Piano Playing Panty Peelers

I'm warning you right here, before your read a sentence further than you have to, that I'm on day 4 without my antidepressant medication.  Needless to say, I have no idea if what comes after this warning is worth your time, whether it makes sense or if, in a week, when I'm back on the meds and a little more evened out, I may come back here and go "What. The. Complete. Fuck?"  So, you know, if you feel like maybe you just want to wander away and look at pictures of disapproving rabbits, you go right ahead.  I promise not to track down readers by their IP address when I see that they clicked off my blog within a few seconds.  Or well...I'm sure that my meds will kick in before I have the chance to track you down, and I'll think better of it of planning extensive revenge.  Probably.

Anyway, there's this book out there called 50 Shades of Grey that is supposedly all the best things about sex and romance ever.  Or at least that's what people are saying.  I don't really know, because I had never heard of it before yesterday.  Because I live under a rock, apparently.

So, the way that I was introduced to this book was through this fabulous recap on a blog by writer Jennifer Armintrout, who I also had not heard of before yesterday, but who is ridiculously funny, and who writes really well, and whose books I now want to read in entirety.  I've already read one written under her pseudonym Abigail Barnette entitled Bride of the Wolf, which if you're looking for well written, incredible sexy erotica involving a werewolf, I highly recommend it, especially since I never once had the squicky, bestiality vibe I usually get from sexualized werewolves.  Also...I'd like to take a moment to appreciate the irony that Barnette is the pseudonym, while the unlikely sounding Armintrout appears to be her real last name.

Anyway...

Apparently, 50 Shades of Grey started out as Twilight fan fiction, which is abundantly obvious, despite furious claims by fans to the contrary.  It is Edward and Bella do BDSM...badly.  I'm not someone who is a heavily into the BDSM scene, but I have been curious about it, and as I do with anything that makes me curious, I researched the shit out of BDSM, something the author of 50 Shades apparently didn't feel the need to do, since she portrays BDSM as an outcome of childhood abuse and an inappropriate teenage relationship with a pedophile.  Now, I don't doubt there are people out there who have been damaged and can only experience pleasure through BDSM, but it's not the norm in the BDSM community.  And as an adult survivor of childhood physical and sexual abuse, I can tell you that it reliving what someone did to me as a child is not even a little bit sexy, and any BDSM activity I've ever been interested in would have stopped immediately if it even for a second reminded me of being abused as a child.

Okay...all that is interesting, and the sexual politics in the story are definitely something we should all be talking about.  Are we really wanting to encourage girls to read a book where the heroine feels she has to give in to things she doesn't want to do, just to keep her partner?

But, that is not the purpose of this post.  I don't want to have that conversation right now because, frankly it's too emotionally triggering for a woman with PTSD to have while off her meds.

Anyway, this book, 50 Shades of Grey, like Twilight, have women all over the country bemoaning the fact that their husbands and boyfriends are not as awesomely romantic as these fictional characters.  Women who are deeply disappointed not to be living with the men (Christian and Edward) in these books every day.

Now, I want to talk about something that Edward and Christian have in common...they are these dark and brooding characters who are so damn sexy that all females in their immediate vicinity want to drop their panties immediately upon seeing them.  (But, Christian is not not based on Edward...no...) They are, of course, perfect examples of the male physique, and they are dark and brooding.  And they both play the piano masterfully.  Wait...what?  Somehow, it's sexy for these guys to play the piano?  I don't know where that comes from, because I know when we were kids, we always pictured the boys who took piano lessons to look like this:

Now, don't get me wrong.  I have some amazing guy friends who are probably deeply embarrassed when their moms show people the pictures in which they look exactly like this boy.  And they grew up to be pretty cute guys.  But...paragons of all things that exemplify masculine beauty do not look like this.  They just don't.  Which is why, in the Twilight movies, Edward looks like this:

And it's rumored that Christian from 50 Shades of Grey is going to look like this:

With all due respect to my nerdy male friends, who are too fucking awesome for words, this:

Does not grow into this:

I'm sorry, but it just doesn't.  And, you know what?  I'm actually glad that's the way it is.  It would be really, really fucking unfair if you got to be that incredibly hot and also you were this cool, nerdy guy who played the piano.  The cool, nerdy guys who play the piano have a lot to offer.  Guys who look like that, usually, well...they don't.  They're asses.  Because they fucking know they are hot, so why do they have to be cool, interesting guys?  They don't.  They just have to sit there and smolder and half the women in the room will have to go and change their panties.  Cool, interesting guys are that way because they have interests outside of what hair gel makes their hair look just messy enough to be hot.  They have spent their lives learning that earning romantic attention means having something to bring to the table, something that's going to make women want to talk to them rather than the guy smoldering away at the end of the bar.

But then, tonight, as I was listening to my iPod and crying like a fucking idiot (I mentioned the part where I'm not on my meds, right?) it hit me.  There are two songs that are responsible for this whole piano playing, romantic, hot guy bullshit....

Fucking Brenda Russell with her Piano In The Dark:

And fucking Lauryn Hill with her Killing Me Softly:

Those. Fucking. Bitches.  Seriously, are they trying to make women feel like their men are not panty dropping material unless they are not only accomplished men, but accomplished men who are hot and can play the piano?  Between those women and Stephanie Meyer and E.L. James, they are ruining sex lives every where.  Brenda Russell and Lauryn Hill laid the groundwork, instilling these damn songs into our collective American female psyche, and then those bitches Stephanie Meyer and E.L. James come along and cement the bullshit idea that this hot, piano playing, brooding guy is the only kind of guy who can and should have access to our wet panties.

Look, ladies....I've dated musicians.  In fact, my only serious relationships of my adult life were with musicians, and this after my musician sperm donor biodad walked out on me at age four.  (I know, I know....my psychiatrist has a field day with that one, let me tell you...)  And, in dating musicians, I've also spent a lot of time with their musician friends and, you know what?  Musicians don't make good partners, because you will always, always come second to the music, ladies.  Yeah, they may do charming shit at first and play music for you and make it seem all romantic and shit...that doesn't last.  You end up resenting the flotsam and jetsam that musicians strew around your home.  You resent the nights that they don't come home and take out the trash because they're out playing music.  You resent the fact that you have to wear headphones to read because of the incessant practicing.  When you've heard a song five hundred times, it's not romantic anymore.  It's fucking annoying.

So, even if you manage to find your, hot, brooding piano player, he isn't going to give up the piano for you...anymore than an artist is going to stop painting for you, or a writer is going to stop writing for you.  And as a sometimes writer myself, I can tell you that no matter what, the art is the first and purest love in an artist's life.  Even if they aren't playing or painting or writing because life and family and all of that gets in the way, the art is still the deepest love.  And, if they do give up the music for you, they are going to resent your ass.  It's not going to be all romance and roses anymore.

So, okay...read these books, listen to these songs.  Enjoy them.  I sure as hell do.  But, understand that these books are fantasy.  Edward Cullen doesn't exist, and not because he's a vampire, but because that person, the perfect, sexy amazing man who never annoys you or resents you or makes you want to strangle him doesn't fucking exist.  And why would you want that guy, anyway?  Look at how Bella/Ana is always so filled with shattering angst about how these gods among men are just too good for them.  Yeah, that sounds like a fun and sexy way to go through life.

At The Intersection of Crazy and Parenting

If you're familiar with Dooce, you've heard her say that because she's crazy she doesn't hear and see things the way other people do.  That someone can say something as innocuous as "Hi" and in her head, she hears something else...like, "I hate you."  Yeah, I'm like that.

And I'm like that all the time, every day.  And while I can carry on a perfectly normal conversation with you, and you will think I'm fine, but I hear something that for me, interprets to "I hate you, Laura, and also, you smell bad."  I know, I know, that it's me and not you.  I know that you think we're having a normal conversation and you have no idea that I'm dissecting every nuance of whatever it was that was said.  I'm going over and over it in my head, hearing all the ways I am just not good enough to even be sitting this close to you, let alone presuming to talk to you.

So because I'm crazy, parenting has all sorts of room to reassure myself that I am, in fact, the stupidest person who has ever lived and shouldn't even be allowed to have spiders build their webs in my corners, let alone be in charge of raising a whole other person.  For the most part, I manage to keep my crazy from impacting the midget too much.  Because I know I'm crazy, while I will obsess over whether the midget will end up in a gutter somewhere, saying "If only I had a decent mother..." I also, am pretty good at keeping those fears to myself.  Because, if I'm not careful, the midget will end up  reassuring me (ME!).  Which is not okay and is just going to lead into a whole other round of self-recrimination, that will lead to a downward spiral which will end with me sitting in a gutter...or throwing the midget into the gutter myself to prove to myself that I am, in fact, a horrible parent.

One of the most interesting (Did I say interesting?  I meant mind-blowingly idiotic.) aspects of the crazy as it relates to parenting is that if I see someone on the television doing something stupid, I immediately wonder about how his or her parents feel about it.  It's why, to this day, I can't watch Jackass or any of the stupid spin-offs spawned by it.  Every time I see them doing those stupid, disgusting things, my inner mom thinks, "Please, please, for the love of all that is good in the world, let me be dead if the midget decides to ever do that and televise it."

It also leads to me telling the midget not to do things.  A girl get bullied online in a Lifetime movie?  Clearly this calls for an hour long discussion about what to do if she's bullied online, and what will happen if I ever find out that she's been bullying someone.  And Teen Mom?  Please.  There isn't enough Xanax  in all the world to allow me to sit through that one.

Needless to say, the midget is used to being instructed not to blow up buildings or dismember people or wear dirty underwear, just depending on what we're watching.  However, I apparently offended her intelligence tonight.  We were watching a show about  BASE jumping, as I turned to her to say "Please, don't ever go BASE jumping."  She got that look that all parents of adolescent girls know and hate so well and said "Really?  Really, Mom?  You're going to tell me not to go BASE jumping?  Really?  How stupid do you think I am?"

I couldn't decide whether to smack her or laugh....kinda like most moments with a 12 year old, really.

Wherein I Whine About Being Sick

It's been a long time. I've been in hiding, both here on the blog and in my own life. I've been in pain, been anxious and depressed. I'm currently waiting to feel well enough to go and help one of my cousins with a dehoarding project. Ironic, that I'm the one trying pull myself together to help someone else clean their house when my house looks like someone dropped a small bomb in the living room.

There was a SCENE last night. In capital words with screaming and tears and accusations. We've had this weekend in the works for awhile, my cousin collects stuff in a major way...clothes, movies, crap...just tons of stuff. Shoes she doesn't and will never wear, clothes in sizes way too small that she hopes to fit one day. It's depressing. And this, from me, the queen of the messy house. My mess, though is of a life lived now...not for the someday, "if" future.

Anyway, earlier this week there was an accident...Lily, the rat terrier I've been fostering for months pushed Charlie under the car as I was coming down the hill from my aunt's house. He has a broken pelvis, but with rest he should make a complete recovery. However, it was touch and go, and because the emergency vet didn't get a great x-ray, I spent the weekend thinking I was going to have put Charlie to sleep. It was so scary and awful. Charlie is my baby, my boy...my best friend (well, after the Archeaogoddess, of course). He got me through the break up with the EG. He's the one who is there at night when I'm hurting, when I'm up all night testing the midget's blood sugar, when I have a panic attack and can't find my pills. I love him, and the thought of losing him was killing me.

So, as I've mentioned before stress makes everything worse. Stress causes major flares. I've been flaring all week, and then on Thursday night, the midget had soaring blood sugars that wouldn't correct (fucking adolescent hormones collide with fucking diabetes) and I was up all night...so by Friday morning, I was done in. I slept nearly all day. I was supposed to do my grocery shopping for the meals for this dehoarding weekend, but since I couldn't hardly walk to my bathroom, grocery shopping was out.

So, that led to yesterday, which was nearly as bad as Friday. I was in agony (oh and did I mention the part where my doctor took two days too long to refill my pain meds, so I spent a day in narcotic withdrawal this week, too) and exhausted, but I finally dragged my ass out of the house at around 2 in the afternoon and headed to the grocery store and did not only my shopping, but shopping for the cousin we are dehoarding as well. I had sent a note to my other cousin and my sister-in-law who were coming to help dehoard telling them that they'd better not back out, and I can't say that it was a nice note. I'm not in a good place, and I panicked because I thought that they weren't going to show up, and I've felt so responsible for the one cousin for so long, and I just can't take it anymore. I'm not making it on my own, and feeling responsible for someone besides the midget is wearing on me.

So, of course, the fact that I made a big fuss and then wasn't able to come through didn't go over well. I walked in to a very hostile situation. My cousin was furious that I hadn't made it there earlier, that I didn't call all day and let her know that I wasn't going to be there until then. (Not the cousin we're trying to dehoard, but the other one.) She called me a liar, said I wasn't sick, that I just chose to flake, that I could never be counted on, that I take advantage of everyone.

I flipped. I told her she was a selfish bitch who takes advantage of her sister, and only cares about herself and that I was done. I wanted to leave. I was hysterical at that point. It was an echo of everything that the EG had said to me. It's my constant fear...that people think I'm making this up, that I'm choosing to stay in bed, choosing to not do all the things I want to do.

And then I wonder, how the hell can anyone think that. I was always a flaky bitch, it's true...but I was a flaky bitch who did stuff. I hiked and camped and went on road trips and cleaned my house and went out for dinner with friends. And I'd sell my soul to be that girl again. It kills me when I have to cancel on something because my body defies me. I'm so tired...and it's not the good tired of knowing you've accomplished something. It's an exhaustion that is painful. Breathing takes effort. Typing hurts...not just my joints, but the tips of my fingers, my skin actually hurts.

My sister-in-law made me stay, insisted we all talk it out. And we did, for an hour...but I don't think I made any headway making it clear that I'm sick. That Lupus is real...that I don't choose to stay in bed, that I don't choose to give up everything that matters in my life. There were lots of tears and accusations.

Following, as it did, on this hell of a week, needless to say it didn't help the flare. I'm beyond useless today. The pain pills aren't touching the pain today. I want to scream and cry and I'm holding it together for the midget's sake. I'm contemplating a trip to the ER for a pain shot, but I am terrified to ask anyone for a ride. I can't bear to hear again how I let them down, how I let everyone down all the time, and that even this is just to make people believe me.

And it's stupid. My doctors verify that I'm sick. I know I'm sick, but it took so long to get anyone to believe me that I'm still scared that I'm just crazy, that it's all in my head. This is what chronic illness is, this is what invisible diseases do. I want to wear a sign that says I have Lupus, and Fibromyalgia and RA and no thyroid, and bipolar disorder and panic disorder and it causes me extreme pain and fatigue and a million other symptoms. And the worst part of it...the very worst thing is that I'm never going to get better. I mean, hopefully someday I'll have some sort of remission, or I'll find the right cocktail of drugs to get my symptoms under control, but I'm not ever going to be healed, it will always be a part of me, and looking into the future 30, 40, 50 years down the road and knowing that it'll always be this way...that alone is enough to make me want to burrow down into the bed and never come out...but I do.

Anytime I have any strength I do get out of bed, and I do what I can. I try to live my life the best I can in the gaps between the bad days, the bad weeks, the bad months. I hate that I can't be a good friend, a good cousin, a good mom. I want to apologize for myself all the time, to apologize for the disease, and then I feel like, I'm the sick one, shouldn't someone apologize to me, shouldn't someone come and help me?

I hate being sick, I really fucking hate being sick.

Blog for Mental Health Day.

I logged into Twitter today to see so many of my Twitter peeps (Yes, I have peeps...and no, I don't care what you say, I'm not too white to have peeps or say that I have peeps) linking to blog posts about mental health. Apparently, today is blogging for mental health day. Thank God for the Twitter, or I'd never have any fucking idea what day it is.

I found this oddly appropriate as I'm desperately trying to hold off an imminent panic attack, and as it turns out, since I only take my atavan when I'm having a panic attack, I didn't know I was out of them. So...no calming drugs for me, and I have to get through this one on my own. It's not the end of the world, I've done it before, many, many times. But expecting to be able to reach for relief only to find it's not there is disconcerting to say the least.

I've talked before about my bipolar disorder, how the highs make me chatty, keep me up, can aggravate me or turn me into someone who snaps over every little thing, and the lows keep me locked into myself, too sad, too miserable to talk about it. It sucks and I hate it...but given a choice, I'd take bipolar over the anxiety disorder any fucking day of the week.

Anxiety disorder makes me...well, it makes me anxious..but it's so much more. I feel like I can't breathe, my clothes, my skin are too tight, and are suffocating me. My heart pounds, my brain (never really all that slow or rational to begin with) races at lightening speeds with every paranoid thought you can imagine. I've seen numerous therapists and a couple of shrinks, and the general consensus seems to be that the anxiety is a holdover from a childhood so awful that I spend everyday in a state of anxiety, and, as it turns out, these responses become habituated in your brain chemistry, so now...even though I haven't had the cause for the anxiety in over 20 years, even though the main perpetrator in my childhood nightmare is dead and buried, I still get these bursts of panic.

I've tried everything...meditation, exercise, biofeedback, medication...nothing works. Nothing has managed to put a stop to the panic attacks. I take a medication that makes me so that I'm not so anxious I can't leave my house most of the time, but for these burst of adrenalin that kick off the panic? Nothing works because there isn't a pattern or a trigger (though sometimes thinking too much a panic attack can induce one). Most of my panic attacks occur in the middle of the night. I'm either suffering from insomnia and find myself freaking out...or, far worse, I wake up from a dead sleep in the grips of a panic attack. In those moments, the only thing that helps is the atavan. Otherwise, I doom myself to an hour or more of panic...and it sucks, my friends.

By far, the worst panic attacks are the ones that happen in front of other people. My brain just plays the same thought over and over..."What will people think of me?" I've avoided large gatherings for years just to avoid the chance that it might happen in front of other people. Because, I'm already the crazy one...how bad would it be to be even crazier? Even though the people I'm usually around are family or beloved friends, the idea that they would see me that way? Terrifying. Worse still? That those I love would know just how screwed up I am. Used to be I only talked about this with the exgirlfriend...and occasionally my beloved Archaeogoddess.

In recent years I've been trying to be more open...talking about it here, making jokes about it, because that's how I handle things. And, frankly, the fear monster doesn't seem so bad if you can laugh at it.

I know how hard it is for me to talk about, and I'm one of those people who has no problems discussing just about anything else. Pelvic exam post, anyone? So, if it's hard for me? How much harder for other people...you know, people who have filters?

It's time we take the stigma off of mental health. Just like with my Fibro, Grave's and various other illnesses, I didn't ask for this. I didn't make my brain betray me in the worst possible ways. It's time that we stop looking the other way when people we love are in trouble because we don't want to embarrass them. And it's time for us to stop being so damn uncomfortable with mental illness that we write off friends and loved ones who self-medicate as attention seeking addicts. Mental illness affects not just the one who's sick...it affects everyone around me. And pretending like it doesn't can lead to tragedy.

I'm blogging for mental health today. How about you?



And for the record...that panic attack I was talking about? Just writing about it helped so much...maybe I'll try to remember that the next time I wake up feeling like I'm going to crawl out of my skin.

I'm Late, I'm Late...

For a very important date...

Okay, I'm not late.

But I do have a date this week. Me...a date...a real life date. With a person I haven't even actually met in person, yet. It's not a big deal...just lunch to get acquainted and see if the interest we're feeling online translates into the real world.

I'm excited and nervous and terrified all at the same time. Which is just silly, because I am not looking for anything serious, I'm just looking for fun, a fling...someone to make me laugh and, and someone to have a conversation with about politics and religion and life and the world.

I've never been on an actual date. All of my previous romantic involvements were with people I'd known for a long time before we got involved, so I've never done the dating to get to know someone thing. And I'm not good at first time meetings...it makes me very anxious to talk to people in real life. This date will involve taking a xanax, I'm sure. And I'll be obsessing about what to wear. What does one wear to a lunch date, anyway?

Aargh! Don't mind me, I'll just be hanging out in my closet freaking out!