Yesterday's drunken ramble

As best as I can remember it:

I'm such a sucker. I mean, emotionally. Heath Ledger is dead? Really? Start to cry and then stop myself. The same as when other celebrities die, or if there's a crazy tween what stole a car and crashed it into the front of a daycare, or a fuel truck on fire right under an overpass, or a plane crashed in my third cousin once removed's back yard in Queens.

I start to cry, and then stop myself. That's why I have to stop listening to Country music. Too much emotional chain yanking, "Elissa Lies?" Change the channel. "Because Of You?" Change. "Stealing Cinderella?" Change faster. Because it isn't even a good song.

I can't do it any more. I can't care. I have to ignore the media, shut myself off, because I have better emotions to feel, and I can't do it with all the angst-generating dreck that the media is pouring, shoveling, hurling our way.

Do I care? Intellectually? Well, yeah. But there's only so much I can do. But getting upset about something--me, personally, getting upset about something--does the victim (of crime or disaster or just mishap) NO FUCKING GOOD WHATSOEVER.

I can't spare that much time to expend that emotion; I have kids who need love and attention, and they don't do well when I'm upset. The proverbial, If Mamma Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy. So I can't care, really, if it ain't worth my time. There's only so much BeerPup to go around.

So I've decided to let Bono do it for me. All that caring? He feels enough for all of us. He created One. So...that's how it will be. Instead of all of us caring about shit, there'll just be One.

We can't all be Bono.

Missing Ambien

I used to write blog entries after taking Ambien but before becomming horizontal. I think I was a lot funnier when I was on Ambien. Maybe because I didn't remember what I wrote, until I read it the next morning. Here's an example from 2004, but please note:

1) It was written in the end of January and proves I really do go insane this time of year, every year.

2) Much of what I wrote is made-up shit. I wasn't really institutionalized. Just so ya know.

3) I miss Obi-Wan.

So here's a look back to 2004:


So I just got back from the mental institution. It wasn't so bad as you would think; in fact it was quite nice.

It all started with the voices. The ones that were telling me that Keith Olbermann was communicating with me telepathically through his eyebrow. That wasn't so bad, since Keith is really funny. I always thought he communicated to me through TiVo, but it turns out his eyebrow has special powers which he enhances by throwing wadded up paper at the studio cameras.

Then there was the one that said she was the anti-Flylady. Or was she flylady's aunt? Anyway, she'd show up in my brain somewhere around 10am and tell me to serve my kids Cheetoes for breakfast while still wearing my pyjamas, discourage me from showering, and crack open a Shiner because drinking time was a-waistin'.

Julia Childs' ghost showed up to tell me I had to cook lots and lots of food that no one would ever eat.

Qui-Gon Jinn's ghost came along and begged me not to fall under the power of the dark side. I think he got lost somewhere in the Force because he kept saying, "Anakin! The force didn't tell me you were a female! I would have held on to my physical form if I had realized I would be getting to look at your tits all day while I trained you! Damn force." I think he finally figured it out when I couldn't manipulate the force well enough to levitate a beer from the fridge for myself.

It was actually quite pleasant dressing like The Dude from "The Big Lebowski." Robes are comfy.

Finally the Jesus of Cheese realized there was something amiss, and hauled me into the funny farm for observation. Hey, no problem. More comfy jammies to wear, people speaking in low tones, someone else doing the cooking, no one asking me for lollipops and chocolate milk and lost toys. Well, no one I actually had to answer, anyway. There were no crumbs in my bed, and I was not forced to watch children's programming on Public Television. Lots of trashy novels to read and lots of time to read them.

I was diagnosed as not being a danger to myself or others, so they sent me home. With some lovely tranquilizers. Being tax season and all, the Jesus of Cheese needed me to use my intrauterine location device for the papers we need for the IRS, and he's kinda wishing the Julia Childs were back to help with the food for the Superbowl thing we're having, and Qui-Gon to levitate the beer keg into the house. No problem. Obi-Wan has already shown up and said he'll do it.

Anyone want to come over on Superbowl Sunday? I'll mostly be smoking in the garage next to the keg, chatting with the voices in my head. 'Cept for Obi-Wan. He's real.

Here's the thing with having nothing to write

I actually have a lot to write about, but it's all here bouncing around in my head. The thoughts are all either incomplete sentences, or they're run-on sentences, or they're even comma spliced.

My state of mind must be pretty bad, to have comma splicing IN MY FRICKIN' MIND.

After all the hating Christmas hoopla, but loving the Christmas bonus, having a babysitter on New Year's and not even having anywhere to go, and then my own inertia compounding upon itself until...

Until my home and my mind seemed to mirror each other. Empty containers, waiting to be disposed. Garbage that's obviously garbage, and garbage that's masquerading as something useful.

Useful things that are broken. And a few useful unbroken things, well hidden.

And the outward appearance items, utilitarian or whimsical, things that keep me warm, laying all over the place. Not being worn. But not put away.

Shit. I hate it when I go insane every spring.

Unfortunately inspired by TV

This past year, my family finally leveled my grandparents' home.

Or shall I say my grandparent's home? Maybe.

My grandmother was married twice. With my grandfather, Paul, I don't know where they lived as newlyweds. No one talks about that.

I do know that my grandmother, aunt, and father lived with my great-grandparents and my great-aunts and uncle when dad was young. Then my great-aunts got married, all but one, and my great-uncle married my dad's cousin from his dad's side.

Wow. That's the most accurate description I've ever done of it. My dad's uncle from his mom's side married his cousin from dad's side.

Then my grandmother married the cousin's mom's brother. If you follow.

It was the depression, and my dad was still in single digit age. They lived on a couple of rented farms, but finally bought the old...Wetterland place? I think.

I have no clue who the Wetterlands were. Suffice to say, I met the daughters of the guy who built it, once, when they just drove into the yard and announced themselves, when I was in single digits myself. I listened, because their dad had built the barn and they'd lived in my Grandma's house, and it was kind of interesting.

They were grown-ups, so they ignored me, of course.

One of the sisters described cleaning the South window and finding a WHOLE QUARTER once.

Being I would have loved to have a quarter myself, I thought that was cool.

The house was a typical homestead. It wasn't the first house--I accidentally blew that up, but I've talked about that before.,

It was the first House. About ten by twenty, two stories, four rooms. My grandparents built on twice. First when they moved in, they put in a proper foundation with a cistern, and a kitchen (huge) and dining nook (tiny) plus another room above it. Later they put in an entry and a bathroom, once they could have plumbing that was powered by electric pump; that was in the late 1940s.

And my dad still lived there.

He didn't marry my mom until he was in his late 30s. He was going to marry His Girl, but he was drafted in WWII and she moved East and married someone else.

So he raised hell for a decade or so.

While living at home.

My parents lived in town for a while, then moved out to the farm once my mom decided she could live within sight of her in-laws. A dubious decision.

Our house was built in 1969, when I was a year old and our little trailer (yes, I'm truly trailer trash) was way too small.

And the grandparents lived in their house until their deaths; my step-grandfather in 1979 and my grandmother in 1981.

My aunt came from the state of Washington, for the funeral and to fuel her own grief and guilt over leaving. I could bitch for a long time about her, but I won't.

Not right now, anyway.

She went through my Grandmother's posessions, and we let her. She took what she wanted.

She even took some of OUR stuff that happened to be there, and we let her.

(See why I'd like to bitch about her?)

We took some things out. My brother and I each took a dresser. I took a bed. We took special decorations, pictures, etc.

We took the TV. It pupped out in a year or two.

Once, my mom asked me to go over and get something. I don't remember who was over, but it was not that long after Grandma had died.

I turned out then kitchen light, which was an unforgiving flouresent thing at the best of times. I started to go upstairs for something I thought I wanted, but I felt...warned away, is the best description.

Finally I just looked in the kitchen cupboard for whatever it was Mom wanted, turned out the light, and left. Quickly.

I told Mom never to send me over there at night again. She apologized.

And she never sent me over there again. Ever.

Not that I never went there again, because I have. But never at night. It's easier to ignore things in the broad daylight. Even then, I never stayed long, because I wasn't supposed to invade that space.

Not yours. Not here. GO.

My dad worked for several years, taking the house apart piece by piece, starting with the last things that were built. First the entry and the bathroom, then the kitchen/dining area and what had been his own room.

He left the original house for a couple of years; his health has been deteriorating.


Last spring, The Boy did an inspection and said it had to come down because it was a serious safety risk. The floor had sunk but 18 inches while the walls were still standing...perilously. He and I were elected, last June, to go in and get all of our stuff, because Mom claimed it was all ours.

Oh, bullshit, Mom.

Evidence: I came home with one jeweler's box, and that by accident.

We did, however, remove my Dad's crib and some other worthwhile linens and such. Nothing of worth; nothing we wanted.

Our scavenger hunt was cut short. My brother, The Boy, had other commitments. We were able to empty the second floor and take a perusal of the first, and found nothing of worth.

To us.

The plan was to hook the tractor to the house and pull it down. When they went forward with the plan, apparently it didn't work that well. The major supports broke instead of bowing over. My nephews fired their potato cannon at the windows and they just blew nice, round holes in them instead of shattering them.

The house didn't want to come down.

I would have expected nothing less than that from the house that told me, very clearly, to vacate, back in 1981. The house that has come back to my dreams repeatedly since 1981, but not since this fall.

My parents finally just called the local fire chief, Lonnie (I used to babysit his kids) and had them do a drill.

I'd like to think there's a video.

I'd like to know that house will never invade my dreams again.

Ever.