Feelings and Other Terrifying Things

I'm pretty stressed out right now.

It was this or a Twenty One Pilots video.
So obviously, this.

It's that whole Coronavirus thing. It's that whole Is the economy going to collapse? thing. It's that whole Precocious-Daughter's-education-on-hold thing. It's that whole "Our President is a not just a moron but an evil moron" thing.

Stress can be punctuated in many ways. Cool cool cool.

I recognize that I'm in good shape relative to many. PDaughter and I are both healthy. My job is in no danger (in fact, I work for an Essential Business, so I actually get to leave the house and go to work every morning, even under a shelter in place order). I'm sure PDaughter's university will get back to the business of educating minds and draining wallets as soon as it can.

And of course, there's an election in November.

Maybe his lizard overlords will claim him before then.

Here's something interesting: We all cope with fear and anxiety in our own way. From a behavioral standpoint, you have your busy-workers: the cookers, the cleaners, the crafters, the exercisers. Then there are the suppressors: those who sleep, who drink, who tune out and drop out. I've heard there are even some who cope by engaging with life normally and in moderation.

Like Rodents of Unusual Size, I don't think they exist.

They're out there, and they're kind of weird.

I tend to ping-pong between busying and suppressing, and somehow manage to be neither productive nor successfully benumbed. I pretty much suck at coping, behaviorally speaking.

Now, emotionally...of course, people process emotions in varying ways. Emotional regulation is an important life skill. It allows us to operate on a psychologically healthy wavelength under most circumstances (unless you're President Reptile Face up there). When we regulate our emotions, we can control, compartmentalize, express, empathize, forbear, respond...all those good human reactions to sensory input that keep us sane and whole.

Some people are programmed to auto-regulate. They tend to process emotions on a closed circuit, relying on internalized standards and checkpoints that are more or less independent of outward influences. They don't wear their heart on their sleeve, and they typically don't want or need to "talk it out" to come to terms with how they feel.

Sorta like this.

Other people are...not that. Other people (see how I'm cleverly throwing you off by talking about "other people"?) seek validation of what they're feeling. They want to compare their emotional state to something outside themselves, to get feedback, to be reassured that they're operating within normal parameters. It's not they can't regulate; they just do it on a more communal, open circuit. They're the proverbial open book when it comes to emotions.

...and sorta like this.

Hey, you guys! Neither type of emotional regulation is better than the other. They're just different. The important thing to remember is that different people have different needs when it comes to processing things like stress, fear, and worry. And many people who cohabitate are discovering that very thing, as the current pandemic has them spending more time together in closer quarters than they're used to.

If you take an inny-regulator and an outy-regulator, who normally have time and space and opportunity to handle what life throws at them in the way they're comfortable with, and squeeze them into one living space for basically 24 hours a day with no one else around to act as either a buffer or a sounding board...

It's less ugly when illustrated with cats.

So, Drunkards who live with other people, that may be why you and your loved one/roommate/parent/child are at each other's throats more than usual. Try to understand that you and they may operate on a different emotional wavelength, and try to be respectful of what they need, even if it's outside your normal mode of operation.

Another thought.

If you are physically separated from someone you love, you should also be aware of those differing approaches to coping with stress.

Because if you want to be reinforced and reassured by someone who can't actually give you a hug or hold your hand...you may get nothing from them at all.

They may be efficiently and rationally self-regulating in their corner of the world and not even realize that you're drowning in yours.

And if you're happier dealing with things by yourself...

...then I guess you're pretty fortunate right now.

Be well and be safe, Drunkards.

Let Me Know What You Love to Smell. Seriously.

My fingers smell like lavender, you guys.

That's not weird or anything, is it?

Let me back up a bit.

Precocious Daughter and I have a bit of a moth problem in our apartment. We frequently encounter tiny, greyish, tissue-thin moths fluttering about. They're not aggressive, they don't bite or sting; they're just annoying as hell to have around.

No one asked you to join us, you sumbitch.

They're called pantry moths, and they commonly join one's household via packaged grains, dried fruit, pet food, or powdered milk, all of which I have in my home. NO ONE INVITED YOU, YOU STUPID MOTHS.

I did a bit of research and discovered that, once potentially infested foodstuffs have been removed, one of the best natural ways to prevent and avoid future moth propagation is to employ lavender.

It so happens that I love the smell of lavender. Mostly because it reminds me of the scent of sandalwood, and being a hippie soul in a GenX body, I totally dig that shit.

Yes, I was born in the wrong decade,
thanks for asking.

Anyway, I ordered some lavender essential oil from Amazon, and it arrived today.

My plan is to create sachets by infusing cotton balls with the oil and tying them up in mesh drawstring bags, then deploying them in various spots around the apartment.

But having not yet purchased the mesh bags, I did a trial run by dousing a cotton ball in lavender oil and setting it out on a dish.

I'm pretty sure I now understand the effect of catnip on kittehs.

What now who?

I don't know what it's going to do to the moths, but the lavender essential oil on the cotton ball (and my fingers) has got me mellowed out in a way I haven't felt in...months? Era? Who even knows, man?

What a wonderful, therapeutic scent. I'm pretty sure that even if our moth problem intensifies, I simply won't give a shit. Because lavender.

It's entirely possible that the scents that most soothe/entice/arouse me - lavender, vanilla, Calvin Klein Escape for Men (raaaaaawwwwwrrrrr) - don't have the same effect on you.

Just as it's likely that the olfactory stimulants you prefer lack a strong influence on me.

The sense of smell and its connection to our physical and emotional cores is a fascinating subject.

I urge you to explore that connection.

My point is, for me, lavender is a moth repellent with an eminently more complex emotional backstory.

And for you...?

I'd love to learn which scents float your boat, as it were. Maybe I'll learn something new.

Links to sources are most appreciated.

Promises, Promises

Just a simple question or two tonight.

Do any of you suffer from abandonment issues? And if so, how do you maintain relationships within that emotional framework?

I was in a rocky relationship for 20+ years because I knew he would never leave me.

Now I'm with the love of my life, who is wonderful when he's there...but sometimes (many times?) he's not there at all.

I don't have a problem with being alone. But I have a problem with being with someone and feeling alone.

Is that a deal-breaker, or just something up with which I have to put?

Insight, advice, and virtual face-slaps are welcome here.

Thanks.

Here's to Normal

I had an anxiety attack today.

This is pretty much how it feels.

I don't suffer from chronic anxiety. Fear, yes. Impotent rage, sure. But anxiety - that formless dread about making it through the next five minutes with my identity intact? Fortunately, not my default.

I completely get those who experience either chronic anxiety or regular anxiety attacks. I know how it feels. It sucks. I offer you all the understanding hugs.

Chimp hugs, even, which are nature's best hugs.

I experience anxiety attacks on an infrequent yet fairly regular basis. They seize me for no good reason, embrace me in a death-grip that is neither pleasant nor productive, and linger until I question every ounce of my carefully curated self-worth.

I hate them, you guys. And I so support those of you who are forced to endure them on a more frequent basis than I do.

My anxiety attack began this afternoon. I had lunch with Drummer Boy, but something wasn't right. Some malevolent bastard voice in my head was trying its best to sabotage my mood.

And it worked.

For the rest of the afternoon, I went through the motions of working and interacting with people. But really I spent the whole time silently battling an invisible foe who wanted me to feel scared, insecure, and inept.

Copyright Toby Allen, who nailed it.

I don't know what triggered my anxiety. I don't understand its grip on me.

I do know that I silently trembled the rest of day until I got home to my Precocious Daughter. We went grocery shopping (she drove, of course), and gradually my anxiety lifted.

She has that effect on me.

I already take Prozac to control my wildly unstable brain chemistry.

I can't imagine what it's like to live with anxiety every freaking day.

I hope it doesn't return tomorrow.

I hope it doesn't return to any of you tomorrow.

Here's to feeling good.

I'm Mom Squared. Kind of Officially Now. Deal with It.

Not going to talk about Russian collusion or giant sinkholes in Florida or Wimbledon tonight.

Or Bastille, even though technically it was their day today.

Instead, I'm going to talk about boba.

No no no...not the Fett.

The beverage.

Boba tea.

This weird shit here, yeah.

Right now, Precocious Daughter is drinking boba. Because her best friend texted her and said,
"Hey, let's go get boba."

And off she went.

I did the same thing when I was 17. Only it was more likely Half-Price Books or the Granada Theater or Bennigan's, because it was the 1980s.

Not this, but somehow this.

The point is, PDaughter's best friend has her driver's license. So they go places together.

PDaughter just got her learner's permit this week. She's like her mom in that she waited until way past the minimum age to start to drive.

I don't know why. Genetics. I'm going with genetics.

See this gene? It's the "I'll drive when I'm fucking ready" gene.

The point is, I'm now teaching my darling baby girl to drive.

After an initial lesson in which she literally was afraid to start then engine, she has fallen in love with driving.

Just as I did at the age of 17.

Driving is fun.

And PDaughter is actually really good at it. Driving makes me happy, tell the truth.

And it makes her happy.

So we're happy.

LOVE.

If you're of a praying mind, maybe pray for her safety and my sanity.

If not...Good mojo is totally welcome.

Thanks, you guys.

Prom 2017 - Shopping Edition

Drunkards, we have achieved prom dress.

A few days ago, I told you that Precocious Daughter and I would be shopping for a suitable dress for her junior prom.

Not this, however.

After three days, three malls, and somewhere in the vicinity of 20-30 stores, we nailed it.

The good news: For three days straight, I got in all my steps.

(LOL, like I wear a pedometer, aka a lazy-shamer. Paff.)

The less good news - it can't be bad news because we did end up finding a dress - HOLY SHIT IT WAS AN EXHAUSTING AND STRESSFUL PROCESS.

Actually, for the most part I had a great time. For me, the stress came from watching PDaughter become stressed as store after store yielded nothing appropriate for her to wear to prom. Honestly, for all her talk about her "aesthetic" (because of course my child has one of those), she was neither nitpicky nor unreasonable about the kind of dress she wanted. But most of the stores we visited either a) had a disappointing selection or b) were way out of budget. She only tried on dresses in maybe a third of the places we visited. It's pretty discouraging to walk into and out of more than a dozen stores without even finding a candidate for the dressing room ritual.

But I stayed positive, because I have great faith in the shopping gods. I knew the right dress would cross our path. And I was right.

Early Sunday afternoon, we found an amazing dress in a wonderful formal shop that had a fabulous selection and excellent customer service.

Did it cost more than I had planned to spend? Duh, yes - mostly because it needed a few alterations to perfectly fit PDaughter's teeny-tiny form.

Do I care about that? No - because I could see in her face and hear in her voice that this was The Dress. Not The Dress She Settled For, not The Dress She Ended Up with Because It Was Just About the Last Store in Town.

She loved it. And she looked...guys, she looked so beautiful in it.

The alterations should be done by tomorrow. We just need to pick up a pair of shoes - probably silver flats because PDaughter doesn't do heels - and all will be in readiness for prom this Saturday.

I tried to find a picture of the actual dress online, but I couldn't. Then I tried to reproduce it in MS Paint, and...that didn't work.

I'll take lots of pictures on Prom Night, I promise. But just so you have a tiny bit of a mental image, it's seafoam green, it's halter-style, it has a full knee-length skirt, and there's just a touch of sparkly bling at the neckline (perfect, as PDaughter doesn't really do jewelry, so the dress does it for her).

Its prettiness is nothing compared to the smile on PDaughter's face as she looked at herself in the mirror.

I'm reminded that when I started this blog, my little girl was in the fourth grade. And now she's about to attend junior prom.

Oh hey, also I was married, a homeowner, and believed I was happy.

But I digress.

Anyway.

The prom dress is acquired. Milestone reached.

Pardon me while I ponder how the hell I became the mother of a 17-year-old. I'll be back.

Lonesome Mom

I'm a single woman this weekend.

I have no f*cking clue what to do, you guys.

Whatever, your husband is literally Jay Z.

Precocious Daughter is in Corpus Christi, Texas this weekend. Spring Band Trip, yo. She's a junior, and this is the first time she's gone.

She was hella excited.

Literally wiener-dog-on-the-beach excited.

Anyway, she left for Corpus at oh-dark-thirty this morning, and she's texted that they arrived safely. Yay.

Guess what? The last time I was neither a wife nor a mother was 1990.

Twenty-seven goddamn years if you're counting. Considerably more than half my lifetime ago.

Sure, right?

Drummer Boy is going to spend Saturday night and Sunday with me. But until then, I'm on my own. With a Siamese kitten and a guinea pig. That's all.

I feel as if I should be totally better equipped to be single and independent for a couple of days.

Yet...kind of I'm not.

Some background.

In 1987, I lived at home, attended university, and had not yet met my future spouse.

My parents went out of town for a few days and left me home alone. You know, because I was all mature and grown-up and whatnot.

You guys, I freaked out.

Exclusive content, you guys.

As I recall, I ate an entire bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips and proceeded to experience a caffeine-fueled emotional rage. Yes, seriously. I was that pathetic.

The point is, a few brief months later I started going with my future spouse, and for the next 25 years or so, I was never alone.

And then...my marriage ended, and PDaughter and I moved into our little apartment. And I was never alone.

And now she's on a band trip. In Corpus Christi. Four hundred miles away.

I know she's having an amazing time.

I'm happy for her.

Still...

Commodores reference for the win, absolutely.

I want to be a strong, independent woman.

Despite all evidence to the contrary.

I am trying.

It's hard. Surprisingly hard.

I have new admiration for parents who go through this as a matter of routine. Really.

I'm just going to be a mess until PDaughter comes home to me.

Totally.

She's going to have a great time in Corpus Christi.

I'm going to be a wreck until she gets home safely.

...

That's just me.

<3

So Long, And Thanks for All the Squid

Oops, I haven't posted in a while. Sorry.

Last week was a little intense.

Turns out it's not OK to not take my meds for three or four days. Turns out that's more than enough time to embark on a downward spiral. And, it turns out, it takes a few days to emerge from the abyss once you've gazed into it and gotten back on the damn meds.

Brain chemistry, you guys. Don't fuck with it.

It leads to feelings of revulsion
and disgust. Eating eggs, I mean.
*yuck*

I'm just now starting to feel slightly more normal after several days of loosey-goosey-where's-the-noosey emotional havoc. Don't worry, I was never in any danger of harming myself. I have a truce with myself on that score, and it is iron-clad. But thoughts...well, thoughts leave no scars but still pack a hell of a wallop.

I am, however, strong like female Russian cow.

I'm udderly indefatigable. Hehe. I kill myself.
NOT literally.

Or, more accurately, German-Polish hybrid cow. Oddly enough, it's mostly made of sausage.

I am from sausage-loving stock.

Anyway, it's been quite a week. I planted beans, you guys. #Bean2017 is on. Photo essays until you want to stab yourself in the eyes are coming. Also, possibly, tomatoes. We'll have to see how brave I feel. At the moment, I'm not so brave.

I discovered I can pay my taxes. I love everything about being single, except being screwed by the IRS because I'm no longer married. Also, I discovered to my chagrin that Precocious Daughter aged out of the child tax credit when she turned 17 in November. So she's just dead weight to me now. But I can handle the unexpected extra tax burden. Because someone, whose name has three letters and ends with "d," is watching over me. (It's my dad, OK?)

I want to write about health care, and the stunning, gripping, historic events of last Friday, when the Republican-led house couldn't pass the bill it's had seven years to perfect.

I want to write about Chuck Berry, whom we lost recently, and how damn much his music means to me.

I want to write about Hamilton, because PDaughter and I have become obsessed with the musical, and it literally runs in a loop in my head all day long. Possibly it saved my sanity, I don't know.

Probably Lin-Manuel Miranda is the hero Gotham deserves,
and also is adorable.

Mostly, I want to write because writing makes me feel normal and gives me hope. And makes me believe that feeling hopeful is normal. 

I've decided that I will be published on McSweeney's Internet Tendency this year, come hell, high water, or several dozen polite rejections. Even if I loathe myself by the time it happens. Because if a writer doesn't loathe herself, who will?

I've decided that being strong is hard, but being weak is like carrying 150 pounds of dead squid on your back for eternity.

For one thing, it stinks.

I'm grateful to everyone who loves me. And to generic Prozac, which keeps me tethered to reality for less than eight bucks a month, so long as I actually get around to refilling my prescription.

And to Drummer Boy, whom I don't deserve.

ANSWER IN THE COMMENTS: To me, weakness feels like 150 pounds of dead squid. How does it feel to you?

La La Land: A Review and Some Emotional Musings, Too

Tonight Precocious Daughter and I went to the movies. We saw La La Land, partly because it's among this year's Best Picture hopefuls, which we try to see every year, and partly because it's been getting such incredible reviews that we weren't about to miss it.

If you've already seen it, you know that this post
is about to get all feelsy.

I don't know that I've ever seen a movie quite like this one, Drunkards. It's part old Hollywood musical, part modern rom-com, part Whiplash (not entirely surprising, as both films were written and directed by the brilliant Damien Chazelle). Beautifully staged and shot, I'm thinking the Academy won't be able to ignore it in categories like art direction, cinematography, and costume design. I mean, in addition to song, score, screenplay, acting, directing, and any other Oscar I may have neglected to mention.

The thing is, it's not a big, splashy movie musical. There are numerous gorgeous singing and dancing set pieces, but overall, the lines between comedy, drama, and show-stopper are blurred like delicate smudges on a pastel drawing. At its heart, La La Land is a basic boy with big dreams-meets-girl with big dreams story. It's funny, it's sad, it's almost (but not quite) corny in places. It's charming af, you guys.

And I want to own literally every thread of clothing
Emma Stone wears in this movie.

If you can't tell by the preceding, I loved this movie. PDaughter loved it even more than that. In fact, I'm going to let two observations of my beautiful daughter sum up the experience of seeing La La Land tonight.

First...When the credits rolled, she was crying. She was straight-up wiping tears from her big blue eyes. As I've written about previously for the website Knot So Subtle, PDaughter is not a cryer. It's not that she doesn't feel things deeply; it's just she inherited enough of my Germanic heritage to keep that shit squished beneath the surface most of the time. I may have seen her cry at a movie once or twice; it may have been Up or Inside Out (or that may have been me and I'm just projecting, come to think of it). So the fact that she was visibly moved and actually in tears at the end of La La Land means that it affected her deeply, and also that unless you're made of some kind of polycarbonate alloy, you'll probably tear up at the end, too.

Second...when we left the theatre (which was in a local mall), she was dancing. I mean, she was striking poses on the escalator and spinning down the corridors and trying her best to copy Ryan Gosling's footwork (which was on point, given his early days as a Mouseketeer). It was adorable, but also it triggered an extremely specific memory for me.

When I was 13 or 14, my dear friends Trips and Southside Shelly and I met at the Oriental Theatre in Milwaukee to see a double feature of Fame and West Side Story. It was my first time to see either of these landmark movies, and my goodness, they blew me away. They moved me. I remember leaving that great old theatre with a song in my heart. I remember singing "When You're a Jet" and trying to emulate the jubilant dance steps of the passionate kids in the New York High School for the Performing Arts. Passion. I felt such passion that day. In these two disparate but very related films I remember embracing a fire for expression that I yearned for, even if I could never hope to fulfill it.

That probably sounds nerdy and somewhat pathetic to some of you. But 35 years on, I've never forgotten what those two movies stirred in me. And I totally recognized that fire when I saw it in PDaughter tonight after seeing La La Land.

And it made me so damn happy.

I'm beginning to realize that what parents need to leave to their children is not their morals, or their values, or their staid traditions. It's their passions.

If we can't pass those along to the next generation, then maybe we shouldn't have reproduced to begin with.

My 17yo daughter laughed, cried, and danced after seeing La La Land. By that measure alone, it deserves Best Picture. Because what greater service can a goddamned movie provide than to inspire such reactions?

Two or more thumbs up, Drunkards. And even if you don't agree with my review, I am confident in my feelings about this movie.

If La La Land doesn't produce such feelings in you, I fervently hope you find the film that does.

I wish you that depth of emotion.

Let me know if this or any other motion picture this year inspires you. OK?

Beans Are Not Erotic. But They Definitely Have Their Uses.

Right now, at this moment, there is nothing I want so much as a can of cold pork and beans.

Is that weird?

This is pr0n to me right now.

You know what? I don't have the energy to care if it's weird. My weekend was long and strange and stressful, and self-care is high on my list of must-haves. Specifically, self-care via comfort food.

And to me, there is nothing more comforting than cold pork and beans.

Don't you dare freaking judge me.

This weekend, I saw my new home for the first time. I responded to dozens of requests to show my current house. I went to a party, which is always terrifying. I had a terrible fight with my spouse over the offer we received on our home. I distanced myself from everyone who claims to love me, because I can't handle that stuff right now.

I subsumed my right to be happy about my future into my need to feel awful about my present.

Possibly it's a coping mechanism.

As a result, I need cold pork and beans. Maybe there is something in your life that serves the same purpose as cold pork and beans. I hope so, because we all need that source of comfort and unconditional love.

Mine comes from cold pork and beans.

If I can indulge tonight, tomorrow I may discover good news about my troubles.

If not, I may need to purchase more beans.

Whatever it takes to get through it, that's my motto.

What's your go-to for self-care?

I really want to know.