Thursday, April 20, 2017

A Standing Ovation Is Also an Uprising

I first heard about “Hamilton: An American Musical” through friends on Facebook. Then there was the controversy surrounding Mike Pence’s attendance at a particular performance of the popular Broadway musical. And I thought to myself, here’s something worth listening to. I promptly bought the soundtrack, and immediately fell in love with the epic and captivating tale.

I did not realize that by playing the musical for my daughter, I would create a monster. A musical-loving little eleven-year-old. Just like her mother, a musical and history nerd. But I suppose there are worse things in the world.

She replaces the naughty words with silence. She researches covers of the songs on YouTube. She has researched deleted scenes. She tells everyone she knows about it, especially her teachers. She wants desperately to play Eliza Schuyler someday. She raps the lyrics to “Aaron Burr” with perfection, though she is clueless as to any adult references.

Because she is not into the whole infidelity and death thing, she refuses to listen to the second act. The first act, I will admit, has many of the catchier tunes. It is all glory and inspiration: the second act invokes Shakespearian tragedy. Though she doesn’t like the more adult themes, eventually I suspect she will have the musical memorized in its entirety.

Her respect for Lin-Manuel Miranda is profound, as it should be. He authored the entire musical himself and played the lead: quite the accomplishment for anyone. I was a music major and have only composed one song and a ton of bad poetry. In contrast, Miranda’s lyrics are terse, witty, and full of historical and theatrical references. I’m glad my daughter has found someone worthy of hero-worship.

And the voices? Violet loves them, and rightfully so. Performed by a multi-cultural cast, the sonorous complexity of the vocal performances is swoon-worthy. George Washington and Aaron Burr are my new imaginary romantic interests. The show stopping scene stealer, though, is Angelica Schuyler’s toast at Hamilton’s wedding: voiced by RenĂ©e Elise Goldsberry, who totally rocks it. I haven’t convinced my daughter that this role is the one she should be going for. But there’s time yet.

Sigh. As much as I love listening to and singing along with Hamilton’s first act, I’ve bought Violet some musicals that are new to us. I’ve always heard good things about “Into the Woods” and “Wicked.” So that is next on the musical agenda. Perhaps I’ll even pen some reviews of them.

But the point of my rambling this morning is this: listen to Hamilton. It is a uniquely told lesson about love, war, history, and intimacy. Here’s to hoping they tour close enough that I can take my daughter to see it someday, (someday)…

Thursday, March 30, 2017

Tripping up the Staircase

Fear. Fear does many things for us. It keeps us alive, for starters.

My fear of turning left in traffic? I’ve had friends who have gotten into accidents that way. So it’s not a totally irrational fear. And the caution I exercise in turning left, in turn, keeps me alive.

Fear does many things to us. It causes me to lose focus. It causes me so much unrealized potential that it’s ridiculous. Why don’t you excel in one of your chosen fields? It asks me. The answer? I have an overwhelming fear of failure coupled with a fear of the unknown. The simple question, “What if?” Is always greeted with negativity. The “Na-na-na-na-na-na, you’re going to lose” kid in A League of Their Own? That little shit is a constant presence in my brain.

The result? I never move forward. Stagnant and unreliable. Unwilling to work at things unless there is a guarantee of success.

In short, it’s no way to live.

I have a million ideas. Tinder: The Musical could be a total possibility. I may not be able to set a song to save my life but do I have talented friends with whom I can collaborate? Eff yes! So why not??? Because, what if it’s, like, stupid? Says the Valley Girl in my brain. And she is convincing, if vapid.

And then the other side of me, the optimist, ever the idealist, says: quit being such a pussy. Live a little. It would be fun for your daughter to read someday if nothing else. And it’s educational. It would be a comprehensive “What Not to Do” list for online dating.

So nothing you do is ever completely useless, especially not if it helps you grow as a person. I must work at it and not see any failure to publish as an exercise in futility.

Beeeeliiiiieeeevveee in yourself, says the unicorn. Beeeeliiiiieeeevveee.

And then there are all the inspirational quotes out there to back me up. You don’t have to see the whole staircase to take the first step. Broken crayons still color and damn, I’m magenta.

This theory applies to the rest of my writing. I need to replace “What if?” with “Why not?”

I also need to learn how this whole “pitch” thing works. Because holy jeez, it seems to be important. You gotta get a gimmick if you wanna get ahead: a little Sondheim for ya. I need to learn how to sell myself and unbelievably, I am no good at tooting my own horn.

So there.

As a good friend told me, I need to replace my apologies with this phrase. It does make me seem more confident, if a bit callous at times. It’s a start.

And now I must truly apologize, because I have Elmo stuck in my head. Thanks a lot, you furry little bastard.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Miles to Go

I've slept a total of nine hours in three nights. I am exhausted.

I must journey to Burley, ID this morning to drop my daughter off with her dad for Spring Break. Thank God I'm not driving. Coffee is my friend.

I'm ready to jump in with both feet into the dark water. Do I think a shark or a scary clown is lurking somewhere in the depths? Most definitely.

That's the hard part of writing about my past with mental illness: though I am pretty open, I do have a great deal of shame and embarrassment regarding certain topics. I have saved them for "The Book." The Book has been in process since 2009. I have started it and restarted it. It has no primary sense of focus, as much of it was written directly post-hospital. When I was still highly paranoid but wanted to preserve some of the lovely memories I made.

I am fond of having mid-life crises, it has become quite the hobby of mine. I search for purpose daily. I wanted to go back to school to be a teacher, but hearing about the stresses faced by some of my teacher friends made me doubt that decision. So now I am left knowing one thing: I was not meant to clean up after other people for the rest of my life. It's certainly not beneath me but it makes me weary. 

I am still determined to write for a living, though working a day job has taken a lot of the living out of me for the time being. I am still terrified of failure, a hallmark of my OCD. But if I don't write and I don't continually submit I'll never get anywhere. Part of me is determined to find a full time job so I don't have to worry about paying the bills: another part of me is screaming, live your dream. Take risks. 

Quit being such a pussy.

And focus. And practice, practice, practice. This I'll-write-when-I'm-inspired nonsense has got to stop, I must follow the example of my successful writer friends and WORK ON IT. Not only that, but figure out how to reach a broader audience. Follow the examples of your idols: David Sedaris writes five hours a day. I'm lucky if I write for five minutes without distraction. Or incredible self-doubt.

And the reading has got to commence as well, damn the depression. Pretend you're in college and it's required reading. Make yourself read for an hour a day. Quit wasting time. Navigate the everyday stress without falling apart or into a coma. You've got this, as your sister would say. Beeeeelieeeeve in yourself and stop with the self-destructive self-deprecation. 

As for the pitches and the websites? Figure it out, you're not a complete moron most of the time. Set goals. Don't be afraid of rejection. View it as learning, not inadequacy. 

I could go on and on, but I'm going to mercy-kill this line of thought. 

I've got places to go.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

Caring for a Character

I can't compel other people to care about me. I can't do it. They either do, or they don't. I would cite my humor and my other charming characteristics as assets. But that would seem like too much self-flattery.

The truth of the matter is, my character is ruled in part by my chemistry. My brain chemistry to be more specific. If you knew me before I was on medication for OCD and Bipolar Disorder, you would see why I wrote such depressing materials as a seventh grader. For example, in a project to describe myself, I wrote a poem in which I compared my existence to the moon. I don't science, I've made that clear. But I do emo. “Dawn arrives, filling the world with joy, yet I see only a glimmer of its brightness before fading into nothingness.” Top THAT, My Chemical Romance.

So, this Affordable Care Act controversy has been bothering me. To say I need my meds to survive is a lie. But to thrive? To function in a traditional (or a non-traditional, keep-my-ass-outta-the-hospital) sense? Well, that's an entirely different issue. I can rail and whine and cry about it all day, Republicans are going to do whatever they can to repeal this evil law more colloquially known as Obamacare.

This is what I leave to my daughter if I lose my mind. My writing, my online presence. In the musical “Alexander Hamilton,” Burr and the chorus ask, “How do you write like you're running out of time?” With the big tick of that political clock in the background, I am beginning to have some idea.

Not fair, I cry. Another quote from Hamilton emerges: “history has its eyes on you.” That means you, alleged government representatives. You cannot pretend to represent the majority of your constituents if you repeal this law, especially since a lot of them apparently didn't know that this is where their health care magically materialized from. Amazing, I know. And gee, only 40,000 or so lives will depend on it every year.

I guess being anti-ACA is, in a way, being an advocate for some sort of cruel population control.

Sounds messed up, right? Well, it is.

If you already have access to free health care, good for you. Is it too much to ask that you care about your neighbors and friends and family and what they might be going through? Because I'm thinking the 40,000 or so that will die pretty much outweighs any arguments that you are pro-life. Sure, you may argue, there are a lot more abortions than people who will die from repealing the ACA. And you might be right. But threatening to limit access to birth control as well?

That's even more messed up. Not only no, but hell no.

And no, the Women's March did not represent all women. Not all women agree with it, and that's fine. But I am not raising my daughter to be one of those women. That’s my personal prerogative. I want to teach my daughter to be all that she can or will be: yes, she is still allowed to choose her own path. That's the point. If she came to me and said Mom, I'm [insert religion], I would accept her. If she came to me and said, Mom, I'm a [insert sexuality or gender], I would support her. If she decided to be a [insert political agenda] I would say, honey, that's your right and your choice. I may not always understand why you made your choices. Or why you feel this way. But I do understand that it's your choice to feel and act and think and do and be.

My choice to think and act and think and do and be as I want is impaired by some bad wiring in my brain. I didn't choose it. But why do some people believe it is their right to take it away from me? The point is, I need (not want, need) to be there for my daughter.

I also don't always understand these folks who preach that we need to see both sides of this coin. I tell you what I've seen in the days since the march: I've seen two of those very dear to me, being attacked for marching and for standing up for women’s rights. It's not pretty, though in some ways it was expected. It is one thing to preach tolerance: it is quite another to live it. I'm trying folks. And I seem to be failing in some regards.

I guess I will just accept what I am: a single mom with a mental illness, who is intolerant to intolerance. I will no longer claim that I am not willfully insolent toward or ignorant of other people's perspective at times. I'm human the last time I checked. I am told, “Well now missy, you're not being fair, you're not considering the other side.” For me there is one side, and I'm seeing the very real prospect of my sanity slipping away. So, if you choose not to understand it, I may choose a path without you on it. I started this out trying to be funny. But for some reason, I'm not in the mood to laugh.

[insert punchline]

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Reader, Resurrected

I found out yesterday morning that the allergy medication I’ve been taking for the last year expired in August of 2013.

Reading is fundamental. I could have saved myself a year of sinus trouble had I simply read the label.

Speaking of reading, what happened to the book nerd I used to know and love? I used to read while I was walking on my way home from school. Dangerous? Certainly. But my desire to consume fiction was insatiable. I even competed in “The Battle of the Books” in junior high, answering trivia questions from a list of 45 awesome books.

Now? Eh. I apparently can’t be bothered to read things like expiration dates.

I’ve been in the middle of John Green’s “Paper Towns” for about four months now. There are no less than thirty books sitting in my kindle or on my shelf, collecting virtual and actual dust. I belong to a Stephen King fan club online called “Constant Readers.” Ha! I started one of his short story books a year ago and bought another that is now staring back at me, unloved, unopened. Such a sad fate…

I even have friends who write books. Cynthia Hand, a college friend, writes excellent YA fiction. I buy her books and find time to read them perhaps a year later. Essentially, she is writing them faster than I can read them.

This is tragic, people. What is the matter with me? Is it depression? Lack of time management? Facebook? The answer is obvious: all of the above.

Rediscovering things that I love has been a struggle, but I have slowly been coming out of my post-divorce funk. My meds are balanced and I’m even contemplating exercise. I get as far as putting my running clothes on, even. Baby steps, people.

Yes, it’s true that most weeks I work an almost full-time schedule. But take, say, 35 hours out of the week (don’t hold your breath, but I am attempting to math). 24 times 7 is 168 hours a week. What have I been doing with the other 133 hours? Sleeping only takes up about 50 hours of my week. That leaves 83 hours of what, exactly?

The answer is: Facebook. It’s a time suck. It’s a trap. It’s a form of people watching and I just couldn’t get enough. Now I realize that it’s much nicer spending time with actual people. Which means: I’ve been spending time with other people in real life, outside of work. I know, I’m letting everyone down regarding the self-proclaimed profession of Hermit Crab. Somehow, I’m less than disappointed.
I definitely do not lack reading material: there are even more books I found when I moved, my beloved children’s literature that I hope Violet will read someday soon. The House of Dies Drear. A Stranger Came Ashore. The Silver Kiss, a precursor to the Twilight series that is far superior to that Sparkly Vampire Crap. I bought her the Bunnicula series and I hope to re-read those as well…

So, no more excuses. I hereby resolve not only to read books, but to (gasp) write reviews of them. Even the dollar store ones I buy because hey, I would be lucky to find one of my books on the shelf of a dollar store someday. And I’m powerfully curious how they ended up wedged between The Bible and coloring books.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Babbles (Brain Baubles)

So. Tired.

I go to bed every night between 12 a.m. and 2:00 a.m., mostly due to a fairly consistent schedule of working until 11:00 p.m. I am up first at around 5 a.m. when my mother's alarm goes off. I am up (fully conscious and out of bed) by 7. Then I get my darling daughter up and go about my day.

So this leaves me a good 5-7 hours of sleep, right? Which would be perfect. Except the combination of medication I take requires at least 8 hours of solid sleep for me to function properly. Many a morning, I find myself somewhat short on sleep.

I may seem cognitively impaired during the day because in essence, I cannot...brain. I may seem flighty or bubble-headed but I assure you this is not the case. I'm still me. Even though I sometimes can't comprehend or articulate properly.

I am supposed to limit myself to one cup of coffee during the day due to potential exacerbation of my anxiety disorder. One cup??? Ha ha. More like three. But who's counting? Ignore the fact that my heart is like that of a hummingbird at every doctor's appointment. I get so hopped up on coffee that rest during the day is a struggle even though I often don't work until after noon.

Naps. Ahhhh...when I can take them, naps are awesome. But since it often takes me an hour or more to fall asleep it is not always possible to temporarily escape the pressures of reality. Also, I often get heckled from upstairs: "Why are you taking a nap? Are we boring?" Ah, my dear mother and grandmother, you are anything but boring.

I'm just tired.

When I manage to sleep, perchance to dream, I am moving around the country with my ex-husband. We are stationed in all kinds of strange places. There is one house in particular that has a swamp, and an extremely tiny upstairs that you have to crouch in.

In the latest installment of this dream we were moving to Afghanistan with the rest of my family.  At a house we stopped at along the way, there was a makeshift ladder to get to the second floor. Essentially getting upstairs was like climbing a rock wall. The second floor held a bathroom with a massive expanse of white tile. In front of this there was a tall step leading to another, blue, tiled area, featuring a shower head and about 50 mannequins. You could take a shower, but every time you turned your back to the mannequins they would advance toward you. This was as unsettling as it sounds. I have no idea what the motive of the naked mannequins was. But I strongly suspect that they were gonna get me.

The precursor to this strange dream? Discussion of military deployments with some gals from work. The mannequins are also work-related, as we have them along the corners in my department. I am sometimes so tired that out of the corner of my eye I mistake them for customers. I always stop myself before asking the mannequin how it is doing and if it is finding everything ok. So I suppose, in a sense, I am doing alright.

Anyway, I'm babbling, as I tend to do when I am tired. My mom and daughter woke me up several times last night. I am bordering on delirious, and was threatening to take a nap on the floor at work. An idle threat, of course, as evidenced by my swollen feet. But I digress.

Caught a third or fourth wind and am desperately trying to unwind. The cat's in her bad and all's right with the world. Care charmer sleep, son of the sable Night, brother to death, in silent darkness born, defeat the wretched spell of caffeine and come on, sugar. Let me dwell a little bit in twilight. Not the kind with Sparkly Vampires though.

Wow how's that for a poetry-YA mashup? Crap, I tell you. Crap, crap, crap. I write much better when I'm not a blithering idiot. So, without further ado, I bid thee goodnight.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

Equal Opportunity VD post aka: Cupid's Stupid

Got a tad tired of the cutesy couples' posts. So... In honor of Valentine's Day, all singles: Make this your status and answer honestly! Just for fun.

How old were you when you became single? 38

Any prospects? Yes.

Have you tried dating sites? Yes. Tinder, OK Cupid, Plenty of Fish…or Plenty of Piranhas, depending on your perspective

Does your mom think everyone you meet online is a serial killer? You mean they aren’t? I’m still here…

 Divorced? Uh huh

What's your sign, baby? Aries

Who was your first kiss with? John…can’t remember his last name, I’m old. Hanks?

Who was the first jerk to dump you? Same guy

And the last jerk to dump you? Technically we weren’t together

Ever been ghosted? Just call me Casper

Ever been stood up? Not recently

Worst pickup line received at the bar: “Uhhhhh…your hair is purple.” I was, in fact, wearing a purple wig. Thank you Captain Observant. Next! Close tie with “Is your dad a baker because those are the hottest buns I’ve ever seen.” Lol

Worst excuse for someone breaking a date: He had pneumonia. Never heard from him again. Kinda hoping he’s dead

Tattoos: yay or nay? Depends on the guy. I don’t judge. Face tattoos are a bit distracting though

Your place or mine? Yours

Do you have custody of any children? My lovely Violet! 90% of the time

Favorite pint of ice cream? Haagen Daaz anything!

Favorite show with which to Netflix and weep? House of Cards

Hobbies, since ostensibly you have no life? Reading, writing, singing, snarking on Facebook

Where’s your favorite place to take yourself out to eat? The Viking

Any skeletons in your closet? Plenty

What exactly is wrong with you? We don’t have time for the intense psychological evaluation needed

Number of cats: 1

Do you believe in love at first sight? Aw, hell no.

Any felonies we should know about? Not even a speeding ticket

Favorite Lean Cuisine/microwave meal? I like the Michelina’s Salisbury Steak. It’s unnatural.

You’re eating chocolate right now aren’t you? No. I’m drinking beer.

Favorite drink? Besides this delicious porter?

Favorite band? Manchester Orchestra

Are you tired of starting over, telling strangers your life story? Yes.

Do you think you will ever marry/remarry? Uhhhhhhhh

Favorite chick flick: Thelma and Louise

Do you have a brain? Sometimes

Do you have a heart? No.

Do you have a home? Yes, and I’m very grateful

What about da nerve? Not so much

Are you awesome? Hell to the yes.

Are you a little tired of all the cutesy Valentine’s posts? Slightly.

Thursday, January 19, 2017


We in the Treasure Valley have had what is widely known as Snowpocalypse or Snowmageddon as of late. Here are some personal and family highlights:

Record snowfalls in the area, with plenty of melting and icing over to boot. Too many snow days to count in a school district that rarely calls school off. This has resulted in stir crazy people. Particularly my daughter, who has resorted to memorizing the first act of Hamilton. My poor grandma, who broke her shoulder last year, has been cautioned not to GO ANYWHERE or DO ANYTHING. Which made last week’s icy excursion to the dollar store a thrill-a-minute. The roads are like glass today. The parking lot where I work was so slick last night that a co-worker gave me a ride to my car since her car was closer.

The first day of the snowfall we had a pipe burst in the garage. So, there was a brief cleaning out of what I fondly think of as hoarder’s paradise. All useful stuff: tile (enough to re-do the bathroom) and a lot of power tools (the better to cut your thumb off, my dear). It took the plumber seven hours to get here and ten minutes to fix the problem. It took several days to reassemble the garage because bitch, it’s cold outside.

My younger sister was initially stuck in her driveway because of plowing. My older sister cannot move her car past her driveway most mornings. My mother has been toting her kids and grandkids all over town in her truck. She should have signed up to be an Uber driver before this nonsense started.

I fell in my driveway, twice. The first time, my daughter and I both fell in the same spot and then slid down on our butts. No major injuries thank God. I’m sure it was funny to watch. A friend suggested that a video would have been preferable, America’s Funniest Home Video style. Complete with sound effects (whooooooop and wah wah wah, I would imagine).

I was stuck in and just outside of my cul de sac four times. Even walking out to the car proved difficult. I signed up for AAA but they only have been offering towing assistance in emergency situations. Towing companies called directly were also not accepting short tows because the road conditions have been so bad. Basically, I should have left my car at the base of the hill instead of proceeding to get it out and stuck near the sidewalk. Drat.

As a consequence of my inability to move my vehicle, I could not get across town to let my sister’s dogs out. She was repeatedly trapped in the Portland area, unable to fly out for several days. My last attempt at letting them out, I was stuck at the end of her driveway for fifteen minutes with the rear end of my vehicle out in a busy street. A snow shovel and fervent praying finally got me out safely. Thankful that I didn’t have my daughter with me in the back seat, but not particularly grateful to the hundred cars that went around me without bothering to stop.  The poor puppies were eventually rescued by my cousin. Plenty of swearing and guilt on my part. I have never been so mad at Mother Nature.

Perhaps the funniest moment of all this came from my daughter’s blasphemous quip. After a bought of my colorful language about the lame weather situation she remarked: “You know who we really need to blame??? God.”

So thanks, God. Thanks a lot. No, seriously. Despite all the craziness, not one of my family members has yet been in a car accident or had a detrimental spill. The power has remained on. And we have plenty of frozen and canned food here in the event of further snowfall or zombie apocalypse.

All in all, we’re doing pretty good.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

The Incredible Shrinking…Woman

I’ve been sick for two months.

I don’t know if it’s a persistent sinus infection, or overactive allergies, or if that alien implant in my brain is giving me trouble again. The bad news is, I’m exhausted all the time. Especially at work, which requires me to be on my feet all day. The good news is, I’ve lost weight. I now fit into pants I haven’t fit into since 2009.

Have I made any real effort to lose this weight? Nope. Unless you count swallowing a daily Mucinex and a large receptacle of green tea just to get through my day. I also have been living off deli sandwiches. My grandma asked me if this made me like Jared from Subway. Yes, grandma, yes. Minus the unfortunate affinity for child pornography.

But on to *ahem* lighter subjects. Here is a photo from my college years, when I was a mere impression of a thing, approximately 90 pounds. That's me on the right, next to my super-fit sister. Holy Gods, BITCH WAS SKINNY.

And here is a photo of me at my heaviest, when I weighed approximately the same as the house that flattened the Wicked Witch of the East. Nine months pregnant. Hungry every step of the way (though clearly I did not miss any meals). BITCH WAS LARGE AND IN CHARGE.

And me at my lightest since my early twenties, when I was eating an iceberg salad for lunch every day and working out consistently. I weighed about 120, but DAMN, BITCH WAS STARVING.

I am now blissfully between these healthy and unhealthy weights. Still overweight, not obese. A medium instead of a large. I’d sure like to lose the tummy that has plagued me since baby, and that has stayed with me since beer. But that might require a little thing called exercise. And right now, BITCH HATH NO ENERGY.

Alleviating the energy issue may require more antibiotics, or an allergy pill combined with a decongestant. Each has its respective consequences. Antibiotics generally put my system off-kilter. Decongestants help a great deal with some physical symptoms, yet also raise my blood pressure considerably. Plus they make me high-as-a-kite-euphoric, which is not good considering my potentially manic mental malady. ESSENTIALLY, BITCH GOES CRAZY.

The alternative? Just stay sick. And waste away to nothing. Lay me where sad, true lover never find my grave to weep there. And all that jazz. Because BITCH IS A TAD MELODRAMATIC AT TIMES.

A popular theory (one I often consider, because frankly, BITCH DOES NOT SCIENCE), is that I am simply allergic to something at work. Or that I am allergic to work. One of the two. Either way my symptoms are aggravated at work. I must carry tissues with me wherever I roam on the apparel floor. THAT IS ONE SNOTTY BITCH.

Me and my persistent case of sniffles are off to enjoy the snow day.

Later, bitches.