The Gash that Bled

Barely.

This'll be short and sweet (well, sweet, not so much and short, improbable) because I just got up to take some more nighttime cold/flu medication. The last comment by me on Thursday from the entry 2 weeks ago?  Prophetic. Any time I get fire hot red ears, something really shitty is about to happen. And school crap aside, this is all I need.

The flu-flu.

You must know that if I skip band, I must feel AMAZINGLY CRAPPY.

I DON'T MISS BAND. I AM A BAND CHAMPION. A WARRIOR!

I've shown up with pancreatitis, 3 days after gall bladder removal, 2 weeks after a hysterectomy, and any other hosts of death-defying illness. The Offbeat Drummer doesn't bow out of drumming for something as mild as the flu, but oh my stars.

I didn't attend Friday night's practice. I didn't think it was possible to feel crappier on Saturday night, so I went to rehearsal Saturday afternoon, where the band'd been kind enough to set up my music stand and djembe stand for me, and put my stool where it goes. I did a run-through of the week's songs with the group (first the fill-in piano player) and was getting progressively worse. They're all like, "If you gotta bail, we'll make due..." but being stubborn, I pressed forward.

I had an hour between practice and the service, during which I became so dizzy, cold and out-of-it achy that I told Pastor Dave it was doubtful I was going to make it through the service. (I had a 102 fever.) No, actually, I told him I was going home for an hour, Luke electing to stay home and cough, but in that time, I deteriorated such that when I came back to collect my djembe and split, I was too ill to go to his office so I had the other girls let him know I was going home. I feel really bad about it, but I told Pastor, I was just hoping to stay conscious through the service, which in hindsight, wouldn't have happened.

Luke was already home hacking up lungs left and right .He wanted to go to Jimmy Johns (We love us some serious Jimmy Johns) but I told him I was too dizzy to drive; so instead, we Grub Hubbed like fucking $50 worth of veggie sushi and appetizers. We were warned by my mom not to go crazy spending the week she's in Canada (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) but figured we'd suffered enough. She left this afternoon. (And fuckn' Guy plans a trip to beer it up the same week, dummy. We could be having hot relaxing...tea at my house! He did sweetly send me a pic today of himself with a (God I hope it's temporary) tattoo on his inner right wrist of the Japanese symbol for "honor." Oh guy, you're so edgy. It's also, cue "You're the Inspiration," the same place I got my first REAL tat that he accompanied me for like 2 years ago. It's cute. But it looks completely uncharacteristic of him.)

Back to Ma and her gleeful departure. It was not after much ballyhoo, however. I was up emailing a a friend who needed me at 4am, and went outside for a smoke, all nice and Ambiened and valiumed up. Stumbling back into the house, I fell......again. This time to the left of the back door and directly into Ma's garden full off pretty (now flat) flowers, decorative metal fall items, etc. I honestly didn't think anything was wrong until I was looking up to get up and blood was pouring onto my eyeglass frames (which I didn't break), but apparently, I had a gash in my head, and on my forehead, and by my eyebrow rings. I cleaned up as best I could before finally finishing my email and hitting the hay. I don't *think * I had a concussion, because I had my wits about me, and stayed up until almost 5:30 am, when I could take no more and succumbed to sleep. I'm pretty banged up, though. And who would know, with my personality, if I had a concussion or was just insane as ever? Thank GOD my mom didn't come out, because I'd be sequestered in mental hospital by now, no doubt without WiFi.

This is kind of what  looked like, in all seriousnesss, walking back into the house (no, not Steven, downtrodden on a bench. Wayne spewing blood everywhere).

Received Asshole Rip #4l40 for "breaking the rules" and going outside after I'd taken my meds, and Luke was no ally. He sided with Ma, and I can't say he's incorrect, but it just seems like nobody's advocating for me except for ME. My mom wants to kick me out and make me ask Pastor Dave if I can live in his basement.  How about I just rent Guy's house while he and the missus move into whatever swanky city digs they acquire? Oh yeah, my financial aid hasn't come through yet. Never mind. Why don't I just live with Guy & the hell with the missus in the first place?

So back to bed I shall return, on the pilllowase I haven't washed yet, which looks like someone got shot in "Goodfellas," not terribly sleepy, but Rule #4140 we broke when my mom left was putting the air conditioning on, at a low temperature, so it's nice and chilly in here to snuggle into blankets.

So I surivived..but yeah, the blood pouring down the glasses frame was a wake up call. Bad Annie!

Pilate Program

DANGER: FALLING ROCK STAR ON WET PAVEMENT WITH ICE
CUIDADO: PISO MOJADO

Luke was only like yes, the world's most beautiful baby ever, and I'm not even remotely biased. I was posting pictures for my "Vintage Lucas" album on Facebook the other day, and even I hadn't noticed the detail of this particular photograph...I just thought he looked really cute. But Luke was quick to point out:

Whoopsie! (BUT OMG, isn't he CUTE!?)

I *probably* took this because Luke had a fresh scar and still a bit of yellowing, healing black-and-blue above his right eyebrow after SuperMom (me) looked away and he tumbled down the living room stairs, cutting open his eyebrow. I 911'd the paramedics, of course, because I thought I'd caused him permanent neurological damage (no, that would manifest itself in his teens, I jest). I remember them sitting him up on the kitchen counter, doing a basic neuro exam, Neosporining the cut, slapping on a Band-Aid and our insurance billing us for like $1,000 based on my overreaction. Jesus, no, he didn't need a freakin' cat scan. It was like 3 stairs.

And whom do we know who's really, really good at overreaction and catastrophizing? If you answered The Offbeat Drummer, you get a prize (I could like autograph one of my 1,000 limited edition came-with-cough-medicine plastic cups and send it to you for when I'm finally famous.) 

If your automatic reaction is "Oh, you damn women and your worrying," fuck you. Lest we forget how extremely rapid cycling bipolar I am. The only reason I'm capable of sitting down and writing a blog at 7:30am is because this is the first morning in weeks, literally, that I've felt any kind of clarity in my head. (Don't worry, I'm sure it won't last long on a cold, rainy Chicago morning.) 

When most people in the know think about bipolar rapid cycling, they associate it with shifts in mood from mania/hypomania to depression over the course of a few (typically several days, to weeks, to months). While I do endure that, I also endure something much rarer and more severe: ultradian cycling, which confounds literally every psychiatric or psychologically trained mind except for the blessed Patron Saint of Loony who is my current, new psychiatrist. 

Ultradian cycling, a visual: You're riding in the Tour de France, (not on steroids, you're just really, really strong), you're clipping along at probably a good 30 mph & you trip over a big rock, are thrown off your bike, and sit by the roadside crying for hours on end, about EVERYTHING. Your bones aren't broken, you have no scrapes or cuts, but the whole thing seems FUBAR, and then you fall asleep for 6 hours. (Let's assume, for the sake of argument, you're wearing a helmet; and, while you look like a douchebag, you don't really, really super want to die like at the moment.) 

Suddenly, a burst of adrenaline thrusts you back on your bike, your energy returns a dozen-fold, you trek quickly for another 20 miles at 30 mph, and the same thing happens again. You wake up, and the (pardon the pun) cycle just keeps going and going over a matter of hours and you NEVER FINISH THE DAMN RACE. If you luck out and DO finish, it's DAYS after the Tour de France is over and you wonder hopelessly why you embarked on this fatalistic journey in the first place. If granted the fortune to fill your tires and stabilize for a few days, at least you can bike to your hotel, take a shower, have something to eat, and chill. (After which, of course, you get a participation ribbon but no prize.)

There's this messy mess of a mess happening at school. Financial Aid is still messed up for the term (Knox's fault), and it's affecting this other REALLY messy mess that's messier than any bomb in my academic career.

Sure, there was that getting put on academic probation and kicked out of Knox for a term, but face it, the time off was alright, I worked my ass off making extra dough and saw my boyfriend in Galesburg every chance I had. I was only around 20 years old, and my future hadn't been rigidly mapped out or planned, apart from earning my BA eventually and getting married eventually (at the time, it didn't include didn't getting divorced eventually). 

But see, now, in graduate school, I have this track I'm on (not unlike a race) of a specific sequence of coursework and practicum and interning that I've already switcherooed into a slower pace and out of order because I am trying to maintain some type of sanity. (And I've been getting very good grades, "stellar!," as Guy said.) So what? So what takes a "normal" person takes me three times as long. My motto has always been, "It'll all get done." And it does.

It wasn't until last week when I received formal Americans with Disabilities accommodations for my tenure at school. I'm thus entitled to "double time" during which to complete all of my work; and, ok, embarrassingly, as many freakin' bathroom breaks for my wild GI tract that I damn well please, regardless if eyes roll or it offends anyone. Prior to that, it was more of an informal understanding and compassion between my professors and I that I had a great number of "challenges" in completing my coursework, but it was always GOOD. 

Guy said in a conversation recently that I don't seem as excited or rarin' to go this Fall term as I was last year. There's very sound logic behind that. I took 3 classes over summer term, which were brutal, one being a 6-hour long weekly class in advanced skills for psychotherapy. While the professor and I seemingly got along, she was tough. She's the one who dinged me a participation point the first day because my overwhelming exhaustion the night before of having been in Rockford minding my (at the time) 3/4 of the way dead brother caused me to close my eyes several times, though I actively participated to the best of my abilities. Blah blah blah, the term was going fine--if anything, I was over-extending myself (going the extra-extra-mile, and was being thus rewarded with a 92% (A) heading into the final paper). 

I was side-slammed, swiped and bogged by a major depressive episode which required, as I reported to my psychiatrist and therapist, between 16-20 hours of sleep a day, and I was behind in the final paper writing for all 3 classes. The two online class instructors accommodated me, and worked WITH and not AGAINST me, and I wound up with an A and a B+ in those 2 classes.  This particular professor, though, who did grant me extensions, dinged me again for taking a second sick day during the semester, thus violating her attendance policy (teeth grinding) because I literally couldn't exert the effort to get out of bed that day and was trying really, really hard not to be suicidal.

My mom wasn't being particularly helpful during this period. Our conversations were pretty much like this:

The ultimate shiz that hit the fan was on the morning of July 12th. I was seen by my LCPC (Licensed Clinical Professional Counselor; what I'll be if I don't go for a doctorate) for said major depressive episode, with the professor's final deadline for the final paper being etched at 5pm that evening, even after a SNAFU regarding a clinical transcription video only the professor could fix, thus delaying me further. I received a letter from the LCPC which I emailed to the professor humbly and kindly asking for 48 additional hours (until Sunday, July 14th, at midnight) to hand in the paper. It went unanswered. I'd kept the professor abreast of my progress and submitted the paper on the evening of the 14th, as promised. Prior to that, the professor relied on the deadline I said (in writing) I should be able by which to abide. Consequently, the professor refused to even read the final, plunked a zero on it, and gave me an F in the course.

MMM HMM.

In an email copied to several key people at school, I humbly, pleadingly, yet snidely and condescendingly basically begged the professor to at least read and grade the paper and offer me a proper grade based on the quality of my work, not how angry or offended she might have been. Yes, I was (as I've mentioned previously) wrist-slapped for my tone, but by this time, I was outright ticked. According to the school's grade appeal process, I did my part formally, and have yet to hear from her as to whether or not she will treat me fairly.

Which leads me to the last few days. Just hours after meeting with the gentleman who eased my fears by virtue of these accommodations in formality on Wednesday, I was slammed by his notice of being led to Pilate this coming Tuesday for what I assumed to be a post-lot-cast-for-my-clothing, blood-flogging committee hearing with a consortium of folks who decide if I should be expelled or not for this unfairly slapped F, and proceeded to hyperventilate sobbing, panicking and worrying, rallying in the troops and begging Guy for a hug and a kiss on the forehead for courage Monday night (which I still want, hello!?), fearful that all I've worked for--my whole career path, which I believe is my genuine calling from God--would be stripped away and I would, as predicted by my, uh, relative, that no matter how hard I worked, I'd never amount to anything. It didn't help that I was ultradian cycling. I was sobbing, then I'd be ok and able to concentrate, my mom able to divert my attention, then I'd sob again, then I talked to Guy, then I chatted with Pastor Dave, then I'd sob more, text with Meg, up and down and up and down. 

The worst case scenario is that, in the unlikely either the professor or the next step-up, the VP of the school (who'd have a third-party read and grade the paper) still deem me a psychofailure, I have to repeat the course next summer. 

The prospect of band this weekend lifted my spirits, and Friday, I had a meeting with my academic advisor at school, who did, quite honestly, ease my fears considerably, after which I came home and cried yet a little more, but out of relief. Essentially, it's all documented, and I can prove to the committee (who I doubt will be dressed in Roman war gear), as corroborated by my advisor, that I had major extenuating medical circumstances which led to the delay of the handing in of the final paper and that, as my advisor said, I'm not being put on trial for any conduct or behavioral misdoing (my snarky email notwithstanding). I'm still nervous as hell, and will prepare some bullet point statements, but am relieved that said professor will *not* be at the hearing, that it is a formality of the school for anyone who fails a class, and I have to remember that when it ends, and it will end fairly (I am certain), that they really, really need to let Financial Aid know so I can get my living stipend on time (seeing as I'm pretty much dead-ass broke).

Had a real-life "Do You Realize?" moment on Friday as I was leaving school. God bless the tirelessly positive receptionist, Ivy. She's amazing. We were both tired, and she said she couldn't wait to hit the bed that night. I told her I had to drum the next 2 nights, "But it's for Jesus, so it's ok!" I said. She said, "I've been meaning to tell you how beautiful you look since you put on some weight!" (I was anorexic. Now I'm....meh...slightly between average and chubby.) She said I look so much better "since my face filled out a little" (how gaunt WAS I?) and she said, "I've always thought...I remember the first day you came to visit the school, that you had such a beautiful face!" (OK...people don't routinely tell me I have a beautiful face. This was a humbling and sweet surprise.) Made my day.

Band turned out pretty well, having roused the congregation to at least stand up and clap along to the last song, and when they get pumped, we get pumped. The round of applause at the end was unwarranted but appreciated. I played the djembe for the entire set, but got the bright idea (alright, borrowed) to play my crash cymbals with my hands, which did augment things quite a bit. My left hand is bruised, but for art, one must suffer, right?

So wish me luck Tuesday. The more virtual hugs and forehead kisses, the better, as I try to wrangle Guy for one in person. All in favor, say "I!" ("I!")

Who the fuck are you? I really want to know.

"No one respects the flame quite like the fool who's badly burned....." --Pete Townshend, "Slit Skirts"

(DISCLAIMER: THIS BLOG ENTRY WAS WRITTEN LIKE A WEEK BEFORE GUY FRIEND & I STRAIGHTENED THE WHOLE MESS OUT, WHICH WAS A HUGE MISUNDERSTANDING & WE'RE NOT MAD OR CONFUSED ANYMORE.)

Guy Friend was in the doghouse. Why, you ask?

I'd loaned him my copy of Pete Townshend's autobiography, "Who I Am," some time ago. Before the jigsaw puzzle making vacation with Lady GuyGuy, during which he could've blown her off, headed back to Chicago and done crazy shit with me, not that he remotely would. The Who is his favorite band. I thought he'd be fascinated by Townshend's stories and legends. He seemed to be enjoying reading it, as he had when he delved into Keith Richards' autobiography. Honest to Christ, I got Townshend's book months ago and hadn't read any of it as of the time I loaned it to Guy. I *think* I remember that Townshend is bipolar, and knew he dealt with addiction and was a little off-his-rocker, but all great rockers are.

I'd kept Guy abreast of the first week of school via text, and he has a hard time deciphering my tone through text, which is understandable. But for some reason, he got really, really crapoly hostile towards me in an email late the other night, especially about the last section of the Pete Townshend book. "Skimmed through the last third of the book last night." He said, "The post World War II generation were quite depressive, self-absorbed, and at times psychotic. The heroin and alcoholism didn't help." Every critical point he made, however? My impression at the time was: BAM BAM BAM. Right at the Offbeat Drummer, not The Who. Something about the book REALLY ticked his buttons, and I still didn't know what. He's typically been the last person to criticize my mental illness, has never historically treated my mental illness and addictions as anything different than my asthma, but oh my, was he in a mood last week and yes, I feel strongly that he took his aggravation/aggression/repression out on me, and I didn't appreciate it one bit.

He said, "You always have the answers." Um, no I don't. I never do. I'm tripping without knowing what the hell's going on and fly along all the time in the first place. The answers to what, Guy? What in hell are you talking about?

Meow!

I have no shame in sharing my reply, because it was spot on:

Once again, I've asked repeatedly how your mom is doing and you've blown me off when I genuinely am interested. You won't even tell me her first name (as I've repeatedly asked) so I can include her in prayers to Jesus, Krishna, Buddha or whomever the Zoroastrians worship.

It didn't escape my intellect that you degraded and thumbed your nose off at artists, parents (evil or not), musicians and creatives, the mentally ill, women's rights and those with apparent prowess, alcoholics and drug addicts in 7 simple, poorly-constructed statements all directed right at my face. I guess payback's a bitch, but it'd be a surreal experience to live even one day as milquetoast as if I was in the generically vanilla Herman's Hermits as opposed to swirled, colorful flavors of The Who.

Your cloistered branch of the late-Bloomer generation doesn't take into account that these fellas out of Britain weren't from university-educated families post WW 2. They meandered through what we consider "high school" (if they were lucky) or went to trade apprenticeship or art school in a volatile environment of a destroyed landscape. Their outlet was listening to music they acquired from America, especially the blues. They didn't have direction and money and examples of how to succeed in life (Jagger be damned, he went to the London School of Economics). Look at Richards, Townshend, Lennon, all of them. 

What resonates with my mother and me is Lennon, that his Auntie Mimi, with whom he lived, threw away all of his drawings and poems, and he told her he'd be famous someday and she'd regret it. He became someone and she probably felt like shit.

I won't expend the energy to tell you about today's class on counseling people for their career development. Maybe I'll acquire skills to help my newly-betrothed ex-husband find a job and get out of his mother's basement with his new bride, without too much trauma on my teenager. Stats is tomorrow.

You know me, but you have trouble electronically interpreting when I'm cheeky or when I'm serious. Frankly, your interpretations are as valid as mine reading your scathing, rapid email.

As my mother would say to me, "You have an answer and a pill for everything." 

When you're done pissing and start honestly thinking about your mother's transition from birth to her eventual death, the technicality of the estate aside, think about duality. The soul is the same but the body is changing. We're born, and then our bodies die. Everything passes except the essence of that which is our soul, which is eternal and perpetually thriving. The same can be said of life while we're living, unless we choose to be stuck in a rut.

Syria, now with them, I sympathize. 

Do return Pete's book....but the way you made me feel tonight, you could toss "The Velveteen Rabbit" in your fire pit and sod it off.  Were you the horse or were you the live bunnies? I guess you'll never figure that out.

Then whoops.

So yeah I started school last week, and happened to mention in a text that my professor on Tuesdays is an older, graying, handsome married man with grown children. I said something snarky in my text to Guy after school, after describing myself to the class as an introduction, "It's like shooting a dart in a bullseye." Meaning, just my type of attractive man, like Guy is attractive (though Guy's more attractive than this guy). He said by next Monday, I'll be able to "manipulate" all of my professors. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? He wished me luck with virtually everyone in my inner circle and outer reaches, and was just a general can of spotted dick, and sayonara. (Go back to the last blog, see "What Have I Done to Deserve This?")

(Turned out, my course I thought was statistics is really research methods, and will be not as challenging as I thought it would be and I feel pretty confident about it.) So Thursday was the last day of school for the week. Graduate school, Year 2, Week 1, complete. I let Guy know this in a text on my way to dinner.

After dinner, as Luke was at Craig's, my mom had some shopping to do and I had just brought my laptop and wares out to the patio to write and fuck around on the computer, when who should come walking through the townhouse courtyard but Guy himself. You need to understand Guy....he never just "stops over." He had the Townshend book in his hand to return, when he very well could've held on to it until the next time we got together socially. It wasn't urgent to return. What does this conclude?

Wow, Guy felt GUILTY. Why? Because he made me feel like SHIT. I felt like shit for DAYS.

He chose not to sit down at the patio table and I stood higher than he on the patio, while he was on the sidewalk. This gave me the advantage in the discussion by virtue of height. We had a brief but fine discussion, and while he never uttered an "I'm sorry, Annie," I knew he was, as was I. We exchanged a few warm hugs and in about 10 minutes, he was on his way home, having ignored a call from Lady GuyGuy while we were talking (at which point, I was strategically poised to toss his iPhone into the neighbor's weed pile), the wrap up being my weekend plans (the church picnic and not having Luke, and my ex-husband getting engaged). As per usual, we made plans to make plans to eventually make plans and work something out in the future as a social activity. Oh, Guy.

No, I don't really want him to throw away "The Velveteen Rabbit." I want him to read it and figure out which character with whom I identify him.

The Annie Consortium can't conclude anything any other reason for him stopping by than guilt for being so mean, and it was like a bad B movie after he left, when, on my computer, Chicago's "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" came on. His tail was between his legs and I was in tears outside.

But poor Pete! Get your guitar out and windmill Guy across the forehead! D'oh! Poor me, I was the scapegoat! I told Meg it was like he watched "Silence of the Lambs," got scared, cowered and took it all out on me.

I think my British friend is right. Guy's a 12-year old boy trapped in an almost 60-year old man's body, and his email was nothing short of childish. Frankly, I'm shocked he read my email reply so quickly, because, as we know, he doesn't typically read or reply to emails in a "timely fashion."

I wish he wouldn't run so hot and cold, but that's always been his MO. Our pissing contests don't last very long. I usually run hot, but will respond with cold if confronted or insulted. Geez, even Adler knows this, when they accuse me of sending out snippy emails to people with PhD's, because I'm "disrespectful" in correspondence despite the fact I'm older, have a degree in writing (despite evidence to the contrary) and have lived a full life more than most of them, just by virtue of them having a few extra letters before and after their names. Fuck all o' y'all.

We'll give Guy a pass on this one. Mum Guy needs 24-hour care and is hanging in there, but more down than up. I know he's stressed, but dude, don't take it out on me OR Pete Townshend for that matter, you know?

GOD FORBID I loan him my copy of the parody "Goodnight Keith Moon."

Veronica found this song, and asked me if this seemed applicable to my relationship with Guy. I typically don't like P!nk, or however the fuck you punctuate her nAmE. But oh my, yes. If a guy pisses you off enough to cry outside, it's true love. If it wasn't, I'd get a case of Rolling Rock and break the glass bottles throwing them at a wall.

Tendencies

It's SOP at the psychiatrist's office during an appointment to answer a litany of questions which, by the 2nd or 3rd visit, you've already memorized. Me being me, I preempt the doctor by answering the questions before they're asked.

No, I'm not doing any illicit street drugs (which, when the shit comes down, is really kind of senseless because while it'd yes, be an extra expense, and my mom already calls me a drug addict because I take Valium for my severe anxiety, I'd be far less perpetually pissed and on edge and I might get a decent night's rest, unlike last night, when I woke up at 1am and couldn't get back to sleep. It's the first day of school and I have to caffeine myself through a 4 hour lecture, which could've been avoided altogether, had I not been treated like a 9-year old (see "homicidal intentions").

When asked if I'm having any suicidal ideations or intentions, I always lie and say no, and brush her off. I have no plan (nor am I very good at suicide attempts, trust me) and I love my son too much. But does suicide cross my mind? Daily. Like, walking erratically through store parking lots hoping to be "accidentally" smushed by a zooming car, like thinking.

Homicidal intentions? Again, I say no, but as time presses forward, my hit list grows larger and if I knew my psychiatrist had mob ties and I had enough money, I'd have baseball bats flying at the heads of an awful lot of people I know. Alas. (It just occurred to me that I *do* have an overprotective, unimaginably strong teenage son, and out hit lists could cross-check, so we'll leave that open as an option for now.)

Do I hear voices in my head? Only the din of my own...regaling observations, ideas, criticisms and songs. I don't have multiple personalities, I is what I is. I am my own best friend.

Something bothered me at the tail end of my last phone conversation with Guy. Some blahbety blah about my spending time with my friends, and an implication by him that almost literally all of my friends were virtual or online-oriented, not that there'd be anything wrong with that. I'm sorry if I don't BBQ with the Douchebags down the block and host Christmas cookie baking parties with all of my undergraduate brethren. In my own defense, I did say that I had numerous friends who are ACTUAL people I ACTUALLY spend time with, though, unfortunately, some of them ACTUALLY live far away, so our communication is remote but no less meaningful. Is Guy's daughter in Germany not really his daughter because he has to Skype with her? My point.

Any psychosis? Well, jeepers, Doctor, isn't that why I'm here in the first place? I should really ask her for a more narrow definition of what she deems "psychosis," because there's Pleasantly Charming Psychotic Annie versus Impetus to Self-Mutilate and Overdose Psychotic Annie. Sometimes that line is verrrrrrry fine and Lord knows, switcheroos hour by hour.

Oh, you've GOT to be kidding me. Pandora's on and Dusty Springfield's "Son of a Preacher Man" just came on. Pay no mind to the fact that Springfield was a lesbian in the first place, but everyone used to equate this song with my first husband, whose father was a minister. Last night, my erstwhile spouse happily announced his engagement to his girlfriend of the last few years, clearly the only woman alive capable of putting up with how utterly, slothfully, impossible he is to live with. He's nice enough, but too milquetoast to manage The Offbeat Drummer and too head-shakingly wussy to command an ounce of respect from Luke, who wants to spend all of his time with me, because I'm way cooler. As I understand things, the fiancee was on an online dating site for EIGHT YEARS before she finally caught the eye of someone, who happened to be my ex-husband, so she's going to marry him. (No, I can't say I've been on a date in about half that time, but you all know I'm saving 2nd virginity for someone.) She's nice enough too, but has a tendency to order Luke around and over-mother me when I'm fucking within earshot! She pulls crap like baking competing cakes for Luke's birthday, and lecturing him about his swearing, whereupon, if I hear her or encounter a potential parental overtaking, I really, REALLY Mama Bear claw her out of the scene and remind her sternly that Luke HAS a mother and she should kind of butt the fuck out. I just laughed at Craig's announcement, but Luke's pretty pissed. He was so pissed, in fact, that he said he'd rather I be betrothed to Guy than his dad to this woman.

DANG.

If we're going to talk Dusty Springfield, this is really the only song (apart from "Don't Sleep in the Subway") on which she appears to which I can relate. Seriously.

Well, off to get ready for Year 2 of "God, Is This Really What I Want To Do?" and catch up with the loonies on the train towards downtown.

What HAVE I done to deserve this?