You Made Me So Very Hoppy. I'm So Glad You Came Into My Life.

Monday was the last day of school. Ethics. We had 2 presentations to watch until our professor, bless her heart, who had a sinus infection, wanted to get the hell out of there, made no bones about it, and she certainly wasn't going to hear any gruff from us. In one of the groups presenting were my friends, Jorge and Sean, and their other partner, who is, quite frankly, The Biggest Douche on My Shitlist at School. Dare I say, I've not met a more opinionated, always-right, cracker-ass full of buzzwords with no shred of intellectual backup in my life. He's a Colorado skateboarding snippy snot, Sloan. (That's alliteration, which Sloan thinks is a string of words that rhyme, when in actuality, it's a string of words that all begin with the same letter. For example, "Fucking Idiot" is not an example of alliteration.) He persists on bringing a large, blue reusable drink container to class, filled with a yellow liquid, which, while on the surface might present as Mountain Dew, I'm fairly certain he's consuming his own urine.

I had said (to Jorge) that I hoped the professor wasn't going to sit next to me that day, because I needed to multitask during the class period. Sloan opened his big, unwelcome mouth, and said that "humans are incapable of multitasking." My eyebrow raised. My jaw would've dropped, but stupidity doesn't usually shock me in the crowd of early 20'somethings who are my cohorts in grad school. I was in college when they were born, or getting married, or doing something else grown-up-ish, like snarfing down buckets full of narcotics. Before I went nutso-crazy on the young, Caucasian, privileged, want-for-nothing, doted-upon, ecstasy-frequenting stoner, I went out for a smoke.

On my way to the elevator, I jokingly (half) told another member of our class to kindly tell Sloan that I wanted to kill him, not expecting she'd actually be serious enough to fucking TELL HIM this. But what do you expect of kids? It's something I'd expect of 7th graders like Luke, but I went out and sucked my cigarette anyway. Returned to a frazzled Sloan (who clearly forgot to smoke a joint before class & chill the fuck out) and had my barrels loaded.

For time's sake, I didn't get out everything I wanted to pose. But when one talks about multitasking, my immediate thought turns to motherhood. It's the ultimate in multitasking. Juggling a child who needs attention, a spouse, the household, throw in some laundry, keep the joint clean, shower yourself, and produce meals is multitasking. Playing the drums, with each appendage simultaneously doing something different all at once is multitasking. Answering 4 phone lines, making patient appointments, faxing medication refills & keeping 4 doctors' examining rooms full is multitasking. Or as Guy was wont to point out in his last email correspondence--studying, emailing, Tweeting, listening to music and chugging drugs all at once is also multitasking. True enough, Guy, that it leaves you with precious little of your psyche left to concentrate on whatever is deemed Task #1. But point being, multitasking is ENTIRELY possible and I'll be damned if some little brat with 2 weeks' worth of a red Freudish beard is going to tell a 40-year old single mom who goes to school full-time that it can't be done. I pretty much shut him up with every idea in my head other than my usual comeback of "Fuck off, Sloan."

Part of Sloan's end of the presentation was a YouTube clip of some film called "50/50," in which a young therapist becomes embroiled with her young, cancer-stricken client. (I think. He didn't explain it very well.) As the presentation was about client/therapist boundaries and the potential ethical violations thereof, this clip was (kind of, obscurely) befitting. The young therapist comes to the client's house, like to babysit him or something, whereupon this (roommate? friend? caretaker? brother? boyfriend?) dude tells the therapist that there's a pizza, movies & a medicine cabinet full of Vicodin just in case, so all bases were covered. The group asked some questions after the clip about what boundaries were crossed, what the therapist did wrong, etc. No, I didn't even broach the notion that the therapist could be a retired junkie who, once she finds out his house is full of Vicodin, steals it all, tells him to do deep breathing exercises, and bolts the fuck out of there.

(The Man Who Used to Be Married To Me can't comprehend how *I* would get an A in Ethics and Law, knowing my M.O., thought patterns, behaviors, amoral dingle-dangle, history, compulsions and sneakiness since we met almost 21 years ago (read: a fuckton longer than my cohorts at school have been of the legal drinking age). To me, it's just testimony as to why I'll be such a good intern dealing with addicted gamblers next semester, from the comfort of my own home, where, unfortunately, there is no Vicodin. PS-Luke is teaching me how to play poker.)

Anyway, the class lasted 2 hours and soon enough, All the Young Fledglings were on their way for celebratory beers, on which I took a pass. Why? Because, as I said, I had to go home and....multitask. On the way home, I made fun of Sloan with a friend of mine (a young Fledgling who's sweet on me), which is also multitasking, but let's not overdo things. I hadn't been feeling all that well--fighting a pesky but light head cold for upwards of 2 weeks--and just wanted to go home and collapse, not having Luke that night. I settled into my multi-multi-layered lounge clothes, ate cereal for dinner, and got on the phone with Kate for a deep discussion.

While I was talking to Kate, a text came in from Guy Friend, which said: "Congrats on your last day. Taking a dinner break soon from Marathon Monday. What's open after 9 other than Wendy's?" Dummy me took him literally because, well, Guy is pretty literal and maps his life out day by day, spontaneity being his least notorious trait. I replied to him that Wendy's chili was actually quite good. I then said, "It's not Zagat rated, but at this juncture of the day, I wouldn't be discriminate. I had cereal for dinner. We REALLY need to whoop it up, like stat." I didn't mean THAT VERY MOMENT, given I'd taken my fuckload of pharmaceuticals like an hour beforehand and planned to be dead to the world by 10pm. Guy said, "I will settle for dinner & coffee. Pick you up in 40 minutes," to which I answered "Oh Lord."

I hung up with Kate and texted SuperJuls for reinforcement (read: I was having a panic attack.) My most clever comeback, after telling Guy I would be in my pajamas was, "You're either a) lucky I have clothes on at all or b) very unlucky." I only had one of his Christmas presents ready, and it wasn't even wrapped. He was like, "No gifts," which, please, just because *he's* ill-prepared doesn't mean I have to be. (They were custom The Who cufflinks! How awesome is that?)

He picked me up, as I pounded on the car window because the door was locked, and he was blaring the blues on WXRT. (He likes the blues when he's in...a mood.) We meandered aimlessly into Rosemont to look for somewhere to eat, me only slightly disappointed that he hadn't the forethought or wherewithal to have booked us a hotel room. Looked at the pretty lights, found a restaurant & settled in. I wasn't hungry, and was even less hungry gazing at the menu, which listed the meat-related items under which noise the deceased animal made: "Moo," "Oink" and  "Cluck." When I made a yucky face at the idea of him even having shrimp, he chose a vegetarian salad, because he's considerate like that. (No, I'm not sure what kind of sound a shrimp makes before it's deprived of oxygen long enough to die.) What appeared at first to be raw tuna on top of his salad turned out to be pears, and the waitress further confused him by citing that one of his little cups contained dressing; the other, glaze. I'm not sure why the hell it mattered, since it all got mixed into one big pile anyway.

We laughed and joked about the usual things; including, but not limited to the absurdity of his collection of Christmas ties and the young men chasing my old ass around, and the irony of the fact that Guy, himself, was in college when *I* was born, which is immaterial, because I go for older men, which is more socially acceptable. "You can put me on the back burner," he said. As if. I told him that wasn't going to happen. Why not? Because, as I told him, I love and adore him too much, to which he gave me his classic, "Oh, Annie, what am I going to do with you?" look and shook his head. (Which usually is responded with a "You could pretty much do anything you wanted to me and I'd be totally okay with that" look.) And yes, for about the 8th time this week, I had to explain to someone who Ralph Fiennes is and why he is, historically, a significant contributor to my fervor for the British.

I *did* notice that Guy's hair was recently cut, to my chagrin, because, as I pointed out to him not long ago, I like the way it starts to curl in the back when it gets too long, which he probably views as further evidence of my obsessive psychosis. Meh. If you're gonna be gorgeous, be gorgeous. Speaking of my brain devalue, nobody at school kind of just tolerates me. They either bow to my flailing light saber as I sit in the Yoda position as the Jedi Master of Nutso, or they can't fucking stand me because I'm a crotchety old bat who takes pleasure in criticizing everyone. Only a select few acquaintances are in the know that every single case study I wrote or presented, every scenario I thought up, every idea, from the mundane to the insane, came from my own experience or that of my family and friends.

Guy needed a refresher on my newer tattoo, the Sanskrit "smriti," or mindfulness. In person, I think even he was a bit taken aback at it's largeness, and I again reminded him that had another responsible adult accompanied me to the studio, as opposed to Luke, it might have been a fifth of the size it ended up being. (Not that I wanted him to feel guilty, no, no.) I also told him I'd be more inclined to BE mindful if I actually saw my tattoo more often, but that I infrequently wear short sleeves. He asked me if I was planning any more piercings, and I told him that, in all seriousness, 10 holes in my head was probably enough. Then it dawned on me...all the *other* places one can get pierced and no, I wasn't even going to GO THERE. That being said, 2 eyebrow rings, 2 cartilage rings, and 3 holes in each ear is plenty.

He had a "hoppy" beer, the scent of which I'm not sure how he was going to explain when he got home, but we decided to leave when the heaviness of my eyelids surpassed my capacity to actively engage in playful banter. He'd asked me when he picked me up if I'd prefer we go out next Monday, and I said I was alright, and was gleeful to spend time with him in any regard. Parting company is always tension-filled. We never know how to kiss goodbye. After a string of half-lip, half-cheek smooches and hugs, before I had the chance to restrain and jump on him, we said goodnight. Making plans to make plans to make plans before Christmas seemed to stress him, so it'll be me who has to take charge once again and consider his Spontaneous Late Dinner a Rare Treat Unlikely To Happen Again in a Very Long Time.

Hey, Chickie Babies, if it comes down to me wearing a Mariah Carey-inspired salacious Santa suit, I'm prepared (?) to do that. He doesn't have to get me a gift (katespade.com is having a sale!).

I queried him about getting together next Monday, about which he said he'd get back to me, citing the blunt fact that I'd be "shocked if he wasn't vague, non-commital (sic) and a procrastinator." True enough. But I really like to nail....down my Luke-free-night activities, so I promised I'd start bugging him about it later in the week (which I guess means tomorrow). This is kinda what I had in mind, though I denied it:

So we'll see how next week goes.

This morning, having managed to stay alert and not having gone back to bed for 5 hours, my annoying, lingering runny nose and I had an "A-ha" moment and I ignorantly took 2 Sudafed. It's been so long that I forgot that it aggravates my tachycardia by elevating my heart rate (which is high enough already, hello, Yin Yoga!) by about an extra 90 bpm. I told Guy that I titrated my beta blockers accordingly after racing in Olympic hurdles towards my drug stash. Lest we forget, not only did he steal my heart, but he also medically regulates it. It was with great pride that I explained to him the other night how I likewise wrangle the Russian Drug Czar psychiatrist into Rx'ing, in tandem with my own medical knowledge, what *I* think is appropriate with regard to my bipolar and anxiety disorders. I don't have a giant Physicians Desk Reference on my desk for show, y'all.

It is with both deep sadness and exuberant joy of spirit with regard to the passing of classical Indian sitar maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar, whose physical body was eternally rested at the age of 92. His protege was the late, beautiful George Harrison, who bridged Western and Eastern music in the late 1960's to new highs. The essence of these two geniuses and peaceful souls is remitted in my conscious and I'm sure they're enjoying their spiritual reunion. Below, an early sitar lesson between Shankar and Harrison in 1968.

Rest in Peace, Ravi.