eulogies and elegies and elephants

i lost the love of my life yesterday, my cat lily. i know that might sound absurd, but lily was a truly special being. anyone who ever met her knew it. she was a black cat that only shed white fur. she was a peace maker and mediator. and she kicked asses of cats and humans far bigger than her. she had a love/hate relationship with just about everything - especially me. and this wonder woman doll action figure i used to have. the love was real, the hate was really just for show.

 i was there when her litter was born - everyone but her, she wasn't quite ready to come out. when she was about 2 weeks old, i was laying on the bed with all the kittens. she climbed up until she found a spot near my heart on my neck. and she stayed there. for hours. needless to say she moved in with me as soon as she was big enough. and with me is where she has been ever since.

she was with me when i broke up with boyfriends. she licked the tears from my face while i cried from her perch on my neck. she would run into the room and yell at me if i ever raised my voice. she so hated yelling. and she would sing with me whenever i sang to her. one night, she either loved or hated the song from "a chorus line" (michael hill, zoe fain)  i was belting out so much she was hanging off my cheek by her teeth. then there was that time she sang along with bagpipes playing amazing grace on t.v. almost completely in key. always by my side. yesterday, while we waited for the vet to come over and bring her some peace, she was by my side. on my lap. on my neck. the day she died she spent like the day she picked me - curled up on my neck. hugging me. full circle.

lily, more than any other animal i am honored to share my home with (and i have had many many animals, all of whom i have loved dearly) taught me unconditional love. complete, total unadulterated unconditional love. she was so cute and little that i couldn't help but pick her up every 5 minutes. she HATED it and would growl the whole time, while licking me, but she always let me pick her up again. the day she moved in, she jumped up next to one of the old ladies of the house - besides me - and just curled up on her and went to sleep. she had no fear. she had no qualms. she wanted everyone to just love each other. i really learned unconditional love from her. and try to remember to practice it.

she never judged me. not when i acted like a total asshole. which i have a tendency to do. a lot. i drink too much, i talk too loud, i make inappropriate jokes, i curse like a sailor, i'm super opinionated, i'm honest probably to a fault, and i am socially awkward, with guys in particular. but only if i like them. and i end up chasing them away because i don't know how to act properly. she never cared. i do. i did. i always will. but that cat could care less that i had tried to tell someone i liked them in the wrong way and made them go running the other direction. she knew me. she knew i always meant well. and never meant to be crazy but, well....shit sometimes it just happens. if you are one of those guys? sorry. i am too honest. i don't know how to be that way appropriately so i come across as a crazy person. c'est la vie. lily never cared. she knew i am a little crazy but a lot in love with everyone in my life. especially her. and didn't give a flying fuck.

there will never be a day i don't miss her. or cry for her. or wish she was still here with me. she didn't go peacefully like i wish she would have, but that was her way. she knew she was dying but she wasn't gonna go like that. she fought it with the sass she was born with, and lived with. she may have left this earth far too soon but i am honored to have spent the years i did with her. i will never forget her or the lessons i learned from her. and i will love all of you unconditionally regardless for the rest of my life. and i have her to thank.

i realize this is very out of character for me, but every so often? especially at times like this? yep. i finally have remembered what it's like to cry. i do it once every 5 years, whether i want to or not. i am sad. i miss my sweet little cat. i miss everyone in my life who left this earth too soon. if you are someone who doesn't know me well? realize i will always tell you exactly how i feel. life is too damn short to not always be completely honest with people. if you don't like it? oh well. i don't have the time to worry about it. but if you stick around? i will love you, warts and all.

sleep well, my dear sweet lily.

i said no, no no

On pharmaceuticals, up yours

Since babyhood, I have always been sickly. I had both chicken pox and German Measles before I could walk. Every year I got tonsillitis, and bronchitis. Every year, next year they would take out my tonsils, 103 is high for a fever for a little person and here drink this. The drink this was a “Doctor Whipple Special” (yes, my pediatrician’s name was really Dr. Whipple.  He was tall. With gray hair).  In later years I realized the Dr. Whipple special I started drinking at maybe 5 years old was, in actuality, a hot toddy. But that’s another story for another day.  Suffice to say I was weaned off the Dr. Whipple specials when the majority of the special was whiskey, not honey and lemon.   

In high school I remember one month where I was sick with a different version of the flu every weekend.  Seriously. Who gets sick like that?  Constantly? Whatever illness I got, it would manifest itself in bizarre ways.  Like the time I had 50 canker sores (no lie) in my mouth at the same time.  That was the most horrible experience. One of the meds I had to swish around in my mouth. THAT SUCKED. The other was percoset – which had me staring out the window in the cafeteria and missing all my classes for a week. (And my brother bitching that I was prescribed good drugs for everything and he was in a car accident and given iboprofin.  What can you do, I guess my doctors always took pity on my poor sickly self.)  I had taken prescribed pills one other time, which was when I probably discovered how much fun they were, especially mixed with booze.  And since I had already taken whatever pills anyone had handed me for years?  bonus that I had a whole bottle with my name on it, right? 

What I have learned is as much as I’ve always been an avid enjoyer of recreational pharmaceuticals over the years, they honestly have never really sat well with me. Especially when prescribed. An occasional xanax or valium is one thing – a full bottle of hydrocodone? Forget it.  I thought perhaps it was psychosomatic – only liked my drugs illegally procured. I rarely make a whole lot of sense so that wouldn’t be a stretch in any way, shape or form.

And narcotics? Make me super grumpy. Especially opiates (although I sure did love opium and could see myself in a gold rush opium den easily). I had major surgery and was sent home on 4 doses of morphine as well as anesthetics and whatever else they put in my system, with orders to pick up my pain pills on the way home and take one immediately.  That was a hazy, grumpy few days. Granted, I felt no pain, but it was ugly ugly ugly.  There was the part where I started calling everyone to tell them I was out of surgery (a few still have the messages saved, years later, as I was STELLAR). And the part where I had no patience to wait for lunch so crawled my way down the horrid outside wall of the fast food wall joint in the hood to see where my food was. THEN there was that incident where every CD was knocked off my CD shelf while I attempted to change my shirt. There was also the part where I kept showing everyone my wound – (breast biopsy, fyi) so it wasn’t all bad.  Regardless – I would be a terrible heroin addict. Maybe that’s why I stuck to cocaine.

Every time I’ve taken antibiotics over the last 20 years, it’s been a disaster. From welts to projectile vomit, to living on pedialyte for days, I depend on herbal remedies when I’m sick now.  I’m even sensitive to those. It’s gotta be a toss up as to whether it’s the sheer number of different pills I’ve been prescribed over the years with my multiple illnesses or just genetics.  My mom used to hallucinate on half an allergy pill. I have to problem with allergy meds – I have lived on those since I stopped getting bronchitis and started having sinus issues. Fortunately, allergy meds are over the counter, for the most part.

When I developed a full time lovely case of insomnia, I discovered even hard core sleeping pills don’t work properly for me. When I borrowed an occasional ambien from a friend, it was like Heaven. Now? I’m either I am up every 2 hours, or don’t sleep or do sleep but have horrific dreams. Regardless the next day I hope nobody crossed my path because I am not pleasant to be around. AT ALL. Lately I’ve taken sleeping pills just so I can see how many hours they work. It’s become a game. A sick, twisted, sad exhausting game.  It is super fun to write while the pills take effect, though. And reread what you’ve written the next day. Or in two hours when you’re back up for the night.

So what in the hell made me think it was time to try anti depressants? Desperation maybe? Lack of forethought?  Resignation to my fate?  I’ve been depressed my whole life and have managed it fine. I let my life catch up with me in a big bad way, to the point where I had myself convinced I couldn’t dig myself out. And HAD TO DO SOMETHING. So I gave in. to something I have NEVER wanted. EVER. I am not into pills for necessity, maybe? I don’t like putting manufactured poisons into my body, prescribed. Maybe if they weren’t prescribed I would love them. Doubtful but who knows…

So, 6 months ago or so, I went to the doctor. Sat on the prescription for a few days, and finally filled it. Almost immediately I felt so much better. It was uncanny. The unexpected appetite suppressant?? Nice side effect for those of us with body dysmorphic issues.  But I still couldn’t sleep. And still felt a little off. (this last depression was a doozy). SOOO, as is always the way with physicians that are run by pharmaceutical companies, my doctor raised my dosage. She also prescribed sleeping pills that are not covered by insurance, after me telling her I was broke, but that is another story for another day.

The higher dose of my auntie’s little helper was a little unfortunate for myself and everyone around me. I immediately went on a drinking bender to shut up the screaming in my head that started as soon as the pills were upped. And became a black out drunk.  I’ve never been a black out drunk. Well, not in 20 years.  About once every 5 years it happens. One afternoon I was blacked out at 4pm. Woke up with only a shirt on after a several hour pass out, having no clue where my friends went or what I had done. Apparently I went to the store and bought more booze.  Then there was that night, I invited a guy I was interested in over while shit-faced – we had yet to go on a date. Needless to say, after a night of casual, blacked out sex, we have yet to go on a date. Everything was fine until I texted him exceedingly drunk a few more times in the same week. Needless to say I haven’t heard from him since. Hurrah me.

I am aware of the warning label about drinking on this type of medication, however it was the only way I could shut up the screaming in my skull. Vicious cycle of drinking to ease the pain caused by drinking to ease the pain caused by drinking to ease the pain caused by insomnia…so drink more.

Then skip to take more pills. So I can sleep. But I can’t sleep. So take more pills. Yeah this is not the life I want to live. EVER.

Fast forward, rewind pause and reset. Better living through chemical. And the pharmecuetical companies will stay in business. And we will all be addicted. And think we have ADHD and PCOS and PTSD and PMS and schizophrenia. And take more pills. And drink more booze to counteract the pills.  Remember the good old days when weed was the answer, to everything? Yeah, me neither. Maybe rehab isn’t such a bad idea after all, Amy. 

There's no place like home..

How do you miss something that never was?  Is it real, or is it an illusion? Life is not but a dream. Or is it? Land of Oz? The man who fell to Earth?  Or more likely the man that wasn’t there? This is not my beautiful house. My GOD! How did I get here?

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in day dreams. But crossing over between dreams and reality?  Now that’s a feat. Or is it?  Series end with the reveal – oh it was just a dream and now I’m awake in the same multi-billion dollar mansion but no one ever shot JR.  Or moved to rural New England and met Larry, Daryl or Daryl.  Dorothy found her way back from Oz (via a tornado induced concussion).  And you were there, and you were -  click your heels together and, wait for it…there’s no place like home. All wrapped up in a neat and tidy bow, happily ever after.  Isn’t that how it always is?  Happily. Never. After.

Is it a dream or is it a reality?  Is it real because you believe it or them or him or her? Or is no more than a sham when it turns out to be nothing like promised, expected, hoped for?  Do people really change that much? Is everyone a chameleon? Or is it just trying on clothes that eventually you grow out of?  Dammit, I seem to have gained too much weight to wear those skinny jeans. I really thought I loved those gold lame pants but I changed my mind.  And these shoes? WHAT was I thinking? A constant shuffle of trial and error and cause and effect and plus and minus and pro and con and here we go round the mulberry bush. Ashes Ashes they all fall down.  Candymancandymancandy…

help me superman, you're my only hope

Don’ t play with me cause you’re playing with fire…sigh.   Truer words have never been spoken, across the board, always ever at all.  Not just about me, I swear.  I think it’s really true of everyone to some degree.  Everyone is someone else’s kryptonite, funeral pyre, never dying bonfire.  It’s unfortunate that you can’t make the entire world take a compatibility test, well not so much compatibility as incinerability, and put it on a database, accessible to all.  You meet someone, you can look at the list to see what the odds are of your future.   I think it would save a lot of heartache and sadness down the line.  I wonder how many times you find your kryptonite in your lifetime?  I hope it’s only once, but I have a feeling it might be more.

You always know as soon as it happens, too.  That quick eye lock across a crowded room and bam, it’s over.  Even if it takes months or years or eons to meet back up, that first eye lock is all that matters.  It’s just like all the silly romantic movies I pretend to hate but secretly love and cry through.  The world stops spinning for what feels like an eternity, everything goes grey (or at least fuzzy), people move in slow motion, and sound is in a vacuum.  You don’t know what hit you.  And as quickly as it happens, it’s over.  And you are so unnerved because you know your life is about to change forever, because of that one quick, sideways glance.  And if you’re lucky, your kryptonite will be fireworks not a bomb blast.  And if you’re really lucky, it will be mutual and long lasting not bizarre and unhealthy.  Regardless everything you thought you knew will change in that one blink of an eye.   And your heart will grow 5 sizes that day.

Worms glorious Worms

So nobody likes me everybody hates me I guess I’m gonna eat some worms.  Right fucking now.  Short fat slimy ones blah blah blah blah.  See how they wiggle and squirm.

Is this really just me?  Am I the only person who ever feels like this?  I guess not or the worm song would not exist, right?  Someone likes everyone, right?  Sometimes I think when we get too arrogant about  life we are reminded either gently or forcefully that worms are not out of the equation. Do you feel boxed in drawn all confused like people are watching you?  Or just ostracized (for no reason of course) and ignored and nobody likes me everybody hates me? So bite off their heads and throw their skins away (sorry Buffalo Bill – I’ll leave the dumpster unlocked for you and your own personal demons and put the lotion on the skin).  Worms worms good for your heart the more you eat the more you fart, right?  Right?  Nobody loves me…

It’s a vicious circle of self pity, despair and worms really.  Sometimes running in conjunction with hormones and sometimes just because it’s too sunny, or too cloudy, or too sleepy or too ridiculous out.  Some people, honey, just have misfires in their synapses.  And some people just prefer eating worms over others.  I wonder, though, if worms are vegetarian? Squirmy slippery fuzzy oozy worms. 

Duck and Cover

I wonder what it is that makes drunken men think that if a woman sits down next to him at a bar, she MUST want to have sex with him.  I mean, seriously.  There wasn’t another seat at the bar, buddy.  And they always wait at least 5 minutes to suddenly interrupt conversation to introduce themselves.  And it’s always really abrupt.  And awkward.  

After the introduction goes badly, does the drunk lonely guy in the corner of the bar give up?  Does it matter that said woman is with friends?  Does it matter that he can barely speak English, or any other language for that matter?  Of course not.   I don’t think it’s liquid courage, either.  It’s inexplicable. 

Again, he waits…lurking and watching the unaware, uninterested female.  Again, he suddenly interjects himself into her life, this time to grab her hand (don’t you EVER grab my hand without knowing me, unless you are shaking it in introduction. Danger Will Robinson, danger indeed).  An aside, I often wear 24 cent rings from the local bodega – they are plastic and painted and full of fabulousness.  At least myself  and my friends think so.  PLASTIC.  PAINTED.  Don’t tell me you can’t tell the difference between plastic and rare metals, drunk man.  I won’t believe you for a second. “What’s that ring for?”  “Decoration” “I know better than that, what does it mean?” “It means I like buying my jewelry at the convenience store, it’s just a plastic ring” “Oh come on I know better than that.”  Did I mention that he grabbed my hand.  My left hand??  I was sitting to his left so he had to reach over while I was oblivious to his snakelike charge.   All of a sudden my hand is being fondled, unwelcome advances on my ring finger.

This is not an isolated incident, oh no, not by a long shot.   There was that time I had to continually remove  a female friend of mine’s hand from a drunk man’s clutches.  Granted she was flirting a little bit, but she wasn’t flirting enough to warrant a hand attack.   Hand attacks should never happen.  Hand holding is not a given any more than a guy expecting me to take him home with me after we spoke for a half an hour. What is that?  That’s beyond casual sex, that’s just ridiculous.

I love holding hands with guys.  I really do.   But not without an invitation.  I love talking to guys, I really do.  Again, not without an invitation.  I love taking guys home with me, if I know them marginally well.  Do I even have to say it?  Sure I do, NOT WITHOUT AN INVITATION.  Perhaps I shouldn’t ever sit down next to a guy alone in the corner of the bar ever again.  Ever. Again. At all.  And people wonder why I’m single…

Is it really?

Even Grey Goose taste like rubbing alcohol sometimes.  Which is real real sad. But true. Truer words have NEVER been spoken, kinda like even cowgirls get the blues. Or all good cowboys have Chinese eyes.  Or every silver lining has a touch of gray.  Or the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. But not it is what it is. Because that’s the most ridiculously obvious annoying first said by a man breaking up with a woman who was way out of his league, far too pretty and smart and interesting for him statement that ever was.  For lack of saying I must be rid of you before you see me for the complete and utter d bag I am, it is what it is was the perfect non statement to utter.  And has been adopted by every other man breaking up with a woman far too good for him ever since.  Ever. Since. And has been co-opted by all humanity. Ever. Since. Because it’s truly the best nonsense. It can mean anything. And everything. And does.  What is what is it is? Que sera sera? Whatever will be will really fucking be? The future IS ours to see…it is what it is. What if it were what it weren’t?  What happens then?  Or if it could be what it wasn’t?  Or is what it’s not?  WHAT THEN?

Grey Goose tastes like rubbing alcohol.  Know what? It is what it is.