couldn't have said it better

I've just guzzled my 99th ounce of espresso today, and as such, I'm very excited to give you way too much back story for the priceless little anecdote at the end.

Mornings at our house are a roll of the dice. Sometimes everyone does just what s/he is supposed to do, and sometimes I have to threaten to burn their toys in a burn barrel to get some cooperation. I myself am the model of misbehavior, so I certainly don't blame my kids when they stray from the perfectly-straight line I've etched into our lives. Today was just fine. We all got showered, dressed, and fed without incident. (Unless you count me calling my 15th low-cal smoothie in a row a "son of a bitch" as an incident...) Long story short, I get my gas money on Friday mornings, so our tank was bone dry today. Thus, we were house-bound, and I think that's when we began to deteriorate. No sooner had my kids exchanged one too many barbs in that shitty Disney Channel tone of voice, and I lost it. I yelled that they were obviously too immature to have their own computer (the object of their duel), and banished them to their beds for 15 minutes. This gave us all plenty of time to calm down, and when they emerged, we had a clean slate, which lasted all day. I was so encouraged by the sudden about-face in our collective mood, I threw myself into a full-fledged mania, and designed an incredibly ingenious (and horrifyingly stupid) plan. I decided we would get into our sputtering jalopy and seeing just how many errands we could accomplish on the atom of gas we had left.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the dismal schematic of my plan, and ended up taking the LONGEST way possible to Mission street to get a blood draw. (Note: Don't ever wear flip flops to a blood lab. You can literally feel the hepatitis crawl up your feet.) Then we took several wrong turns on a street we drive daily, and finally got to Blockbuster to return a movie. Next up was a two mile double-back to Del Taco, where I treated my kids to a much deserved lunch. (And, because I couldn't have any, I upped the ante and called my earlier smoothie a "mother fucker.") The kids were happily unwrapping their tacos, and oblivious to the fact that I would have slit my own jugular to have one, when my sweet Quinny piped up with, "Hey Mama I'm really glad we turned our morning around, and that you're feeling better." To this I responded, "Me too honey. I'm sorry I got so upset. You guys know I take a lot of medications to prevent that from happening, but every now and then it creeps up on me. Again, I'm really sorry."

"Oh that's okay Mama," said Quinn seriously, "I know you have Random Fireworks Syndrome."



When I stopped laughing three hours later, I wondered if maybe "Dynamite Syndrome" wasn't slightly more accurate. After all, fireworks have a certain aesthetic that my outbursts sorely lack.

emoticons, check!

This morning I was starting a list of things to discuss with my psychiatrist later, and the first thing I jotted down was that I didn't get my labs done. I instinctively put a frowny face next to this, for I am chagrined to have forgotten. The funny part, though, is that I put the frown sideways, the way it appears when one is typing. I think I may need to talk to him about my excessive computer use as well. :)

my purse: take 2

Seriously, I wouldn't usually post a repeat, but the disbelief I feel when itemizing the guts of my purse is so overwhelming I just need other mamas to come forth to either A) exonerate me, or B) corroborate that I have a disease... Please someone, say something.

3 new packs of Wet Ones
bottle of Tylenol
bottle of Excedrin
bottle for overnights
bottle of Xanax (you can't say you're surprised)
same old wallet
same new wallet
a book (not sayin' which, but I hate Middlesex!)
phone
sunglasses
4 pens
2 new packs of gum
bag of 5 new lip balms (yes, all the same flavor)
2 lb. bag of cashews
ridiculously dyke-ish carabiner full o'keys
B's simple and elegant keys
a mutilated but usable Morningstar Farms coupon
6 bobby pins
30-odd business cards
spare buttons to unknown garment
Ziploc baggie of Kleenex (hard day)
3 Netflix envelopes
Strunk & White's Elements of Style (so I can correct everyone's speech!)

What is wrong with me? (Please form orderly single-file line to answer that. Everyone will get his/her turn.)

this spud's for you

I have famously opined that potato bugs are so ugly they will make you cry. Inexplicably, this fact came up in Quinn's therapy appointment today, and I declared, with great gusto and authority, that these insect-like demons are too awful to behold. Anthony, the therapist, looked at me with the same quizzical expression I've seen on the faces of so many native Oregonians. The reason being that Oregonians call sow bugs "potato bugs," for some mind-boggling reason, and as such, they are forever wanting to defend their endearing roly poly little critters against my vehement slander.

But a potato bug is another story my friends. The last time I saw one I was about six, and my older brother found one in the yard. It was all nestled into a hole, on its back, and when we peered at at, the gruesome fucking thing reared its head and screamed, and by God, it had its eyes trained on us! I am not kidding. So abhorrent are these beasts that even though I have often wondered if my childhood memory bore any resemblance to reality, I have refused to look them up. For 24 years. Until today. After it came up in the session, Quinn's interest was piqued and he felt a great need to see one, so I cleverly convinced myself that doing so would be our science for the day (hooray Mom!). I literally trembled as I typed the words into Google, and I quickly prayed to die as I hit go. And there they were. A whole page of these monsters, all ready to hiss, curse, and look at us. Naturally I felt them crawling all over me, and Quinn too shuddered from head to toe. But we looked. We were brave. And now we want to share them with you, if you think you can stand it. I do have to qualify this by saying that they are 1,000% uglier, meatier, and crunchier in person, when they are screeching obscenities at you. But at least this way you're safe. Can you dig it? Potato bug. Sow Bug.

good-bye, ruby tuesday...check

Sometimes even a serial over-scheduler outdoes herself, and today is one of those days. I say is because, well, there are many ways in which to interpret 'is,' as we learned from President Clinton, but I used it because my days is still in progress. My Tuesday looks like this.:

Wake up early and not resent everything

Clean my house, including hanging 4,500 of my wet garments so they don't shrink.

Get kids up and ready without yelling.

Post a blog for Gail.

Answer four urgent emails, despite running late.

Straighten my hair (talk about tedium).

Drop the kids off with my mom, after mediating the fight over the BACK SEAT!?!?!?!

Go to the dentist for a cleaning; force them to reiterate how beautiful my teeth are.

Pick up my gym clothes.

Buy .7 cents worth of son-of-a-bitchin' gas.

Hit Old Navy in search of more of a certain kind of elusive socks for Quinn.

Drop in to B's to rifle around for some grub.

Rendezvous with my FANTABULOUS psychiatrist; confirm that I am still crazy.

Return to B's to wait for (K).

Write this blog.

Have dinner with (K), and hopefully drinks.

Have tea with Megan at Starbucks, DON'T FORGET MORE COFFEE GROUNDS for B's garden.

Drop off B's dad's birthday gift in NE Salem.

Hit the gym with B, work our guts out.

Drive B home.

Call Todd to tell him to let the kids stay up so they remember who I am.

Come home and kiss them until they push me away.

Read chapters 3 and 4 to them.

By then it will be sunrise and we'll have Wednesday's list to contend with.

i might rather pour honey on my head

Late at night I become susceptible to a sort of ethereal reasoning and say and do things that feel monumentally wise at the time, and then in the morning I want to slit my throat.

Tonight, I'm copping to the fact that I hate the Gilbert House. That's right, I hate it. I know my crunch factor just dropped by ten thousand recycled hemp points, and I don't even care. I know I'm supposed to dress my kids in uncoordinating Hanna Andersson sweat suits until they are fifteen, and encourage them to memorize every exhibit, if not create some of them, and I know I ought to spend every sunny day there. But I just can't. Because I hate it. I'll try to restrict my explanation, as I've already hogged most of cyberspace tonight, but okay, I can't handle not being able to see my kids for thirty minutes at a time. Nor am I fond of them disappearing into some labyrinth of broken necks, into which I could not fit if I tried, and would therefore fail at rescuing them. (If you're wondering if know I'm crazy, I do, and I take a lot of pills, but I can't shake the pervasive safety phobia.)

Fortunately for my kids, we have a lot of friends who guilt me into going, paying little mind to my delicate mental state. The kids instantly enter that cage/maze/chamber, and are not be seen for half an hour, when they emerge asking for hot dogs, another fear of mine. So we go, and they run, which is wonderful, and they visit the exhibits and punch and choke each other in the shadow room, and I try to get a colorful educational vibe rather than a dank desperate vibe. I know one mom who agrees with me, and she had BETTER come forth in unity, for I fear after this gets posted, she may be my only friend left.

I don't want to get too detailed about why I'm uncomfortable there, because 40% of my friends either built it, or run it, or consider it a member of their family, and I'm not aiming to hurt anyone. But it's specifically configured to choke and/or hide your child(ren). I always want to take everyone into the baby room and sit safely amongst the shape sorters, but nine year olds are prohibited, and they get pissed when you try to hold them there. They want to be slopping around in that sticky bubble bullshit, or assembling people's garbage into crafts that must be brought home and cherished forever. I just can't take it. But, I'm a mom, first and foremost, and I shan't deny my kids these liberties just because I'm scaredy cat with ocd. So, if you're not busy setting fire to my house for this act of treason, and you happen to be headed to AC Gilbert's soon, and everyone else on your list turned you down, and you hate me, go ahead and call me. We'll probably come.

no country for sissies

B and I are on a little movie kick these days, and last night we selected No Country For Old Men. Critics gave it an A, and the film and its crew were showered with Academy Awards the other night. Plus, Tommy Lee Jones is really cute, so how cold we miss?

Within eight seconds of our arrival, my blood was running cold. Set against the backdrop of the dreariest old western landscape, Josh Brolin was making one gruesome discovery after another. Soon he made the fateful mistake of absconding with two million dollars he liberated from a rotting carcass, and the hunt began.

Enter the creepiest m-f-ing villain you have ever laid your tender eyes upon. Dark and silent, tall and relentless, with eyes can that could turn you to stone. Or at least make you cry. Granted I am prone to some exaggeration at times, but this man was so sinister I wanted to leave the theater. His gaze bore a hole straight through my heart, and I literally trembled throughout the entire movie. As crazy as it sounds, his face was not his most frightening feature, nor was his modified oxygen tank murder weapon. It was his hair. When a fraction of my terror subsided a bit, I was commenting to myself that his medieval pageboy was really the source of my fear, and that's when Brandy leaned over and whispered, "What's up with that Prince Valiant hairdo?" It was the only smile I was afforded the entire night.

So grim guy tracks dumb luck guy, in search of the money, and our audience was breathless for two hours. This pursuit was so chilling, so hopeless, and so so bloody, no one made a peep. You could actually hear my nails tearing the flesh of B's arm.

Spoiling the ending isn't really a problem here, because A) the Coen brothers spoil their own endings, and B) this post is about Javier Bardem being the most ominous son of a bitch in the history of my cinematic life. So disturbing is he that I refused to believe, when Sam told me, that he actually had a name. That he could have an actual mother, or worse, that he is walking around somewhere. I think he should be imprisoned just for looking like that.

After dropping B off and managing to make it home without him popping up in my back seat, I immediately Googled him to see if he was in fact human. Surprisingly, he is, and does have a mother, and even smiles! This latter fact was the only reason I got any sleep last night at all.

So, do I recommend the movie? Um...yes, if you like to lose control of your bowels, no if you require satisfying endings.

But I consider it a badge of honor to have survived. B, sorry I mutilated your arm. Go heavy on the Neosporin!

death by dexter

For anyone who has emerged from their cave after I did, and has yet to discover Showtime's critically acclaimed drama Dexter, I am here to laud its genius from the rooftop. Except, I am actually under my bed, shaking uncontrollably, with images from this brilliant show flashing through my mind, and I have no idea when I will be able to come out. You see, embedded into the series' wickedly smart plotline are ghastly crime scenes, which render me almost catatonic for days and days. Each time I watch an episode, and then spend the night rocking in the fetal position, I vow never to watch again. This resolve lasts until daybreak, when I become so preoccupied with the storyline that I find myself back at Blockbuster, shelling out four dollars to scare the (beep) out of myself yet again.

It began innocently enough. Brandy, Adam and I were looking for a new series to watch, as Big Love failed to win us over, and all of our friends were raving about Dexter. We were told, correctly, that he is a blood spatter expert who is also a serial killer. And we were told it was pretty graphic. I'm rather sensitive when it comes to grisly murder scenes, being that I wrestle with a vast array of phobias, but this wasn't always the case. I was heavy into true crime back in the day, devouring every Ann Rule book ever written. I even considered forensics as a career after visiting the Oregon Crime Lab in high school, and being fascinated by the severed hands in plastic bags, and how they linked the perpetrator to his crime. But halfway through my first pregnancy, I became pathologically averse to all things macabre and beyond. I theorize that my maternal instinct kicked in, and tried to insulate my baby from the unconscionable atrocities running rampant in the world. I then had another baby, and became completely unable to stomach any gore (except Al Gore in 2000).

This makes Dexter a dicey little dilemma. The tautness of the story is enthralling, but when I watch it, it's all I can do not to pee my pants. I've lost hours of sleep revisiting his crime scenes and murderous pasttime, only to find myself tingling in anticipation of the next episode. Last night I bravely endured the horror for two solid hours, and then spent the next four trying to find a happy place so I could get some sleep. Making matters worse is the fact that the storyline has just taken a hair-raising twist and I will think of nothing else until I can watch more. On the other hand, the sun is starting to set, and palpitations are starting. The ones borne of my fear of this show. I'm so afraid I'm going to pick up the next disc tonight, binding myself to another four-episode minimum commitment. My co-viewers aren't fazed by the barrage of severed parts, nor by the copious amounts of blood, so I suspect I will just have to be big and soldier on. So please don't judge if you see me sucking my thumb, or dragging a blanky around. And whatever you do, don't spoil the ending!

if it weren't for this imp in my mind...

For those of you who have been thoughtful enough to inquire as to my recent reclusion, I thought the decent thing to do would be to explain. And, against my better judgment, I've decided to be honest.

As most of you know, my Goliath takes the form of manic depression, better known as bipolar disorder (which I am averse to calling it), and by golly if I didn't hit the skids in a major way a few weeks ago. Mind you, I am in the care of extremely capable doctors, the most stellar friends and family, and have been getting successful treatment for a couple years, but lo and behold that relentless bastard depression can still emerge from the recesses and grab ahold when you're not looking, even when you're doing everything right. So that is what has happened, and that is my blanket reason (note I don't use the word excuse) for everything I've said/not said/done/not done for the past, let's say, month.

To say that I'm a very busy person is a gross understatement, and pretty much every extreme tale of my burning the candle at both ends is true, only in my case, it's a stick of dynamite, so give yourself a bit of clearance. I am fortunate enough not to experience a backslide into depression but maybe two times a year, but as those of you with any history can attest, every moment spans a black eternity, and nary a second is to be minimized. I don't usually notice I'm wobbling until I start sleeping in and/or friends call to ask why I'm not out and about as much. But I never think to say that I must be backsliding. Because in my mind, in my decidedly compromised state, what has really happened is that all my friends, even the very ones who are calling, have finally abandoned me, alone and naked, shivering in the cold of my sudden confused bleakness. I question their motives, their sincerity, their ability to help, even as I wish I could enjoy their company, as I know I so often have. I am blessed with many friends, all of whom have proven themselves to be the truest of the true, with Brandy at the helm, tirelessly championing me to success in so many realms I can't even say, but when the dynamite blows, I find myself literally rocking in the corner wondering how it is I have lived thirty years on earth having never made a friend. Even in acute moments, or "episodes," as we call them, I am intellectually aware that I have friends, but emotionally, I don't feel any more connected to them than I do to the man on the street. What's worse, I shroud myself in guilt over burdening these gems, my friends, yet again, with my irrational and sometimes hurtful behavior, and am thusly even more inclined to avoid them. And yet they continue to reach out to me, to bring me coffees, to listen to me whine incessantly, and issue me so many free passes on everything from missed dates to criminally poor conduct all around. I'm telling you people, were it not for these friends...(getting teary)

So that's where I've been. Around the block. The block. As I traversed this harrowing landscape (read: scraped along), I was also transitioning my seven and nine year olds from our very overflowing family bed into bunk beds in their own room (can I get an AMEN?!?), which has definitely been one for the Fitzpatrick Family Follies in every possible sense. I have also recently conceded to the fact that denial is not an effective treatment for endometriosis, and have been forced to put that on the front burner, along with, once again, my children's education, joining the gym, and surrendering my mind to the fact that my house will never be clean enough. Period. Did I mention that in the interim I literally worried away my stomach lining and Sam had to take me to the ER for esophagitis, resulting in my giving up coffee (HELL-O caffeine withdrawal!)? So needless to say I'm a skoch behind on my prize-winningly absurd/obsessive/grandiose new years resolutions.

But I'm officially on the mend, and will resume running myself ragged in no time. I intend to cash in on all your offers of coffee, tea, knitting, movies, and anything else I can squeeze out of you suckers before you all get wise. :) See you soon.