gloves. Stranger yet, (as if that isn't strange enough) is that I don't remember ever waking up drenched in sweat from all of that clothing. (Perhaps this was because my mother made us keep the thermostat just above freezing in order to save on the electric bill?!?) Nevertheless, I was prepared.

"For WHAT?!" you may ask.

FOR A FIRE.




Duh.

I also had a small suitcase packed in the closet that held everything near and dear to my heart. It contained some family photographs, a locket my grandma gave to me, some friendship bracelets, and a few letters from my aunt. This "survival pack" also included contents of two piggy banks, two Capri-Suns, and three candy bars.

Note: Occasionally the food was replaced during a midnight snack or two.

The food items were in case I were to be out there for a while before anyone found me and I started to get hungry. There was also the possibility that the entire family would be burned to death and I were to be left to fend for myself, I'd at least eat for a day. I'm not really sure what my line of thinking was, but I'm sure it was one of the two.

I kept this suitcase near the front of the closet so that I could open the closet door and grab it quickly with one fluid motion if the need were to arise. This of course would occur right after I shoved the blanket under the bedroom door to give me a little more time for my escape.

I also kept a 'Lil Slugger underneath the bed...and a brick. (Indeed, I had a backup plan.) These weapons of mass defense were there just in case I needed to break the window because it wouldn't open to let me out.

My brother and I used to have these stickers on our windows that were there to let the firemen know that there was a child inside of that room. I used to be SURE that the snow on the other side of the window didn't cover that spot and actually taped florescent stickers around it so that they were SURE to see MINE. I was evidently also very self-centered as a kid because I don't ever remembering worrying about anyone else in the household.

It was all about my escape and survival.

What's really odd is that my parents seemed to be completely oblivious to this little freakiness I had going on in the back bedroom. I don't remember them ever asking WHY I had those things in my room or why I slept in so much clothing.

Perhaps they just thought I was collecting things and was cold?! I have no idea. Maybe they really didn't know. I would think that if they did my mother would have found this the perfect opportunity to enroll me in some secretive kind of therapy. (Because you know, of course we can't let people KNOW that we as a family are completely crazy and disfunctional.)

I remember this starting when I was probably around ten years old. I also really only worried about this happening in the dead of winter. I suppose I thought that if it happened in the summer there wouldn't be so strong a need for survival tactics?

Nevertheless, for some reason this fear suddenly disappeared when I turned thirteen. I'm really not sure why but after that I don't think I ever really thought about it.

Maybe it was because I had come to realize that the chances of this happening were quite slim...and moved past the insanity. Perhaps it just manifested itself in another way. This sounds more reasonable to me.

I probably found something else to focus on that entailed much less work.

Or maybe it's because I was hitting puberty and with all of those hormones raging though my body all of that clothing was just too damn hot.

You're Charming on Your Own but When you Start Throwing Around those Compliments...My Knees Start Wobbling.

"I'm NOT rude."

"You ARE rude. Yesterday you compared me to Weird Al Yankovic from behind."

"He has great hair and a small ass. Learn how to take a compliment."

--'Til Death 4.16

Oh Brother.

Pregnant Man?
Okay...in no way, shape, or form does this count as being a pregnant man. This is more like a woman with a penis gives birth.

I wonder why they didn't give that spin to the story. That really would have been more accurate, in my personal and constitutional opinion. I mean, you can't be considered a man if you still have the plumbing. That's just not right. The world is a racket, I tell you.


That's like saying Burger King sells real fries. Technically, they are fries. But I mean, come on.

Who really says...oooh let me go to Burger King and get some fries. Nah. They just come with the combo. That's the only reason people get them.

Just like no one believes that it's a pregnant man. They know it's a pregnant chic with a penis. Give us SOME credit.

Word.

You Must Admire a Man with Proper Priorities

"I don't care if my announcement order is going to be two days late. My wife ran into a four-foot bright yellow sign in the Wal-Mart parking lost last night. She did a total of $3,000 in damage to her car. She didn't see it and she didn't hear the collision. Those announcements are low on my list of concerns."

---Scott, one of my clients

Dear Al--The Next Time I See You...You Will be Smiling.

I've been thinking a lot about Alison lately. It seems like in the last week so many things have come up that make me think of some story about things that we did and times that we shared. Orange lilies, Air Supply, the red cardinals outside of my window, canolis...it's funny how those things were mere passing things to me once upon a time, and now hold such valuable memories.

I remember when I used to feel nothing but sadness every time I thought of her. I remember just grieving for what seemed like years....perhaps it was. I remember trying not to think about her because it was the most painful thing I could even think of.

She was my best friend. The only friend that I really stayed close to after high school and one of the few friends I've had in my life that I can say I could trusted 110% with everything I was. She was more than a friend to me. She was my sister and I loved her as though she were.

After she died I remember crying myself to sleep for weeks. I remember so many times when something would happen--something sad, something crazy, something wonderful in my life and the first thought in my head would be to pick up the phone to call her...only to come to the heartbreaking realization that I couldn't anymore.

I remember how empty I would feel after that happened. How I just wished for one more day...one more chance to let her know how much I loved her. I've always known that she KNEW how much I loved her. I guess you just always wish for the chance to tell someone one...more...time.

I still miss her, yes. But now when I think about Alison, it's more about thoughts of happy times; great moments that we shared together. I suppose that is what getting past the grief is all about. I feel guilty sometimes for not being completely saddened when I think about her. Perhaps that is part of the healing as well. But what is different is that now when I think about Alison it's usually a memory of a stupid moment that we shared...corny jokes, dorky comments, or some crazy song from 1994 that takes me back to all of the times we shared driving around acting like complete morons. And loving every minute of it.

Those things far outweigh all of the sad times toward the end. The cancer lasted two years. We had eleven great years before that. We even had some really great times--touching moments that I will remember forever that took place during her illness. Actually, they were some of my favorite times. Sitting on her bed watching reruns of "The Cosby Show", eating strawberries and peanut butter, telling Matteson (her daughter) stories of what we used to do when we were young, and writing it all down for all of history--those were the best of times, truly they were.

I've often thought about what I would say if I had the chance to tell her one more thing. I am pretty sure I know what it would be.

"Al, I love your goofy ass...always will."

April Masthead 08

Only Bites Occasionally.

95 is Just a Number.

The other day while we were at work my husband reminded me of a story I have yet to tell about my grandmother. This actually happened while my grandmother still lived in Newark--I believe this was close to three years ago.

Mother: "Let me tell you what my mother did today."
Me: "Wait," I said, pulling up a seat.
Me: "Let me give you my full, undivided attention." (I knew enough to know this was going to be good.)
Mother: "So um...today your grandmother and I went grocery shopping."
Me: (On the edge of my seat.) "Yeah. You told me you were going to swing by to pick her up and that you'd be home late."

Mother: "Okay well...when we got back to her house and got out of the car to take the groceries inside, we realized that Grandma had locked herself out of the house."
Me: "Oh greeeeat."
Mother: "Yeah. So she locked herself out and she KNOWS there is a key somewhere."
Me: "Somewhere." (insert sarcasm)
Mother: "Exactly. SOMEWHERE. She can't remember where it is, of course."

(snickering)

Me: "So you and Grandma were outside of her house searching for this mysterious hidden key for exactly how long?"
Mother: "Oh...for a good while. UnTIL Until I went to look for it inside of the birdhouse and turned around to ask if we should call John (my mothers' brother who lives down the road from my grandmother) and saw Grandma crawling in the window."
Me: "Really....she really needs to give you a k---WHAT?! Did you say crawling in the window!?"

Mother: laughter.

Me: "I don't even know what to say (laughter). I really just...don't even know what to say. Okay--I believe you. But does she know she is NINETY-FIVE and has already broken one hip?! (pause) She is ninety five and has broken a hip and she is freaking crawling through a window."
Mother: "Yup. She had her leg heisted up into the bathroom window."
Me: "Oh gaw. I don't even want to picture that, Mom. Lovely. (pause) I hope she was standing on the good hip."

pause.

Me: "So...did she get in?!"

more laughter.

Mother: "Well...yes. But only because I was trying to pull her out of the window and John drove by and saw us. He then handed me a copy of the key."

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah lovely.
I surely do hope that if I live to be 95 I am either:

1. In the new system living happily.
or...
2. Someone has invented some really great drugs.

But you know...if flexibility is genetic, I think I'm good.