Ooh Ooh Ooh, Now, Baby, Please Don't Go.

In an unfortunate turn of circumstances, Mum Guy has taken a turn for the worst and is perhaps on a limited pass through the transoms of this mortal coil for much longer. About this, I'm sad for Guy and his family. But it's neither unexpected nor is it going to be an utter devastation to the Guy Clan as a whole, though it'll likely be very complicated. I certainly can't appear at a public mourning, nor can I send a sympathy card, but I did iterate to Guy that my love and sympathies were with both he and his kids. 

So Guy and Lady GuyGuy are packing up their own sprawling suburban family homestead of 25 years and looking to downsize somewhere in the City. That's all well and good, and while I don't see Lady GuyGuy as an urban dweller (she'll probably buy those dreadful Hunter rain boots), I had a friend predict that Guy would pack up & move to the city like 2 years ago and it's actually coming true. With this, I have no problem, other than the fact she's coming along in the first place. Last week, when we talked, he said they were simply packing up the girls' stuff and putting it in the attic to paint the house. Sunday, he said they were putting the house on the market. Rather abrupt, but I guess decision making takes time, etc. It's an odd move for a Catholic family with 3 unmarried children, to abandon the homestead, though I guess the Guy Family has all of that worked out & the kids are taken care of on their own. 

Then he brings up the chance or opportunity to move out of state when he retires (which won't be THAT far in the future). He mentioned Portland (I poo poo'd), or, jokingly, Oklahoma City (which my friends and I ALL poo poo'd), or Tennessee. "You want to live in a red state? In the Bible Belt?" I asked. He was laughing the whole time. I just kept repeating "No. No. No. No, you can't go. You can't move away. You PROMISED you wouldn't abandon me." Granted, it's selfish and tacky of me to be complaining about Guy's life plans when his mother is dying, but it was tacky of him to tell the woman in love with him who has the world's WORST abandonment AND Daddy complexes that he has his mitts on planning to disappear forever. So I kept saying "NO. No. No. NO!!" (He's probably like, "Jesus, bitch, calm down. They do make airplanes, you know..."

What made things all the more strange was him asking me how long it'll be before I graduate from my masters program. "A year and a half," I said. "So you could practice anywhere...." Yes, theoretically, I could.  I haven't decided yet if I want to pursue a doctorate in psychology or Creative Writing, which, again, could take place anywhere. "And Luke?" I asked. I said, "Maybe I could move away when he's out of college...." and Guy said, "Or high school." (Um, Luke's going into high school NEXT YEAR.) 

The confounding part is that none of the Annie Consortium can understand Guy's motive in giving a damn when my son and I will be independent. It could've been pure curiosity. It could've been a loose "What if?" A friend said if that was the case, it'd be a pretty cruel idea to throw out to me under the circumstances, aloud anyway, knowing how I feel.

 Does this mean he wants me to follow him? If there's anything that man knows, it's that I'd crawl the depths of the earth not to lose him. That said, I'd NEVER, EVER uproot my family (my mom's not part of this equation) for a "What if?" It's been offered to me before--the chance to essentially be a man's "kept woman" in another state, but I declined, and in a lot of ways, I regret it, but in some ways, I don't. Hey, if things fall apart eventually between Guy and Lady GuyGuy, terrific. I'm totally there. (Actually, I'd tell him to haul his ass back to Chicago.) If he decides one day to choose the freedom, passion, intellectualism, humor, beauty, talent, dedication and appreciation of someone who 100% unconditionally adores him, he'd be making a great decision as he enters his twilight years. His socks could be rocked off for decades to come by the one woman he knows would refuse to stagnate his vim until the day we both die. (To put it bluntly, Guy, no, I don't believe being colorblind and building jigsaw puzzles is or could be more fun than hanging out with me. We could still have our walks on the beach, and I'd splash you with cold water and you'd get mad at me, and we'd retire to wherever we're habitating and you could take your shirt off and I'd ogle over the much-ballyhooed gray chest hair we all found out finally that you have (oof). 

Guy thinks I really need someone "to shack up with." Well, gee, Guy, that's only been covered in what, the last 30 blogs? He's just scared, uh, stiff, that he's the one with whom I want to shack the most. Yes, it would change a lot of things for us. For everyone. But the Consortium is still in agreement that he totally digs being so massively physically adored by me and secretly doesn't want me to stop taking about it (or at least he didn't tell me to shut up when I read him all the subsequent commentary about bedding me after the last he'd read having been BMF's "Carpe Diem, Guy!"

Guy's worst flaw is that he let an artist fall in love with him. Artists and writers are raft with rich fantasies, and find a lack of passion fatal. Our hearts also suffer the most breakage. But somehow, we wouldn't trade it for the blah of what is certainly the life of people we know living together now.....you know what I'm saying?

"I'm better for the smile you give, and while I live, I will follow you. Will you follow me?" --Genesis, from the last blog.

In any case, prayers and good vibes to Mum Guy the closer she gets to the gates, and he should know I'm always around to help pick up pieces, or talk, or snuggle. Just stay. Please stay.

Follow You, Follow Me

I want to be part of your life forever, in whatever way we can.

Barbara, Those Flowers Weren't For You.

This is AWESOME.

Barbara, it took you 30 years to realize you were boring Jim to death? He may avoid things, but you're just kinda clueless. *I* attribute it to your hairstyle.

Let's cut Jim some slack, shall we? 

He's worked 16 long hours of immeasurable stress all day, while you were playing bridge and shopping, riding your bike with your dorky helmet on, and perhaps working a few hours a day, and I guess, if you have kids, unless you're so passed out from exhaustion, & you'd let them write on the walls in crayon when they were little & considered it postmodern posterity, it now it looks unacceptable, so the painters have been in/out and they're all like strapping and strong. (Yet, the whole time, Barbara's silently criticizing the painters for being so blue collar, with their splattered steel-toed boots, baseball caps, and Nascar t-shirts. Well, fuck you, Barbara. My grandfather's whole family were house and bridge painters.)

Wine will just make Barbara more sleepy. If she takes another Xanax, she'll be flippety-floppity.

Vivarin! Super! Barbara gets this bright idea that instead of taking more downers because her own day has driven her apeshit & she should hit the sack early, she augments her pill-popping regiment with some Vivarin! Super! 5:00pm is a SUPER DUPER time to take speed. 

Most wives were beginning to take downers (barbituates, chiefly, now it's more benzos like Xanax) in the 50's because living with short-tempered, workaholic guys like Jim and all that social planning were driving them apeshit batnuts. Then, after the wife cooked Jim's dinner, ready and waiting for him when he got home, while the wife did the dishes, Jim had a chance to loosen his tie, took his shoes off, poured himself a Chivas & channeled Barbara's blahbety-blah out of his ears because yes, he was trying to read a book or watch TV.  (Oh wait. Barbara doesn't really cook a lot. Jim'll either whip something up on his last legs or stop and get a salad. By 9pm, Barbara's kind of fucked up.)

Except Barbara doesn't shut up. Why not? SHE'S TANKED ON SPEED! She's not "more exciting." She's high. She yickety-yacked asking him questions and rambling lamentations, like "Did you pick up the case of cabernet at Binny's for the BBQ with the Douchebags on Saturday? NO? What the crap? I ask you to do ONE THING. I didn't get your dry cleaning today, and the car insurance is due in 3 days, and I think I should have this skin tag removed. It's so irritating. The eggshell white we picked out for the hallway looks too white. I don't like it. And hello? I took a ruler and our lawn is 1/3" longer than the Richardsons' next door, God, mow the lawn!" 

In his head, Jim's thinking, "BARBARA, SHUT YOUR TRAP. I don't even *like* the Douchebags. They're *your* friends from the Farmers Market. But yeah, fuck, I do need to go to Binny's. For lots of stuff. And square way Mum. And pay bills. And book flights to wherever the fuck we keep going, and for fuck's sake, my little junkie insane paramour is blabbing about our private lives again. I really should have a more stern talk with her."

By this time, Jim's trounced upstairs to the boudoir closet to try and find one more clean dress shirt and that last pair of pants he has where the zipper doesn't keep slipping down the crotch. He foregoes the soak in the Jacuzzi in favor of another Chivas and Barbara escapes somewhere...I don't know....and by now, Jim's on edge, but doesn't feel like running, so he checks in with the junkie & (in the junkie's mind) secretly wishes they were dangling from a trapeze, if she wasn't ALSO a yickety-yacking female.

Lost, tired, and ready to doze off downstairs, Jim comes across an old newspaper clip the junkie sent him. 

"Damn. Damn. Damn. This GUY LIVED WELL," he says to himself. "Barbara can blow me, not that she ever would."

I want fetucccine alfredo and champagne in the hot tub! Fucking A!

Jim lovingly remembers one thing, but forgets something crucial. After fighting tooth and nail with the little junkie, they reconcile and they make plans for a vegan dinner. Not realizing Barbara was due home early from her Bible study, while he's changing into hip duds to make his exit, he leaves a bunch of flowers with a card in the vestibule he planned to take with him. Barbara whizzes in unexpectedly.

Before you know it, there goes Jim:

About time he went on a getaway with the little junkie.

Forty Winks, Er, 20 and 20.

“You end up exhausted and spent, but later, in retrospect, you realize what it all was for. The parts fall into place, and you can see the whole picture and finally understand the role each individual part plays. The dawn comes, the sky grows light, and the colors and shapes of the roofs of houses, which you could only glimpse vaguely before, come into focus.”

~Murakami

Somehow or another, it became part of the modern world that humans are supposed to lay their weary heads down to rest anywhere from 10-midnight and wake up at 6-8 in the morning. "Catch your 40 winks," "get your 8 hours." We're supposed to practice "Good sleep hygiene," and keep our bedrooms TV-free, cozy and comfortable, dark or dimly lit, and our beds reserved for sleep or sex only (or reading, if that's how you fall asleep, if if you're like me and you listen to ambient or relaxing music).  I dunno--my dad's parents slept in separate bedrooms, my mom's parents in separate beds but in the same room. Apparently, none of them could stand cover-hogging, snoring, flailing limbs, beats me.

We're not farmers. We don't need to be asleep by 8pm to milk the cows at 4:30 am and do chores all day in the fields. I'm still on sabbatical, Chickie Babies. Besides, when would I talk to all of my British friends, like Rob?

An article at www.slumberwise.com, (http://slumberwise.com/science/your-ancestors-didnt-sleep-like-you/) however, would argue that such a line of thinking is more antiquated than how antiquated were the sleeping habits of our ancestors, pre-1800's. I thought about this while I was wide awake again at 3:00 am during the night, even though I'd taken Ambien at 9:30 to be asleep by 10:30pm. I was raring to go for the day, as I tiptoed quietly in my socks around the house, because I do literally get in trouble with my mother if I'm up during the night, even if it's just to go to the bathroom, because often times, I'll sneak out for a cigarette before I return to bed. Back before the 1800's, the article emphasizes, individuals would sleep in spurts--for a few hours at night, awaken & do things, then sleep another several hours, etc. 

She's afraid I'll fall outside which, yes, I've done a number of times being Ambiensiac/Valiuminated to a staggering extent. I tend to get belligerent and hostile towards my family who criticize my slurred words, refusal to comply, though for my own good, but they won't give me the opportunity to (as a grown woman) put myself to bed, and everyone's concerned I'll crack my head open and bleed to death on the pavement until morning. Here's the latest half asleep bruise, and it's nasty:

What's made worse is that my mother's anxiety over MY sleep schedule, she says, keeps HER up all night worrying about me. For this reason, she's angry with me because she can't sleep. I think in psychology, we'd called that "displaced anxiety" or "displaced fear." I likened this example: I worry when Luke goes out riding his bike with his friends, for it causes me anxiety. 1,000 bad things could happen to Luke out alone, but he's 13 and I trust him. My anxiety is my own responsibility. I'm not MAD at Luke for "making me nervous" by riding his bike. You follow? He doesn't come home and get a chewing out for me being nervous because he was out. It's virtually the same principle.

I shared the SlumberWise article on Facebook and was surprised at the number of responses I received from friends who have staggered sleep schedules the same as I do, who responded in the middle of the night. I'll often times get up at 3 or 4 in the morning, be somewhat productive, then go back to bed at 7 or 8 in the morning until 11 or noon. If it's a school day and I'm forced to stay awake all day, yes, it's difficult during those morning classes because they're right around the time I'd go back to bed. 

I had said on Facebook regarding the article:

"Too many laypeople and medical professionals are hell-bent on humans maintaining a strict diurnal schedule and if, let's say, I get up at 5am and am productive (somewhat) while tip-toeing around, but go back to bed between 7:30-9am until 11 (when I'm not on a strict school schedule), I'm looked upon as "lazy" or "all messed up." It's gravely irritating. Even when I *do* sleep a "full night," sometimes I need a nap in the afternoon. GASP!"

Back before the 1800's, the article emphasizes, individuals would sleep in spurts--for a few hours at night, awaken & do things, then sleep another several hours, etc. Staggered sleeping was the rule rather than the exception centuries ago. What would people do during these waking hours? Often times, they'd pray. There'd be a set of prayers to be said during those times of the day. Or they'd read, cook or have sex (we had to procreate somehow). Some would even visit with other awakened neighbors. 

My mom often laments when she arises as late as 9:30am, as if the day is thus a wash. I disagree. We sleep when our bodies require sleep & we're awake when it's required. If I nap late in the afternoon, it's frowned upon & while insomnia drives me batty, I'm learning to rely more on my body's cues. If that requires medicinal augmentation at night, so be it. If I'm a "drug addict," so are about 5,000,000 other Americans. I have a pathological fear of insomnia, tachycardia, as well as being bipolar (partly a circadian rhythm disorder, and anxiety disorder) so I'm pretty reliant on my medication in order to fall asleep at a certain time of night, especially when I'm having racing thoughts. (BTW, if you've never had true racing thoughts, you wussies, they'd scare you half to death. Meh, I'm used to them.) But the more I think about it, if I let my body naturally rest and fall asleep on its own, I might not need medication. Just silly. Conversely, I might never sleep again. Not an experiment I'm up for right now. 

My friend, Deena, has valium handy in an emergency of insomnia, her boyfriend a fan of Ambien, but neither take them unless absolutely necessary. Deena on the West Coast (PST) will get up in the middle of the night and suggested wisely that we go with what our bodies want. She says that she conforms to a non-uniform diurnal schedule that works for her, though it's hard to get the child up for school on a Monday. Deena and I found commonality in the peace and harmony of watching both the sun set and the sun rise, and the peace and tranquility present in both states. And I like saying hello to the paper delivery man at 5am. My friend, Joel, found similar happiness in the din of quiet offered by the middle of the night, even if it meant he would be tired during the next day (right now he's on vacation).  

Joel, also on the west coast, said, " I have heard this before and it rang true for me. I often wake up in the middle of the night and prowl around. The place where it compares that time to being "meditative" is spot on. Problem, of course, that I pay for it the next day."

Old school chum Katie had this to add, regarding her diurnal patterns: "I've caught holy hell from my mother if I slept in...ever. Especially in my teens! When did she stop? When I was living with her after my divorce, got in her face and screamed at her to "fucking grow up, realize that *I've* grown up, get over it, that she was jealous that I could sleep in and she couldn't, and drop the whole fucking thing." That about did it. On a lighter note, I read a interesting book where certain characters slept eight hours a day - four from midnight to four am and from noon to four pm. I thought that concept was kinda cool."

ALRIGHTY, THEN!

It's only been in the past year or two that my teenager has become excellent at setting his alarm early, waking up, showering, dressing and eating in time for school. Years ago, it took a crane to get him out of bed. 

Modern science backs up the findings of the centuries past in studies which can be further perused by reading the above referenced article. The bottom line is not to beat yourself up if you're tossing and turning at 2 or 3 in the morning. Get up. Do stuff. When you're sleepy again, go back to sleep. Even if you have a 9-5 gig, you'll probably ultimately feel better having slept in dribs/drabs as opposed to lying around frustrated for 6 hours. To me, that's not restful.


I found it highly ironic that when Pandora started up again after I woke up at 11:15 this morning, this was the first song that queued:

This Is Getting Out of Fucking Hand (Pun Intended)

I was just about to fold a gigantic pile of my teenager's black ankle socks. Then I thought to myself, "Self? He's perfectly capable of folding his own socks. Leave them on his bed and WALK AWAY." So I did. So I thought I'd catch up on my online news (?) reading. Pandora's on in the background, keeping the beat for the afternoon.

What's playing?

This bullcrap.

I mean, at least I'm not sobbing, like when Elton John's "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" comes on. (Well, for starters, I'm not drinking.)

I'm just increasingly aggravated, and can anyone really blame me?

My, uh, gentleman friend recently harped at me (during a completely unrelated conversation) for persisting in suggesting we...oh, how do I say it delicately? Ok, I relentlessly jibba jabba flirtatiously about making a stitch in our otherwise quasi-not-really-amorous friendship. Because every Guy can't stand it when an attractive young woman pesters him about trying to bed him, right? Sure! The dry spell is bordering on 4 years, and I'm getting more and more frustrated. I don't (just as I don't want to kiss) just want to roll in the hay with anyone, though I'm sure I could find *somebody* willing to bed me. That poor man. Shall we convene a convivial conference post haste? In my opinion, hells yeah!

Experts in the platonic (male and female) game think that he secretly doesn't want me to stop being suggestive, because it feeds his ego. Others say it's a total case of wanting to have his cake and eat it too, a metaphor I never really understood, but alright. Some say it's a game; others, not so sure of his intent. Some say I should put a lid on it altogether, for we always want what we can't have (ain't that the truth?).

We had this Chivas-fueled discussion the other night (at least I think he was on the sauce, again) where he said that lots of people get really randy after they exercise....the endorphins, you know. I, for one, thought the endorphin rush of exercising would be enough to, uh, stimulate one or charge one, but then I'm reading this article in the Huffington Post (as sponsored by Oprah's OWN network) that confirms his statement! I'm like, "Dude, next time you go for a run, come over to MY house!"

The article's suggestion to put socks on in order to get in the mood sort of confused me, but evidently, if you're warm, you're more likely to be ready for sex. Barring that, you should go to the gym & work yourself into a horny frenzy. Barring THAT, you should spend some time daydreaming. Barring THAT, if it's been weeks and your lover still hasn't touched you, the article advises you invest in a quality vibrator. Korean raw ginseng is also supposed to have horny properties, so go get some of that. (FYI, no, actually, not to be gross or cheeky or TMI, but no, I don't own a vibrator. Should I?)

The "Ice Ice Babies" of Wisdom

I love the internet, with its zillions of quotable quotes and pretty backgrounds and wacky fonts. So much which inspires us to respond with deep contemplation and reflection on our lives, loves and ethos.

Um.....This is a great quote. And who didn't appreciate the wisdom of Jack Kerouac? Ahead of his time. Gone too soon. A visionary pioneer.

That's not to say there haven't been tons of other wise, visionary, quotable ladies and gentlemen out there whose words have touched millions. 

Um....this is a great quote. Apple founder Steve Jobs was another brilliant man ahead of his time and gone too soon. 

Wait a second.

They can't arm wrestle over who actually said it, because they're both dead. I could sit here all day and find you hundreds of quotes attributed to Albert Einstein that he never actually uttered.

Hang on! You young folk might admire the (blech) brilliance of rapper Marshall Mathers, better known as Eminem. You gotta understand that with rap music, 90% of it is "sampling," or utilizing pieces of already recorded songs/music in tandem with what is otherwise (supposed to be) an original production. (Read: IMHO, it's not terribly original.) Ask Keith Richards what HE thinks of sampling....I seem to recall when it started to boom in the 80's (don't quote me, whatever you do) that Richards said it was worse than having a song you wrote plagiarized; it was someone stealing your actual recorded lick.

(Which is why The Verve, when they stole the melody for "Bittersweet Symphony" had to pay The Rolling Stones boucoup bucks and give half the writing credit away because Jesus, they didn't even ask for copyright permission.)

Mathers must've channeled with the Ouija Board one night still strung out on Vicodin because the above quote is....well.....eerily similar to this old chap:

While we're at it, in conclusion, the most atrociously blatant rip off had to be Vanilla Ice trying to convince the world that "Ice Ice Baby" was his own original creation and that it bore zero resemblance to the Queen/David Bowie song "Under Pressure" because of a discrepancy, Ice said, in exactly one note of the melody. That's old news, but I *did* discover today a chilling, haunting, beautiful gem. 

This is the isolated vocal track of Freddie Mercury and David Bowie singing "Under Pressure." Two of rock's most unique, beautiful, mind-blowing vocalists together in one of my favorite duets EVER.

Enjoy. Perhaps you'll find it on this bootleg.

And no, nobody's yet stolen the Miklaszism of "The sausage has spoken!" but I'm keeping an eye out.

And PS, I'm willing to cut tremendous slack to The Flaming Lips for not realizing that "Fight Test" sounded *too* much like Cat Stevens' "Father & Son," and George Harrison? Love you long time, but yes, dear, "My Sweet Lord" WAS "He's So Fine." Understandable...you're like "WOW! YES! I got this great idea! TOTALLY!" so, you had to pay a bunch of dough. What confuses me about the Harrison copyright infringement lawsuit was how producer Phil Spector didn't catch the similarities in the melodies of the 2 songs while he was producing "My Sweet Lord." But he's kinda cuckoo.

Addiction Demographics

Doing a favor for a colleague.

By Cara Delany. Awareness is useful.

For more information, email cara@caradelany.com.

http://www.topcounselingschools.org/antidotes-for-addiction/

My Love Life As Visualized in "The Brady Bunch"

I really like this Guy. Oh, what a vexing conundrum. But made even worse when you're actually bipolar!

Overall, I'm very happy being his friend. And he's not my boyfriend, but he is one of the nicest boys I know, and I think he's super cool.

To me, he's absolutely beautiful, with the cutest smile. To the world, he's kinda nerdy.

But!

I know he's not a miracle worker, BUT! 

Some of my other girlfriends have all the luck. A snap of the fingers, and they've got Guys swarming around them. I'm not so fortunate.

There's the super annoying factor of me not being liked by his #1. She and I don't get along AT ALL.She HATES me.

If he had any embarrassing idea of the extent to which I think about him when I wash the dog:

He'd rather do colorblind jigsaw puzzles than be with me. How can that possibly be more interesting and stimulating than me peeling him off the ceiling after a wild ride?

Hey, whatever works. I find him fascinating.

He could come and crash one of my all night girl orgies in the dark dressed as the Creature from the Black Lagoon when we all start scratching one another!

I blog about him all the time, this Guy.

And I get butterflies in my stomach whenever he calls! 

Guys come up with these come-ons, and you get your hopes up and pfft:

But you know Guys, they say one thing, do another...they're so hard to figure out! Does he want me or doesn't he want me? I just don't know. He's so vague and conflicted!  We're just friends!

We have kind of a big age difference. It doesn't bother me one bit, and I think he's flattered that it's so groovy that a girl my age would dig a guy his age.

And I've dated celebrities, and I'd still pick him!

He's bothered, I think, while far more fit than I am, that the generation gap is pretty wide.

Rock stars swing by to go out with me all the time.

I mean, I'm cute. I'm not gorgeous. I'm sexy in my own Offbeat Drummer Way.

But maybe I'm just not his type, despite evidence to the contrary. Though maybe it's....

Or, you know, I'm a nerd. 

Or, conversely:

He thinks I'm a wonderful person. We're both dorks. He acts like a jerk sometimes, but show me a Guy who doesn't. And when he's apologetic, he's really very sweet about it and I forgive very easily. I like it when he calls me "Darling."

Well, when all's said and done, if I eventually DO get lucky and land this Guy, which he wishes I'd quit being pushy, annoying and inappropriate about,  maybe you'll hear....

Of course, it could just be us bowling.

But that ain't happening. I'm sure goes home and this is the first thing he says:

Until that day, however, I remain unrequitedly waiting for a pully hawly, er:

Maybe I need to come out of the doghouse more often.

No, I really don't, not at all. HE does:

Seriously?

Because you'll never hear the end of it and Guys don't have feelings, remember? They're just animals on the prowl after one thing, and manage to turn it around that the girl chased the Guy, which is totally imbalanced.

What do I look like, Guy? Just a piece of meat?

When we hug, the scent of his aftershave stays on my clothes for HOURS.

And his mustache tickles, which is a great Guy feature. Always liked facial hair:

In the end, though, really....

Special thanks to my Brady Bunch friends for unwittingly participating in this blog entry. 

We are family!