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.

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.

Crazy With Anger

I live in a small town. A very small town...actually a collection of small towns referred to by residents and former residents as "The County." Yes, we capitalize it because it's a proper name, you see.

One of the benefits of living in a small town is that you are always running into people you know. This means people stop their cars in the middle of the street to chat, that we say "Hi" and give hugs in grocery markets. It also means if your battery dies or you have a flat tire, if you wait a few minutes someone you know will be along and you can get some help. It also means you see your ex a lot...or your ex's ex.

I try to think of myself as an essentially good person. I don't always succeed in thinking of myself that way, but I usually do. I try not to hurt people, and when I do hurt someone, it's usually unintentional, though I must admit to having a wee vindictive streak. This streak usually manifests itself in mostly harmless ways. I giggle when something bad happens to someone I don't like. Okay...I'll be honest. There are only three people in this world I actively dislike. The EG, her current wife, and the midget's former stepmother. And, unfortunately, they all still live in my county. Sightings have become rare because we just don't move in the same circles. The EG and her wife no longer have children attending the same school as my nieces, and I don't go out to the bars, where the midget's former stepmother hangs out.

However, because those sightings have become so rare, when they do, I kinda go crazy with anger. Thankfully, the more recent sightings have been while we're both in separate cars, I have managed to avoid any kind of major incident. I really don't need a criminal record at this point, and frankly, I'm pretty sure they could all take me. It's not exactly a difficult thing to do...I'm sort of fragile these days.

It's just....I don't wanna be that person. The crazy with anger person. I really need to believe that, deep down, I'm a good person. And good people don't go around assaulting other people, no matter how much provocation one might have endured.

I was listening to music tonight, as I usually do when I'm troubled by something, and I've got Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood by Nina Simone on repeat. And this is what's resonating with me tonight:

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good,
Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.

So, yeah, while I may lunge out my window and offer a less than appropriate hand gesture, or spew epithets in their general direction, it's not as though I'm actively sabotaging them, or sending them envelopes full of Anthrax, and that's gotta count for something, right?

I Need Help

No big secret to anyone who's read so much as a single post here, right?

But, in reality, I do need help, actual physical help. I was never the world's greatest housekeeper, but since getting sick that's gotten much worse. I used to have regular cleaning binges, and if someone was coming for a visit, I could do the twenty minute clean and have my house be halfway decent...you know, as long as no one checked my closets or looked under the couch cushions.

The sicker I've gotten, the worse the arthritis and the worse the fatigue has gotten, the more sporadic my cleaning binges have become. Most of the time my house looks like a giant picked it up and shook it. There's crap everywhere, and laundry...dear god, don't get me started on the laundry.

The midget is a good kid, but she's a kid, and unfortunately has inherited my innate messiness and laziness. She takes advantage of the fact that I'm too tired to stay on her and push her to clean up after herself. She also takes advantage of the fact that my memory is a sieve these days and if I ground her in the morning I rarely remember that by mid afternoon.

When the midget's dad shows up to pick her up he makes it clear he disapproves of my slovenly nature. Of course, he isn't sick and taking care of a kid full time 24 hours a day, and even my four days a month minus the kid have shrunk down just a few hours once a week because the exgirlfriend has finally hurt the midget to the point that she refuses to see her at all. Which presents difficulties because, after all, the exgirlfriend is still living in the midget's father's house...the one his parents own.

Yeah, my kid isn't able to go visit her dad at the house her grandparents own. Awesome.

So...my few hours without the midget are spent sleeping, or doing homework, trying to get caught up on the things that are hard to do when a child, even one as old as the midget, is around. So..my old habit of resting the entire first day she was gone, and housework or schoolwork on the second...that's out the window...you know...along with my sanity...and my hopes for ever seeing her bedroom floor.

I know I need to ask for help. Ask my cousins, my sisters...my mom. Any of them would be willing to put on gaiters and wade through my mess and help me clean it. But I CAN'T ASK FOR HELP. I don't know why. I only know that it's common amongst people who suffer from chronic illness. There are so many amorphic offers of help, but no concrete..."Let me do this." "I am willing to do this." And asking for help feel like such an imposition, to do the things I should be able to do, even if I never really liked doing it in the first place. And worse, it feels like it makes the illness more concrete, more real.

Which is, simply, ridiculous. But I excel at the ridiculous, don't I? It's my forte. Because, refusing to acknowledge it's effect on my life doesn't lessen the impact, it only compounds it, because I wait until hope comes in late, comes in after the mess has completely demoralized me.

My cousin, the one who I'm always helping with a paper, or childcare or organizing or sorting laundry...she finally made me a concrete offer to help me clean my living room and kitchen. I had her for an hour and the front of my house, the largest part of my home, is now clean...I am not embarrassed to have company, not afraid the midget's father is planning another called to Children's Services, rather than offering help himself.

I need help...and I need help asking for help...

Exciting? I'll pass....

What's that saying about the worst thing you can do to someone is wish them an "exciting life?" Yeah, I tried to google it, but google's being an asshole and gave me NOTHING. It kind of fits in with the theme I've got going on this week.

Recent Events (in no special order, because that would require brain function I just don't have):

My Mom has been diagnosed with a Thymoma (tumor of the Thymus) and is now awaiting her appointment with the surgeon so they can cut open her chest and remove it.

The midget has been ill and has accordingly had the worst blood sugar readings she's had since diagnosis, including a meter reading which said HI...and yeah it said it all cheerful, like with big letters like it was an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time. Glucose meters are kind of assholey.

My younger sister had a birthday party at her house which I did not get to attend, due to the midget's illness and the havoc it's wreaking on it's illness.

I have been dealing with difficult blood sugar readings and am trying to complete three Excel spread sheets in four hours but due to my sleep deprivation, I keep surfing the web like a squirrel on crack.

Charlie erased about half of one the spreadsheets I was working on. Charlie's kind of an asshole sometimes...

I have become addicted to the show Veronica Mars three years after it was canceled thanks to the beauty that is Netflix.

I've discovered, through the aforementioned Veronica Mars addiction, a fantastic band called The Dandy Warhols and am currently obsessed with their music.

The midget's father has decided (finally) to go to AA and stop drinking. Said decision came the day after I spent an hour on Facebook chat trying to talk him down while I waited for the midget's blood sugar to drop under 400.

I didn't take my antidepressant for a day and I missed a dose of my thyroid med, too...and I was a total asshole for the subsequent two days, much to the dismay of everyone around me.


So, yeah...I'm kinda flailing here at the moment. I'm hoping this bug, whatever it is, that has the midget's numbers all wonky will resolve itself quickly.

Anyway, here's the song that got me hooked on The Dandy Warhols. You must love it, as I have loved it, and there will be joy.

See...I'm paraphrasing The Princess Bride. Clearly a sign of sleep deprivation.

We Used to be Friends-The Dandy Warhols

...Because I Knew You'd Freak Out!!!

I have a reputation for being high strung. I'll be the first to admit that it's not an unearned reputation. I have said frequently that I wouldn't live with me, and I wouldn't...I'm opinionated and neurotic and melodramatic. Not a picnic by a longshot.

But some people would have you believe I'm a compassionless shrew who freaks out over the least little thing. Not true. If I'm stressed and tired, I might flip out over nothing. However, both of my exes love to excuse lying to me, or omitting the truth or waiting until the last minute to tell me something by saying they didn't tell me something because they knew it would upset me. And, yes, sometimes the truth that they omitted or, frankly, hid would cause me to freak out, but lying? That will always cause me to freak the fuck out.

Here's the thing...while I'm the first to admit that I'm highstrung and dramatic, I'm also fairly logical. I don't freak out over nothing at all. If you're sure that whatever it is is going to freak me out, then hiding it or postponing is hardly the best way to go about defusing an imminent breakdown. And these are people who have lived with me. Not casual acquaintances...they've heard my monologues about how much I hate lying, what a waste of time it is. Especially since it's really hard to keep the truth from coming out...what's that line about how two people can keep a secret as long as one of them is dead?

I often wonder how much my flying off the handle at them is self-fulfilling prophecy...that in attempting to keep something from happening they actually set into motion the events that cause me to lose my shit.