Wednesday, March 30, 2011

All We Have Is Now

This life is so full of uncertainty.  One minute you're happy, the next not so.  One minute you're going with the flow, while the next you're anxious to control everything.  On any given morning you could wake as an eager beaver, ready to take on any an all (even The Empire), only to have that eager beaver drown in a cesspool of insecurity.

Today, you might be surrounded by friends and family, affluence and fortune, good physical and mental health.  Tomorrow?  Who knows.  This life is full of uncertainty.   One little decision, one little event, one little mishap, can turn that affluence of family, friends, fortune, and health upside down.

This uncertainty can mean only one thing: All We Have Is Now.

It's true.  The only thing we have, the only thing we are certain of, is Now.  Are we going to spend Now complaining and wishing for something else?  Or are we going to do the best with the Now that we've been given?  I've been known to spend some oxygen complaining about Now instead of being grateful for it.  I have been bogged down by the burdens of what's happening Now, and sometimes I get grumpy because things are not going my way.

All this is about to change.  I am going to turn over a new leaf.  I'm going to stop complaining about Now.  I am going to appreciate and relish Now, for Now is All You and I Have.


This here post is a special shout out to CJ, a friend to many (even me!  how lucky am I!)  CJ was diagnosed with colon cancer yesterday, and had surgery first thing this morning.  The "prognosis" thus far is uncertain.

In the spirit of All We Have Is Now, I'm going to take this particular Now to express my love and concern for her.  After which, I'll use the Now after this particular Now to get on my knees and pray.

We love you CJ!  And this NOW is dedicated to you!

-

Friday, March 25, 2011

The Magician's Nephew


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The Magician's Nephew
by C.S. Lewis

When I was but a young lady (er laddie) in the grade school, I read this book called The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  It was a spectacular tale, one I will always remember.  Recently, I discovered that this Lion, Witch 'n Wardrobe tale is book two in a whole series of books.  It is!  True story! Collectively, these stories are called The Chronicles of Narnia, and I'm gonna read 'em all. 

Yahoo #1 is reading the series right now.  Figured I would try and keep up so that he and I would have something to discuss every now and again -- like at dinners, during carpools, and the up-coming maturation meeting.  (It's in a year, I guess, but I'm already fretting over it.  But I just remembered that I'm married with a male Spouse and I can send Spouse!  I don't have to fret any longer. I'm also uber relieved that I don't have a girl to take to that silly "it's so wonderful to be a woman!" maturation program.  Mine scarred me for life.  For life, I tell ya.  I had to attend two maturation programs, so you know what this means?  It means I have two scars.)

First off, I don't know all that much about Mr. Lewis.  I know that his pen name is C.S. Lewis and that his fables were inspired by his Christian beliefs.  That's about all I know about Mr. Lewis.  I'm going to use this opportunity to learn a thing or two about C.S. Lewis, so here we go.  Please hold while I open another tab and type www.wikipedia.org followed by C.S. Lewis.

The C.S. in C.S. Lewis stands for Clive Staples.  He was born in Ireland, 'round about 1898, and died the same day that Kennedy was assassinated.  Interestingly enough, Lewis was born into an Irish Catholic family, "kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance to escape."  This need to escape led Lewis to became a devout atheist at age 15.  He thought religion was a chore, and that the world wouldn't be so "frail and faulty" if God really did exist.

Now here's the interesting part, Lewis reconverted himself to Christianity with the help of his buddy J.R.R. Tolkien.  Now isn't that a pair: a bubbling brew of faith and science fiction.  I wonder what tea with those two would be like?  A trip fer sure.  Prolly did the Misty Mountain Hop on a regular basis.  Lewis joined the Church of England, which, rumor has it, kind of upset Tolkien because Tokien was a Catholic of the Roman variety.  To this I say, "Tolkien.  Let's not get stingy with our conversions.  At least he's found Jesus."

In The Magician's Nephew, the Narnia Chronicles begins with a boy named Digory who has a wacked-out wannabe magician for an uncle.  The uncle comes across some magic dust, makes some rings out of this dust, then using these rings, sends Diggory and his friend Polly away to a magic land.  Digory and Polly stumble across a wretched queen, who sneaks herself into yet another magic land.  This final land, called Narnia, was just being created by a Lion named Aslan. So, just as Aslan is creating this awesome 'n perfect world, a little bit of evil allows herself to sneak in.  Isn't that the way is always is?  A little bit of evil is always trying to sneak herself in.

This story is a nail-biter for sure.  That queen is wretched!  And the Lion so regal!  And that world so wonderful!  We readers are also let in on the origin of that famed wardrobe... stay tuned for more!

-

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Tuesday Tune, vol 76 - Cocaine

Today's Tuesday Tune is brought to you by the one and only SkiBikeJunkie; a self-declared junkie who insists on bragging about powder 'n lines, who also appears to be a drug-inspired collector of tunes.

Traditionally, on most Tuesdays, I've posted some tunes and called them the Tuesday Tune.  There's usually a theme.  I had plans to blow off the Tuesday Tune today,  but read Mr. Junkie's post about Cocaine.  In the which I became nostalgic and whatnot.  That Cocaine song is a terrific tune, isn't it?  It certainly is.

That was when I decided not to blow off the Tuesday Tune, and instead, collect some tunes about blow. How 'bout that?  I had some resources for this one.  Specifically, I found an educational piece that lists the cocaine slang.  Have yourself a snort.  Or two.  Or nineteen.

Cocaine - Eric Clapton
Banana's and Blow - Ween
Cracked Actor - David Bowie
Cola - The Exploders
White As Snow - U2
Blow Your Mind - Langhorne Slim
Keep Your Powder Dry  - Alabama 3
Crack Cocaine Rager - The Dandy Warhols
Sugar Sugar - Archies
White Lines (Don't Do It) - Grandmaster Flash
Chipi Chipi - Gustavo Santaolalla
The Shortest Straw - Metallica
Another One Bites - The Dust Queen
White Snow - Ben Weaver
Big Neon Glitter - The Cult
Crackerman Stone - Temple Pilots
Basehead - Corey Harris
Dust Devil - Butthole Surfers
She's Your Cocaine - Tori Amos
Watch Me  - Fly Powder

Anyone care to tell us all their cocaine tale?  Be my guest!

-

Friday, March 18, 2011

Super Hero Spouse Stuff


I'm experiencing a fair amount of hesitation over today's post, for I am about to make an obnoxious display of how royally fabulous the Spouse is. And once I make this obnoxious display, you're all gonna feel bad that you don't have him as your Spouse. I dare say that even the dudes will feel all sorts of badness because they don't get to have Spouse as their spouse.

(Before you get any ideas, note that we are a one-man, one-woman arrangement, so don't send a resume.)

On Wednesday, I had, in a manner of speaking, counted my chickens before they had hatched. I had bragged to you all about my Powder Day, and how the planets had aligned and whatnot to facilitate said Powder Day. I woke Thursday morning, read the powder alert e-mail, and hopped right out of bed. I wondered into Yahoo #1's room, threw the day's wearables onto his slumbering self, and hollered a “Get your ass outa bed!” Not really. I left the ass part out. I mumbled a gentle, loving, “Get your bad self outa bed, sweetheart" cause that's the kind of mom I am.  Gentle and loving.

I was about to mumble that same gentle, loving, “Get your bad self outa bed” at Yahoo #2, when I was taken aback by his bedroom scene. Something wasn't quite right... the boy was sleeping on just a blanket, the sheets had been stripped and were nowhere to be found. Something definitely was not right. I looked around for more clues, and noticed that the carpet had been freshly scrubbed. That was indeed a clue... a freshly scrubbed carpet. The real clue, however, was the fact that Yahoo #2 was all snuggled up to a bowl. And not just any bowl. The puke bowl.

As an aside, do you guys also have a puke bowl? A bowl designated for puking, and only puking? Please tell me you don't allow the puking to transpire in your best salad bowl – the salad bowl you bring to pot-luck gatherings.

After my inner Nancy Hardy had solved the mystery of Yahoo #2's bedroom scene, the heart sank. The heart sank right down to the bottom of my fat heels. No ski day for me. Boo hoo. Not, poor little guy – he's been up all night puking. Or, poor Spouse – he's been up all night cleaning it up. It was poor selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, self-indulgent Rabid – she doesn't get to ski today.

I went back to the bedroom where Spouse appeared to be sleeping, and sank myself onto the bench. “Um. Is Yahoo #2 sick?” said I. “Yes,” said Spouse. “Oooooooo-kay,” said I, which meant more than just okay. It meant, poor me. My plans are finished. All that of week planning was for naught. Now I gotta call Makell and tell her it's off.

Here's where Spouse is great. He knew exactly what that “Ooooooo-kay” meant and replied with, “I already sent an e-mail. You're going skiing today.” Spouse, without being asked, burned a day of his precious vacation so as I could follow through with my plans. Can you believe that? Holy smokes! That's Super Hero Spouse Stuff, isn't it? The Stuff made from Super frickin' Hero Spouses.

You know what I did? I went skiing. I didn't even say, “Are you sure......?” or pull that martyr, poor-stay-home-wife crap that I kinda do often. I packed it up and high-tailed it right on out of there.

It was a good day too. Great day, in fact. Not exactly the Powder day, but five or six runs with fresh tracks ain't so bad.

-

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Shantaram


Shantaram
by Gregory David Roberts

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I feel like it's any given Wednesday before any given Thursday within any given week of high school.  It's 9:44 in the pm and I have a book report due in less than twelve hours.  That's how I feel right now.  I feel like I'm throwin' together a cramming session brought forth by a procrastination session.  I'm an adult now.  I don't do book reports for anyone but myself and my grandchildren (who hopefully aren't born yet,) so why am I cramming this book report?  Because tomorrow, at precisely 9:15ish -- feel free to give me crap about the ishness of my preciosity -- I have to give this Shantaram book back to Makell.

I suppose I don't have to give the book back tomorrow.  She's nice enough that she'd let me keep it longer if I asked nicely.  But I've been done with it a few weeks so I might as well give it back. Oh, and if you're up for reading a fine one from Makell, read this.  She does book reports too!

At our last adventure a while back, Makell and I exchanged books.  I gave her The Mourning Run and she gave me Shantaram.  We met for some skiing at Alta.  It was a lovely day.  One in which Makell made me go down narrow passages that I wouldn't normally frequent.  I prefer bowls to narrow passages. I suppose it's a leftover characteristic of my rowdier days -- where I would prefer the rowdy stuff in bowls as opposed to narrow passages.  When we skied last, I cried all the way down those narrow passages.  Then Makell would tell me to shut up and do it again.  She might be nice enough to let me keep a book longer, but she's mean enough to keep me out of my comfort zone.

Last week, Makell and I exchanged pleasantries about meeting again for some skiing.  We decided upon Wednesday (today.)  Then both of us looked at the weather and at the exact same time (almost,) hollered a STORM'S COMING IN WEDNESDAY LET'S GO THURSDAY! e-mail (or was it a text?  Can't remember.)  We immediately settled on Thursday because, let's just face it, a day with a storm out-shines a day of sun.  Just does.  Both of us were able to arrange babysitters, jobs, and whatnot to get ourselves away.

What a glorious arrangement tomorrow will be.  The winds have been howling.  It's raining in the valley, and the temperatures are dropping.  All of these happenings can only mean one thing: It's dumping in the mountains!  I even have proof that it's snowing in the mountains because I refreshed Park City's Web Cam, like, eighteen times between 3:00pm and dark.  If all goes as planned, Rabid will get her powder day.  Hoorah!  Makell's prolly had her powder day this year, so maybe Makell will get another powder day.  Hoorah!  Hoorahs all around!

And you thought this was a book report.

Actually, it is a book report, so I'll get started. Shantaram, in all of its 933 pages is a fantastic read.  Fantastic.  It's the somewhat true story of this Gregory David Roberts guy, who escaped from prison in Australia, then hid himself for many years in Bombay, India.  He fell in love, lived in a slum where he served as slum medic, joined the predominant Indian mafia to deal in illegal passports and visas, then loyally accompanied this mafia to fight a war in Afghanistan.  I say "a" war, because there's too many to call it "the" war.  This particular Afghan scramble was fought against Russia during the mid 80s.

I don't know how much of Shantaram is true... I know that Roberts did escape from a prison in Australia, where he was held for armed bank robbery, the proceeds of which were used to fund Roberts' heroin habit.  He did work for the Indian mafia, and he did travel to fight in Afghanistan.  I believe some of the fringe fables were inserted for spice.  And we all know that any story in India requires spice!  Cardamom! And Curry!  And Coriander! And Cinnamon! I just realized that all the "C" spices come from India.  Actually, all of the spices come from India, so naturally the "C" spices would come from India too.  I love spice.  Sigh.  I love India.  Sigh.

Before Gregory David Roberts became a junkie, he was a journalist in Australia somewhere.  He's a terrific writer; one who balances detail nicely (not too much, not too little, just right!)  There's plenty of suspense, plenty of feeling, and plenty of beautifully constructed paragraphs. 

Care for an example?  Roberts, who went by Lin, lost two of his closest friends.  As a result, he locked himself into an opium den with three months worth of heroin, then proceeded to do nothing but cook himself -- for three whole months.  He says:

"Heroin is a sensory deprivation tank for the soul.  Floating on the Dead Sea of the drug stone, there's no sense of pain, no regret or shame, no feelings of guilt or grief, no depression, and no desire.  The sleeping universe enters and envelops every atom of existence.  Insensible stillness and peace disperse fear and suffering.  Thoughts drift like ocean weeds and vanish in the distant, grey somnolency, unperceived an indeterminable.   The body succumbs to cryogenic slumber: the listless heart beats faintly, and breathing slowly faces to random whispers.  Thick nirvanic numbness clogs the limbs, and downward, deeper, the sleeper slides and glides toward oblivion, the perfect and eternal stone.

"The chemical absolution is paid for, like everything else in the universe, with light.  The first light that junkies lose is the light in their eyes.  A junkie's eyes are as lightless as the eyes of Greek statues, as lightless as hammered lead, as lightless as a bullet hole in a dead man's back.  The next light lost is the light of desire.  Junkies kill desire with the same weapon they use on hope and dream and honour: the club made from their craving.  And when all the other lights of life are gone, the last light lost is the light of love.  Sooner or later, when it's down to the last hit, the junkie will give up the woman he loves, rather than go without; sooner or later, every hard junkie becomes a devil in exile."

So don't do heroin, kay?

Gregory David Roberts was captured eventually and sent back to Australia.  He wrote this Shantaram adventure while serving the remainder of his combined sentences.  Some sources say that he wrote it around three times because the guards kept confiscating his manuscripts. I've also read somewhere that a movie is in the works.  Supposedly, Johnny Depp will play the part of Lin.

I'd like to leave you all with the last paragraph of the book.  It's a delightful passage that I want to read again sometime, without having to read the 932 pages that come before it.  And after I type the finishing touches of this here book report, I'm going to lay my head down on my fluffy pillow.  In the which I will drift off to nigh-nigh-land, while I listen to the wind carry in my powder day.

"For this is what we do.  Put one foot forward and then the other.  Lift our eyes to the snarl and smile of the world once more.  Think.  Act.  Feel.  Add our little consequence to the tides of good and evil that flood and drain the world.  Drag our shadowed crosses into the hope of another night.  Push our brave hearts into the promise of a new day.  With love: the passionate search for a truth other than our own.  With longing: the pure, ineffable yearning to be saved.  For so long as fate keeps waiting, we live on.  God help us.  God forgive us.  We live on."

-

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Tuesday Tune, vol 75 - Wear Sunscreen


Today's Tuesday Tune is Everybody's Free To Wear Sunscreen - Quindon Tarver

Remember those Everything-I-Need-To-Know-I-Learned-In-Kindergarten posters, t-shirts, coffee mugs, and wife beaters?  Well.  Those posters, t-shirts, coffee mugs, and wife beaters gave us some good advice; some good rules for living.  This song, however, provides better advice; better rules for living.  All you need to know about life is listed in this here "Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen" song. 

Who is this Quindon Tarver feller anyways?  He should be a profit or something.  As an aside, for some reason, and at this very moment, I'm reminded of Fred Rogers.  And how Fred Rogers -- yes, that Fred Rogers -- spoke at my sister's commencement.  That was super cool.  To see Fred Rogers speak, and also count how many times he said "neighbor."

Anyway, happy Tuesday.  Here's the words with Rabid's favorites in highlights.  ACTUALLY, my favorite-favorites are in highlights, because it's all my favorite, but only my favorite-favorites are in highlights.


------------------------------------------------------------

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis or reliable then my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice....now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, nevermind, you won't understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded, but trust me in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future, or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum.

The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind: the kind that blindsides you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts; don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is
long, and in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive; forget the insults. (if you succeed in doing this, tell me how).

Keep your old love letters; throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people
I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives; some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of Calcium. Be kind to your knees -- you'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40; maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary.


Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself, either. Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body: use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it; it's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance...even if you have no where to do it but in your own living room.

Read the directions (even if you don't follow them).

Do not read beauty magazines; they will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents; you never know when they'll be gone for good.

Be nice to your siblings: they're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.


Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps and geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.

Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old; and when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.


Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse, but you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you are 40, it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia; dispensing it is a way of wishing the past from the disposal--wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

 -

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

Tuesday Tune, vol 74 - Fat Bottom Girls

Do you know what today is?  Today is Fat Tuesday.  Today is also International Women's Day (in its 100th running.)  In other words, it's Fat International Women's Tuesday.  That's why today's Tuesday Tune is:

Fat Bottom Girls - Queen

I'm sure Freddie knew that these two days would one day mash-up.  That's why he wrote this song.  And I'm rather saddened that Freddie isn't here to witness this blessed event.

Happy Fat International Women's Tuesday!

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Monday, March 07, 2011

Robert's Rules Of Order

Traditionally, Robert's Rules Of Order has referred to a set of guidelines and whatnot for conducting business and/or debates in a large-ish group setting.  It's been around, for, like, ever.  Prolly since Moses -- which makes me wonder why they don't call it Moses' Rules of Order.

I'll bet those rules of ordering were used way back then, with Moses.  Moses prolly said, "I'd like to make a motion, that we cross the desert for a lotta years." Then the chairman said, "Can someone second that?" Someone provided a second and there was a vote.  The Children-of-Israel said "yeigh," the Gentiles said "neigh," and the rest is history.

Well.  Spouse established his own Robert's Rules of Order this weekend.  See, I had this new kickin'-it print that stylishly celebrated The Rules of Survival.  These Rules of Survival were originally established for those thrown among a land of zombies (Zombieland, if you will), but has morphed itself in the daily practice of one runner who calls herself Rabid (Rabidrunner, if you will.)

This print is kickin'.  So kickin' is this print that it needed it's very own frame.

So where do folks around here go when looking for frames?  Some go here, and some go there, but Rabid, she goes to Roberts Crafts. Mostly because it's close.  On my way out the door, I said to Spouse, "Spouse.  Wanna come with me?" He said, "Why sure."

(In his defense, I don't rightly recall if I was altogether truthful in my representation of where we were actually going.  I told him we were off to fetch a frame. My newly acquired axioms for abiding were in need of a final resting place.)

We traveled to Roberts Crafts.  We walked into Roberts Crafts.  Me, being somewhat schooled in the arts of crafts, knew just exactly where the frames were.  I marched right in that direction... not knowing that Spouse couldn't keep up with my march.  See, Spouse had skied that day with Winder's husband.  We call this Winder-attachment Delmar, and the guy is ruthless.  A day on the slopes with Delmar is a day you'd wish for death, for he's a skiing savage who is ferocious in his fastness, atrocious with the "air," stupidly stupendous down steeps, and barbaric on the bumps.  I get tired just thinking about it.

Funny Delmar story.  We were skiing once.  I got all whiney 'n stuff, then told Delmar that trying to keep up with him made me tired.  So, you know what Delmar said? "WELL QUIT TURNING SO DANG MUCH." Delmar thinks I turn too much.

What Delmar must know, however, is that my brain has a permanent indentation of Mikey (my ole man) yelling, "DO YOUR TURNS!" So that's why I turn.  Mikey likes it when I turn.  (Don't anyone tell Mikey, but I like it when I turn too. Thank ya pops!  For teaching me to ski!)

So, Spouse skied with Delmar, and I took the Yahoos to their Piano Festival. That's why Spouse had tired legs and couldn't keep up with my march at Roberts Crafts, which, mind you had commenced after an 18-mile run, a piano festival, a birthday party, and no nap.

ANYWAY... I marched right to the frame section within this Roberts Crafts, and Spouse became lost.  I chose the frame and went back to find Spouse.  When I finally found him, all dismayed and blubbering like a kid who had dropped his sucker, he said, "You forgot Roberts' Rules of Order. "

"Oh yeah?" Said I.

"You CANNOT leave a man alone in a craft store.  Else people will think I'm in a craft store by choice.  If I'm with you, then people will know that I've been ordered to be in the craft store."

Roberts' Rules of Order.

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Wednesday, March 02, 2011

Heeeeere's Rabid!

As a warning, this post hasn't even begun, yet it's doing backflips over the edge of TMI.  If you decide to finish this, you'll most assuredly end up embarrassed on my behalf.

(Now if that opener don't keep you around, nothing will!)

 

So I have this luteal-phase situation that has become a problem.  I'm convinced that I have PMDD.  This PMDD is an appropriate acronym for Possessed Monster, Drummed up from the Dead. It's true, look it up.  (Not really.  It's stands for something else, and you can read all about it here.  Knock yourself out.)

This being a Possessed Monster business is no picnic for me or anyone within my proximity.  In order for the PMDD to be a picnic, I'd need some sort of activity to curb the angst. Like, say... I'd need to sink my sharp teeth into the nearest victim's meaty thigh, then gnash it about until that thigh no longer resembles a thigh.  After which I'll toss the scraps aside, and look for more meaty thighs to devour, as my new unquenchable appetite has a newly acquired taste for human.  Extra especially thigh humans.

Obviously when the people around me become the picnic, they aren't having a picnic either.  As the old adage says, "You can't be the picnic and have one too." Just can't.  That's PMDD.

 

Fer kicks, let's have some symptoms, shall we?

- Markedly depressed mood, feelings of hopelessness, or self-deprecating thoughts

- Marked anxiety, tension, feelings of being "keyed up" or "on edge"

- Marked affective lability (eg, feeling suddenly sad or tearful or increased sensitivity to rejection)

- Persistent and marked anger or irritability or increased interpersonal conflicts

- Decreased interest in usual activities (eg, work, school, friends, hobbies)

- Subjective sense of difficulty in concentrating

- Lethargy, easy fatigability, or marked lack of energy

- Marked change in appetite, overeating, or specific food cravings

- Hypersomnia or insomnia

- A subjective sense of being overwhelmed or out of control

- Other physical symptoms, such as breast tenderness or swelling, headaches, joint or muscle pain, a sensation of bloating, or weight gain

 

In other words, PMDD turns me into this:

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Only I'm saying "Heeeeeeere's Rabid!" instead of "Heeeeeere's Johnny!"

As an aside, isn't that one of the creepiest pictures around?  This reminds me of a story. Spouse and I were hunneymooning at Grand Targhee.  Grand Targhee is that ski resort on the west side of the Grand Tetons. We chose Grand Targhee for our hunney-ski-moon because, like, duh, every hunneymoon needs some tetons and we both knew that mine wouldn't be enough.

As another aside, this self-deprecating chest-cavity act has become a huge part of my identity.  So large -- like 36DD large -- is this personality identifier, that it's reason #3 that I won't ever acquire extra puff-puff surgically.  (Reason #1 is the foreign object corollary, while reason #2 maintains that not having the extra puff-puff is what keeps me different around these parts.)

Anyway, while on this hunneymoon, we decided to drive over to Jellystone one afternoon and count elk or something. So we did. The month was January and most of Jellystone's lodges 'n whatnot were closed for the season. In the middle of this adventure, nature called and we were in need of some relief, so we stopped at one of the lodges. We chose a lodge that had a couple of cars in the parking lot.  It still looked deserted, but we gave it a stab anyway because, as was mentioned earlier, nature was calling, and we needed relief.

The front door was unlocked, so we let ourselves in to find some tall, skinny, dark-haired lady, with circles under her eyes.  Get this:  she was vacuuming. The place looked like a scene right out of The Shining.  It was haunted like.  It was spooky like.  It was eerie like.  I was just about to ask about her psycho writer-husband when TWIN GIRLS came a-running down the hall! That did it.  I was out of there. Peed outside I think.

As another side, you should hear Yahoo #2 say "REDRUM." It's pretty dang funny.

PMDD resembles Psycho-Shining-Jack-Nicholson a bit.  But since I have a theme, and that theme is picnic, I'm going to say PMDD is more like this:

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Zombiefied! PMDD is Zombiefied!

 

So, this PMDD web site (mentioned above with a "here" link) has some ways in which to treat the PMDD.  These treatments are:

- Relaxation Therapy (Breathing, humming, that sort of stuff.)

- Exercise (Anything that get's the heart pumping.)

- Diet (No sugar, no caffeine, low sodium, complex carbs, and frequent meals.)

- Light Therapy (Sunshine, tanning beds and the like.  Explains why the wintertime is always the worst.)

- Sleep Deprivation (That's right, getting LESS sleep.  How often is less sleep a treatment for anything? And how exactly do you pull that one off without caffeine?)

- Cognitive-behavorial treatment (Where you lay on a couch and some spook with a yellow notebook says, "Tell me about the PMDD." Either that or you find a PMDD support group.  Now doesn't that sound fun.  A room full of caged 'n rabid women infected with PMDD.)

- Vitamins and Minerals (Mostly b-6, evening primrose oil, magnesium, calcium.)

- Hormones (Predisposition to stroke in my inherited genes makes this one an absolutely not.)

- Antidepressants (Which represent a whole slew of side effects that last all month long, only to cure three days zombification.  Okay.  Maybe three days is optimistic. Fourteen days of zombification.)

 

As I was reading through this list the first time, it occurred to me that these little helpers are morbidly familiar to a set of rules I heard about in a movie.  A movie about zombies.  A movie called ZOMBIELAND.  It was then that I realized that everything I need to know about PMDD was contained nicely in the ZOMBIELAND Rules for Survival.

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Instead of Relaxation Therapy, I'm going to go with, Rule #32: Enjoy The Little Things.

The excercise option gets two. Rule #1: Cardio and Rule #20: It's a Marathon, Not a Sprint, Unless it's a Sprint, then Sprint.

For diet, I choose Rule #6: The "Skillet."

To supplement Light Therapy, I'm going with Rule #26: A Little Sun Screen Never Hurt Anybody.

I like that certain ring that Rule #21: Avoid Strip Clubs provides.  So I'm going to use that instead of Sleep Deprivation.

I'm going to ditch Cognitive-behavorial treatment and replace it with Rule #8: Get a Kick Ass Partner.

For Vitamins and Minerals, I'm going to say Rule #2: The Double Tap is best.

And those nasty Horrormones?  They get Rule #18: When in Doubt, Know Your Way Out.

Antidepressants, with their vast array of side affects get Rule #3: Beware of Bathrooms, and Rule #14: Always Carry a Change of Underwear, and Rule #27: Incoming! and Rule #28: Double Knot Your Shoes.

 

To celebrate my new treatment plan, I ordered a 24 x 36 print of ALL the Survival Rules.  Should be here any day now.  Grin.

 

(Hey, print lady -- you know who you are -- I'd be happy to pimp yer biz, just give me the a-okay with a link!)

 

Tuesday, March 01, 2011

Tuesday Tune, vol 73 - Back In The Saddle Again

Hey, guess what?  Life is back to some-what normal.  The PMS Avenger's on vacay, the tax season has mellowed, and the sun is shining.  I am Back In The Saddle Again!

Yee-haw.

p.s. For you young 'ns: Back In The Saddle Again is an Aerosmith tune.

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