Weekended

· In the middle of a"can't-sleep-or-eat" phase, I got up at the crack of dawn and watched the extremely powerful movie Freedom Writers. I wish my passion - the cats - could graduate someday.

· My car sales manager, Mitch, who found my dream car for me two years ago, called today. He said he missed me since my driver's side door leak had been repaired and I no longer brought it in for service every month. Really? Because I was kind of thinking how great it was not to discover a foot of water on the floor every time it rained. He asked me to play golf and have a few beers on the course with him, but I told him I didn't know how (to golf. Obviously, I excel at drinking beer) and had no clubs. He offered to buy me a set so we could play, which I find a bit odd, especially considering the fact that he didn't give me that great of a deal on the car.

· I then managed to misplace my cell phone, tried calling it from another phone, but dialed the wrong number. Imagine both of our surprise when someone answered and I asked what they were doing with my phone.

· A guy I used to "date" (a term I use loosely since we live six hours apart and manage much better as friends) in Baton Rouge might be interested in buying the engagement ring from my ex to give to his fiancee...am I officially a redneck?

Shoe-bop

I had a sneaking, egocentric suspicion the movie "In Her Shoes" was based on my sister and me, but the theory was modified one weekend at a a pool in Panama City when a clueless gentleman yelled out, "Look! It's Cameron Diaz and her mom!" (yes, I would be the 'mom').

Appointment-with-the-new-shrink countdown: 5 days.

Running with Scissors (Addendum)

Because they were a little suspicious about all the chemicals in my blood, I had to talk to a substance abuse counselor before I was released from the hospital. Smart, those doctors.

We came up with a "life plan", in which I agreed not to attempt to harm myself before June 16, 2008 (do I get a "best if used before..." date stamp on my forehead?) and to see a counselor, who happened to be a therapist AND a pastor conveniently rolled into one. Great. I eagerly agreed, mostly because I didn't want to raise any flags and spend another night in that tv-less room, throwing up jello, and was in desperate need of a shower.

I made a casual, "hypothetically-speaking, if I did need a therapist" phone call to my insurance company and discovered they were willing to shell out funds for forty-five visits per year. A little pessimisstic, I thought, but at least this self discovery crap wouldn't cost me anything.

My 'therapastor', who doesn't like to focus on the past (what kind of anti-Freud bullshit is this?), welcomed me into his office and distracted me by talking about himself for 45 of the scheduled 55 minutes. The shoulda-been-caped Super-Crisis-Therapist has helped the high school tornado survivors, girls who are "cutters", and families who need help communicating.

After my brief synopsis/sharing of the spotlight, his only concern seemed to be my drinking, so he asked if I'd ever considered AA.

"Nah," I said, quoting my sister, "That's for quitters."
"Does your sister think you drink too much?"
"Uh...no. She's in college."

Obviously, alcohol might have impaired my judgement and encouraged impulsivity, but it seems like it'd be more logical to give up prescription meds if we're going to take this odd approach to curing depression. Yeah, focus on the only enjoyable social activity I have. He deemed me 'fine' and suggested I make another appointment in a few weeks. Delusional narcissist.

Charmed and dangerous

I hauled my bitter, junk-in-the-trunk self back to the gym this week, for the first time in at least five years. I figure if I keep busy and glare at enough sweaty, grunting men in tank tops, my broken heart will eventually mend.

Life begins at 40, baby (squeeze, breathe, relax, and feel the sarcasm).

"The vote means nothing to women. We should be armed."

- Edna O'Brien (b. 1930)

So you think deleting phone numbers out of your cell phone address book makes you less impulsive?

I have this great new game: I send emails (or forward some he wrote to me) to the most recent address I have for my ex-husband. I get to vent under the veil of mystery (is he getting them? Are they sitting in cyberspace?); he gets to remember my bitter, sentimental, accusatory, pitiful and angry sides. Are we having fun yet?

Is that in Euros?

I've always wondered how much my life is worth - now I know:

$14,677.22

(I'm guessing there was a substantial service charge for the emergency crew having to tolerate my sister's bossiness. When she walked into my house to see me strapped to the gurney, with so many men in blue standing around with their arms crossed, she told them to put their arms by their sides, "Why are we standing like this, when we should be standing like this?" She also insisted on riding in the ambulance, so they let her sit in the front seat. She didn't, fortunately, demand to drive).

Instant karma

How to get your dad to drive 15 hours for a last minute father's day visit: overdose, spend some time in ICU, then have your sister given the authority to commit you to a mental institution for one year. Granted, there might be easier ways.

For the icing on a week full of beer, no sleep, and a passive dumping, I talked to Ed on the phone. The initial awkward topic was Patrick, which somehow evolved into his telling me that he was strapped for cash because he was buying a new house and moving in with his girlfriend. Too much information. "Great," I said. "I'll talk to you later. Bye."

During our marriage, I always assumed HE was the problem; the control freak that was lucky to have me. Ha. Turns out I'm the unlovable one, the girl that can't seem to find anyone else. Eight beers followed in quick succession, to wash down the bottle of beta blockers and a handful (or two) of Tylenol 3 that had been prescribed to him after knee surgery. Every attempted suicide needs irony, afterall.

Though there physically, details came later about the fire truck, police cars and ambulance ride to the emergency room. My auto pilot had no measurable blood pressure, so there was talk of a pacemaker. In the end they found an antidote to the beta blockers, which relived Patrick - he was worried I'd never be able to make microwave popcorn again.

Around 4:30 a.m., with a "stable" heart rate around 40 bpm, they wheeled me from the emergency room to the I.C.U. I realized I wouldn't be going into work and called in with a vague explanation of a history of heart trouble. Co-workers came to visit, bringing magazines and plants. Making small talk on a good day, is painful for me. Making small talk with i.v. tubes, heart and blood pressure monitors, and oxygen tubes in my nose while I unceremoniously vomit into a plastic kidney shaped bowl, is hell.

I feel like a fraud who doesn't deserve well wishes or concern - I did this to myself. Relatives and friends battle cancer, praying for more time, while I carelessly try to cut mine short. Why isn't there a life barter system? Watching my dad cry, thinking he failed, and knowing the hell my son and sister went through...depression, apparently, is better served with guilt.

Copper lining

My son always uses my first name when he's irrate or pissed off, which is about 93% of the time, as far as I can figure.

"Colleen," he said two weeks ago, on the phone, "your house is trashed and everything is gone."

"What? WHAT?! Don't touch anything - I'll be right there."

I geared up for a mini-tirade after I dialed 9-1-1 and the operator asked for my husband's name. "Oh, right," I thought, "I'm some helpless, fair maiden without the means to support myself or buy my OWN house in this hillbilly, backwoods...er, my son Patrick probably already called in, didn't he?"

Some good news?

1. Three eighteen year old boys were arrested the other day, hopefully putting an end to our small town crime spree, and I can almost fall asleep without worrying that they'll come back for the other half of the miter saw they left behind.

2. Our dog's probabation period is almost up. Did she offer to hold the door open for them?

3. Cleaning a clutter/game/electronic-free home takes hardly any time at all. Who needs a yard sale?

4. My insurance company reimbursed the full cost of my laptops, not what they would be worth today, and I can once again surf my favorite internet watering holes. Latest curse word, however: Vista (as in "damn Vista!").

5. The $14.70 I claimed for the stolen case of bud light? They reimbursed that, and I upgraded to Corona.

Time to make the donuts

I've worked the past thirteen days straight, 12-15 hours per day, implementing a new hazardous waste tracking system on post that "goes live" on Monday.

I feel disoriented, with a brain full of mush, and unable to articulate simple thoughts. When I asked the date the other day, and the person replied, "the 3rd", I said, "No. What month?"

One lesson I have learned: if you send a 17 year boy to the grocery store to do the weekly shopping because he won't shut up about how there's never any food in the house, expect him to come back with cases of bottled water, potato chips, and pink wafer cookies.

Postcard from the brink of the edge

Blonde and Blonder

Tiffany came waltzing out of the bathroom at the bar on Friday night, holding a folded wad of twenties and a check written to 'Avon'.

"Look what I found in the bathroom," she said, as she showed me the hard, beer-buying cash.

She wrote her phone number on a bar napkin, with a note to call with the exact dollar amount, and left it with the eye-rolling bartender.

We're fully prepared to hand over a briefcase full of i.o.u.'s if someone ever calls...

Tiffany-berry

My Grandma Hope, who died shortly after my sister's birth, requested that she be buried in a red velvet dress. Finding the material during the summer was no small feat, but the task was accomplished in time for the funeral.

In seventh grade, my sister accompanied her sister to a fortune teller (no doubt to find out if their parents would be out of town in the near future) and asked, "Do I have a guardian angel?"

The wise seer replied, "You are surrounded by red velvet."

Slightly irked bovine

I was able to donate blood today for the first time since our return from Germany in 2000 and am relieved to find out I'm no longer a substantial mad cow risk (though witnessing flabby, old-lady-chicken-arms-from-a-tourniquet-tied-around-an-aging-bicep wasn't such a bonus). Let's just hope the lucky recipient doesn't get a DUI after the donation.

Uncle Sam and Moses

Patrick arrived back home sans truck. Seems a little gratitude and a 'thank you' was required, and he wasn't quite up to the challenge. I don't claim to understand him, and if I could, I'm sure I wouldn't admit it anyway, BUT the good news is he has a new job standing outside Liberty Tax dressed as Uncle Sam for $8/hr. I won't laugh, I won't laugh, I won't laugh.

I went to pick up my military driver's license today as a class of Army soldiers were simultaneously walking in the opposite direction in the hallway. Someone in charge yelled, "let the lady through", as half the soldiers went against one wall, while the other half went against the other. I felt a bit Moses-like, walking through a giant, parted sea of green uniforms.

I'm feeling a bit omnipotent, like I have commandments to write. Thou shall not covet thy father's Dodge truck.

Where was I, and where'd I put that baby?

Seventeen years ago, after the birth of my son Patrick, people (and by "people", I mean meddling women with secret agendas) would say to me, "Oh, the pain of childbirth will fade and you'll be wanting more kids before you know it."

Uh huh. Right.

The memory doesn't fade so much as get replaced by the temper tantrums of a screaming, headstrong toddler, to be followed by interactions with a hormonal, angry teenager. I suppose Bud Light might've induced a bit of memory loss, though: I didn't realize it was Patrick's birthday yesterday because I thought today was March 31st. It's not - it's April 1st. Who's the fool now?

He's in Savannah for the weekend with his dad, getting that black monstah Dodge truck. Surely he'll drive me to the drugstore to pick up some Gingko biloba when he gets back.

P.S. In the wagon above: Patrick and his Uncle David (or 'Trick and 'Vid, as they called each other one year for the sole purpose of being annoying).

Mission San Xavier del Bac

Founded by the Jesuit missionary Fr. Eusebio Kino in 1692.
[Tucson, Arizona]

Honey, we're home

Tall (5'9"), lanky, and naturally thin, my mother eats more than any other woman I've ever known (my dad is the same way, but did they pass those stellar metabolisms down to moi?? Of course not. BAH!). She had a baby a year after I did, when she was forty-two and her energy level makes me wonder if she found the secret fountain of youth (if that's the case, I plan on aging badly, thankyouverymuch). My mother is a goddess and today is her birthday.

Although she's extremely intelligent, kicks ass at all things mathematical, has memorized bridge hands for the past 20 years, and has flawless grammar skills, she is still able to embrace her inner fruitloop. When I was an angst-ridden teen, these idiosyncrasies would annoy me because I always wanted her to be serious. And Martha Stewart, dammit. Years later, however, these are traits I find most endearing:

Her odd medical mystery tendancies, like watches breaking from her electromagnetic energy? And the fact that she was hypoglycemic until she gave birth (now she's fine), or that she gets asthma if she stops smoking. Mosquitos never bite her and perfume turns rancid because of..too much vitamin B?

She would, and still does, stare at me in the car, drying my hair, while talking on the phone..."you're so beautiful," she'd say, "I can't believe I gave birth to you." Now that I'm older with my own son, I see this for the true psychological torture method it is.

She would laugh (especially in public with my aunt Susie) - gleeful, uninhibited, loud laughter that mortified me to no end. Now when we're in a quiet pub or at home, I'm proud to be sharing a space with someone so capable of expressing joy.

We'd be having a conversation, or so I would assume, when her end of it would suddenly stop. Thinking that the was the end of the discussion, I'd retreat back to my head...covering a range of several other thoughts when she would respond to the intial conversation. "Yes, I think so, too." Uh...huh? What?

Every time she pulled the car into the driveway, she' d say, "Honey, we're home." Every. Single. Time. In my head, I'd be yelling, "Duhhhhhhhhh, where else would we be?" (because I was obnoxious like that), and it makes me laugh now when I still hear her say it.

One year, I saved my allowance for several weeks to buy her a "hot to trot" keychain because I thought it meant she was beautiful...Happy Birthday, mom, and I still think you're beautiful!

Black(jack) Celebration

I fell in love with Tuscon the moment I laid eyes on my first 'Desert Diamond Casino - 2 miles' sign.

Just like other obsessive relationships, psychological warfare was employed and I was able to think of nothing else except my beloved Blackjack (which makes for a rather awkward work conference: HIT ME!). I won $100, which would be great if I hadn't acted like a hillbilly and spent $600 at the mall, but a girl's gotta have shoes, ya' know.

Route 66?

There's a billboard near a freeway on-ramp in Michigan with a picture of Jesus that says, "Are you on the right road?"

My Uncle Brian sarcastically feigns suprise and confusion, "What? Isn't this I-75 North?"

I have flown out of so many airports across the country, I'm quite sure I could find each and every one of them without a savior billboard. Eventually. Unfortunately, my internal clock runs on beach time and that pesky compass of mine is broken. I did break my four year streak of missing every flight booked, but just barely, pulling up at the gate with twenty-two minutes to spare.

After I arrived in Tucson, the gentleman at Hertz asked if I had a car preference. I told him anything American would be fine, but when he couldn't find any keys, he upgraded my rental car to a new, red, convertible Mustang with Sirius Satellite radio at no extra cost. Does it get any better than that?

Alimony in Meow Mix

The quickest, shortest, easiest route to my heart? Via a 20-pack of Bud Light (in bottles) left on the stoop where I feed the feral cats, accompanied by a note that says, "Forgive me?"

Sometimes my ex-boss and I act like an old divorced couple. We rarely agree about work responsibilities, I nag, and he yells hurtful things. Fortunately, though, we both have crappy memories and love cats, because he agreed to feed mine while I'm IN TUCSON FOR A BUSINESS CONFERENCE NEXT WEEK!! WOOOOOOOO! (I've noticed this "woooo" slips past my lips every time I mention it).

Cry Baby Cry

Ever cry so hard your arms shake and you can't be bothered to turn your head or wipe the tears, so they roll down your neck and stomach before they're absorbed by your waistband? And when you're frustrated because you can't cry harder, you kick the metal gutter alongside a building and possibly break two freakishly long toes?

Me neither.

Sanctuary

Apparently, the separation between church and state in Enterprise, Alabama is the width of one street. The row of churches (Baptist, Methodist, and Catholic) adjacent to the high school was left virtually untouched Thursday afternoon.

[St. John's Catholic church, minus one tree]

My sister and her best friend were in her 2nd story apartment in Troy, Alabama during another batch of tornadoes that day. The weatherman advised them to hunker down and her stepfather called, telling them to "get the fuck out of that building". Braless, in their wet, white wifebeaters and clutching their box of wine, they ran to the nearest house, where they must've seemed like a dream-come-true to the resident lesbian. Who said Mother Nature doesn't have a sense of humor?

Why I will never again say, "try not to get in trouble at school today, eh?"

"Mom, aren't you relieved I was suspended from school today?"

Relieved isn't half of it. Wednesday afternoon I thought the punishment a bit severe - detention seemed like a more viable option for getting up in the middle of PE class and ignoring the teacher's request to sit down.

Thursday, during the two-hour drive home from work, with twisted, uprooted trees dotting the landscape, rescue workers and concerned parents on every corner, I cried from relief. Sitting in the dark with no electricity, cable, phone or internet seemed like such a tiny inconvenience after the storm.

Beauty and the beast

I *heart* a jaded cynic

I brilliantly combined Walmart and Valentine's Day this year, kind of like plunging into icy Lake Michigan while simultaneously pulling a band-aid off an oozing, not-yet scabbed knee.

Entire aisles filled with candy, flower arrangements, and men holding giant red balloons filled with heart-covered stuffed animals and other cheap trinkets. Don't forget the brilliant marketing bastards at Hallmark.

I'll be inspecting worksites today, passing out little candy conversation hearts that say "bite me".

Pont Neuf

When darkness comes
And pains is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

- Paul Simon

4 a.d. (after divorce)

How unfair that my ex should look so relaxed, fit, and well-dressed (he wore long, flowered surfing shorts when we first met), more distinguished and handsome.

I, on the other hand, look as if I've been hit by a runaway bus - full of lard. Then dressed in hand-me-downs, dipped in honey and rolled in cat fur.

Apache over Baghdad

Naturally, I was curious when my phone rang this morning and my ex-husband's number appeared. Being tax season, I figured he was calling to share his sob story about having all that income, with nothing to claim, poor baby, and didn't answer. He didn't leave a message, which was perplexing, so I hunkered down and prepared to stand my ground (crying if necessary) when I called back. He told me, instead, that his friend from Ft. Campbell had been one of the pilots shot down and killed in Iraq the other day. His family had stayed here in Alabama, while he finished his final year before retirement.

His wife & I had walked our kids to school together; invited one another to Tupperware parties and giggled over wine at aviation functions. Their daughter has a crush on my son, and they joke over whose car kicks more ass (neither's).

I feel such an overwhelming sense of loss for the family that was just like mine; for the daughters and wife he left behind. It could have been us, and nothing in the war thus far has hit so closely. All the numbers and statistics and finger-pointing because the U.S. didn't offer enough troops for sacrifice...and I still don't understand why. Lousy, shitty war.

Cats behaving badly

I'm contemplating snagging two feral kittens from work and decided I'll need a place to keep them quarantined from the rest of my brood for a while. My spare bedroom, which was used as a gift wrap room, with bows and ribbon separated by color in little plastic containers, was apparently the site for the 2007 cat mardi gras:

Which doctor

I'm still not sure if I had food poisoning, a stomach virus, or cat scratch fever this week, but I was horizontal for thirty straight hours.

I told my son I'd probably be dead before he returned from work, but if I could have one last wish, it would be for a McDonald's strawberry shake. I even told him he could drive my car, take all the money in my purse, and keep the change.

He told me dairy products would make it worse, brought me a glass of water with a straw (when I wouldn't stop whining), and KEPT THE MONEY anyway!