Now is Most Definitely the Time to PANIC

I'm thinking of suing all local and national "news" organizations. I've long been appalled by the litigious nature of our society but I fear I need to get on board because I have developed Persistent Anxiety News Induced Condition (P.A.N.I.C.). This is a new disease that I made up but I think I can make a strong case for my worsening state of hysteria being totally the fault of our 24/7 news cycle.

It wasn't bad enough that we've been in the midst of breathless and idiot "news" reporting on the Presidential campaign for the past 11 gazillion months (or so it feels). That alone had me wanting to alternately vomit or punch people in the face. Now, those of us on the East Coast have been subjected to nonstop coverage of the impending hurricane/frankenstorm/most-catastrophic-weather-event-of-our-time since about Thursday night.

First for the Presidential campaign coverage. I don't help myself in this at all as I am semi-addicted to the debates but seriously, when did all news organizations based in this country--possibly with the exception of The Atlantic and NPR--when did they all lose their minds? Gone are the days of actual thoughtful, intelligent reporting in favor of sound bites, mudslinging, and obnoxiously biased opinion pieces instead of actually covering anything of substance. When did sound bites become more important than actual ideas, policy, or action? What's even more disturbing is that sound bites are becoming shorter and shorter. I can't tell which came first: our ridiculously short attention spans or "news" agencies acting as if people can't pay attention to something that takes more than 9 seconds to explain.

The best thing I can think of to explain this phenomenon was the recent, aptly phrased but mistaken close caption of a journalist bemoaning the horrors of the "24/7 noose cycle;" I had the good fortune to view this a few weeks ago at the gym and almost fell off the elliptical in bouts of hysterical laughter. Noose cycle in that actual reporters who want to do something other than hype nonsense hang themselves out to dry and noose cycle in that the lack of truthful, well thought out reporting leaves us high and dry when we actually try to understand what is happening in our world.

Why the relative absence of real journalists is especially dangerous now is the overabundance of insanely biased, untruthful, and nauseating political ads that we can all thank Citizens United v. FEC for being especially heinous of late. A person could get whiplash from the whimsy of the sadistic TV ad programmer who decides to put the panicked ads for a candidate/issue back-to-back with even more panicked ads against a candidate/issue. If it weren't for sites like Project Smart Vote, voters would be left wandering the morass of lies and half-truths bogging down our political processes and be prone to choosing via the tried and true eeny-meeny-miney-mo method.

This news reporting has me heartily annoyed and eschewing most TV viewing but what has really put me over the top and pushed me over the edge is the coverage of Hurricane Sandy. I would already be totally nervous about this storm without the apocalyptic reporting on it as 1) I am a highly anxious individual, 2) the structural integrity of my roof is questionable, and 3) I spent the last major hurricane bailing out my sump pump for 8 hours whilst wearing an air cast and a headlamp (see This Boot Ain't Made for Running for the harrowing tale of how I spent Hurricane Irene).

Combine those three things with the way that local and national news has been covering Sandy and you'll see why I'm suffering from a serious case of P.A.N.I.C. and should immediately sue all news organizations and use the funds to build a hurricane proof house with multiple backup sump pumps and a roof to stand the test of time. Symptoms of P.A.N.I.C. include but are not limited to:

• holding actual conversations with your sump pump begging it to keep working
• running from floor to floor of your house to check to see if roof leaking or basement flooding
• increasing bourbon consumption to make it through an entire news program
• trying to reason with your dog about the length of the storm and the necessity of his pooping
• contemplating teaching your dog to use a toilet
• staring nervously outside of your window with an increasing sense of doom
• hiding the remote controls so that you are not tempted to give into continuous news reporting on the storm
• thinking about building a house-sized tarp and/or ark
• planning on leaving all material objects behind, taking dog, and moving to place free of weather related drama (although you have no idea where that may be as where there's not hurricanes, there are tornadoes, earthquakes, blizzards, etc.)

Now that I've gotten this rant out, I better go check on my sump pump and roof and heat up some food before I lose all power for the next 80 days and have to defend my store of granola and bottled water with my trusty Red Rider. As my better angels tell me to Keep Calm and Carry On, I wish you all safety, strength, dry socks, a faithful and flatulent-free furry friend to cuddle with, and a well-stocked bar.

Senior Dropouts

My mom just pulled my dad out of day care. That is a sentence I never thought I'd write but it's true. Not because I didn't think she'd yank him out at some point but more just because it's totally weird to be talking matter-of-factly about my dad being in day care.

It was only two days a week but for those two days we knew that he was not falling asleep in his recliner. We knew that he did multiple types of activities and was fed both breakfast and lunch. We don't really know if he liked it because the damn Alzheimer's makes those types of conversations impossible as he says everything is great no matter what you're talking about but can never give any details about what happened that day. But it was two days of non-sedentary action and interaction with other people.

The bus would pick him up in the morning and bring him back in the afternoon. I always wondered about that, about what that bus ride was like. When my mom would walk him down the driveway to meet the bus in the morning, a lot of times he would try to help her onto the bus too and would get a little confused when she didn't join him. She said it was really difficult to do and too difficult to get him up in the mornings and that it took too much out of her to keep this up. Sigh.

But up until this week, I imagined that this bus full of "active seniors" turned into some type of field trip where the seniors started acting like kids on a school bus. The troublemakers would be at the back of the bus, sticking gum under the seats and using curse words. I can't see my dad as a troublemaker at all but I can see him and his seatmate playing one of those stupid car games that are great on road trip. You know, like the license plate one or I Spy. Maybe my dad would check out some of the ladies; he has always been a boob man and I can easily see him trying to cop a feel or at least joking with his friend about the rack on the "girl" a few seats in front of them. I see the bus driver and their helper playing the role of chaperon and tortured school bus driver who keep yelling at those damn kids to shut up and sit down!

Or if it didn't get that raucous, I could easily see it turning into a singalong. My dad still loves to sing and really hams it up in more dramatic moments in a song. Anyway, so they'd get there and then I'm not sure exactly what happens. I know that once they had a luau and my dad had to wear a Hawaiian shirt. I bet on other days they did some sort of chair exercises and maybe a craft. Like summer camp for adults. And I liked the idea that him and his sister weren't too far apart, even though I knew they didn't combine the residents with the day care folks. I can just see them though at their luau, joking and probably eventually trying to get people to join them in a verse or two of "Harvest Moon."

I really don't think the problem with day care was that it was too much for my mom to get him out the door, although I can certainly see that played a part as when he is determined to sleep it is very difficult to get him to agree to do anything besides napping. But I think the main problem is that she can't be away from him. It might seem sweet but its always seemed a bit too extreme for me. I guess because I've always been single but it just seems like way too much togetherness. My ideal husband/boyfriend would live in the house next to me or even better, we would have a hugeass house and live in separate wings so we could have sufficient alone time.

Also, my mom has never been a "joiner" and when my dad retired 23 years ago, I think she became convinced that they should never ever be apart. Dad, on the other hand, used to be a "joiner." He joined the choir, a wood carving class, a cake decorating class, a group that prepared food for the homeless, tried his hand at writing children's book, and plenty of other things. She was less than thrilled at all these activities he did without her but she didn't want to join in. After a while, he dropped pretty much everything except the wood carving.

I know that when my mom is apart from my dad she worries about him and the fact that he can't really tell us about anything he did at day care when he gets back makes her think it's not worth it. I'm trying not to judge her decision too harshly as there's nothing I can really do to convince her otherwise and honestly I can't imagine what she's going through because although this hurts me too, I don't spend every moment with him.

Sometimes she drives me up the wall, with her weekly to monthly proclamations that she is moving to Montana, or telling people that we turned off her water and made her go down to the river with a bucket, or locking me out, or calling me at work with an emergency that turns out to be that they are almost out of hominy. But the truth is, I love that little nut. So I'm going to tamp down the "tough love" part of me that wants to march right over there and tell her to put on her big girl pants and let him spend time away from her. Instead, I'll take a breath, eat some Cinnamon Life cereal (along with Cap'n Crunch, it is my go to dinner when life seems chock full of suck), and plan a vigorous session of chair exercises when I spend Monday with the 'rents.

This is all far heavier than I normally like to post but it's what's in me tonight. Just be glad I didn't get into the fact that my parents still have a book called "Sex in the Great Outdoors" that for some reason persistently ends up displayed rather prominently in their living room. I guess it's not for nothing that there's six of us kids. Gah! Ok, now I want to poke my eyes out which is a sign that I need to call it a night.

There May Be Hope After All...At Least in Terms of Me Not Becoming Toothless in the Next Year

Admit it, you've had a hard time sleeping at nights because you're now worried about me grinding my teeth into nubs because of a thankless, demanding, bureaucratic job. Or at least you might have been mildly concerned about my dental health and stress levels if you read my post, Work Bites. Well, worry no more, my friends. Although my job is undoubtedly contributing to me aging before my time and sinking my health down the drain, my boss is admirably trying to reverse the ill effects of work on my teeth. What did I find on my desk today...

That's right, after she makes me an inspiring award for Best Dental Hygiene Ever, she gets me a life, or at least teeth saving device to save my remaining and dulled teeth.

This is not the only thing she has done to help improve my health and retain what little of my sanity is left. When I was sick, she actually made and brought me an enormous buttload of chicken and rice soup. It could have fed a family of four and it kept me well-stocked throughout a long and hideous cold/Mongolian deathflu. I don't think I've ever had a boss this kind. I consistently find that the people I get to work with and my immediate supervisors are the best thing about my job and one of the reasons when I keep going back in there despite the fact that my higher leadership often has me wondering if this isn't really a job, but a psychological experiment to see how much humans can take before they crack.

Alright, that is all. I need to get back to my gluttonous viewing of the debate. With the advent of Twitter and the presence of bourbon in my house, the debates are far too entertaining. Godspeed, good viewing, and don't forget to floss.

The Write Stuff

I have this gnawing feeling in my stomach that my book is complete crap. This feeling is likely responsible for my procrastination in actually finishing the thing; well, that along with my basic slothful nature. I've got more than 71,000 words and when I open it up to finish and just get 'er done, I think of something else I need to do. Like dusting. Or Words With Friends. Or working late and coming home with a lowered IQ and eyes that would rather be plucked out of my skull than look at a computer screen for another second.

The thing is, I've been writing all my life. I've never really worried about whether it was good or bad, whether or not I could actually make any money at this and support myself and my dog's growing sweet potato treat habit. When I was looking through some of my stuff for old pictures a while ago, I found some of my incredibly strange writing from grade school. Sweet Mother of Pearl, I was a weird kid!

Some of the poetry is totally nuts - there's a lot in there about sea monkeys, angry ducks, the school band sounding like cats being run over by psychotic lawnmowers, and a tirade against school pictures. There's short stories about other planets with currency based on music, a Wild West where Paul McCartney stops in for a guest appearance, and a slew of bumper stickers about barnyard animals. And this was long before I discovered alcohol! By the time I got to high school, there was no stopping me. I made up songs (again about sea monkeys, don't ask me why I was seemingly obsessed), wrote bizarre and what I thought to be hilarious skits for every Year Day, and    stories in Spanish about my love of Paul McCartney and fear of quicksand (which is why I learned to say, "Ayudame! He caido en la arena movedizza!)

I miss my weirdness. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a weirdo at heart. But I'm more wary of letting my freak flag fly. I'm ground down by being a cog in the overwhelming bureaucratic machine and it has sapped my creativity, courage, and my weirdness. In the dark places I often dare not tread, I'm afraid that whatever bizarre creative spark I had is gone. That everything I'm writing has already been written. That I'll not be able to pull together enough strength to actually finish this book and that even if I do, and I pour my heart and soul into it, and then people won't like it.

There are people out there who go about their lives seeming to pay nary a thought to others' opinions. They do what they do for themselves and if someone else doesn't like it, well to quote my irascible mother, they can sh*t in their hats and pull it over their ears (I'm not sure when she started saying this or why, but there was a 6 months period when I'm pretty sure she leveled that threat at everyone who crossed her path. I've tried to convince her that this is not a legitimate saying or popular expression but she will not be deterred).

Sadly I'm not one of those people. I've found a few of the things I've written freelance posted to my client's site and I can't stop myself from looking to see what people thought of it and wincing if they didn't dig it. I try not to look at the amount of site visits, followers, or comments I get on this blog but I never really succeed. As soon as I post something I go to see if anyone reads it, likes it, comments, etc. When one of my dating stories got accepted by the site, My Very Worst Date, I was horrified when some people didn't like the story or thought I was "uptight" when I didn't want to continue to date a guy who said I should euthanize my dog so I can go out more (see Anger Management for more on that doozy of a date).

This is the problem when you write about your own life. If someone doesn't like what you're writing or thinks that it's complete crap, it kinda seems like they think you're crap too. It's tough to put yourself out there. The excitement that I first had when I started my book began to wane when I started doubting myself. When I tried to reign in my thoughts and tame them so they'd be more acceptable or something. I need to get back to that dorky weirdo who ate far too many cheetos and thought up fantastic and wild ideas without stopping to think, what if no one likes it. The one who didn't think that because it didn't matter if no one else liked it or people thought she was weird. She knew she was weird and loved every minute of it.

Taking a page from a friend who has decided that this will be the Year of Awesome and she will be better with what a yoga teacher refers to as "tough self-love," I will try to embrace my weirdness, revel in it, and let go more than hold back. I'll try to let it inspire me to be brave enough to finish this book and see what happens next. And in the meantime I'll laugh my ass off re-reading the crazy crap that once effortlessly flowed from my pen.

Work Bites

I had the best time at the dentist's office today. Wait, stop. That can't be right...but it's true, I had the best time at the dentist's office. And not just because I got to leave work for the day to go to my appointment. But more on that later.

Why, you may ask, was it such a good visit? Well, I met the most fascinating dental hygienist ever. Before those of you who are my relatives get excited that this was a single man who will now sweep me off my feet (which would be easy because I was already off my feet, laying back in that reclining dental chair), think again. This hygienist was one of the funniest women I have ever met. She had me laughing almost the whole time which did make the cleaning a little tricky.

But she was mainly fascinating as she had only recently become a hygienist. Before then she worked building movie sets. She said it was super hectic and stressful and she was always traveling and wanted to be in one place for a while, so that's why she chose her new job. And before she built movie sets, she worked with Ringling Bros. Circus. Seriously.

Around the age of 30 she decided to go to school to become a dental hygienist. She said all the other students were like 19 years old, had never been outside of Western Maryland, and were planning on marrying immediately after dental school and pretty much staying in the same town forever. They were intrigued by her stories as she had been to so many places. On a trip to Pittsburgh, these youngsters were enthralled by "the big city" but said they just wanted to settle down and marry their boyfriends, most of whom they'd been dating since the 3rd grade and at least a few of whom were almost certainly making meth in their basements.

Although all the students got along, they just couldn't understand that Jean* had absolutely no intention of getting married and having kids. She wasn't anti-marriage or anti-kid, she just said she liked to sleep late and to travel and that she didn't want to be so-and-so's mom; she wanted to be herself. I admire her boldness. It's not that there still isn't some part of me that hopes that I'll still meet a guy who isn't a duke of douchebaggery and maybe have a kid or two. It's just that I'm becoming happier with my life as it is and not pining constantly over how I thought it should be. If I meet a decent guy, good. If I don't, that's still good.

Her career path sounded strange to me at first. How could someone go from working the circus to working movies to dental school?? I mean that just doesn't add up. But when I thought about it, it suddenly made so much sense. Jean* was hilarious, a natural storyteller/comedian, and in her new job she gets to come to work, meet lots of new people, and when those people are anxious or nervous about their visit--or even dreading the visit altogether--she gets to entertain them. How great is that? She makes them laugh when they expected to grimace. And that she had the audacity to so radically change her career, her life--that is incredibly impressive.

Now back to why I was so glad just to leave the office that I willingly ran to the dentist's office. It wasn't enough that today was the sort of day (or you could say it's been the same sort of day for like month after month) where I wanted to stab myself in the leg with a pen so I could leave the office and spend several weeks in a nice, relaxing hospital. Nooooo, I find out that work is literally destroying my health.

Alright, that may be a slight exaggeration. But as Jean* described it, I am apparently trying to eat my own head and have chewed off the porcelain on my crown from grinding my teeth constantly. She suggested that I might find a new career as someone who lifts weights by holding them between my teeth because I had an overdeveloped temporal muscle, particularly on my left side, from all the constant grinding.

Work probably isn't the only culprit in this marathon of stress that is running my teeth into the ground. I have to admit to those of you who haven't met me in real life that I have always been a tightly wound person who desperately wishes she was more laid back, so much so that she stresses out about how stressed she is. I had been trying to deal with these tendencies-o-mine through yoga, shortened commutes, exercise, volunteering and more fun time. Unfortunately, work has been insane with self-created problems, catastrophizing, and unreasonable expectations about what a human can actually accomplish in 8-11 hours a day. This means that I have missed all my yoga classes, am too tired to go to the gym more often than not, haven't volunteered at the nursing home since Charlie slipped a disc making Pets on Wheels a little trickier, oh and my commute is looking like it will soon return to a state of hellishness that I fear will drive me over the edge.

Hence, my teeth are now ground down to nubs. Ok, not nubs exactly but Jean* said I would starve if I were a vampire as I'd worn down my teeth so much.

How can I still be in a pretty decent mood and consider the dental visit a raging success? Well, because I almost peed myself laughing when I thought the dentist was referring to my vah-jay-jay when he asked "How are things downtown?" while looking at my lap. I'm pretty sure Jean* thought the same thing as we both looked horrified, surprised, and then snorted with laughter, particularly when we realized that he was referring to the Baltimore magazine resting on my knees.

And then to top off the visit, my "areas of concern" where the dentist thought they might need to do fillings on the last visit, well, this time he said that I was taking such good care of my teeth and gums that the cavities had kind of gone dormant or something and that we could hold off again and maybe even not need to do anything to them at all. I wanted some sort of award like "Best Dental Patient of the Year" and maybe a parade. Or at least a sticker. I did get the consolation prize of a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, and a follow-up visit in six months.

And then the icing on the cake that was that during that one great hour today when I wasn't a stressed out maniac, I actually went to the gym and the loudspeaker played "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" when it usually plays crapass music that makes me want to vom.

It's the little things that make me happy. Meeting an interesting person, laughing so hard I almost bit off that dental pick thingy, being praised for my excellent oral hygiene, hearing They Might Be Giants when I expected club techno music. These things seem so small but they make me smile, albeit with award winning improved teeth that are ground down to nubs.

It's the little things that can make you miserable though too. The idiotic task with no guidance and unreasonable deadlines with no explanation of what the hell is happening. Computers freezing. Inbox overflowing. Realizing that even though you've been too busy to eat anything more for lunch than a quick yogurt at your desk that you've actually gained weight. In the scheme of life, those things are quite small but it can feel like drowning by inches in quicksand while mosquitoes bite you constantly.

What's the moral of this rambling post? Well, I think it's that I need to stop letting the bad little things that don't really matter stress me out to the point where I become a toothless migraine sufferer who has to put all her food in a blender. I need to put away the scale or at least decrease the amount of times I use it and the amount of control I give it over my feelings of self-worth. And I need to cherish all the little things that make me smile, appreciate them more, and enjoy them while they're happening instead of worrying what's ahead.

And of course that I need to make myself some sort of award (or maybe a tiara!!!) to proclaim myself as the Best Dental Patient of the Year. That is the moral of today's long-winded story. The end.

*Name has been changed.

Memories and Tiaras

At work today, one of my very young coworkers was talking about how 10 weeks is "like forever." I laughed at first as the older I get, the quicker time runs away from me. Further solidifying that idea, when I got home tonight, instead of writing articles on emotional affairs or unlocking the inner goddess, I procrastinated by going through some old pictures. That's when it truly hit me how quickly things can change.

Tomorrow would have been my cousin Dave's birthday. It has been eight months since he passed away, so young and far too, too early. I don't know why but tonight I decided to procrastinate work by looking through the beautiful film that my sister compiled of pictures throughout David's life, set to music chosen by her professional sound styling coordinator (that's me).

There's a picture in there from my 30th birthday party, only five short years ago. The picture shows not only Dave who was taken from us too early, but his mom--my ineffable, highly organized and totally wonderful Aunt Maggie--who's been gone for more than two years. It also shows my spunky and original Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge of the enduring bun (when I was small, I was convinced she was born with her hair that way and that gale force winds could not ruffle or disturb it), the same woman who could do the breaststroke without disturbing her hair or her jewels, suffered a stroke and now words come so difficult, when they flowed so much easier before.

The one from the picture who remains and is mostly unchanged from that sunny and funny day is my crazy, adorable, and maddening uncle, aka Unk. In the pic, he is using Aunt Maggie's head for a coaster and I'm pretty sure the picture was snapped just before she jabbed him in the gut. My dear, complicated Unk who now alternates between sweetly calling to check up on me and to lay on the guilt about when I'm stopping by next.

Five years doesn't seem like long enough of a time for all these things to have happened but that is how life is. Rather than feeling the loss though, I'm left with a bittersweet feeling of wanting to be grateful that I am blessed with the presence of a large, loud, and loving family. I had thought by the time I was my age I'd be surrounded by a family of my own. You know, the traditional nuclear type family with 2.4 kids, a husband, and SUV filled with soccer equipment. The thing is, I am surrounded by a family of my own. True, it is different than I imagined but although I have no children of my own to emotionally scar with bizarre nicknames and crazy fairy tales, I feel lucky to live so close to and be in such close contact with my family. We are there for each other in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. And death doesn't part us, it just makes it harder for those of us left behind to see the love coming down from the angels we have lost.

So, although  I dearly miss those we have lost either from death or losing them slowly to thieving illnesses like Alzheimer's disease, I will look at those pictures and remember the good times. Remember the fact that I still have the tiara that I wore that day at my party, proclaiming my 30-ness (and that I still wear when I clean the house sometimes and once accidentally while walking Charlie). Remember the crazy amount of sangria that we had that day and how a lot of the other memories are happy but blurry. Remember all of the other times and more than remember, I'll be ready to make more memories as we go. For although there are plenty of times when I would love to staple things to various family members' heads, I have to admit that I love those crazy people and wouldn't trade them for all the world.