I Just Don't Get It....Sorry.

Now consider. Just for a moment. I blog, I tweet, I'm on Facebook. I work in an industry that likes to think it's more high tech than it is, in a city that IS more high tech than it should be, thanks to some guys called Bill and Paul. I keep up with the news, and I'm relatively intelligent (except for Sudoku, there you got me).

But there's some stuff out there that I see, sometimes regularly, that I just don't get.

Exhibit A. Christmas wreaths attached to the front of cars. What? You love your Christmas tree SO much you wanted a portable version? Does it come with a deployable Santa air bag in case you have an accident? Nope, don't get that one.

Exhibit B. The rural mailbox shaped and painted like a farm animal. Is it cute that the mailperson shoves the electric bill down the gut of a fiberboard Holstein, or is it more fun that you have to disembowel a bovine to get the Victoria's Secret catalog. Perhaps I lack a craft gene. Thank you God.

Exhibit C. The little caricatures on the back window of your car that represent the members of your family. It began with one for dad, one for mom, and then as many little boy and girl stickers as were appropriate. Then some creative genius made add-ons for cats and dogs. This is kinda cute, but where does it end? What if the cat gets hit by a car? Is there a squished cat sticker? How about if one of the kids catches lice at school? Do you get a million little rice sized stickers for the back window? And then does the defroster still work? Are there options for guinea pigs, boa constrictors? What if there's a divorce? Do you get the half-a-dad sticker option? It just seems to me there's a potential to really mess with people here.

Exhibit D. The completely f@cked up fashion statement of wearing short skirts without hose or tights when it's 28 degrees fahrenheit outside. Guys wearing shorts in the middle of winter took some getting used to, but they're guys. They can't help it. They also have the benefit of leg hair to keep them half-way sheltered from frostbite. Plus shorts don't typically ride up to the point where we can see the color of your thong when the wind blows. (If you happen to be a guy who wears a thong, no offense intended). Honey, I have tights, I'll give them to you. (I suppose most men reading this post won't actually get the point, but pretend I'm talking about your daughter...)

Exhibit E. Why is it that my boyfriend and step-son, who wouldn't be caught DEAD buying feminine products for me, or their sister, or girlfriend, or whomever, think absolutely nothing about popping down to the local to get a package of panti-liners for our in-season whippet bitch? I didn't even have to ask, they just did it cuz they couldn't find the extra package. Nor did I have to answer any questions about design, brand, scent, or absorbency. Men all over have just been outted - you really CAN do this if you want to.

Exhibit F. I'm starting a grass-roots movement to remove the cc: field from email in the workplace. I'm starting by refusing to read anything that isn't addressed to me. Remember back in the good old days when all we had was paper, and a typewriter, and snail-mail? (Sigh. Maybe you don't. Trust me on this one) You didn't cc the world. You cc'd someone only when absolutely necessary because you had remember to do another envelope and make an extra copy and buy an extra stamp to get the cc out. Now, approximately 995 of my 1000 emails a day at work are cc'd to me. The hell with it. You want to send me something, send it to me. Otherwise the happy key in the upper right corner is going to do its job. God made delete keys for a reason.

I wonder if I can delete my neighbor's pig shaped mailbox?

Cheers!

An Invitation to Play Croquet

Well, now here's an odd position to be in. (Nothing to do with Downward Dog or a Cat Stretch).

I've been beatching for months about not having time to write my Fabulous book (Called "Death at First Sight") for anyone who cares. I have a job, a family, two dogs, two cats, a goldfish, two floods, two subsequent remodels, two dead bats, a deck to build, a hot tub, a motorhome and car that seem prone to breaking, a vacation to plan, an exercise routine, a house that wants cleaning, a dog that wants showing, and hair to dry. Periodically, I wander through the motions of a blog. On top of all that, my brain decided it was a good time to have panic attacks, along with some little disassociative moments that are as yet inexplicable.

So, today, I find myself with time. Medically imposed time by a doctor who decided I could either take a break or "else". I didn't inquire about the "else". "Else" doesn't sound like somewhere you can bring your dogs or your laptop. "Walk your dogs" she said. "Get some fresh air and exercise that way". "Do one house project a day". "Learn how to relax."

Hahahahahahahaha. You gotta be freakin' kiddin me? Relax? I can't even find the word in the dictionary. However. Here I sit, with my driving privileges essentially revoked and strictly prohibited from going to work. I walked the dogs, scooped poop, did some laundry, and the dishes. So now I'm going to indulge myself and write. I have all afternoon, and a goal of 2000 words.

Cheer me on! DAFS, Chap. 1

I'm Blaming Linda....

Epiphany!

A happy moment where the stars align and my health issues all fall into place.

1. Mood swings
2. Depression
3. Anxiety
4. mid-body pain
5. panic
6. cries easily
7. inability to focus

All concurrent with Tara's heat cycle. My dog is on the rag, therefore I have all the symptoms of PCMS (Pre-Canine Menstrual Syndrome). All I need is a little Midol, and I'll be good as gold. You whippet people were supposed to WARN me about this part. NOT funny.

I'm blaming Linda.

Wasted Wednesday

6am: Anyone seen the spare pair of bitches britches?



8am: Call in comatose to work. At least "comatose" isn't "suicidally panicked". On the other hand, comatose isn't really a lifestyle either. Definitely need meds adjusted.



10am: Contemplate doing laundry



11am: Write totally off the wall blog. Avoided Alice in Wonderland references.



12pm: Nappy time



3pm: Ugh. Brush teeth.



4pm: Do laundry. Discover bitch in season generates more laundry than paintballing teenager.



4:30pm: Cell phone rings. Not mine. Phone display indicates that call coming in is from "piss poor cell". I'm not sure which friend of Rob or Nick that is. Refrain from answering "Hiya, Piss Poor!"



5pm: Take next dose of Stepford Jenn med. Watch Curious George on t.v.

Good thing I go to the specialist tomorrow.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

You know that exercise wherein you think of everyone throughout history and pick a list of just whom you'd invite to dinner if you could? I've been thinking a lot about that lately. Mostly I worry about what the hell I'd serve for hors d'oeuvres. And how we'd serve dinner since there's a treadmill where the table should be. My invite would say "buffet style" and "bring your own lawn chair".

There's some people out there I really want to talk to. I suppose a normal person's list would begin with Jesus Christ, Oprah, Elvis, and maybe Abraham Lincoln. We have a tendency to want to talk to people we think can answer questions of cosmic proportion.

Not me.

1. Agatha Christie. Sister could write, she had a sense of humor, and she vanished for eleven days in 1926 while under stress and anxiety. I can relate. Did you take the dog? Someday I'm going to write an Agatha blog.

2. Amelia Earhart. Yo, babe - what happened to you? You're out there somewhere. I think maybe you suffered from what I'll call Britney syndrome - you were kept so busy keepin' up appearances you didn't get as much time as you needed to actually get really good at what you loved. Did that get you killed?

3. Queen Victoria - For no other reason than she loved food almost as much as I do. Nothing quite like getting to sit down with someone who truly enjoys their Cream of Sorrel soup. We also gotta talk about her choice of dog breeds - Albert at least had the sense to have a greyhound.

4. Coco Chanel - Want a bit of chat about the World War years. Nursing, affairs with Nazi soldiers, and some really awesome hats. That's diversity.

5. Ann Curry - I want to actually talk to these people, and a great conversationalist I am not. She's got my back at this party.

That's just off the cuff. I'm sure I could come up with a more meaningful list, but this how I felt about life this morning.

Cheers!

The Muse in a 12 Step Program

Must write something. Must write something. Must write something. No brain waves. Brain is tired. Brain is burned out on the new drugs. Now I no longer panic, I sit in a catatonic lump unable to motivate beyond the couch and the "What Not To Wear" re-runs. Oh yes, I get up to change Tara's panties every so often. Owning a dog is so therapeutic.

Somewhere there is a happy medium - there must be.

Maybe I'll start by changing to "As The World Turns".

Ooohhh. Even better, I could take the dogs for a walk. Healthy, stimulating, motivated. Efffing COLD! You been outside around here lately?

I think I'm actually almost there. Tomorrow I go into the office with the grand service dog in his official vest. By then I shall have adjusted a bit more to the meds. I will wear a cute skirt and fabulous boots. Stacy London will be SO happy. I will probably slide down Madison Avenue on my a$$ when the grand service dog spots a pigeon. Library patrons can wave as I go by.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's story - it ought to be a good one.

Things You Don't Want to Hear at The Office

As you know, Nike attended a fun-filled day at work with me yesterday. Due to her current, er, condition, Tara remained home in a crate. Nick gets home from school around 2ish, and about 2:05 my phone rang.

Now remember, I work in cubie-land. Everyone around me for about a 30 mile radius can hear my end of the conversation. Also remember Nick is a 16 year old male child.

Me: "Yes, Nike's with me"

Me "You can let Tara out of her crate, but she's, uh, started her, uh, girl thing. After you put her outside you'll have to clean her, uh, "hoo-haa" and put her panties on her. Otherwise she'll get blood on the furniture.

Heads start to pop up all over cubie-land, like gophers emerging from their holes.

Me: There's a hole where the tail goes, and you put a panty-liner thing in the panties right under the tail hole.

Me (begging for trouble): Call if you have trouble.

I look around at my audience and realize an explanation is in order. By the time I'm done, the aisles are full of tearful laughing co-workers. Great, a peanut gallery.



Riiinnnnnnnggggggg



More laughter from the aisles.



Me: What's up? Oh, yeah, they're normal panti-liner things, in a pink plastic package. I think I left them in the laundry room. Or maybe on top of the stereo. The panties should be on top of her crate. You probably have to take the old pad out and put the new one one - I was in a hurry this morning.



Frantic waving as I try to get the peanut gallery to quit laughing so I can hear what poor Nick is trying to say.



There are no dry eyes in the aisles near my cubie.



Riiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg



Medics are going to be needed for hyperventilating co-workers.



Me: She won't let you put them on? Dude, at some point you gotta learn about girls and panties. (Much grumbling at what is considered my poor effort at humor).



Peanut Gallery: Tell him to buy her a nice dinner and take her to a movie first.



Me: He's trying to get them on not off, you dopes.



Me: Sigh. Just put a towel down on the furniture. I'll be home soon.



I work with juveniles. I live with juveniles. On the other hand, you can't really say that's an everyday conversation at the office.....

Advice from a Caterpillar

Today I must venture from the house and make my way to work. I was feeling pretty good until the reality of that adventure actually hit home. So I made my way to my favorite work of literature, the one that understands me. Today's blog isn't about you, dear Readers, it's going to help me get through the day. Thank you Mr. Carroll.

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

`Who are you?' said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.'

`What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!'

`I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.'

`I don't see,' said the Caterpillar.

`I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.'

`It isn't,' said the Caterpillar.

`Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?'

`Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar.

`Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; `all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.'

`You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are you?'

Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such very short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, `I think, you out to tell me who you are, first.'

`Why?' said the Caterpillar.

Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a very unpleasant state of mind, she turned away.

`Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!'

This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.

`Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar.

`Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could.

`No,' said the Caterpillar.

Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?'

`I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!'

It's a good think Nike's coming to work with me. I will try to stay calm.

Adventures with the er, Red Queen

I'm home today, trying to get my act back together, take it easy, regroup on the how to get out of the rabbit hole. I feel pretty good. Meds are kickin' in. Life is relatively easy.

Except there's blood on my bed. WTF? Can't be me, I had those bits removed. Dogs and cats periodically have a run-in with a branch or each other. I hazily start physical inspection. No cuts or bruises that I can spot.

And then a terrifying, mind-numbing, Murphy-is-out-to-get-me thought. Tara's entered in her first show this weekend. Could she have.....? NO. Not possible. I don't have enough meds to cope with this.

I've done enough lure coursing and racing roll calls to know how to do bum inspection. Oh Dear God. Tara does NOT pass bum inspection. Deep sigh. Oh well, I'm a girl, I can deal with this. I have really cute sock monkey panties (thanks Patience!) and panti-liners, saved just for this purpose.

Tara does not grasp the whole diaper-for-a-cookie trade, but she'll work with it.

Then she promptly heads out the doggie door. Crap, I think. She's gonna take off the panties.

No, no, that's not apparently how this works with teen-agers. The panties are still on, and soaked with pee. Deep Sigh. Lesson One. Block dog door.

Off with sock monkey panties, into the washer. Clean up dog. On with back-up pair of Kooky-Wacky panties (thank you Patience).

Now must wash sheets. Anyone else wanting to offer advice, feel free. Remember I'm already on calming meds. Might need a drink too.

Jenn. First time mom of teen-age girl.

Chapter II - The Pool of Tears

Clinique, Estee, MAC, Bobbi Brown, and Max Factor have all failed women miserably with one simple design flaw. There is no brand of mascara on this earth that will Stay Put when a man, particularly your doctor, renders you to tears. With the first prickling of moisture under the lower lids, a dam is opened that sends first a trickle, followed by a mudslide of black goo sliding down your cheeks, dispersing in a sloughy mass across your jawline. If pushed aside, it makes permanent Sharpie-like lines pointing to your ears. Just what I need, big black lines underlining my puffy red eyes, pointing at my ears.

Down the rabbit-hole, Alice got away with the pool of tears by knowing a) how to swim, and b) she was too little to wear make-up.

As opposed to my beloved-Alice, I cannot swim, and I was completely unprepared for my emotional unraveling during my visit to Dr. Canada yesterday. His first clue something was wrong might have been the fact that I was curled up in a little ball in a corner chair when he walked into the room. His first mistake was asking "So, JATC, what's going on?"

Bawwwwwwwwlllllllllllllll, SNIFFF, SOB. The dam broke. Repeating the story as told to Dr. Australian Shepherd at the emergency clinic on Friday was more than I could bear. Soon, Dr. Canada and I were floating in an office full of tears, stethoscopes, blood pressure cuffs, and tongue depressers. Note: Those nasty crank-em probe thingies they use for "female" examinations? Don't Float.

In true Alice fashion, in order to dry out and re-group, Dr. Canada had me tell stories. Dr. Canada is a sensible sort. He looked at my notes about feeling like I was going to die, he listened to my tales of disassociation, and he carefully read through my friend PN Melissa's email that I printed for him. And then he said I was NORMAL. Say wah? On which planet? Dr. Canada is now Dr. Mars. Oh. I'm normal for someone with severe anxiety. Okay.

He addressed my great fear first. I am not likely to do anything while disassociating that I wouldn't do cognitively. Whew! I was really getting worried about telling one of our VPs at work what I Really Think. Career limiting. I also was a little worried about driving into a tree. Life limiting. He ordered up a thyroid test. (Thank you Melissa). He re-jiggered some of my meds. For the time being until we move on to Chapter 3 (The Caucus Race) I'm going to be somewhat sedated. He ordered me up a psych evaluation just in case he's missing something - he thinks there's a possibility that this might be PTSD related.

And he told me to keep the dog with me. :-) I'm luckier than Alice. Dinah The Cat had to stay home.

Jenn's Adventures in Wonderland - Day 3

News:
My first question about the inauguration festivities? Where they gonna put all those sani-cans? Does Barack & Co. have a special port-a-potty, or do they get a real bathroom? Inquiring minds want to know.

Weather:
Y'all in New England can keep your damn snow. Been there, done that, no thanks.

Sports:
Rob's poor Eagles. Who ever heard of an Eagle getting trounced by a Cardinal. Darwinian confusion here people. But I'm happy for my friend Janet's Steelers. As long as our dishwasher doesn't flood the kitchen during the superbowl this year, I'm happy.

Health:
1mg of Klonipin could stun a rhino. Gotta go see Dr. "I'm from Canada and I listen" and get straightened out today. Pretty sure Dr. Australian Shepherd just wanted to keep me sedated over the weekend. Much less likely to drive into a tree.

Dogs:
Clicker training at its finest - Nike can retrieve my meds from just about anywhere. Good boy.

People:
I'm surprised by the level of support from friends. I am grateful for the kind words and concern. There are some who think I should be able to reach through my now cracked facade and tough it up and suck it out and help myself. I think there's a balance. I can do that, but I still need some help with the glue.

Loves y'all.

Jenn And The City - The White Rabbit Chapters

JATC is turning a page in the blog. It's evolving from cave drawings to Alice's adventures. The tone will be the same, but the content will be a bit different. Let's all take a deep breath and follow the white rabbit down the hole. Following the rabbit won't be a problem for the whippet-types. Eveyone else will have to take it on faith.

The last year of my life has been fabulous. I am well cared for, I have a terrific job, and a lovely family and beautiful dogs. I have time to devote to my writing. In comparison, the prior twenty years were a struggle to survive, to care for those around me and myself. I no longer have that stress.

In spite of the positives, and in spite of my high level of functionality, sometime in the last year a white rabbit with a pocket watch invited me down a very deep hole, to a very strange and scary world. I don't know how I got there, and I don't know how to get home. I'm not quite sure what to do here. Sometimes I watch myself wander through the gardens and tea parties and have no connection with myself. That's called "disassociation". Sometimes I blank out and things don't look the way they should. I know I'm at work, but where does that door lead to? Where is my desk? I'm sure Alice could empathize. Most of the time I just plain ass panic. Calmly, and in my head. I'm too tough to actually lose my mind in front of an audience. So far....

I've tried Alice's solutions. "Drink me" helps, but it isn't exactly a solution I want to get sucked into. It's starting to cause friction at home. Which makes me feel even more disassociated. Integrity is important to JATC, but she's losing her grip on even that. Since the "eat me" pill solutions provided by my fabulous physicians don't help much, it's very easy to turn back to the negative "drink me" therapy. I don't mean to criticize, the fabulous physicians are doing the best they can.

I travelled to Bend this week and barely remained functional for the trip. That will suprise anyone with me there. I held it together. Until yesterday. Yesterday I nearly got wiped out on my way to work by a truck crossing the center line. While I was obviously frightened by the near miss, the more disturbing thought was "well, at least I wouldn't panic anymore" followed rapidly by "Rob wouldn't be disappointed in me anymore". This.Is.A. Messed.Up.Train.Of.Thought. Just in case you're wondering.

So I functionally drove to work, attended my critical meeting, then got in my car and called my doctor. He sent me to the emergency clinic. Emergency clinic doc listened to my story and kept me for observation. ER doc found me a counsellor, (hopefully the White Queen and not the Mad Hatter). He consulted my pharmacy history and found an error in a previous prescription. (Too much pepper in the soup!), and corrected it.

Because of my disassociative disorder, the ER doc (Dr. Australian Shepherd) mentioned a thought I'd previously had - a trained service dog might be of benefit.

So I start today with new tools to cope with the overwhelming and exhausting panic. There will be appropriate meds, a counsellor to teach coping skills, and a trained assistance dog (one of my own) for crises. Hey, Alice had the caterpillar, the Cheshire Cat, and a flamingo.

I choose deliberately to tell this story honestly, although I'll feel weak and loser-like for going here. But my narcissistic self thinks that I will get some interesting stories in this experience, and maybe, just maybe there is someone else out their with highly functioning panic disorder that will come to understand that it has to be dealt with.

Genes, they tell me. My wiring isn't like other people's. I'm trying to believe that.

If you find this too-self absorbed for your liking, I won't blame you for not coming back. But I'm willing to bet that in a day or two, I'll find humor in panic. And that should be Very Entertaining.

Red Cactus Margaritas

I'm in the high desert, in Bend, Oregon. I love it here, it is beautiful, and I appreciate that my job periodically demands I travel here. I love even better that I can spend the night in Bend and commute via a rubber-band and chewing gum express airplane, and still get to work faster than I can on the train from home.

Man, that sentence was WAY too long.

Bend has fabulous restaurants and breweries. Tonight we stopped at "Hola" after work. I highly recommend the red cactus margaritas.

Anyway, I'm exhausted, overwhelmed, I've had two days of near constant panic.

I want to go home.

I'm sorry, can't find my funny bone tonight.

Dear PetNet

While Jenn And The City is usually an honest, forthright, tell it like it is sort, she is not above pandering and bribery. For example, I'm not above trading chocolate or alcohol for votes, and I can pretend to like cats and arachnids if it makes me more interesting. Of course, what really makes me fun is my predilection to hang windchimes from my ceiling fans, and I speak to my dogs in complete sentences. They understand.

J

You Tube?

Thanks to "Pam In The Frozen North" for sending today's totally awesome link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42E2fAWM6rA

Sex, Lies, and Duct Tape

The supreme power that is Google represents the superhighway of blog traffic. One has ones friends and followers that visit regularly, via direct cyber roads. It is a well-known concept in blogland that certain key words and phrases will drastically increase the traffic on the Google freeway exit for your page.

Jenn And The City rarely pays attention to this aspect of blog marketing. I write for my own amusement first and foremost, and anyone who wants to tag along in my narcissistic adventure is always welcome to hop on the magic carpet. It’s definitely a “travel at your own risk” sort of trip. You never know when I’m going to turn at the second star on the left and go straight on til morning.

But I was fascinated to see the amount of traffic that the “Surviving the Duct Tape Wars” post generated. One intuitively recognizes that certain words, like “sex” or “Britney” will up your site visitor count, but “duct tape”? That’s.So.Messed.Up. There’s way too many people out there Googling “duct tape”. I know it’s popular in home and vehicle repair, and also an alternative gift wrap option, but really, why would you Google it?

Maybe I should mention that I once managed to Super Glue my finger to the weather stripping on my dog door. Does Super Glue have the universal appeal in the cyber-world that duct tape does? The even better Super Glue story is the tube that Travis-whippet got hold of and started to chew up. Those who know the story of Travis and his teeth probably think I should have let him keep the glue.

What happens to my visitor count if I tell the story of the WD-40 fiasco? Will that cause the counter number to whirl cheerfully skyward? In my experience, locating duct-tape in the hardware store, and inserting the straw into the can of WD-40 require Y-chromosomes. You don’t want to know about the reaction of the Y-chromosome at the hardware store when you try to return the defective uhh, lubricating product because you're having difficulties making the, err, tube delivering the viscous oil fit in the opening provided.

Additional fun fact about WD-40, it can be used to clean crayon and ink from computer monitors. Do Not Ask Me How I Know This. Remember I’m a recovering blonde.

Stay tuned next time when we will explore the Google results for hardware choices such as cordless screwdrivers, channel locks, and needle-nose pliers.

For Patience-Please

It's come to my attention that my friend Patience at Patience-please might be having a tough day. I think this because her blog today says"Be warned - not my usual post". Patience's posts are often funny and always meaningful. "Poignant" someone described them to me once.

So, loyal follower that I am, I read her blog. Expecting something decidedly un-Patiencey, like mindless drivel or something insensitive about animals and small children. This is not the case.

Patience rewound the video of her life and tried to decide if she's made good choices. She's taking a moment to reflect on missed opportunities. And she's feeling selfish and guilty and unentertaining for blogging about it. Huh? "Selfish" and "unentertaining" aren't even allowed in the same zip code with Patience.

First, she wrote an excellent blog, everyone should take a moment to ponder the lessons of the past. They guide the path of the future. Second, if she hadn't traveled the road of Patience, she wouldn't have been able to write that blog. Or her first and second books. And I'm willing to bet that Patience wouldn't be nearly as entertaining to us all if she kept a cattery, or showed poodles. Nothing against poodles, I'm just sayin'. And heaven help us if she'd learned to knit.

It is, I think, the hallmark of a really good writer to be able to look backward and be able to use that energy and those lessons to push forward. I know it drives me. Drives me crazy and up a wall and bonkers sometimes, but drive it does.

Patience is going back to full-time nursing. She's not exactly thrilled about the occupational adventure, but I am. There are going to be some totally awesome and funny stories. (THAT, my friend, is me being selfish.)

And they will be poignant.

No Penguins in Asia

I have four "guys" in my kitchen playing "Risk". Aside from the need to describe the situation in quotes, this isn't too bad. Yet.

The tin of Wal-Mart flavored popcorn is nearly gone. The Costco tub of red licorice is half-demolished. Howard Jones blares on my iTouch. Get Smart blares from the living room t.v. where my poor (pause, while JATC determines relationship) b/f's ex-wifes, son from first marriage's wife (otherwise known as Annie) is watching t.v. Annie is delightful, she has Nike and Tara wrapped under blankets watching t.v. with her. Annie is also a vet tech - she "gets" the whippets.

Rob is "out" of the Risk game. Brandon (ex's son), Travis (ex's current hubby) and Nick (their son) are still playing. Everyone but Nick has been drinking Crown and Coke (legally).

I'm interrupted from Twitter and Blogger with the Risk related question "Are there Penguins in Asia?" I'm not sure what that's got to do with the game, but given the Crown, I can work with it.

Rob has overturned his bar-stool, Nick's bodily functions are not fit for company, and Brandon has had about a half/pint of Crown. Just another Saturday Night at JATC.

For anyone wondering, there are NO penguins in Asia...
J

Happy New Year

Happy New Year, Blogland!

I don't normally make a New Year's resolution. I manage to resolve all kinds of crap all year long. Doesn't do a damn bit of good. I do need to do some things. I need to lose some weight, I need to write more, and I need to quit having these maddening anxiety attacks. There's nothing quite like that rush of adrenaline to your extremities that never stops, or the constriction in your chest that feels like your heart is going to implode. Of course, I'm also the only person on the face of the earth for whom Xanax.Does.Absolutely.Nothing. Much to the chagrin of my physician, who is struggling to find a pharmaceutical solution that will keep me functional and non-agoraphobic until the increased Prozac dose kicks in.

But I'm not going to resolve to do those things. For one, that would just be boring, and second, I doubt it would help me accomplish them.

At the risk of being pedestrian and lemming-like, I think I will make some New Year's resolutions this year. They're going to be a little different than the average bear though.

1. I resolve to eat whatever I want. By nature I'm a generally healthy eater, my mother did a good job instilling sensible eating habits. but I tend to get obsessive about junk food. And I've never managed to have a positive relationship with vegetables. So, pffuuiii on food. You will no longer control my life.

2. I resolve to let go of the self-conscious, socio-political filter in my brain. The one that overthinks things and has a death-grip on my imagination and creativity. I suspect this will not always lead to positive outcomes, but one must take risks to keep moving forward. See probable 2010 resolution to "put filter back on mouth".

3. I resolve to smile more. At myself, and at others. Just now I'm sitting here smiling at Tara. She's asleep, and doesn't care, but it makes me feel better.

Gotta go eat some cake and take my meds. Smiling.