Anne Nahm

My middle sister was here for the weekend.  Round and glowing with her first child, I listened to her squee about pregnancy and impending motherhood.

For the first hour, I was all, Cuuuuuute!

And by the end of the first day, I was thinking, I wasn’t this obsessed when I was pregnant, right?  Because we’ve been talking about onesies for 45 minutes now.

By mid-way through the second day, I went deaf.

Finally I gave up and sent her  a link to this video before she even left, so it would be in her in-box Monday morning.  Luckily, she took it well. (Slightly NSFW language):

Or at least that’s what she said when she called Monday evening to talk to me for an hour about whether organic mattresses came in standard sizes, and whether or not they would be too soft (I’m supposing they are made of hay or something).  When I casually mentioned too soft might be a smothering hazard, she informed me in ALL CAPS tone of voice that the baby was going to sleep on his back and never-ever on his face because THAT WAS THE WAY YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO DO IT.

So I dunno, maybe I should buy her a stapler so she can fasten the little guy’s to his mattress by his footie pajamas?  Cause her whole plan’s gonna be ruined when she discovers kids can roll.

***

I’m reading Game of Thrones and have to say I feel like I’m getting my money’s worth since that book is huge.  I’ve become one of those people who likes to see the movie and then read the book.  These days, if the information isn’t pre-digested in visual format, I have a hard time following along with my weakling brain.  Even with the HBO Cliffs Notes, I pause frequently to breathe heavily and supply my puny brain cells with extra oxygen.  When this happens, I sometimes study the cover and try to remember what the hell’s been going on.

As such, I’ve noticed

that the bottom half of the Iron Throne is pretty much

Throne of Bone.

***

If you’re not reading Mr. Lady, you might want to go check her out.  Sometimes blogs are day-to-day business and then sometimes they go DRAMA, warp speed, sir!  But rarely do they go drama! with a blogger at the helm who has insight into what is happening as it’s happening.  At the risk of sounding whambulance chasey, that’s what’s going on with Mr. Lady right now.  If you are interested in watching real-time coping in awesomeness, she’s a good read.

And on that note, thank you all for your kind and thoughtful comments last post.  Clearly, I am not so much one of those bloggers with insight in the moment, so I’m slowly thinking through them and trying to make them work.  Every day since I wrote that, I’ve had at least five moments where the boogie man jumps out of the closet with a steak knife.  Except there’s no boogie man. Except in my head.

I’ve been looking at medication, and while doing so, one of those morning shows had an expose on the disturbingly huge problem of Xanax addiction in America.  Apparently I’m not alone!  And then the TV heads went on to talk about withdraw being life-threatening in some cases.  You need a doctor to get off that stuff, they warned.  Seizures!  Rehab!

Guess how well that went over with the anxiety-riddled woman staring at the TV with intent to freak out?  Terrific!  That’s how.  I think I lost two pounds flapping my arms at my sides and dancing from foot to foot with adrenaline induced hummingbird symptoms.  Neighbors peering through the window probably thought I was doing a Richard Simmons tape, two speeds too fast.

After watching a movie in which an orphaned baby is left on a doorstep

MIDDLE KID:  Why would someone leave a baby on a doorstep?
ME:  Ummm.  There could be plenty of reasons, but….
MIDDLE KID:  Ohhhh… Probably because they won’t fit through the mail slot.

***

Someone once told me anxiety can be like self-mutilation — the adrenaline that comes from the pain is addictive.  That sure seems true to me right now, with my heart jumping like Scarface on a pogo stick, falling out of a two story window, into a pile of cocaine.  Like I am an Anxiety Junkie.

I hate how it feels, to be so amped up and jittery.  But I keep going back to those anxious thoughts, thinking them over and over until I’m in heart-attack country, breathless and cold-fingered and stinky-sweaty.   I can’t stop doing it.  I tell myself if I think about them enough, I’ll learn something.  I am in a sadomasochistic relationship with my own brain, and there is apparently no safety word.

The worst, worst, worst is those thoughts defend themselves:  I am looking out for you! I am trying to show you that you’ve made a terrible mistake!  I am your mutherfucking conscience, you idiot, PAY ATTENTION TO ME!  I know they’re lying, because the thing they are always trying to protect me from is the world finding out I’m a Bad Kid.  And on better days, I’m pretty sure I’m not Bad Kid.  At least, not any more.  And  on the bad days, I’m pretty sure everyone knows I’m Bad Kid, so who the fuck am I hiding from, right?

Except it doesn’t really work that way.  The truth is these anxious thoughts always find me crouching in a corner, about to go on stage, my disguise in tatters but me full of shining desperation that if I do everything perfect, I can make it OK.

Lately, the thoughts have been focused on how writing is a terrible mistake, a gateway for everyone to find out: I’m no good, I’m dishonest, I’m morally weak, personably objectionable and with questionable hygiene (and no matter what you might say, the thoughts are quite clear on the fact that if you really knew me, you’d have to agree).   Here’s a small sample.

*What you’ve written will blackball you from ever becoming gainfully employed!
*With every selfish word you write down, you risk your children being ridiculed, possibly making it impossible for them to find suitable spouses in the future. Think of the children!!!!1!
*The things you think you’ve obscured are obvious to everyone.
*Say these things  if you must.  Alone.  In the dark.  With no witnesses.  But don’t write them down, idiot.

Maybe from the outside, this looks stupid.  But from the inside, it is easy to get turned around, to not know whether the thoughts are trying to help me or hurt me.  After a while, it seems like the only thing to stop the thoughts is to follow their advice.  It’s hard to breathe when I get to this place. I can live with the simmering fear that I’m going to ruin everything and the vague shame-hang-over of being completely self-involved, but the panic thing is pretty crippling.   There is no way out but to admit to everything. I am plagued with the crazy.  I always say too much and not enough.   I regret everything, but I keep doing it.  I am the Bad Kid.  And, possibly, I need to cut down on the caffeine.

Nothing’s changed with my dad recently.  Since I kinda wrote myself into a corner with all that drama, I’m finding it difficult to get back on my old bicycle of mundane bitching.   Whelp, break out the training wheeeeeeels.

**

I recently discovered a cousin of mine wrote a book of poems.  And although my appreciation of poetry is largely Neanderthallic in nature (complete with baffled, brain-straining grunts and intermittent butt scratching), I purchased and read it.

Some poems referenced our family’s history, as well as events I lived through as a child.  Reading about them through his perspective was very strange, like dream interpretation through a kaleidoscope, while high on paint fumes.  But still recognizable.

The imagery was full of dark in-jokes and references to memories in my own head that I’d forgotten.  And although this cousin and I share a conversation a decade, I now feel weirdly Being John Malkhvichish about the whole experience.

**
I opened a twitter account.  So far, the experience has been more or less like those old-school Freudian-style therapy sessions, wherein the patient talks into the void and eventually things devolve into a neurotic splatter of insanity. I’m totally Betty Draper circa Season One, in my poodle skirt and cigarette, with Twitter scribbling TOTALLY FUCKING NUTS on a notepad somewhere.  You want me reading your tweets?  Hit me up, I’ll take a look.

**

OK, now I have that shaky, cold sweat that lets me know my fat, jiggly blogging skills are in no shape for swimsuit season.    I’m gonna go chug Gatorade and puke in a trash can.

Middle sister called. Mentioned Dad has been reminiscing a lot.  I waited for her to say something like I had experienced — how his new sentimentality was a fishhook in the heart. Like Dad cramming for finals or something.

Instead:  “It’s an indicator for Alzheimer’s.  People get confused in real time, so they retreat to topics in their long term memory, which aren’t as affected.”  So, not my dad rending the very fabric his personality to reach out and make a personal bond after all.

She quickly followed up with how one symptom does not a diagnosis make, and how if it is the big A, it’s a slow moving prognosis.  It was hard to listen to the rest, with the constellations wobbling in the sky like they did.  Stupid stars.

In the real world, he came over a few days ago and fell asleep on my couch.  When I woke him up, he startled, four limbs out like a surprise skydiver.  “I’m up!” he insisted.  It’s awesome payback from all my teenager years when he’d mercilessly wake me up by poking me in the ribs and blaring, “Do you know what time it is?”

And oh, PS.  This happened:  My middle kid’s little league softball, first practice. Third item on the agenda?  Team name. They shouted, The Butterflies! The Sparkle Unicorns! The Princesses! And then one kid: The girls with balls!

Yeah, I wanna be on her team.

I hate writing about being sick, because frankly kids go to school and suddenly its re-runs over here.  Sooooo sick.  Stuffed up, dry tongue, cracked lips.  It’s as predictable as ass itch on a hot day.

I’ve had a cold since January 16th.  I know because I had a work-related phone call during which I had to press the mute button and cough discretely yet brain-rattling-ly as I tried to follow the conversation.  You know, instead of what I’ve done these last ten years on all my non-work-related phone calls, in which I’d bray, “Shut up a second,” and air-hork with the phone pressed into my stomach to keep from herniating myself.  My bellybutton would often speed-dial your ear as I did this.

***

In other news, my sister is PREGNANT.   She is a middle child through and through, and has announced that since my parents moved to help me with my young children, they better do the same for her.  Since my parents moving here  pretty much saved my sanity, I cannot begrudge her this.

Middle lives about 5 hours away by car.  She plans on working full time, so this means my mom will be needed all week.  Since my dad has been somewhat dotty, Mom’s taking him with her.  My mom tearfully insists she’ll drive back every weekend to see my kids, but I have a way better understanding of time than she does, and I know that’s not going to happen. I’m still wrapping my sad little snot-filled head over the fact that my parents are moving away.

***

I thought I’d join Pinterest, but apparently I can’t without either a facebook or a twitter account.  I don’t have either.  Also, FYI, I am a little nuts about this.  My VONS card is under a fake name even.  I do not seriously think some agency is collecting information to use against me, but I also don’t not believe it either.  Yes, yes, my tinfoil hat is quite comfortable and I like my alien probe prewarmed before… um, probation, I guess.  But this double-link-validation thing is kind of sending me over the edge.   Do I really have to have a throwaway email along with my ghost twitter account?!  I am Jason fucking Bourne? I just want to pin some shit.

***

So here’s this song I like by Lana Del Rey, and it’s apparently on an album they retracted so her new album that just came out could be her debut or something.  I’m not quite sure how that works, what with the proper definition of debut and all, except it means this song is no longer available.

Anyway, I didn’t want to post it because it’s got a hook involving daddies being the boss, and with my recent dad posts, it felt heebie jeebie.  But then I realized there is not nearly enough embarrassment and whatthefucktitude on this blog anymore, so here you go.  Make of it what you will.  I like this song and can’t buy it anywhere. NSFW on account of cartoon nudity and violence. Enjoy!