Life Among the Never-Winged

Once upon a time I was writing a book called, "Just Another Love Letter", about angels behaving badly. Now I just quietly ask myself each day, "What the hell am I doing?"

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Location: The Rocky Mountain Empire, United States

My friends always knew I was going to hell. My only hope is that God likes good jokes and bad redheads.

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  • Sunday, February 25, 2007

    Bury My Lovely

    So. This depression thing.

    You know, I hate hate hate it when I hear someone say that depression feeds artists. Van Gogh and Poe are my favorite sited examples. Oh, such art came out of their depression! Bullshit. Such art came out despite their depression. They would have done MORE if they HADN'T been depressed.

    Depression eats artists.


    I figure, if I can get the laundry done and the dishes, and feed the guys, I'm functioning.


    If I make it through the day without crying, tomorrow might be ok too. If I can't, then I wonder what's happened to me. Because this crying all the time? This isn't me.


    And the nights. Lying in bed just after the lights go out, my thoughts in a white noise panic over what I cannot control. All the things that happen to all of us.


    I wonder what kind of effect this is having on the boyos. I try not to let them see me cry. I've gotten good at it. I try not to snap at them when they ask me the same question five times in a row. I'm not so good at that.


    All my days aren't so bad. Last Tuesday was a good day, a stupidly good day. No school, no work, so O took the boyos out on errands. I wandered alone in a sort of stupor from garden supply store to plant nursery, vaguely searching for a tabletop grow light to get some seeds started. Really, I just walked around in the sun on that late halcyon day looking at pots and seed packets. I bought a primrose.

    I could have gone home and napped, but I pulled into The Home Depot instead, parked next to our other car, went in and searched the aisles.

    I heard them before I saw them.

    “Hello, family,” I said.


    Last time this lingering sadness happened, I got out of it by finding a full-time job that didn't involve ripping off CNN for a now-defunct transcription and radio broadcast company whose name you heard at the end of Oprah or Donahue or various other talk shows. That was 12 years ago. I'm facing the same thing now. So why not enact the same solution?


    So I thought about what I wanted to do with the next part of my life, for money. I kicked around an idea. It involved going back to school; heavy-duty school. I told my mom. She encouraged me because it involved health care; her field. But it intimidated me, both the school and the idea of still not finding a job afterward.

    Then there was my answer, standing quietly against the back of my brain, like a wallflower at a dance. I got excited. So excited, that I had tears in my eyes as I Googled away. I could do this. I wanted to do this. This would help people. This was something I understood. Sure, there was retraining involved, but I didn't have that feeling of intimidation when I thought about it. And it was still in health care.

    I talked to my mom again, shot my new idea past her.

    The silence said everything.

    The middle conversation was, “Well. You wouldn't be able to get health insurance for the boys if you did that.” (Might I mention, they already have health insurance.)

    And the conversation ended with the usual, “But you're smart. You can do anything you want.”

    Now when I talk about it, my voice goes all quiet. And I find I can't even mention my idea here.


    None of this really has anything to do with why I've got 'walking depression.'


    They say losing someone is supposed to get easier as time passes. In this case it doesn't. I'm getting hit hard this year. Remembering what happened. Trying to get it into words. No, that's not true. I've got the words. I know exactly how I would tell the story. I'm just trying to decide if it would help.


    The first seedlings poked through the dirt this morning; pumpkins and watermelons the boyos planted in little paper cups. Every year it's a new miracle to me. Every year I don't believe it will happen.

    Then it does.


    And if there's a God in heaven, the tomato seeds I planted will not sprout on March 1st. Any day but that one.

    There is some poetry I will not put up with.

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    Thursday, February 22, 2007

    Anatomy of a Breakdown

    2:15 Pick up twins from school. Offer to watch third 4-year-old schoolmate so his mom can get ready for MLM cosmetic party tonight.

    2:16 Declan says, “Mommy, I don't feel good. I want to go home and go to sleep.” Forehead feels feverish.

    2:30 Mom and third 4-year-old show up on doorstep. Say, “Well, Declan has a fever and he's asleep. I'd hate for A. to get sick...” Watch mom (who has a set of younger twin boys, so I don't blame her one bit) run toward the minivan, shouting, “Ohit'sokhe'llbefineseeyoutonightatsix!”

    2:31 – 3:05 Jack and A. play like a couple of angels while Declan naps on the couch. Bliss.

    3:06 Jack and A. announce hunger. Make peanut butter and jelly sandwich for A. Serve with juice. Crack and mix two eggs for Jack and pour into pan.

    3:07 A. Drops entire cup of juice into lap and onto floor. Sound of cup hitting floor with a 'clang' wakes Declan on couch.

    3:07:30 A. Apologizes for dropping cup. Tell him it's ok, while handing him a towel, since he doesn't have a change of clothes. Drop another towel on floor over sticky juice and mop with foot.

    3:08:52 Watch as A. hears Declan awaken, and jumps up to see him. Run after him, knowing the inevitable.

    3:09:57 A. tickles the newly-awakened, sick-feeling Declan as you shout, “Noooooo don't do that!”

    3:10:05 Watch as Declan spews forth his mostly-but-by-no-means-entirely-digested school snack all over the couch and floor.

    3:10:10 – 3:11 Grab towel and mop down Declan, while catching further snack in said towel. Wipe down couch and carpet while telling Declan it's going to be all right. Note sound of screaming A. and Jack trailing off into the distance, and the slamming of a door.

    3:11:10 Hear volume of other two boys increase and realize that they have also trapped an excitable Jack Russell Terrier, who is a Good Boy, but like the rest of us has his limits when it comes to 4-year-old boys.

    3:11:11 Run for closed bedroom, thinking that JRT has snapped and bitten A. Lawsuits to follow.

    3:11:13 Door is locked. Shout, “Open this door RIGHT NOW! Are you Ok?!”

    3:11:18 Door opens. They are fine but complain loudly of the smell of puke, and claim to be escaping it. JRT is crouching in the corner. Good Boy.

    3:11:20 Tell boys to leave bedroom right now. A. complies, Jack refuses. Pick up Jack and put him outside bedroom, muttering things under your breath that would make a longshoreman blush.

    3:11:30 Declan still mighty upset about puking. Grab another towel and mop him up. Mop up couch and floor. Watch as Good Boy JRT 'helps' with the floor. Try not to be sick yourself while actually thanking him for his assistance. Surmise that school snack must have been chocolate cupcake with cheddar cheese curd sauce. Try again not to puke.

    3:13 Calming Declan, cleaning mess, listening to Jack and A. complain loudly of 'horrible puke smell.' Smell something yourself over horrible puke smell.

    3:13:05 Remember what you were doing when all this started.

    3:13:06 Make mad dash to stove where Jack's eggs are damn near blackening on the bottom. Remove skillet from heat.

    3:14 Dump nasty mess into garbage can.

    3:14:05 Jack asks for eggs. Scramble two more eggs. Watch them congeal on plate while Jack, Declan (who feels perfectly fine now) and A. dash outside to play. Breathe.

    3:16:05 – 3:19 A. re-enters house saying, “My socks are wet.” Realize he dashed outside into the melting snow without shoes. Remove socks, consider washing them, then just toss them in the dryer instead. Shod him, sockless because he'd never fit into your boyos' socks. Send him back outside.

    3:20 Stare at clock and realize you have THREE HOURS TO GO.

    3:21 – 6:15 Change Declan's clothes, break up various fights, wash cushion cover and towels and D's clothing, put in new DVD in computer, change it out because they changed their minds, break up more fights, rinse, repeat.

    6:15:05 Consider Declan's puking as perfect excuse to skip MLM cosmetic party.

    6:15:06 Jack runs upstairs ecstatically shouting, “A. says we're invited to a party tonight!” Realize you are doomed.


    9:20 Feeling a couple glasses of free, good, merlot from the party, blog the day. Add that A.'s mom is great, as is A.

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    Saturday, February 17, 2007

    Friday Poetry Challenge A Day Late

    Mona issues a word challenge every week, and this week I decided to give it try. The word is 'heart', or hart. Here goes:

    Lost Hart

    Was it you

    who left the snow prints

    looked in my window

    blocked the moon

    virgin light

    your shadow waking me

    Was it you

    who danced with me

    snow melting under our feet

    my little green prints

    yours, shaped like hearts

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    Friday, February 16, 2007

    Show me a Garden

    It is snowing again.

    And I swear that if it ever stops snowing and the great white piles of it melt from the backyard, I will lie down naked in the center of the pocket meadow at the top of the hill, ringed by blossoming plum trees and planted with strawberries. I will lie with my bare cheek and belly pressed against the warm green earth, and I will sleep there every night beside the foxes in their juniper beds, and I will not shiver and I will not shake and I will forget a time when the birds did not sing and nothing could grow. And I will not get up again until I've grown enough feathers to fly south.

    If I lay here. If I just lay here.

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    Wednesday, February 14, 2007

    Happy Valentine's Day

    Thanks for coming to the party, everybody! I hope everyone had a good time. Cabs are lined up outside for those who need them, and I think there are a few of you.

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    Thursday, February 08, 2007

    Dance Hall Days -- BIRTHdays, That is!

    Ok, no more sackcloth and ashes.

    It's party time.

    I happen to know a few of you out there are Aquarians (not unlike myself) and I've decided to throw you a party. It was quite fun last time, a few of you got to know each other, as happens at all good parties, and a good time was had by all.

    So. First let me introduce you to the guests of honor standing in the receiving line. Yeah, all those people over there wearing the tiaras (except me as you can see; I lost mine in the chaos). And PLEASE, if you have an Aquarian birthday and I've missed you let me know so I can get you your tiara. The tiaras are Amusing's idea, she just doesn't know it yet. And guys, you get one too. Yes, Stucco, you have to wear it.

    Des Moines Girl -- Go congratulate her on her pregnancy as well as her birthday! Oh, and she's a real clown.

    Amusing – A fine lady, somewhere near on East Coast.

    Stucco – A fine unrepentant Fenian bastard (it says so on his shirt) somewhere in Seattle.

    Scott from Oregon (bet you can't guess where he's at) – he's got some GREAT stories to tell.

    And then there's me. If I haven't met you, please introduce yourself (don't be shy now) and I'll pour you a drink. I make a killer mojito. just so's you know. If wine is more you speed, sommelier Dantares will be happy to make suggestions.

    The theme of the party is Mardi Gras, and who better to introduce you to the wonders of King Cake *drool* than Mr. Irrelephant, down in Louisiana. Go on over and get a slice of cake and some beads. He's got 'em!

    Music is provided by the fabulous and talented Mr. Bud Buckley, who is working on his next album. Everybody go take a listen and say hi. He takes requests, but please, no songs about saltshakers. He gets that all the time.

    Now, let's get the rest of you mingling. *rubbing hands together* Many of you know each other already, but we have some new faces:

    Maggie, meet Cheesy; she's a member of the Mom of Twins Club AND a fine poet like yourself (and her twins happen to have an Aquarian B-day). Cheesy, meet Lisa for all the same reasons. Not to mention that the three of you are drop-dead sexy. Actually, that goes for everyone here.

    Lucia, meet Jo, ( you too, Scott ) and Jo go say hi to Dantares and Maggie too; she's a new quilter! Duckie, go say hi to Lucia. You too, Mr. Tiercel.

    Meno, meet Schmoopie, wife of the Unrepentant Fenian Bastard in the tiara. Schmoop recently moved to your neck of the Pacific Northwest and is madly in love with the place. Schmoop, go say hi to Me, sarcastic and funny as hell. and Popeye. (Popeye, geez, I think you know most folks, so I'll let you mingle at will.) If you guys haven't met Esereth, you're in for a treat. She's a new mom and a brilliant writer.

    Patches, meet Stucco and D-Man. D-Man, you've got to meet Scott, and vice-versa.

    Clowncar, and Rudi, my two blogless folk, go and check out any and all of these good people.

    Everybody, meet everybody! Go say hi, and tell 'em I sent ya.

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    Friday, February 02, 2007


    Ok, so


    Sorry about my whinefest on the 31st. I had my follow-up appointment that day, and the news wasn't good.

    Turns out I was not hallucinating, and Dr. S did indeed say I might want my ovary removed. He was surprised that I'd heard him. But anesthesia does funny things, and I didn't really want to be under anyway, as we all know.

    Dr. S saw some other “irregularities” that disturbed him enough to take a few biopsies. Thankfully, they all came back benign. We'll redress the issues in three months, at my next appointment.

    I don't know. All I know is that the pain has returned. It's...discouraging.

    For the past few days I've curled up inside myself, dreaming of flights away from...I don't know. The snow, the pain, the fear? To someplace where no one knows me, where even my body can't find me. My dreams are unfamiliar. I'm with people I don't know, we're waiting at night for something to happen. Outside I can hear the ocean, but I know that if I open the door and look it will only be the wind blowing across dry sand and stones that never saw the bottom of a river.

    Anyway, thank you so much for sticking around, reading and cheering me up with comments and emails. Because you have.

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