Closed for a while

Closing up shop for a time. Not sure how long. I have a couple of projects going on that I absolutely must focus on, but mostly I’m dealing with a total energy drain. This has never happened before, so I don’t have a clue what’s up beyond anemia, dizziness, shortness of breath.

Thanks for reading, and I hope it’s not long before I can get back to blogging here on a regular schedule.

Take care.

Thank you (and awesome reads)

Thanks to all who’ve posted comments and sent emails. I appreciate your positive thoughts. Tomorrow is my first doctor appointment in years, and though I seriously dislike check-ups of any sort–loathe would probably be the more precise term–I’m forcing myself to go. (And without a touch of Disneyfied “Heigh-ho.”)

I’ve tagged this “zombies” because that’s how I’m feeling. Have you ever found yourself staring at the wall, the floor, the ceiling, and then realized that’s all you’ve done, all day long? You haven’t eaten or grabbed your usual coffee or answered your phone? This post has taken me the good part of an hour to finish.

Will try to maintain hope that this is a mere glitch in the great cosmology of existence. If I suddenly go quiet–well–maybe I’ve gone underground in more ways than we thought, hey?

Oh, a while back one of my regular readers asked if I’d ever posted any of my favorite authors. I have so many. And most of my favorites aren’t for the book-burning, faint of heart types. (If you’ve ever read a book and said, “That is disgusting!” and stopped reading not because you were bored and simply didn’t like the story, but because you found the content trashy or somehow wrong or politically incorrect, then believe me, neither of these authors is for you. This blog isn’t for you either, I imagine, since I don’t go in for author censorship. If you do, then go away. I mean it. Go. Don’t let the cyber-door hit you in the ass.)

Okay. For the rest of you: I adore Mitch Cullin, who wrote The Cosmology of Bing, Tideland, Whompyjawed, and other amazing reads.

I’m currently reading Rachel Resnick’s Go West Young F*cked-Up Chick (and no, that’s not my censorship; I’m not even sure if that’s the author’s doing. Maybe it was the publisher’s choice). Resnick breaks all the so-called writing rules, and yet it works. She takes me places that surprise me, and I’m not easily surprised. Brilliant!

Yeah. Happy Bleepin’ New Year.

Does anyone recall the Judith Viorst/Ray Cruz book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day? Just a bit of switching it up and there you’ll have it, my year 2009:

Suze Underground and the Shitty, Fucked Up, No Good, Very Bad Year. lol.

All I can say is, may 2010 go in a whole different direction.

All Systems Down

Hey, All,

Hate to say it, but due to health concerns updates may be spotty or non existent for a while.

No idea what’s happening, but let’s just say I’ve never experienced blacking out while under the influence of nothing. And it’s been several years since I’ve ingested anything that wasn’t doctor prescribed. No one’s backhanded me against any walls lately. Yesterday I woke up under the kitchen table, and believe me, I didn’t drink myself there.

So let’s just say we’ll see you when we see you. I’ll update when I can. The main focus has to be work and my memoir for now.

Doc visit scheduled.

See you soon!

Hiatus

Going to be gone, baby, gone for a while. One benefit of a portable job is the ability to laptop it to anyplace that’s net-connected in the world. Will try to keep up with the occasional tweet, maybe, but no time for blogging.

See you after the holidays. I’m off to the Arctic tundra. No, seriously. Always been a dream of mine. A cold weather vacation in the midst of winter. Scoping out a possible move, too. (Have I told you of my obsession with The Great White North? Or Alaska? Anywhere with plenty of snow and snug cabins? Oh, not yet? Soon.) Call me crazy.

Gamer thinks we’re headed to the North Pole. Hmm. Crashing Santa’s pad might be in order. Time to break out our snowshoes, the Sno-Seal. My old faithful sub-zero boots. (And yes, I do have experience with winter mountaineering.)

Had shut off my snowflakes, but going to flick the switch and leave you with a bit of winter.

Take care. And I hope everyone enjoys this festive season. I’m not PC, okay?

So–Merry Freepin’ Christmas!!!

Pivotal

Have you ever noticed the way crappy events can turn around in your favor? I love that. Just when I start to think, man, this blows eternal, my creative mind kicks in and I’m running with it. Putting a spin on the stack of garbage so that somehow nothing truly keeps me down.

Thanks to Micah, my writing coach from this past summer, for kick-starting this wild, creative rush. It’s like the floodgates have opened. No. It’s more like those guys you see in old “Days of Yore” movies: “1-2-3″ with the battering ram, and they’ve smashed the doors wide.

Ideas are brewing. Cooking. Things are happening. Dark, fruitful venues are coming into focus. It’s cool.

Sorry if this all sounds too cryptic. Someday it won’t. I’m thinking flip-sides. B records that evolve into hits. A favorite old shirt that surfaces in the laundry after disappearing for several years.

Off to therapy later today, but first it’s java time, then a spot of work. I have much to tell *Blonde Hippie Surfer Chick.

[*You know, my therapist. The one who actually calls to say, "Hey, what's up?" when I've canceled an appointment. And I view that as a good thing!]

The imminent demise of my bad streak year

My fiftieth birthday was at the end of 2008. A festive occasion. My ex accused me of believing birthdays are national holidays. They are, aren’t they? (;

I tend to celebrate for weeks prior to and even after my birthdays. An odd admission for a person who never expected to make it past age twenty-one.

For my big day last year, I received from my then-husband the so appropriate gift of leaping from a perfectly good airplane. I did this a couple of months early since falling from the sky isn’t exactly a winter sport. Believe me, readers, for a woman who for years dreamed of taking a graceless dive off the Golden Gate Bridge, this skydive was ecstasy. You should have seen my face once I landed safely on terra firma. My first words: “What a rush!”

This experience made me stop and think about how I’d like to do it again. And again. And once you’ve taken the plunge into the San Francisco Bay, that’s pretty much it. You might make some grateful shark’s day. One guy did survive, but he’s the exception. (See The Bridge, but don’t view it while despondent; better timing would be when you’re feeling stable and good about life. It’s a documentary on some people who chose to take that last farewell trip and the terrible ripple-effects on friends, family, and even strangers—innocent passersby who simply happened to get sucked into the drama.)

Soon after, ex-man in my life took me “to the movies” and proceeded to continue on into the far countryside. I figured he was either wanting to surprise me with lunch at a new restaurant or had some other intrigue cooked up, but kept my mouth shut since ruining his plans made him cranky. And a natural sourpuss on cranky is not a good combination. No quick side trips onto any lonely dirt roads, so I dispensed with the notion of possible in-car shenanigans (besides, it was winter and freezing and after nearly a decade together we’d given up such foolish fun). I hadn’t pissed him off lately. Not too much anyway. So getting wacked and left in a snowy ditch didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

We pulled into a car lot and parked next to a little red roadster. Convertible. Shiny and breathtaking. The kind of car you get when you’re a guy in midlife crisis mode and wanting to cruise chicks. Only I was (and plan to remain) female, and have no desire to cruise anything at this stage of my life. Except maybe the Starbucks drive-thru.

I looked at Keane, glanced back at the car. “For real?” I said.

“You like it?”

“Are you sure?”

I didn’t grow up with money. In fact, people with a certain high level of income spooked me. In our early dating years, I dumped this man when I discovered he made more money in one year than I’ll possibly ever make in my lifetime. And then some. He showed up at my door with flowers and a peacemaking grin saying, “I refuse to apologize for being successful.” Another time. Another story.

At the dealership, he nodded toward the car and I eased out of the sleek blue Mustang he’d bought for his twelve-year-old son (an investment, he said; and “Dad” would get to drive it till the kid turned sixteen. No comment, though believe me, after losing my Beemer to another of his sons, a new driver who promptly wrecked it, I do have an opinion).

Talk about surreal. I test drove. Took deep breaths. Pinched myself. Once it was home and parked in the garage, I returned again and again to look at it, to make sure it wouldn’t go *poof* in a cloud of in your wildest dreams, baby.

I inhaled the fragrant awesomeness of my usual two dozen red roses, burying my face into the petals each time I walked into the kitchen. We went out to dinner at a posh restaurant where, afterward, a single pink, decadent cupcake arrived at the table, its candle flickering, and smiling servers singing. I picked out a Kane hockey jersey. #88. Not my favorite player (that would be Adam Burish; the rabble-rouser who’s always dropping his gloves and whamming the shit out of other players. Yeah, Burish!). Unfortunately, there were no Burish jerseys available. Keane and I sat in choice seats to watch the Blackhawks’ game. A brightly lit birthday cake image with my name on it flashed across the jumbotron and remained there for long moments. I don’t think I closed my mouth the entire time.

Three months later, my husband left. Hmm. Good thing, because I didn’t seem able to get up the gumption to do it myself. When we finally did speak I asked him why the elaborate ruse. He said, “I thought maybe it would put the spark back into our marriage.”

It’s my thinking that people put the spark into any love relationship. Little moments like an unexpected kiss, a call from the office to say hey, I’m thinking of you. A hug, just because. Gifts are nice, but they’re nothing compared to human warmth and compassion and mutual respect.

In retrospect, none of that matters now. The car’s long gone. I do still have my jersey and a framed photo of the jumbotron birthday wishes. But even with no big fancy presents or bouquets or elaborate displays of “look how much I can do for you” crap, this year my birthday was strangely wondrous (thanks to an unexpected gift from an unexpected friend). It cost nothing, but meant everything. My night was spent at home, mostly working, single and okay with that, and reveling in my freedom.

From here? Still recovering from past sucker punches, wondering what next year might bring. My God, it’s got to be better than the past several months. 2009 was my year from the black lagoon. But on the bright side, my son Gamer and I have gone from full-alert eggshell walking to a quiet, peaceful existence here in Oasis Springs.

Before he took his I.Q. exam the other day, the shrink asked him how he gets along with Mom. He studied the dark carpet a moment, because Gamer sometimes takes a while to process questions. Then, “Nice,” he said, with a quick smile.

Life is good.

Magic, yeah

Gamer tells me Santa is real. The North Pole isn’t just on cartoons and movies. Right this moment elves are sawing and hammering and pushing magical buttons. Maybe best of all, he said, there are nine sleeps till Christmas.

Cool.

Even cooler: If you listen real hard, the sawing sounds like Santa snoring. And the hammering mingles with traffic and the wind and neighbors laughing. It’s high and sweet and hard to catch. Sugared rustlings. Like sleigh bells.

Your mental illness

…should fit into my parameters. I’m as guilty as anyone of this expectation. If your behaviors affect me adversely, I’m as likely as the next person to call you on it. Spiritual or mental or emotional kinship be damned. You’re sick, you say? Not a good enough excuse. Been there. Am there. I don’t use it to justify the insanity, haha.

Let me rephrase that so it’s not overtly cerebral. And I have been accused of over-processing at times. (“You think too much!” my mother used to say. Still says, on occasion. I swear I try, at least in this little old Japanese woman’s presence, not to think much, if at all. You do know I’m kidding?) Distracted, though. My reformulation being that, having committed some heinous indiscretion, “but I’m bipolar” or “but I’m depressed,” doesn’t cut it with me. Unless you’re experiencing a full-blown psychosis or you’ve completely lost touch with reality for a moment there, buddy, don’t expect sympathy from this office space.

Got mental issues? It’s not a ticket to I Disembark Wherever I Please-ville.

Maybe it’s the Buddhist in me. I’m not saying that Buddhist wisdom dictates judgmental admonishments. Just that, in my case, if you piss on the snow in my yard, Betty Sue, I’m going to smack you with my mother-freeping shovel. This shovel. You see it? The kind with the big, honking metal blade. Not the flimsy red plastic you can get at, I dunno, the local market.

Plain English? Take responsibility for your actions. I speak from half a damn century of personal experience. Yes, there are times when the bootstrap theory doesn’t work, when we can’t lift ourselves out of the sludge and grime, when life is just too, too difficult.

But, as the Buddhists say, out of the muck grows the most Gawdawful gorgeous lotus. And no, we don’t quite word it that way. But pay attention. As my son, Gamer, might say: “What goes down, must 1-up.”

Attention, Miranda

Call your mother. Or email your mother. Or text message your mother. My God, an entire day without contact. What could you be thinking?

(;

Nice, public parental remindering, hey?

But do, yes. Get in touch with the old fuss-bucket, busy young person life permitting.