Sad, But Also...

Tonight I'm grieving a young man I never met. But he was someone special to someone who is special to me. So I grieve for both of them, the one who is gone too soon and the one who is left behind. Because there is, unfortunately, more than enough grief to go around when someone takes his own life.

I feel sad, but I also feel dumb. I ask myself inane questions: Did this happen despite all the holiday spirit whirling about, or because of it? Was it an act of passion or dispassion? Was there a moment when he changed his mind, but it was too late to choose survival over capitulation? The questions get increasingly desperate the longer I think about them, because the only person who could have answered them has gone silent forever.

I feel sad, but I also feel angry. Because suicide is an act of supreme selfishness, of self-indulgence, of arrogance. Goddammit, what gives you the right to decide that ending your pain in the moment is worth the pain that will be endured forever in your memory? I don't want to be angry, but anger is a stage of grief, and the only way past it is through it.

I feel sad, but I also feel solidarity. Because I've sat in a dark room in the middle of the night, crying because I couldn't find a reason to choose life. I've felt the sharp, quick fear that I could only see one choice before me, and I knew it was terrible and permanent but felt helpless to resist it. In the end I, many years ago, found just enough strength to turn away and make a different choice, as difficult as that was. Why didn't this young man find just enough strength? What if I had been just like him?

I feel sad. The life that was taken had promise, had potential. This was a person who was loved, not the way a celebrity or a statesman is loved, ostentatiously and ultimately impersonally. He was loved by real people, in the small ways that can easily be missed if you're too focused on the voids in your life. The ways that don't seem like enough when you don't feel you're enough.

We're enough. Every last one of us. And I wish it wasn't too late for this young man, and I wish I could say it to everyone who needs to hear it and believe it in their bones. Maybe everyone reading this can help spread the word.

Please call the Suicide & Crisis Hotline by calling or texting 988 if you don't believe you can choose life. You're not alone.

A Spicy Farewell

I'm sorry to announce the failure of the 2020 pepper crop.

Almost three weeks after my germinated seeds were planted, I haven't seen a single leaf, shoot, or sprout. They've had plenty of sun, plenty of rain, and a rich bed of fertilized soil to flourish in. In which to flourish. Whatever.

I give up.

Not gonna lie, I needed those plants to grow. I needed to see, more than ever before, that life goes on and nature takes its course, no matter what else is going on in the world. That would have been more stimulating than a stimulus check. I'm not saying that I would have traded the continued health of my family and friends for a couple of lousy pepper plants - I wouldn't, no way, no how. But I do feel a bit as if some karmic horticulturist decided to be an asshole and give me only one and not the other.

Looking something like this,
I imagine.

I guess a little bit of lousy hope in our current trying circumstances was too much to ask.

And since seeds are one of the items that everybody has arbitrarily decided to hoard during the pandemic, I doubt if I'll get to plant another crop this year.

In the grand scheme of things, this is not a huge tragedy. It's not a tragedy of any size.

Or maybe it's a tragedy exactly the size of the tiny space in my heart reserved for the joy of helping green things grow.

Also, now what the fuck am I going to write about all summer?

Ten Ways I Won't Celebrate My Birthday This Year

My birthday is Thursday, Drunkards. I'll be 52 years old - one for every week in the calendar, one for every card in the deck. The same age as Adam Schlesinger, who wrote "Stacy's Mom" and "That Thing You Do!" - and who died of COVID-19 last week.

Ssssssigh.

Fucking COVID-19. Just come out of nowhere and turned everything to shit, hasn't it?

My natural, morbid response to our current pandemic has been to re-read Stephen King's "The Stand." I love this book, always have. It's got its flaws and its anachronisms - even King couldn't quite imagine how much pop culture would have changed between 1978, when he wrote it, and 1985, when it's set. No one had really conceptualized or categorized GenX at that point, and as a result almost every character in the book, no matter what their age, is written with the attitudes and experiences of a Baby Boomer. I've always found it hilarious that Larry Underwood, the up-and-coming rock star character, was supposed to be stoked to have done a recording session with Neil Diamond. Come on, Mr. King. Even in 1978, Neil Diamond had become a middle-of-the-road pop crooner. Maybe in 1968, when you were about Larry's age, he had some hipster cred.

Don't get me wrong - 1968 Neil Diamond
was hot.

But I digress.

One of the main differences between the events of "The Stand" and the 'Rona is the timeframe. In the book, the superflu sweeps through America (and presumably the world, although that's only hinted at) literally in a matter of days. By the time anyone realizes what's happening, 99% of the population is dead. There are no quarantines, no shelter-in-place orders - one infected man escapes a top-secret government facility in mid-June, and by the end of the month all but the immune have succumbed.

Here in the real world in 2020, we're not so lucky. Our plague is unfolding in slow motion, relatively speaking. Especially here in America, our fortifications against the Coronavirus have gone up with too little speed, too little urgency, and almost no consistency from place to place. And where the America of "The Stand" has Randall Flagg, the dark incarnation of evil, presiding gleefully over the anticipated annihilation of humanity, we have a fat orange asshole who thinks he has all the time in the world to screw around and be some kind of hero. And the death count keeps rising as the days go by with almost agonizing slowness.

What was I talking about? Oh, right - time.

See what's become of me.

So whereas in fiction, characters are drop-kicked from normality to devastation, here in the real world we're in suspended animation. We can't do most things or go most places (but not all, because some people are too stupid to understand the concept of ripping off a Band-Aid). And so we're stuck, not knowing if we're going to get sick and with little to do while we wait.

And it's my goddamn birthday this week, and it going to suck. I mean, I'm not someone who makes a big deal out her birthday, but even by my standards it's going to be as dull as the part of the daily Pandemic Response Team briefing where the experts all stand around waiting for Trump to finish taking a shit or applying his orange coating or whatever the hell he does before he lumbers out to the podium to spew lies, hate, and nonsense.

Anyway, here are ten things I won't be doing on my birthday this year, thanks to the Coronavirus:

1. Going out to dinner
2. Having lunch with my co-workers
3. Treating myself to a little something from the bookstore or Target
4. Seeing my family
5. Seeing Drummer Boy (OK, so I almost never get to see Drummer Boy on my birthday, but on other birthdays I could at least be disappointed when he didn't come over)
6. Going to the movies
7. Meeting up with a friend and saying "You shouldn't have" when they give me a present
8. Buying a cake just big enough for Precocious Daughter to eat on my behalf because I don't eat cake
9. Getting a hug from anyone
10. Getting a birthday spanking (I haven't actually gotten a birthday spanking in ages, but I couldn't think of one more - and anyway, if I did get birthday spankings, they would definitely be a huge no-no this year)

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I'm healthy, and the people I love are healthy. I actually get to leave the house every day to go to work, so even though it's the only thing I'm doing, I'm not housebound. Things could be much, much worse.

But this is a rotten time to have a birthday.

On Thursday I'll drink a toast to myself and probably donate some money to a worthy cause. If you want to celebrate my day with me, you could do the same things, wherever you are.

Maybe I'll listen to some Neil Diamond.

Death in the Family

Our guinea pig died today, you guys.

When she was just a wee thing.

Muinea B. Guinea - you may recall the B stands for Ermahgerd - was five and a half years old. She passed away at 7:45 a.m., having held on just long enough for Precocious Daughter to say goodbye.

She wasn't sick, thank goodness. Yesterday she was her peppy, wheeking self. This morning I found her laying on her side, something she never did, and I knew she was dying. I called PDaughter over, and she told Muinea she loved her. Then I watched our darling cavy draw her final breath and cross the Rainbow Bridge.

She was the best, Drunkards.

Here's an early post about her.

We are sad.

The Siamese kitten is getting extra pets tonight.

Here they both are, being good dogs.

Give your furry friends - and your non-furry friends - all the love you can. It's never wasted.

My Heart Hurts for All of Us

What a week, huh?

A wealthy asshole slaughters 58 people attending a Jason Aldean concert for no fucking reason.*

And a beloved rock musician dies suddenly (and more than once, if you believe some hack news reporting).

Quite the juxtaposition.

The shooting rampage in Las Vegas and the death of Tom Petty together serve to illuminate, in that strange way the universe has of not quite letting me let go of a belief in some kind of God, the great profundity and stunning ordinariness of death.

The idea of one anonymous person killing or injuring nearly 600 others in a non-military, non-political, completely innocuous setting, is very difficult to wrap my head around. (I won't dignify him here by using his name or the "lone wolf" appellation that attempts to define him as something other than a terrorist, or at least a common thug, both of which he certainly was.)

The idea of a famous musician - who entertained and inspired me since I was 10 years old - suffering cardiac arrest just a week after playing his "farewell" concerts fills me with sadness and a sense of grief I can hardly articulate.

Nearly 600 people - none of whom, as far as I know, had a personal connection to me - mercilessly attacked for absolutely no good reason.

One man - with whom I also shared nothing - who was a household name and died suddenly after living a life of wealth, fame, and success.

Surely there should be a qualitative difference there, right?

And of course there is.

Men in their 60s die of heart attacks. Not all, but it's certainly not an anomaly. It happens.

Average people die, too - sometimes individually, sometimes in small numbers, sometimes in shockingly, unexpectedly large numbers.

As an average person, I'm terrified that I or someone I love could go any time. For any reason. Without warning.

At the same time, some elemental part of my brain wants to believe that people of enormous talent - whether it be intellectual, physical, or artistic - somehow deserve a better and longer life than the rest of us. And every time that belief is proved wrong, I feel small and mortal and scared for everyone who is just...a human, doing their human thing.

In that way, the loss of Tom Petty reminds me that no one is immune from death, and that while I tear up at news reports and then move on, there are people for whom his death is the death of a spouse, a father, a bandmate, a friend.

And the loss of 58 random people in Las Vegas at the hands of a madman reminds me that life carries no guarantees of longevity, and that not knowing the names of each and every victim makes their death no less a tragedy, and no less personal to my own existence.

I mourn every death this week...Tom Petty, 58 men and women in Las Vegas, and the countless others whose obituaries I will never even read.

Someday (FAR in the future, I hope), my own death will give to someone an appreciation of the preciousness of life.

For now...

My condolences to all of us.



*  I totally don't mean people were attending a Jason Aldean concert for no fucking reason. I meant there were shot for no fucking reason. No matter what kind of music you like, you don't deserve this shit.

Requiem for a Good Boy

I can't believe he's gone.

My ex and I said goodbye to Darling Dog today. Precocious Daughter opted out, which I understand. She processes things in her own way. I respect that.

I told you guys a few days ago that DDog was sick.  Three days in the animal hospital, receiving fluids and antibiotics, did almost nothing to improve his outlook. Bloodwork indicated a number of markers that indicated he probably had cancer, and the vestibulitis was just a by-product of his weakened immune system.

You can read about DDog here.

And here.

Or here, which honestly is my favorite post about my sweet boy.

This afternoon my ex and I met at the vet's. In a private examination room, the doctor explained DDog's situation (still not eating after 10 days, only hydrated because of IV fluids, unable to walk, negligible improvement in overall condition), then suggested we spend some time with him before discussing next steps.

A vet tech carried him into the room, wrapped in a blanket. My ex sat on the floor and gently cradled DDog in his lap.

Please stop to picture a 53-year-old man sitting cross-legged on a hard tile floor, holding up his dog's head because the dog can't hold it up himself for more than a minute or two at a time.

This was my day.

DDog in his vibrant and happy middle age.

We knew, in less than two minutes, that this was goodbye. Our sweet, goofy, happy boy looked so tired, and so sad. I took one last photo of him. I can't even post it here, because it breaks my heart to see his hopeless expression, so different from how we had seen him for the past 12 years.

We talked to the vet for a minute, all of us agreeing that it was best to help DDog cross the bridge.

My ex signed the paperwork. We agreed we did not want to be present for his death (oh God, the word death is making me cry). We said goodbye, we paid the bill, and we left. My ex received DDog's collar, and we will also get his pawprint and a lock of his ridiculously colored fur.

And that is that.

DDog is not the first doggo I've lost. But each one leaves its pawprints on our hearts and devastates us as if for the first time when it must leave.

His name, for those of you who don't know, was Wallingford Wellington Biscuit Dog No. Some called him Walter. We called him Wally.

I frequently called him my sweet boy.

Please please please consider a donation to the ASPCA (which is where we got him back in 2004).

They give so much in so little time.

If you have a doggo, give him/her a big hug and say "I love you, sweet thing."

You'll never regret it.

You've Got Spunk. I Love Spunk.

If you've spent any time here in my tiny little corner of the internet, you know that Mary Tyler Moore is one of my heroes.

If only for that flip.

She was a brilliant comedienne, a fine dramatic actor, an enchanting dancer, a tireless advocate, and a trailblazer for strong, independent women.

And, my gosh, I never noticed how much
she looked like Precocious Daughter.

Mary Tyler Moore has died, Drunkards. I literally gasped when I heard the news this afternoon. Somehow, even after a 2016 in which so many iconic figures left us, many before their time, it never occurred to me that we could ever lose Mary. She was part of my life from my earliest memories. She made me laugh. She starred in a movie with Elvis, ffs.

I would give my left tit (and possibly any of the other ones)
to have starred in a movie with Elvis.

And of course, I always wanted to be Mary Richards, although in reality I was always Rhoda. Bestest Friend was always Mary.

Bestest Friend actually looks
just like this. I'm not worthy.

MTM was a huge advocate for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, because she herself lived with type 1 diabetes. The JDRF today is paying tribute to her on its website.

Here's the JDRF website today. If you so wish, you can honor
MTM's memory here.

I'm so sad Mary is gone, but I'm so happy that she was here, and that she left us with such a tremendous legacy of laughter, style, and strength.

And making everyone wish they looked
this damn good in capri pants.

In case you scrolled past the link above, you can honor MTM with a donation to the JDRF here.

I've made mine.

I end with this. Of course.

Three Hundred Fifty-Five Days and Counting

So I haven't posted lately.

Turns out 2017 is not yet appreciably less difficult than 2016.

It's gonna be a long year.

First there's the whole thing about Donald Trump being inaugurated as President of the Goddamn United States in just 10 days. That's a problem for me. Even without the whole Meryl Streep brouhaha.

I love her, political views be damned.

Then there's the fact that right now I'm filled with anger that I'm not sure I can even define. I feel as if I'm a disappointment to myself, to my daughter, to my co-workers, and that makes me angry, at them and at myself. I can't really explain it. But 2017 has started off as a bit of an emotional quagmire for me.

Also, I'm locked in a battle between hope and despair. I suppose I'm not alone in that battle. I'll bet lots of you reading this are struggling with the same conflicting emotions. You're not alone, people. I understand. I don't have any advice to give about how to choose one over the other. Do you? If you do, I'd love to hear it. If you don't...I get it. Really.

Finally, I feel as if I'm slowly strangling to death the one gift I've been given in my life...the ability to write. My head is so full of ideas these days, but I can't translate them into written words. I'm in sort of a panic over this. What if the ability never comes back? What if I'm doomed to entertain all of my tortured, complex thoughts within me forever, and never drag them onto the written page where they can be shared, and possibly tamed? I wish I could  regain the marvelous affinity for the written word that so overwhelmed me when I was younger. I hope it returns. I hope I'm not destined to be one of those dull people who never express themselves but only yearn to be heard, to no avail, their entire lives.

If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.

So yeah...2017 is presenting some challenges. It's not as if we've lost David Bowie all over again, but still I'm feeling put upon by this new year already. 

If only I had something to write about, I'd be so happy.

Share if you have any ideas. I'd be happy to write for you.

Vacation 2016

I'm back in Texas, you guys.

Precocious Daughter and I flew into D/FW on Wednesday night. Because it was Turkey Day Eve, I was deathly afraid we were going to encounter traffic, long lines, security nightmares, flight delays...Nope. The trip went about as smoothly and as easily as you could wish.

Kind of like the entire vacation.

I had the best time in Milwaukee. I needed this trip. It's not just that I needed a vacation (which I really, really did), but I needed specifically this vacation. I needed time with PDaughter, time with my family, time in my hometown. Because I'm not the same person I was the last time I lived there, and I felt I had to find out just who I had become since then.

I'm pleased and relieved to report that I did, and I'm happy with that person.

First things first: Yes, I got my picture with the Bronze Fonz.

Unfortunately, Henry Winkler was not in attendance,
but it was still coolamundo.

Shout-out to the parking lot attendant with the beautiful Irish brogue who collected our $2.00 so we could roam the Milwaukee Riverwalk and pose with the statue. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to state that every single person we encountered on our trip was friendly and nice. Well, except for maybe the hostess at Tenuta's Italian restaurant on Clement Ave., who is probably the only person on Earth to return PDaughter's big, bright smile with a sneer. Maybe she was on the rag, I don't know.

Anyway, I was able to show my girl a lot of my city. I'm proud to say I still mostly knew my way around after all these years, and when I needed help, PDaughter was right there to help me navigate via cell phone. We make a good team.

We went to the Mitchell Park Domes, you guys.

Again, bucket list. You won't regret it.

The Domes are a county park/horticultural conservatory housed in three giant geodesic domes built between 1959 and 1967. They consist of a Tropical Dome, a Desert Dome, and a Show Dome that houses exhibitions throughout the year. When we went, the Christmas display was up, and it was beautiful. PDaughter loved it, as I knew she would. Everybody loves the Domes.

Her father and I lived just three blocks from Mitchell Park when we were newlyweds. We used to throw Frisbees on the big green lawn just outside the Domes, taking care to avoid the 3,568 Canada geese that seemed to occupy the space at all times. Of course, I showed PDaughter where we lived, in the first-floor flat of a house built in 1909. The neighborhood didn't look much different from the way it did from 1989-1991. I don't know if that's good or bad. I don't know if 48-year-old me could be as comfortable there as 21-year-old me was. Probably not. But I'm glad 21-year-old me lived there. It was awesome.

I also drove PDaughter past the house I grew up in, the schools I attended, the corner stores where I spent my allowance, the movie theatres I went to (many of which closed, decayed, and then were restored and reopened since I was I kid), and the streets I roamed. Bless her heart, she feigned interest in all of it. Still, I know she genuinely enjoyed the Domes, and the Milwaukee Art Museum, and my friend South Side Shelly's very eclectic home on the edge of Bay View.

The Milwaukee Art Museum is a must-see. A treasure inside and out.

I got to spend time with my brother and his wife (who was a childhood friend). That was really nice. PDaughter thought my bro was funny and cool, which made me happy. We've had very different lives, but we still fell into our old sibling banter as if we hadn't spent the last 20 years apart. Because family.

My parents seem to be doing well now that they've moved from the woods of northern Wisconsin to the relative civility of Oak Creek. They're old now...that's a bit of a thing for me. They're healthy, and independent, and certainly as mentally sharp as they've always been (thank goodness for parents who have challenged me intellectually my whole life), but still, they're in their 70s. I love them, as I've always loved them, for raising me and worrying about me and helping me out when I've needed help. I hope that when PDaughter is grown, she sees me half as favorably as I see my mom and dad.

Yet...they've been married for 52 years, and they act like it. They act like the old married couple of which I will never be a part. They bicker, they argue, they purse their lips and furrow their brows and give each other the silent treatment when the only other alternative is to shout, apparently.

It makes my heart hurt a little. Because I don't think they're happy. Yet I don't think they could live without each other. And I feel a bit guilty that I terminated my own marriage before I could get to the same state. And I'm so much happier for that.

But...we're all adults. And we make our choices.

And among my choices is that I spent five days in Milwaukee with my Precocious Daughter. And I'm so glad I did.

This Thanksgiving, I'm truly thankful for what I have. And for what I've lost.

By the way, we had a non-traditional Thanksgiving. There was chicken, pork, beef, meat loaf...but no turkey. That seems appropriate.

Still, I'm happy. And I feel so strong, you guys. I feel I owe some of that to you.

So thanks.

I hope you're all thankful, too.

Let me know, yes?

Because if nothing else, gratitude is the reason for the season.

Losses More Important Than an Election

Yesterday I lost a friend.

Tuesday night - Election Night - was pretty terrible. It was shocking, and it was sad. For those who didn't vote for Donald Trump, that is. Obviously, for Trump supporters his upset victory was a triumph and a vindication. I'm not a Trump supporter in any way, shape, or form, so for me it was a long, stressful night.

I, like many people in America and around the world, pretty much took the result of the 2016 Presidential election for granted going into Tuesday evening. In my mind, there were two kinds of voters: Those who would select the qualified, experienced candidate who could continue to build upon the economic and social policies of the last eight years, and those who would do anything to avoid voting for that candidate, including casting a Hail Mary vote for an individual with no public service experience and a long record of outrageous and offensive behavior.

I believed a significant number of disaffected Americans who publicly championed Trump's over-the-top antics would ultimately choose Clinton in the peace and privacy of the voting booth. As a Clinton voter, that seemed to me to be the only logical, sane choice.

I found Donald Trump's rhetoric so inflammatory, his proposals so vague yet threatening, his fundamental ability to govern so lacking, that I felt confident not just in my vote for Clinton, but that a majority of Americans agreed with me and would cast their votes accordingly. As we all know now, I (and everybody else who felt that way) was wrong.

The Clinton camp had enormous faith in and devotion to her, matched only by their confidence that the final tally of votes would reflect the righteousness of their cause. They projected that confidence onto the crucial voting blocs that had to turn out for them and reflected back the numbers they wanted and needed to see. Those numbers assured Hillary Clinton of victory.

The problem is, the projections turned out to be willfully, woefully distorted. The blocs didn't turn out, the swing states didn't swing to the left, and Donald Trump got the votes he needed to secure the Presidency.

I know: He didn't get more votes. We all know that Hillary Clinton won the popular vote by a pretty impressive margin. But he got the votes he needed, in the places he needed, to  carry the electoral college. Maybe it's the wrong way to choose a President - that's certainly not something I want to get into here - but since 1787, it's the level playing field on which every  election has unfolded. The race isn't decided by the number of votes but by the number of electors, and that applies even if the sure-bet candidate doesn't pull it off.

But by the wee hours of Election Night, I wasn't thinking about any of this. I was stunned, I was mad, I was frankly terrified. I was also very, very drunk. And so I dashed off a series of posts on both my blog and IRL social media accounts. They were mostly incomprehensible, angry rants. They actually looked a lot like Trump's Twitter posts before his staff finally shut him down just before the election. SAD!

But on my IRL Facebook wall, I wrote what a lot of people wrote on their own walls that night and into the next day: basically, "If you voted for fucking Trump, unfriend me now."

Real mature on my part. Raw, naked emotion rarely lends itself to intelligent expression of ideas. Especially on Facebook. Especially when alcohol is involved.

Guys, I don't even remember typing the words. I was too far gone by that point. Not proud of it, but there it is. I didn't realize I had posted such a stupid thing until yesterday, when one of my Facebook friends - one of my favorite people - commented, "Done." And unfriended me.

And with that, my anger - at Trump, his supporters, and the entire election - evaporated. I can't really explain it, except to say that perspective hauled off and punched me in the face.

How much anger I had inside me. How long I had been carrying it around. How unhappy it was making me.

Over an election.

An election unlike any other, yes. An election with high stakes and potentially deep consequences for America and the world. One that for months had dredged up dark, ugly feelings and unleashed them in messy, angry public conversations unchecked by any sense of civility or mutual respect.

For all that my frustration about this election felt justified and necessary, I lost a friend over it.

A smart, funny, talented, good-natured man whose posts made me happy on a regular basis. I knew he and I had differing political views because of things we each put up on Facebook, but we had never clashed or even engaged over our differences. Because he's a good person who looks deeper in people than that.

And until yesterday, I thought I was, too.

This election has left a bitter taste in my mouth, and that includes the Trump victory. If his administration ends up following the roadmap of his campaign bluster, I will oppose him and his ideas at every turn. Until he demonstrates that he is truly Presidential in more than title, I won't apologize for being part of the opposition.

But my distaste for the President-elect doesn't extend to the democratic process, nor to those who participated in it. And if I slung mud at anyone who didn't sling it at me first, I regret that. And I'm sorry.

You guys, we can't let fear turn to anger. We can't let anger fester in our hearts and certainly not in our brains. Or, I don't know, maybe you can. I can't. And from this point forward, I won't.

George the Bass Player...I know you probably won't see this. But on the off chance you do: I'm going to miss being your friend.

Mother's Little Helper

Today's life lesson: Never try to wean yourself off Prozac.

Such a harmless-looking little fella, right?

I've been taking Prozac since 2003 or so, when I noticed that my monthly PMS was lasting weeks instead of days. Every month I experienced long periods of anger, fear, sadness, anxiety, and hopelessness. Then I discovered there's an actual thing called PMDD (pre-menstrual dysmorphic disorder), which is basically PMS with a really bad attitude.

I talked to my doctor, and he wrote me a prescription for Sarafem, which is simply fluoxetine aka Prozac with a manufacturer-approved alter ego.. After I changed doctors (because my insurance changed), I dropped the PMDD pretense and just asked for generic Prozac, please. My doc approved, and I've been taking it ever since.

I started out with a 10 mg daily dose, which later increased to 20 mg and now stands at 40 mg.

Because Prozac does not cure crazy but only controls it. And over time it takes a larger dose even to control it.

And it works.

I know this, because I've tried several times to wean myself off it. None of these attempts has ended well.

The latest attempt happened over the past two weeks.

I've been taking my Prozac once every other day. I thought...hey, if I feel OK on this dosage I can probably quit altogether. I can be free of pharmaceutical support. I can be myself without any drugs.

Yeah, right.

Guess what, you guys? It turns out I need to take Prozac every fucking day.

It turns out I become hopeless and suicidal without it.

It turns out that taking a 40 mg dose every other day does not shield me from depression or suicidal thoughts.

On the one hand, yay Prozac.

On the other hand, I'm completely dependent on pharmaceutical intervention to keep me from slashing my wrists with a cheap pair of scissors.

Not so yay.

Without a reliable 40 mg of Prozac in my system, I can't cope. I can't stop crying. I can't push aside the negative thoughts that my loved ones would be better off without me.

So I'm done with that nonsense.

I'll be making an appointment with my doctor to renew my Prozac prescription.

Because I'm hooked.

Part of me thinks that sucks.

Part of me is grateful for the little capsule that keeps me sane.

I'm torn.

I feel weak. I feel grateful. I feel sad. I feel well.

I don't know how to feel. At least not without Mother's Little Helper.

What do you think, Drunkards?

I really want to know.

Weekly Round-up

Just a few odds and ends from the week.

Terry Jones: Ah, dear, brilliant, funny Terry Jones. This week his publicist announced the Monty Python comedian and historical scholar would no longer give interviews due to advancing dementia and aphasia, which has curtailed his ability to speak. Michael Palin posted a most touching tribute to his longtime friend and collaborator on Facebook.




As I've mentioned in this space, given how 2016 has unfolded thus far, there is a legitimate fear regarding the continued life and health of any number of iconic figures of a certain age, including that of Eric Idle and John Cleese, whose two-man show I'm ticketed to see in December. They must survive the year, if only so I can hear their heartfelt and undoubtedly irreverent tribute to Mr. Jones. Best wishes, Terry J.

Donald Trump: I completely sympathize with those who don't support Hillary Clinton. I don't support her, but I will hold my nose and vote for her, because Trump, Gary Johnson, and Jill Stein mooshed together Human Caterpillar-style do not make up one viable candidate for President. Anyway, the first debate is Monday night. I plan to live-blog it. I also plan to take a shot every time Trump smirks, interrupts, lies, or says "believe me." I assume I will pass out approximately 15 minutes into the proceedings. DON'T MISS THIS, YOU GUYS.

Beans: Ah, my beanie-babies. They now number in the dozens, although most of them are very wee. There are more each day, and the beanblossoms continue to proliferate. Dallas decided to celebrate the beginning of Fall by being approximately 167 degrees every day (possibly a slight exaggeration), so I was bringing my pot o' beans inside every morning before I left for work, to protect them from the heat. Until, that is, one of my bean-bearing tendrils decided to be soulmates with the balcony.

D'awwww. I'm not about to break up this happy relationship.

So I've been diligently watering, nipping the withered leaves, and monitoring the health of my nascent beans. We are due to see significantly cooler, wetter weather over the next several days, and I'm hoping this will jump-start my crop.

I'm a Terrible Person: Riley's Mom, who is an always-supportive Drunkard but more importantly a close personal friend, is getting married tomorrow. I was invited. I RSVP'd that I would attend. I just sent her a message expressing my regrets. I feel like a sack of shit, you guys. But there are a number of reasons why I can't attend an out-of-town wedding right now. I don't like hiding behind the curtain of "social anxiety," because I know that's a real, debilitating thing for some people, while for me it's mostly a convenient description for not much enjoying being around large groups of people. Still, I currently identify as a socially awkward, shy, self-conscious, recently-divorced person who won't even attend her daughter's high school's football games, let alone a formal occasion where I won't recognize one face in 20. I hope Riley's Mom won't hate me for wasting an expensive plate at her reception. I hope she will accept with equanimity the generous wedding gift I will be sending to her and her fiance. I hope she will have a very long and very happy marriage. I can't wait to see the pictures. Love you, Riley's Mom.

How was your week, Drunkards? This is (I hope) a judgment-free space. Go ahead and sound off.

You Guys Are Like a Shot of Adrenaline to My Heart. In the Best Way Possible.

On Sunday a hacker stole $1,200 out of my bank account to buy - get this - a home security system on Ebay.

This was the best thing that happened to me all weekend.

Seriously, if you read my last post, you know I ain't lyin'.

Indeed, Mr. President. Testify on my behalf.

Let me stop right here and say THANK YOU. All of you who commented and tweeted and texted your love and support when I was feeling lower than a snake's belly...thank you. You honestly don't know how touched and gobsmacked your messages made me feel. I don't know why you keep coming here and letting me fill up your screens with my rants. But you all rock.

And I didn't mean what I said about your belly, little guy.
It's quite fetching.

Today I'm better. But yesterday I felt I had driven away the two most important people in my life - my Precocious Daughter and my darling Drummer Boy - with my weaknesses and flaws and insecurities, and, you know, the disproportionate amount of free time I spend systematically brining my brain with spirits. I wasn't just feeling sorry for myself. I mean, yeah, I was feeling sorry for myself. But I wasn't just feeling sorry for myself. I was locked in a battle for supremacy with my worst demons, and the victor was going to take the tacky, cheap prize that was my soul.

Mine is the 50-ticket level of souls.

Pretty dramatic, right? I'm treading fairly lightly on the events of this weekend only because I know how many of you understand. Yes, even those of you do a far better job than I of pretending the world is snark and roses and clever things you've pinned...I wouldn't dare expose your pain. But we understand each other, yeah?

Yeah.

Drummer Boy knows I am not my demons, and he's waiting for me to come to the same conclusion. Always waiting, no matter how low I sink or how loudly I roar. Because he loves me.

This morning PDaughter sent me a text that made me cry, right there at my desk. At the end of it, she wrote, "You are...my role model for the kind of parent I want to be some day. I love you!"

Best kid ever.

That was today. But yesterday...

So there I was, feeling forsaken and alone, when I had a thought. Did I mention that my email got hacked on Saturday?

My email got hacked on Saturday. I've been using the same Yahoo email account for almost 20 years and -

Laugh it up, furball.

- and for last couple of years I've been getting more spam than actual legit mail. But I'm a creature of habit, and I had A LOT of online stuff linked to that account. Lazy, all right, I'm lazy and didn't want to mess with it.

But on Saturday I discovered that someone using my email address had signed up for about 500 different newsletters, websites, etc. All those confirmation messages were clogging up my inbox.

And there were about 6,000 more in my spam box.

I know, right?

So I finally decided it was time to chuck the leaking sieve that is Yahoo's account security and switch everything over to Gmail. I'd spent quite a bit of time on Saturday - in between bouts of self-pity and ennui - changing account IDs, changing passwords, exporting years of messages and contacts.

But on Sunday, as I was idly wondering how my current mental state could deteriorate further, it occurred to me that I should check my bank account. My email had been hacked before, but never had I actually experienced monetary loss. Still, this breach was an order of magnitude higher than anything I'd previously seen. So I logged into my bank account.

I don't really know what $1,200 means to each of you in terms of financial impact. Maybe it's a good night's poker winnings. Maybe it's your entire safety net against disaster and then some. To me, it's a not insignificant sum of money. Let's just leave it at that.

But seeing that amount deducted from my balance - when I know damn well I hadn't spent it - launched me into action. With far more energy and sense of purpose than I had displayed in several days, I quickly determined that my Ebay account had been compromised. The idiot thieves had already sent $1,200 to a seller's PayPal account, and they had another $1,200 worth of stuff in my cart, ready to check out.

I say idiot thieves, because fortunately they were thieves who were idiots. They had changed the shipping address on my account to their address in El Paso. They had also changed the email address associated with the account to their personal email, which triggered an alert to my email, conveniently including the IP address of their computer.

These are not the criminal masterminds you're looking for.

So I quickly called my bank and had the transfer of funds (fortunately, still in pending stage) halted and my debit card shut down. Then I called Ebay and had the transactions canceled and my account frozen.

I'll get my money back (I haven't yet, which is a tiny bit worrisome, but I'll get it back). I'll put all my accounts on lockdown and stop linking debit cards to them wherever possible. I'll shut down that Yahoo account (snif, goodbye dear companion...although, as my friend SuzyQ pointed out, since the name on that account was strongly linked to my marriage, it's probably a symbolically healthy transition).

The point is, being the victim of hackers and thieves (and stupid ones at that) distracted me from my overweaning sense of loss and hopelessness. By the time I had the situation somewhat under control Sunday night, I realized it had been several hours since I'd had the opportunity to brood over my emotional burdens. And I felt...better. Not completely better. But you know in Pulp Fiction where Uma Thuman ODs and then gets the shot of adrenaline to her chest and sits up and screams? She probably didn't feel better, but she was much closer to being alive than she had been a few moments earlier.

I for one am glad that "better" is a relative term.

Today I'm still down $1,200, I'm still wobbling back from the brink of a depressive episode, and I'm still pondering how I'm going to tame that 80-proof monster who has me by the short hairs.

But I got this.

And I got my Drunkards, and my kid, and my Drummer Boy.

And I'm feeling pretty rich right now.

If I Died, My Life Insurance Would Pay For College

This week I left work early three out of five days to make sure Precocious Daughter got where she needed to be after school. (Which I can do because I get to work every single day after dropping her off at  7:00 a.m. band practice.)

I accompanied her to a college fair and stood in line and helped her ask questions of prospective universities.

I bought her a stupidly expensive letter jacket, because I never earned one and am super-proud that she has.

This morning she told me who her role model is.

It's a former in-law (my ex's sister) who for more than 20 years treated me with contempt and acted like my superior. She's a corporate lawyer and has made a crap-ton of money. Most likely she will pay cash for her son's college education and not need to make him hustle for scholarship money (unlike me).

And she is PDaughter's role model.

And when I subsequently tried to tell my supposed significant other Drummer Boy that I was feeling upset and inadequate, he told me it was because I drink too much. Even though I was fucking stone-cold sober through the entire episode.

I've been crying all day, except for the 20 minutes I spent on the phone with my mom, whose birthday is today. I love my mom. I would never dream of insulting her.

When you've tried hard to be a good mom and discover you've failed to earn your child's respect, that's tough.

When you've entrusted your heart and soul to someone and he boils your existence down to your alcohol consumption, that's also tough.

Also, no fucking body at my job respects me, so I'm either going to find a new job or commit to being miserable for the next 10 years.

I can't wait to own my own life and not be dependent on the opinions of anybody else. Or kill myself and be equally free of others.

Whatever.

So long, you guys.

Bean Lives Matter

It is with great sadness that I must announce the death of one of my bean plants.

Me right now.

When I got home from work today, I went out on the balcony to check on my sproutlings. I had recently given them a good pruning, and they had had some nice rainfall this morning, so I was optimistic about how they were coming along.

Then I found the withered, lifeless stalk of Meenie, my special-needs bean.

*** WARNING GRAPHIC IMAGE ***

Sorry, not sorry.

Meenie was never as strong as his brethren. But he was scrappy. He tried so hard. But in the end, he didn't make it.

I think also he kind of got crushed when my bean pot fell over in last week's storms. It's hard to recover from a crushing.

So I gently wrapped Meenie's remains in a shroud of finest two-ply Bounty and laid him to rest beside a babbling brook.

Or put him in the trash. It's a bean plant, people.

Still, I've lost 20% of my potential bean yield. If this trend continues, it may be back to buying frozen beans for me.

The good news is, there is still plenty of life and abundant new growth in my remaining plants.

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on. Brah.

I remain hopeful that Eenie, Minie, Moe, and Larry will heal and move past this tragedy so that they can fulfill their purpose of bearing delicious green fruit. (Beans are too fruit. Musical fruit. So there.)

In the meantime, join me in remembering Meenie, whose time in the pot was far too short. In lieu of flowers, please send, I don't know, fertilizer or books on how to grow beans or something.

Before I kill again.

And the Beat Goes On

Mass murders claimed by or known to be inspired by ISIS in 2016, as of July 14.

 *****

Zliten, Libya - Truck bombing. Sixty dead.

Hurghada, Egypt - Stabbing attack at hotel. Two injured.

Istanbul, Turkey - Suicide bombing. Twelve dead.

Jakarta, Indonesia - Suicide bombings/shootout. Four dead.

Mahasen, Saudi Arabia - Suicide bombing at a Shi'a mosque. Four dead.

Homs, Syria - Car bombings. Fifty-seven dead.

Sayyidah Zaynab, Syria - Car bombing/suicide bombings at a Shi'a mosque. Eighty-three dead.

Istanbul, Turkey - Suicide bomber. Four dead.

Brussels, Belgium - Suicide bombings at a Metro station and airport. Thirty-two dead.

Aden, Yemen - Suicide bombings targeting military checkpoints. Twenty-six dead.

al-Asriya, Iraq - Suicide bombing in soccer stadium. Thirty-three dead.

Dhaka, Bangladesh - Stabbing of LGBT activist. Two dead. al-Qaida group claimed responsibility.

Baghdad/Samawa, Iraq - Four separate car bombings. Ninety dead.

Balad, Iraq - Shooting/suicide bombing. Twenty-eight dead.

Aktobe, Kazakhstan - Shootings. Seven dead.

Orlando, United States - Shooting at a gay nightclub. Forty-nine dead.

Magnanville, France - Stabbing. Two dead.

Ataturk, Turkey - Shooting/suicide bombing at an airport. Forty-four dead.

Gulshan, Bangladesh - Hostage situation/shootings. Twenty-three dead.

Baghdad, Iraq - Two bomb attacks. More than 290 dead.

Medina, Saudi Arabia - Suicide bombing at a mosque and three other attacks in which only the bombers were harmed. Seven dead.

Nice, France - Shooting/truck ramming at a Bastille Day celebration. Approximately 80 dead.

*****

Estimated civilian and combatant death toll attributed to the "war on terror:" 1.3-2 million as of mid-2015. Total includes only deaths in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan; does not include deaths in Yemen, Syria, or other countries targeted in the war on terror.

*****

We're not winning. None of us is winning.

I don't have answers, or even suggestions. Only these statistics.

And great anger and sadness.

Nous somme le monde. Nous somme tous.

Love for the Innocent, F**k You for the Rest

Hey there, Drunkards.

If you haven't heard, over the last couple of days 'Murica has seen two high-profile murders by white police officers of black men who were compliant, non-aggressive, and committing no crimes.

Alton Sterling.

Philando Castile.

I posted this on the Always Drunk Facebook page, because I'm shocked, grief-stricken, and super-pissed at these events:

In case anyone reading this may be inclined to sympathize with the items on this bingo card and/or the law enforcement personnel involved in these murders, allow me to annotate the above graphic as follows.

"Shouldn't have resisted;" Neither resisted, both calmly complied with officers' orders, were shot nevertheless.

"If we didn't kill black men indiscriminately 'criminals' would take over:" Objectively racist, shut the fuck up.

"More black babies killed by abortion than by the police:" So there's a quota, and the police are trying to even the score? You are an imbecile.

"This video has been edited;" I've seen multiple unedited videos of each murder. You could see the same, if you weren't determined to justify the actions of murderers.

"Nobody talks about Black-on-Black crime:" Actually, lots of people talk about it. And if you believe a single black-on-black murder justifies any white-cop-on-black murder, you are a racist motherfucking asshole. Really.

"If he was guilty, why did he run?" Neither Alton nor Phil ran, you dickhead.

"Democrats are the real racists." I saw no one in these videos claiming allegiance to any political party. You're wrong, you're illogical, and you're frankly an asshole.

"Blue lives matter." SO GLAD to turn this around: ALL LIVES MATTER.  Deal with it.

"We shouldn't rush to judgment." I don't really believe it's a rush any more. How many years/decades constitute a rush? Just wondering.

"Black people want special treatment." Yes, fuck black people for wanting to be treated like Americans. So special.

"Thug." Or, you know, school cafeteria supervisor. Or street vendor. Or anything. Do you even know what the fuck you're talking about?

"No angel." I'm no angel. The odds of me being murdered by police during a routine traffic stop are, like, a brazillion to one. Because I'm blonde and moderately cute. THAT TOTALLY SHOULDN'T BE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH, YOU MORONS.

"Obama is president what else do you want?" Um, I want people to not use the personal success of one black man to justify the continued institutional oppression of millions of others. I understand this is highly unlikely, but I'm just answering the question.

"He had a history of misdemeanors." Yeah, just like lots of other people I know who happen to be white and are therefore given a pass. Since when does America dictate your future according to your past, you judgmental assholes?

"Being a police officer is dangerous." It totally fucking is. That's why we should support all officers who risk their lives while respecting the law and protecting all citizens equally. And why we should vigorously prosecute those who don't.

"But black people commit all the crimes." Please delete your online identities. You are an idiot.

"Black lives don't seem to matter the rest of the time." Congratulations, I can't respond to this because I don't know what the hell you're talking about. If you want to explain this gibberish,  feel free to contact me.

"'Personal responsibility.'" Right on. Like not pulling a legally carried gun on a police officer. Like being a police officer and not murdering someone who is legally carrying a gun and happens to be black, YOU DICKS.

"What about Chicago?" Chicago has a terrible problem with violence and gangs. It should be addressed. AND SKIN COLOR IS IRRELEVANT, YOU PRICKS.

"Racist against white people." Fuck you. Sincerely.

"Let's wait for the investigation." Agreed. But when it concludes yet again that the white cops were justified in murdering the innocent black person, let's protest the shit out of that nonsense.

"This was an isolated incident." Assuming you just time-traveled here from an unpopulated island in the 16th century, OK.

"I don't see the big deal." I wish I were white, wealthy, and privilged like you. Fer real.

"Protestors [sic] are the real criminals." Yes. Yes. As George Washington famously said, "Lock those bitches up, don't they know the GW has spoken?"

OMG, you guys.

Please help me defend what I love about America against the utter bullshit I hate about America.

*sigh*

Hey Hey My My (In Purple)

I've been wondering what to say about Prince since his death.




And I've decided to say this.

I'm a writer, a songwriter, a poet. I don't pretend to be exceptional.

But I can appreciate great writing when I see/hear it.

And for 30 years now I've thought this was one of the most brilliant lines ever penned for a popular song:

"Ain't no particular sign I'm more compatible with/I just want your extra time, and your/Kiss."

I loved and respected Prince, even though his music was like nothing else I typically listened to.

It was just that good.

I'm sorry he's gone.

It's better to burn out than to fade away.

Less Than Zero

Do you want to feel so much fucking better about yourself right now?

Well, all righty, then.

Give yourself one point if:

Last night your significant other did NOT go hang out at a club with some people you don't know and didn't even mention s/he was doing so.

Your teenager did NOT refuse to go school today because s/he "just wasn't feeling it," leaving you to go to work feeling like the world's worst fucking parent.

Your middle-aged white male boss did NOT take all the other middle-aged white male employees in the office out to lunch, not only not inviting you but simply walking past your desk without saying a word, as if you didn't exist.

You did NOT consume about a soda can's worth of vodka upon getting home from work because you can't deal with all the other shit that happened today.

Tally.

Did you get more than -6 points?

Congratulations, you're not fucked up.

For the record, none of that shit applies to me in the last 24 hours.

Probably I'm going to drink myself to death tonight.

Serves everybody right. PDaughter obviously would rather live with her dad, Drummer Boy has a life that has nothing to with me, and the goddamn white males at my job don't give a shit about anything I do.

I hope you guys got a perfect score.

I'm feeling less than zero.

Have a great weekend.

Hide and Seek

I hid a lot today.

I hid from my co-workers just how hard it is to come in every day to face lack of appreciation and effort. I guess I don't do a very good job.

I hid from my child the email I received from one of her teachers regarding her recent in-class attitude, which likely is influenced by her mom's problems.

I hid from my sweetheart the depth of my sadness. He doesn't deserve to be burdened with that.

What do you hide, Drunkards? What do you think the rest of us don't see?