blaugra

Shiny Shiny

Salty D. went to the florist to purchase a gift to send to me. He stood in line behind some ridiculous woman who was inquiring about prom corsages for her daughter, but she wasn't going to buy the corsages or even order them, she just wanted to talk about the corsages. She wanted them in a coral color, and had to explain to the counterperson that coral was like a cross between pink and orange, because the counterperson at a flower shop didn't know what "coral" was.

Apparently this went on for some time because D. was so frustrated that he left the shop, knowing what he wanted to send to me but unable to purchase it because of Ms. Coral. How frustrating.

He later returned to the shop, which was filling up with more prom corsage purchasers. Must be the worst time of the year for florists and hair salons. I mean, great for the bottom line but I know from my hair stylist that prom clients are the most demanding.  I believe she said, "Worse than brides!"

Just the fact that he withstood this rigamarole gives him extra points in my book.

Salty D. picked out a basket of flowers and dictated how he wanted the card to read, and the whole line of prom corsage purchasers heard him and the girls all went, "Awwwwwwww!" as the counterperson wrote down the message.

The next day, I was surprised by the flowers, which were delivered to me at work. I was psyched because there was a little butterfly on the basket handle which really set it off. No, I'm serious. I love butterflies.

Then I opened the card and it read:

To the only girl who can shine Ramona

Huh? I know you're thinking, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

Who's Ramona, and why would Salty D. allow Blaugra to shine her? And why would this message be considered romantic or cute by a flowershop full of young girls, who might be thinking that Ramona is an ex-girlfriend or something?

First, it's important to know that Ramona is the name of Salty D's beloved motorcycle, and she is very chromey and shiny.

I knew he meant to say "outshine," because what kind of idiot would tell his loving wife to go shine his bike?  Here are some flowers, now git your shine box and go polish my ride.

This card was like the florist version of Cake Wrecks. I was very touched.

Salty D. was PISSED when he saw the card. "What a freaking IDIOT!" he exclaimed.

But I couldn't stop laughing. I hung it on the fridge. Perfect.

Full Disclosure

To recap:

For the past 7 years I have had the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder 2.

Sometimes I think the diagnosis is wrong; sometimes family members question it. Even though I've had those wacked ups and downs, I mostly experience the down along with some raging anxiety. Anxiety that is more than just the sweaty-palm, nervous tension -- it's painful and rips me apart.

"It," meaning the illness, has affected every part of my life, my family, my friendships, my community work and my day job just like many other chronic illnesses would. 

I've been suicidal but never hospitalized. I believe that mental illness runs in my family. I've been under medical supervision at every step of the way. I've been told that it's good that I never reproduced. I've become insular as a means of coping. I've talked about myself way too much.

I believe that mental and physical health issues are all intertwined and are written all over the face.

Although it sucks just like any other chronic condition, I'm glad that Bipolar 2 is what I've been given to bear, so far, and not something else. When I'm not feeling like I'm living in the pit of despair it's not such a bad diagnosis to deal with, right?

Every time I feel good, though, I cautiously evaluate whether it's hypomania or healthy. Then I think, who cares? I'm feeling good.

I'm starting to get back to that feeling good state and I'm trying not to think about it too hard.

Isn't that a pretty picture? I borrowed it from here.

Meanwhile...yet again...

What does it mean when you walk into your therapist's office and she says, "Boy, I'm glad to see you!"

I said, "What? Really?"

"Yes, a friendly face, finally!"

Wow. Does she have some mean nasty people who pay to talk with her or what?  Are people actually mean to a therapist? Just because you're paying someone doesn't mean you can be mean. I swear sometimes I hate people with the exception of a few individuals.

What it means is I went into entertaining clown mode, telling stories to make us both laugh through my anxious tears. Despite that, it was still therapeutic. I think I'll be on the mend soon.

I'm trying to kick a phobia that I'm embarassed about because it's silly and I don't want you to laugh at me. Laughing with me is okay, being known as the girl with the goofy phobia is not.  The phobia came on suddenly and is basically a representation of aaaallll my anxiety rolled into one hairball thing that is being pulled apart now.

I also talked to the shrink, who has all kinds of old dust collecting tchotchka lining shelves in his office and I noticed for the first time (or perhaps it's a new acquisition) an antique bacon press. A pig shaped cast-iron press that says "bacon." I stared at this for a long time while I was waiting for the doctor, thinking about why people feel the need to press bacon flat. I think some of the beauty of bacon is it gets all curly. Maybe it's a message, this bacon press. Are we supposed to talk about the bacon press, since it's clearly a conversation piece? I thought it was really fucked up. I'm fucked up? Dude, you have a bacon press next to your desk.

I'm writing because a couple of people have said to me, "Why aren't you blogging?" so I did and here you go. Now I have to pee. Leave your comments below about cooking bacon or having phobias.

I'm live-blogging American #Idol! Totally retro!

I had kind of a stressful day, so for dinner I ate some gnocchi and some Malbec and my day improved.  I decided to pretend like it was 2005 again, the year I started this blog. Before Facebook opened up to the whole world, before Twitter, when people live-blogged reality TV and we laughed and laughed...  before this blog became a whiney collection of neurotic musings. Oh wait, never mind, it's always kind of been that, even pre-diagnosis.

Not that American Idol is so amaaaahzing these days, but I'm intrigued this season by Randy Jackson's accessories, Steven Tyler's big mouth spewing strange compliments, Tommy Hilfiger's clothing line, and the high profile mentors. Gwen Stefani? OMG. A lot has changed since 2005 before Carrie Underwood became a country style legend whose dresses are on display at the Country Music Hall of Fame, but I'm going to go retro and live blog away.

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Tonight it's the top 7 performing...what I forgot what the theme is already. Now and Then.  After last week's staged upset, emotions will run high tonight. There will be moments. 

The moment I love the most is when the judges walk out. J.Lo is wearing some dress she looks uncomfortable in, Randy's in a Prince-purple jacket and a necklace that I used to wear in 1993 and a peace symbol pin that a 6 year old fan gave him, and Steven as usual looks amazeballs (follow @mschick74 and tell her she's amazeballs, she loves that).  Ryan pays homage to Dick Clark. I loved Dick Clark.  He reminds me of my dad.

Holy shit, what in holy tangerine is Elise wearing?

Hollie's up first and she is my least favorite. She won't win because her accent is unAmerican. You know you think the same thing but you are afraid to express it.  Oh shit, she attempts to sing Adele.  As usual I don't believe her. She's just singing the lyrics like she's in a bad musical. Whatever. Enough of the shouting. She bores me.

Steven thinks she is perfect. Is he wearing a magician's vest?

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Colton reminds me of a guy I know in real life named Gavin. I've never heard Gavin sing, though.

Look, Colton and his sister both have funky died hair. They're so alternative.

Nice touch with the steam shooting from the stage. Is that a member of Shonen Knife playing guitar? 

OK, Colton, we're just a few seconds into this and I have to say I like your Bad Romance. ga ga oooh la la

Steven's wisdom:  "You gotta get low to get high." 

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Dude. I just got tired. This goes on for 2 hours?  Sheeeeeeit.

And I just had some technical difficulties that erased what I wrote about Elise, who used her dying dog in order to get more votes. I think that will work.

Steven says she was delish and sang her little tushie off.  Yesssss.

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I'm starting to think that everything Phillip Phillips the pawn shop worker sings sounds the same. Is it just me? But this version of that Usher song is pretty cool as a novelty thing.  But the judges give him a standing O.  Steven feels like a chump. "No chump love, sucka." He's so street. Jennifer is turned on and she makes Phillip blush. Randy says something, who cares.

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At this point I'm looking forward to Joshua. Do I need to sit through Jessica? Oh I guess I do, this week, since I've decided to watch this shit live. She doesn't have enough personality, even though her voice is Beyoncerriffic.

Now I'm questioning why I'm doing this. I should get off my ass and do some laundry. This was supposed to be an escape.

Anyway, Randy said she blew the box out of the song. I don't know what that means.

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Alright, I like Skylar and her southern rockiness. Not so sure about creepy fiddle player. What's with the long flowy sheer skirt things tonight? Are they in Tommy Hilfiger's line? Fashion people, please comment.

Steven: "I'm so glad you were born that way. You are so beautiful."

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Now, even though I'm an Idol fan, I haven't followed Fantasia Barrino's career at all so I don't know what this song is that Joshua is singing tonight. Oh, and I have to ask those of you with gaydar, is he gay? Because I have really bad gaydar.

The guy's a freaking powerhouse though. 

The songs are too short tonight. Very abrupt endings. No likey. 

Steven: "There's just nothing to say anymore."  And so....

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 Hollie's back and she brought the smokin' hot Liverpool Football Club with her. She may be back in my good graces...even though she's wearing a tacky pink lace dress. She does look better than Skylar did.

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 Now for the second half of the show, we go down the Soul Train line. I studied a lot of the moves on Soul Train.  Didn't absorb too many though.

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Prediction: Elise is going home, in one of her sheer flowy frocks. The judges ripped her after "Let's Get it On," which she kind of oversang. Even her dying dog isn't going to keep her out of the bottom. She has confidence in her ability, and whoever votes for this show won't go for it.

Thank you and good night!

Personally Speaking

I just finished another few weeks of sessions with the perky personal trainer.

This is not us. I don't wear zip-up mock turtlenecks.

It was a great investment in body and mind, and it's time to make a go of it on my own.

These are the 6 things I learned from hiring a personal trainer.

1. You're not that special.

I first heard that sentiment from my mom. I also heard it from the woman who does bra fittings in hard-to-fit-sizes when she told me that I was not hard to fit because God didn't make me special. Again I heard it from the trainer.

It's good to hear that your experience is like everyone else's. Certain moves make can make your hamstring cramp up, 100 crunches hurt you just like they hurt everyone else, exposing your weaknesses can make you cry. Typical. Congratulations, you're normal.

 

2. You are stronger than you think you are.

I did things I never imagined I'd be able to do and pushed myself further then I thought I could go. I thought my head or heart would explode, I felt like my legs were going to give out. But instead I got stronger.

 

3. Knowing that you just completed something regarded as difficult is a real ego boost.

When I'd finish a workout and the trainer would say "That was a hard circuit I just put you through, you handled it really well" I'd be all proud of myself. Glowing.

 

4. Music makes everything better.

Working out in silence with a trainer counting down your planks sucks. I need music to ease the pain. I need my Peaches, or Robyn, or Madonna, or Gaga in my ears.

 

5. Get a new pair of shoes every 6 months.

That's what "they" say, to help ease knee pain. I tried using Dr. Scholl's orthotics in my sneakers but that was more annoying than helpful. I think it's time for some new New Balances already.

 

6. You can work out with the buff boys.

I no longer avoid the pulleys, weights and heavy plates room. I'm not self-conscious standing there with my 10-lb. dumbbells next to the big kids. I do dips and pull-ups with a line of treadmill runners in front of me.

I stopped wearing big floppy t-shirts when I saw myself in the full length mirror trying to do rigorous movements in them. I care more about myself than how others might see me. And realistically I know nobody cares what I'm doing, but the point is, I'm more confident now.

And that's kinda cool.

I still hate going to the gym, don't get me wrong. But I'm making it work.

Numb and Dumber

I'm pretty sure my meds are making me numb.

Not numb to emotions like some people may think drugs cause, because I have a lot of emotions. Lots.

Just kind of oblivious. Not uninformed, but unfazed by my surroundings.  Not really paying attention to the way I'm interacting with my surroundings, moreso than usual.  I almost picked my nose in public the other day. It's come to this. A whole big basket of DUH.

That leads to feeling dumber. I have not felt so stupid in a long time as when I played Draw Something on my iPhone and someone drew an "X" on a box and then wrote "X+____" and I couldn't fucking comprehend that the answer was xbox and I had to end my winning streak with that player.

I don't even want to recount some of the dumbass conversations I've had lately, where I sound like a complete moron. It's not as bad as asking someone at a restaurant "Is your tuna like tunaFISH or tuna?" -- what does that even mean?   That wasn't me.

But I actually said aloud, about hot yoga, "What is hot yoga?"  Did I think it was a new breed of casserole? I mean, it's just hot. Yoga.

How about I keep pronouncing Steve Jobs as in biblical-Job. Imagine using that pronunciation for every "job".

At a party, people asked me "What's new?" and I said, "Nothing." What a great conversationalist I have become.  Who invited the boring chick?

I got excited because Ted Nugent is coming to play my town. That's so weird, because, I've never before been excited about Ted Nugent except when the Flying Bobs ride would play "Free for All" at the local amusement park. Isn't this a sign of some stupification?

So that's what I get to tell my doctor when I see him again, that I'm a blockhead.

Yeaaaaaaah buddy!

7 Things You Don't Know About Me

After all this revealing blogging you would think there'd be nothing left to tell. But, no. We are never ending fonts of stories.

1. There's a sentimental beer in my fridge.

Years ago, my uncle died. I helped clean out his refrigerator. Among his stock he had one Rolling Rock, which used to be my beer of choice. I brought it from Philadelphia to my house. It's still there. Very soon I will be dumping it out on some slugs in the garden.

2. I'm obsessed with wanting to go to Montreal on the train.

and I want to learn French.  Isn't that a good idea?

3.  My knees freaking hurt.

And I can never find the right shoes. This is an example of the right shoe that I'd love.

4. I'm not photogenic.

I don't think any part of me is photogenic. I want a lighting specialist for my photos. My profile pic that I use everywhere else is two years old. 

5. The show Inkmaster has curbed my desire for a tattoo.

Between watching Dave Navarro, the guy with the stick in his mouth, and the unlikeable artists putting bad tattoos on their human canvasses, I'm freaked out about the possibility of getting a bad tattoo. This makes Salty D. very happy. He does not want me to get a tattoo. 

6. I played piano for 10 years

and would like to learn another stringed instrument

7. I like the resurgence of boy bands. For this, I am sorry. I'm part of the problem. Salty D. just told me that I have zero taste in music. That's not really true. I just love bubblegum so much.

 

Living the high life

Salty D. and I took a bus to the Big Apple for a somewhat spontaneous day of downtown recreation.

First stop, Chelsea Market for coffee and scones and a requisite tourist shot of fresh pretty flowers:

I dragged Salty D. up to the Highline Park, which I love.  I think he may have been mildly impressed.

Birdhouse condos:

And seeing the spring springing on the old tracks.

We descended into the Meatpacking District where I led us into the Bond No. 9 New York store and said, "I'd like to smell Highline please" and it was my favorite scent and they had a springy display that made me happy:

And then of course there's the traditional meatpacking district wall art:

We decided to take a train across town to the East Village. Rather, Alphabet City. There we found Salty D's hero memorialized in spraypaint:

And we shopped along St. Mark's Place:

Feeling a little punk rock, we walked over to Manitoba's, via another bar I can't remember, where I matched D. drink for drink. Unfortunately his drink was beer and mine was double Bombay Sapphires and tonics. I was -- er -- highly inebriated but navigating pretty well although my photos started to blur even more.

Dick Manitoba's wife Zoe told us she opened the bar late that afternoon because it had been a late night with patrons from the Bruce Springsteen at the Apollo Theater show.  That was okay.

We loved the pics on the wall and I have a soft spot for both Brian Wilson and The Ramones:

The jukebox of course featured The Dictators and was AWESOME.

We were giddy, and not just because of the alcohol. But hungry. So somewhere in the neighborhood, we ended up at a restaurant where I ate a banana filled with pork, I have no idea. My next memory is that the 90-minute bus ride back home sucked ass.

Even though all I bought in NYC was a headache, the day was great and it was the first time since girls' weekend in early December that I had gotten the hell out of my hometown. I needed this. Thus ends this travel essay.

What's in your rider?

You know those crazy contract riders that you hear about, for big road acts, that say "remove the brown m&m's from the bowl" or "requires a dressing room painted in white and stocked with 38 dozen white roses?"

When I worked in an little theatre, visiting acts all had contract riders, and most of them didn't specify much in terms of amenities except some towels and bottled water. Our green room was a sad, sad dusty room with a worn out orange sofa and a cracked mirror. The theatre barely had money to sustain itself much less make interior decorating a priority. I had worked to get the public spaces dressed up a little more, so the green room was the least of my concerns, as it usually is in little theatres.

This one visiting artist came and had an actual list of specific desires outlined in his rider. Included were:

• A room with a view of nature, not of a parking lot
• 3 bottles of natural, no-sugar-added grape juice
• 4 new towels, washed
• A bowl of fresh fruit
• Healthy pre-show dinners including green salads 

What a pain in the ass, running around to get this stuff before a show opens, even a little list like this. It's pretty difficult to find a room with a view like he wanted, when funds were so limited. He expressed disappointment at being put up at the Hilton Garden Inn, and we were, like, "but there's GARDEN in the name." 

At least we picked some fresh flowers for the green room. Polishing a turd.

My fantasy rider would include grapes, pistachios (natural, roasted & salted,) a gallon of spring water, camomile tea, a fresh pillow with a clean pillowcase, a Snuggie, flowers, and, why not, 4 new hand towels.  And peanut m&ms, all colors included, especially the brown ones. Basically I would consume the food stuff, turn on my nature sounds, snuggie up and take a nap.

I'm not a stage performer but I am an expert napper.

What's in your rider?

I'm not in love.

The radio played "I'm Not in Love" by 10cc. That song is AWESOME.

But I had just left the psychiatrist's office, where I had been for 90 minutes waiting and then sitting in my appointment with the doctor. Who apparently is very in demand, so, if you are looking for a new career you'll probably make a great go of it as a psychiatrist today.  Maybe push your kids in that direction. Because a 17 year old really sees herself as a psychiatrist.

"I'm Not in Love" was feeling kind of trippy, 1970s hazy, as I drove through the decrepit urban center city. So many layers of sound in that song. And it's kind of gut wrenching.

Then I realized I'm not in love with anything now. I know that's not what the song is about.

I hope it's just a silly phase I'm going through. I'm all business. WERK. Let's get better. Most important and sometimes the most scary, is, let's stay better. I'm accustomed now to what-goes-up-must-come-down and I can't imagine what it feels like to sustain the "up." But, let's do this shit.

Here's the video that the DJ recommended we all watch, the making of 10cc's "I'm Not in Love." Now I'll never listen to that song the same way again.