Didn't work for Black Beauty ... and it doesn't work for me, either.

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You know you missed your meds when …

1. You burst into tears at the commercial for Alzheimer's medication.
   
2. You burst into tears at the teaser (the story, too, but you start with the teaser) for the story about the Biden's new puppy
   
3. You burst into tears at the photos of Caroline Kennedy and her parents
   
4. It's Monday.
   

I've got a nasty habit of missing a dose over the weekend – all it takes is a change in my routine to throw my whole little world into a cocked hat – so it's not a complete surprise to be a little "off" on a Monday. But yesterday was special, and it turned into a classic object lesson in not doing what Jennifer Loudon writes in Comfort Queen: "I can name what I am feeling and notice it, without trying to change it and without getting caught up in the story that goes along with it."

The child celebrated her 10^th birthday yesterday. I'd already had the meltdown this summer in group when I realized that she's halfway through her life at home and basically, her life is irrevocably messed up and there's no recovering from it now (and people think depressed folk don't have a grasp on reality!) So this particular meltdown included a little of that and a dollop of The Way Things Should Have Been, especially when her father came over with a cake and we all sat down in a very civilized, modern, progressive fashion and had coffee and cake and conversation. Add a soupçon of How Could You Leave Us the Way You Did and It Was NOT Supposed To Be This Way and you've got a pretty good recipe for poking one's depression with a stick. Not to mention getting caught up in the story that goes along with the feelings.

As long as I was wandering up and down these aisles anyway, I stopped to inspect a display of All The Things I Had Growing Up That My Daughter Will Never Have Because I Am A Single Parent, poked through an array of The Wonderful Birthdays My Mother Always Made For Me Which Were All Nicer Birthdays Than I Make for My Daughter, and picked up some I Grew Up In A Clean Lovely House and She's Growing Up In A Pigsty, since I was running low.

I can see where "the story that goes along with it" is really what's getting me into trouble – or at the very least, making things worse. The Alzheimers commercial reminds me that I don't have any idea yet what to get my father for Christmas, and does my inability to think of anything he might want or need or enjoy mean I'm giving up on him?

The Biden's new puppy reminds me that my 15 ½ year old poodle is has just started having some bad days, physically and mentally.

Pictures of Caroline Kennedy and Camelot make me think of families with two parents, dreams of the way things could be, and the way those dreams end, a woman alone with all her family gone, the dreams dead … oh you name it, I've got a story to go with it!

But Jennifer Loudon's comment resonated with me. It's nothing my poor beleaguered therapist hasn't been trying to communicate to me for months, but somehow … I got a little glimmer of understanding this time. Here is the rest of it: "…when fear and overwhelm come to visit, I can choose to put my attention on the feelings rather than the self-talk that accompanies the feelings. I can name what I am feeling and notice it, without trying to change it and without getting caught up in the story that goes along with it.

The combination of the weekend's snow and the looming holidays are absolutely engendering "fear and overwhelm." Yesterday there was no school and no day care, but of course, I had to be at work. I'm worried about shoveling out and the leaky windows and the fuel oil tank without a gauge and the bills to pay and the gifts to buy and the ideas for perfect, thoughtful gifts that I don't have. I'm worried about the two - no, three; no, is it four? doctor's appointments I haven't made because it's just too much for me right now. I'm worried about the handwork piece I need to block, mat and frame for a going-away party tomorrow and treats I should have gotten for my daughter's class and food for this party tomorrow. And how will I juggle everything I have to do at work to be ready to leave for a week and a half with everything I have to do AT HOME to be ready to leave, not to mention I have to pick up my prescription and get gifts somehow and sit down and figure out which bills I can pay and ….

OK – stop. Breathe. STOP. I am feeling afraid and overwhelmed. Period. No story needed. Right now I will proof this posting, make a little supper, contemplate a small floral embellishment to the embroidery if I feel like it, watch NCIS in ten minutes, get to sleep at a reasonable time and prepare to follow my therapist's Prime Directive: breathe … show up … do what's in front of you.

The journey continues …

Today would have been ...

... my 23rd anniversary.  Marriage #1, that is.

Not sure how I feel about that.

Other than sad.

Survived.

It's intermission.

Our show was third of four, so I am DONE for the evening.

There will be time for post-mortems later; for the time being, all I know is that I survived my ten minutes on stage without screaming, crying, or throwing up, and since those are my default fall-back positions ... that's pretty good.

Anxiety Dreams: Greatest Hits

I was exhausted last night; didn't think I would have any problem getting to sleep.  And I didn't, so not only did the anxiety dreams surprise me, their breadth and scope did, too.

What a retrospective of almost everything: dogs (one of Melvie's eyes was shut and when I went to clean it it was matted with blood and pus), Felix, a lake house (kind of like his cabin) my daughter and I were ostensibly buying to replace the camper (a hand-written note by the absent owner said the price was $600,000 firm), the new Development Director at the station (who is from Finland; there were lots of references to Finland for some reason), sex, alcohol, cell phones (yes, I have a new one), rural highways (2?) and my inability to signal my phone number by holding up the correct number of fingers for each digit.

I made a special point of remembering to take my medication today.

Today is "The Chicken Hat Plays," a strange and fascinating way, devised by my ffriend Brian, to incite anxiety dreams in writers, directors and actors.  Writers got their "who," "what" and "where" prompts last night and spent all night writing; this morning at 8:00, directors drews scripts and actors out of hats and it's off to the races.  Shows will all be performed tonight beginning at 7pm.

I haven't done a show since 1993; which probably explains why doing my index cards kept bringing back memories of Karen's kitchen table.

I think I'm memorized; am trying to walk the line now between being under-rehearsed and making it tired.  We have our blockingg rehearsal in the actual SPACE in an hour ... but I think I will go and look through my cards some more and drink some more coffee and hope for the best. 

I didn't have any "forget your lines," "on the air without copy" or "showing up somewhere naked" dreams last night; hope that's not in store for me live in front of an audience tonight.

Mindfulness and Bullheadedness …

It's pretty simple, really. All I've had to remember in the last five, almost six years since my gastric bypass surgery is go easy on the ranch dressing, no more than a taste of ice cream, and don't schnobble when you bake.

Do. Not. Schnobble. When. You. Bake.

Or you will regret it.

Eating the wrong thing is like depression on speed: you want to die RIGHT NOW instead of sometime, eventually … you lie on the couch praying for death until the dry heaves commence. 'Nuf said.

I made peanut butter bars for Nora last night.

I had to follow up Saturday night's debacle with a phone call on Sunday, and when that conversation was cut short by the vagaries of Wisconsin's cell phone service, followed up the follow up with a message … and then another yesterday.

I suspect Steve is learning something I learned a long time ago: it's easier to be angry than hurt.

At any rate … in the wake of yesterday's bullheadedness … every muscle between my lower back and my ribcage is screaming with outrage … and that other muscle in my chest is letting me know I abused it again, too.

I'll make sure to hum a few bars of "My Way" while I'm hobbling around today …

Digging in my heels …

It should come as a surprise to no one (particularly my therapist and my father) that I can be a stubborn cuss when I choose to be. I don't think of myself as stubborn, of course; I think of myself as an eminently reasonable person with an unassailable grasp of reality. Which is neither here nor there; the point is, after eight years of stonewalling … it seems a few things might be sinking in.

For the last eight years, almost everyone I know has been telling me to get involved in some volunteer activities that I am passionate about (either the cause or the activity itself). For eight years, I have been resisting. After all, I am a single parent, can't do anything because I have no money and a strange schedule and sole responsibility 24/7/365 for my daughter and nobody likes me and everybody hates me and I guess I'll go eat worms. I plan to go to work and come home and sit in my chair and wonder why the universe doesn't send me friends and lovers and acclaim, and mope when they don't show up. Which, I still maintain, is not an altogether bad plan.

However, the universe has conspired against me. It started with some ideas for a blog I could write for the local humane society. Then our new station manager announced that each staff person would need to select an area non-profit that they were passionate about (her words) and help marshal the resources of the station to assist that non-profit. Before I knew it, I was coordinating an on-air and web campaign for the new shelter they're hoping to open in February, and stalking the group's executive director, leaping out at him from unexpected places trying to get him to look at my "media plans."

About that time, one of my best friends from high school showed up as our church's interim minister. As if a good friend who's going to be in town for two years isn't enough, as if a standing coffee/lunch/ginger-lime- arugula-tea date every Monday at 1:15pm isn't something to look forward too, she's asked me to help her set up her new blog. And since just about anything that lets me fool with computers and pick on other people's spelling makes me happy, this has been a lovely addition to my life. Now my Monday coffee with Gail and my Friday coffee with Jeff make the perfect Oreo -- with the creamy filling of Wednesday group.

The final Bronx cheer arrived in a bizarre confluence of events involving The Child's Father, weekend arrangements, Thanksgiving and my indefatigable friend Brian. Brian has been extending invitations for years to participate in a unique form of theatrical torture called "The Chicken Hat Plays." Saturday, eight directors and a bunch of actors show up, draw scripts and their actors' names out of hats, rehearse all day and perform all eight shows at 7pm that night. So after a 15 year absence from the stage … I'm gonna go back – for twelve hours.

So despite my best efforts, I find myself authoring three blogs (including one of the Ten Best Mental Health Blogs on the Web, not that I'm excited about THAT or anything), assisting with another and plotting my next, just as soon as I can catch Jim in an unguarded moment at Cub Foods. Or his doctor's office. I'm thinking about all the cool things we could do at the station to help the humane society, and I'm feeling an energy and excitement about work I haven't in a while. I still don't have a lot of people to talk to, but I have standing dates with two good friends every week and a chance to hang with the funniest group of depressed people I've ever met in between. And although I won't be doing the full-fledged production of "Hedda Gabler" I used to fantasize about, I'm gonna hang with theater people again and put on a show. Volunteering with causes and activities I'm passionate about and which used to give me joy back in my old life … contributions I can make working from home … the regular delight of time with old and new friends….

Brings to mind the old story of the little boy who dived gleefully into the pile of manure shouting "I know there's a pony in here somewhere!"

As a matter of fact, my saddle is downstairs, resting on a makeshift saddle rack of wedding-dress boxes (that's right, plural). That's right; I did used to ride, didn't I ….

No, it's not, actually.

I was healthy enough to go to Ashland.

I was healthy enough to see B in her show.

I was healthy enough to see the other kids.

I was healthy enough to know that when their father came in with them and took the seats two rows in front of me, that I wanted to take charge of the initial meeting.

I was healthy enough to walk up and say hello to him in person, for the first time in two years.

I was healthy enough to go back and sit in my seat and notice that my hands weren't shaking too much.

And I was healthy enough to know that the night was supposed to be about B's drama ON stage ... not my drama OFF stage.

And since there would be no way to avoid him after the show backstage ... I fled at intermission and came home.

It's a wonderful life indeed.

You can't be a severely depressed person without wondering if anyone would notice if you were gone.  Not only do you suspect that the world would be a better place if you'd never been born, you're pretty sure it would be a better place if you opted out.

I made six calls from the road, trying in vain to find someone I could talk to -- my father was the only one who picked up, and I soft-pedaled the whole Steve thing; he has enough problems of his own without his 47 year old daughter going all junior-high on him.

So that sums that up pretty clearly, I guess.

I was healthy enough to decide against alcohol and/or any of the myriad bars along Highway 2 ... came home, wrote some emails I probably shouldn't have, and then watched TiVo until 12:30 and went to bed.

Today, this is my horoscope:

You may need a day of retreat and there's no reason to deny your wish. Following your desires isn't always the smartest thing to do, but now it could have great significance. Staying in the present moment can be difficult today, for you may still be holding on to habits and beliefs that are already worn out. Be ruthless as you eliminate the past to make room for the future.

So.  Probably not going to get any cleaning done ... may not even get any laundry done ... going to practice mindfulness and move very slowly so all the shattered glass inside me doesn't cut any more.

I am so, so tired of ... this. 

Highway 2 revisited ...

If my life got any more ironic, I wouldn't dare get near magnets.

Took the dogs and met the child to have our holiday portrait taken with Santa today -- a fundraiser for the local Humane Society.  So since I'm in "full hair and makeup," and gas is almost $2.00 a gallon even ... I'm heading east on Highway 2 ... back to Ashland.

Luckily, I've been back once before since that January day almost two years ago when I drove away from what I thought was my family and was never to return, as it happened.  And we spent all summer making the trip between here and Iron River, so I'm hoping I can make the rest of the trip with a minimum amount of trauma/drama.

I'm going to see my almost-daughter in her high school performance of "It's A Wonderful Life," the classic story of a man who is granted a vision of what the world would have been like without him in it, and discovers that he really has made a contribution after all.

I've run that scenario over and over about my own life, and as usual, I'm thinking the only difference would be one more available seat at the show tonight!

But maybe the other kids will be there.  And I miss them so; I've seen B since, but not the little kids, and maybe they will be there and I can hug them.

I'd like that.

More later.

So many choices … or not …

Today is Friday. I'll be on my own -- all alone -- this weekend; the first time in well over a month I haven't headed north when I'm childless.

So, thanks to the choice I made earlier this week, I won't be doing that.

I also get to choose whether or not the following photos illustrate my just desserts for – oh heck, fill in the transgression of your choice – or an opportunity to really dig in and get some serious Home Making done.
 

I could choose to relax in front of the fire in my living room ... 

"Power is the faculty or capacity to act, the strength and potency to accomplish something. It is the vital energy to make choices and decisions. It also includes the capacity to overcome deeply embedded habits and to cultivate higher, more effective ones." ~Stephen Covey

"There may be a time in life when one is tired of everything and feels as if all one does is wrong, and there maybe some truth in it- do you think this is a feeling one must try to forget and to banish, or is it 'the longing for God,' which one must not fear, but cherish to see if it may bring us some good? Is it 'the longing for God' which leads us to make a choice which we never regret? Let us keep courage and try to be patient and gentle. And not mind being eccentric, and make distinction between good and evil." ~Vincent van Gogh

Or curl up to watch a DVD in the sanctuary of my room ....

"Be miserable. Or motivate yourself. Whatever has to be done, it's always your choice." ~Wayne Dyer

"At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice." ~Maya Angelou

"It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." ~ J.K. Rowling

"We find that people's beliefs about their efficacy affect the sorts of choices they make in very significant ways. In particular, it affects their levels of motivation and perseverance in the face of obstacles. Most success requires persistent effort, so low self-efficacy becomes a self-limiting process. In order to succeed, people need a sense of self-efficacy, strung together with resilience to meet the inevitable obstacles and inequities of life." ~Albert Bandura


Or maybe I'll spend some quality time in my sewing room!
 

"Man is fully responsible for his nature and his choices" ~Jean-Paul Sartre

"Life often presents us with a choice of evils rather than of goods" ~Charles Caleb Colton

"One must, in one's life, make a choice between boredom and suffering" ~Madame de Stael

"When you have no choice, mobilize the spirit of courage" ~Jewish Proverb

"We can try to avoid making choices by doing nothing, but even that is a decision." ~Gary Collins

"You've got a lot of choices. If getting out of bed in the morning is a chore and you're not smiling on a regular basis, try another choice." ~Steven D. Woodhull

Or ...perhaps I would choose, instead, to work my way through this stack ... but that would hardly be considered housework, would it?????

"I chose and my world was shaken. So what? The choice may have been mistaken; the choosing was not. You have to move on." ~Stephen Sondheim

"Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your won presence rather than of the absence of others. Because solitude is an achievement." ~Alice Koller

"If you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reasonable, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is compromise." ~Robert Fritz

"The way to activate the seeds of your creation is by making choices about the results you want to create. When you make a choice, you activate vast human energies and resources, which otherwise go untapped." ~Robert Fritz

"You and I are essentially infinite choice-makers. In every moment of our existence, we are in that field of all possibilities where we have access to an infinity of choices." ~Deepak Chopra

"It is your own convictions which compels you; that is, choice compels choice." ~ Epictetus

And now for something completely different ...

Meant to post this a couple of weeks ago ...

Mapquest, revenge, and "Finlandia" III

~~ Sunday evening ruminations, Part Three

Finally:

We sang a hymn in church on Sunday. I recognized the melody of Finnish composer Jean Sibelius, but we didn't sing the words I was thinking of.

When I came home, I went online and found the words I'd had in mind. Turns out they're Lloyd Stone's:




This is my song 
Oh god of all the nations
A song of peace
For lands afar and mine


This is my home
The country where my heart is
Here are my hopes
My dreams my holy shrine


But other hearts
In other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams
As true and high as mine


My countries skies
Are bluer than the ocean
And sunlight beams
On clover leaf and pine


But other lands
Have sunlight too and clover
And skies are everywhere
As blue as mine



Not only is the melody enough to break your heart, but the words really cut right to the heart of the matter: no matter how different we are, we're the same.

Which means that for every snarky blog posting I write about solipsistic people and emotionally-stunted people and Felix Unger-types who go behind your back and take the hand towel from where you slung it and fold it neatly in thirds and place it over the towel bar so that the ends are exactly even … someone else could write the same number of snarky blog posts about people who talk too much and too loudly and are hyper-sensitive and chaotic and Oscar Madison-types who have to tunnel through the clutter just to find the kitchen.

And all it does is add to the general snarkiness of the Universe and doesn't do a damn thing toward moving anyone closer to that ultimate goal of the friend who sees you and loves you and accepts you just exactly as  you are.

So. Perhaps the time comes when you're done venting and journaling and bending the ears of friends and therapists … when you're done moving the slider in on everything that went wrong and have finally zoomed out to a place where you have a tiny bit of perspective … when you've put (most) of your revenge fantasies away or at least delegated them to friends with more creative imaginations than yours … when you substitute the wine and the Kleenex for a pile of warm dogs and a slasher movie where the bad guy gets it … then you get to that place where glib doesn't cut it any more and perhaps needs a rest, anyway.

That place where you grieve what might have been … the end of what was … and where the sadness comes, too, from the knowledge that there is no villain. So it's not simple and it's not tidy and it's not glib … and the worst part is, it's not your first time at this particular rodeo and it won't be the last.

So you cry.

Yeah, what he said ...

Speak harshly to no one,
or the words will be thrown
right back at you.
Contentious talk is painful,
for you get struck by rods in return.

-Dhammapada, 10, translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu.

Mapquest, revenge, and “Finlandia” II

 ~~ Sunday Evening Ruminations, Part Two
 

Astonishing, when you think about it, in a society where we make such a fuss over The Golden Rule, and where the majority of folks are Christians who can quote you Jesus' admonition to "turn the other cheek," how utterly committed we are to the idea of revenge.

We don't even think about it, usually. Getting back at someone who has wronged you, evening up the score, teaching them a lesson; it's the default response.

No matter what warm and fuzzy things we're saying in church and teaching our children when we're doing so deliberately, the minute we turn our backs almost every television show and movie is preaching the gospel of revenge. Seriously. Take a piece of scratch paper and a pencil and watch an evening of network television and see how many revenge motifs you count. It will blow your mind.

So it's not surprising, I suppose, that as I contemplated the appropriate way to formally end this relationship, revenge crossed my mind.

My former minister (that's what makes this story particularly delicious, I think) shared with me a pocket-daydream/revenge fantasy of hers that always cheered her up enough to drop whatever snarkiness was going through her mind: hitting her ex-husband over the head with a grain shovel, complete with a full-fledged Wile.E.Coyote-type sound effect – kuh-WONNNGGGG!

Of course, let's be frank; I don't really have much to revenge. OK, I got an email that I perceived was unnecessarily hostile/rude and really did, as far as I could tell, come out of nowhere. Between commas, it managed to defame the Minnesota Clean Water, Land and Legacy amendment; the arts; the Guthrie; the city of my residence; my blogs (including the one just named by one Perceptive Soul as one of the Top Ten Best in the country); my friend's radio show; and my behavior two days earlier (I asked him to pull over to the side of the road so I could photograph an eagle. OK, I kinda flipped out over it, but still …). But once I decoded the sentence "…Not to mention, the screaming eagle incident, when which I was very much ready to send you on your own way.... If you only knew, how much I did NOT care for your behavior in the slightest!" I have to admit, I got pissed and started contemplating ways to "get him back."

But the trouble with rumination (defined, [weirdly enough, by Merriam-Webster's Medical Dictionary] as "obsessive or abnormal reflection upon an idea or deliberation over a choice") is that your brain doesn't know when to quit. After I'd written and discarded a baker's dozen of Snotty Emails, drafted and performed at least three Dramatic Kiss-Off Monologues, and outlined at least four Devastate-Him-Utterly-And-Leave-Him-Desperate-To-Get-Me -Back phone calls, I was left scraping the bottom of the revenge-barrel for something to chew on.

For example: even if I did deliver one of these carefully crafted messages; what did I want to happen? OK, I was hurt and wanted to hurt back, but I wouldn't be there to observe his reaction. So how would I know I'd hurt him?  And if I didn't know, how would that be satisfying? Not to mention in the few instances in life where I actually have hurt someone face-to-face, it was such a dreadful experience I certainly wouldn't want to repeat it, no matter how angry I was.

I've always played certain emotions pretty close to the vest. Part of it is the tiny fragment of Scandinavian-ness (-inity? –viousness?) that's survived theater, speech team and years of therapy, but mostly it's the conviction that if you reveal too much, you're giving the world the leverage to … get you. (OK, so maybe he wasn't the only one who was hypervigilant and paranoid.) The point being, you go out in public with your neckline high enough, your hemline low enough, and your psychosis gagged and bound so you're not showing anyone anything you don't want them to see. And if you're going to go all "Fatal Attraction" on the guy who doesn't return your affection, in addition to incurring the wrath of the ASPCA, you may as well take out a full page ad in the New York Times saying "You broke my heart and I'm an Emotional Cripple."" VERY un-Minnesotan. Hugely embarrassing. And if he's already broken your heart, why give him more ammunition?

If you're not going to get any satisfaction from hurting this person (no matter how much your loyal friends insist he has it coming) and you don't want to give him any more evidence of how truly infatuated/hurt/unstable you really are, what's left?

If you're a graduate of Mrs. Van Zant's Humanities course (I, II or III), you know that the true interpretation of "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" is not revenge. It means that if I take your eye … I must see for you. If I take your tooth … I must feed you. If I hurt you … I need to make it right.

So what obligation do I incur if I lash out at someone with the intent to hurt? I'm not sure … but I suspect I wouldn't like it.

Medea wasn't kidding when she said, "We must not think too much.  People go mad if they think too much." 

Mapquest, revenge, and "Finlandia" I

~~ Sunday evening ruminations, Part One


When you put an address in Mapquest and then click on "aerial map," you can use the slider to zoom in and get an up-close, detailed view of your target, or zoom out to put your target in perspective. Interestingly enough, although you can back up almost indefinitely to see your target's relationship to the neighborhood, the city, the state or the earth, when you try to zoom in too close, you get this message: "Data not currently available. Try zooming out or mapping a new location."

For me, being at odds with someone puts me in an emotional space similar to surfing Mapquest -- to be more accurate, an impatient kid surfing Mapquest who keeps flailing about with the slider.

I'd been dating a fellow for about a month when it became obvious that it wasn't going to work out. So the question became who was going to end it and how, further complicated by the advent of (insert genuflection here)... Deer Season.

First I psychoanalyzed every encounter I'd ever had with this man; marshaling every argument and zooming in on every bit of evidence to support my diagnosis of his control issues, his abandonment issues, his insecurity, his rudeness and his inability to punctuate without scattering a handful commas at random in every sentence.

The Guilty Party thus established, I moved on to composing scathing assessments of his behavior, zooming in on his marital status (and the reasons behind same), his selfishness, his inability to even feign interest in anyone's else's life or interests, and perhaps, as the final blow, to offer a few choice examples where I'd feigned interest. Or ...  faked it. Call it what you will....

We've all been there.  Zooming in to the point where we feel we're trapped in a spider web of  thinking and every thought just enmeshes us further. "Data not currently available"?  Not really the problem.  "Data making you nuts?"  That is the question.  And "try zooming out or mapping a new location" is not bad advice, for Mapquest OR an obsessing session.

So, madness looming and with no appropriate medications on hand, I tried to zoom back and see The Big Picture. What was the Big Picture again? Oh, right. We were going to have to break up. Probably. Unless he got his act together. Unless he changed. Unless he started treating me with respect and kindness.

Unless I got too lonely and decided we'd just let things go until Deer Season was over. 
Sigh. 
No, the Big Picture, seeing this thing in the context and perspectives of Life, The Universe and Everything, was we weren't a good fit. Truth to tell, I wasn't any better a fit for him than he was for me, and the Big Picture was not (really) when to end this … but how.

Oops ... I did it again ...

Once upon a time, a scorpion told me this story.  You've probably heard it.

One day, a scorpion looked around at the mountain where he lived and decided that he wanted a change. So he set out on a journey through the forests and hills. He climbed over rocks and under vines and kept going until he reached a river.

The river was wide and swift, and the scorpion stopped to reconsider the situation. He couldn't see any way across. So he ran upriver and then checked downriver, all the while thinking that he might have to turn back.

Suddenly, he saw a frog sitting in the rushes by the bank of the stream on the other side of the river. He decided to ask the frog for help getting across the stream.

"Hellooo Mr. Frog!" called the scorpion across the water, "Would you be so kind as to give me a ride on your back across the river?"

"Well now, Mr. Scorpion! How do I know that if I try to help you, you won't try to kill me?" asked the frog hesitantly.

"Because," the scorpion replied, "If I try to kill you, then I would die too, for you see I cannot swim!"

Now this seemed to make sense to the frog. But he asked. "What about when I get close to the bank? You could still try to kill me and get back to the shore!"

"This is true," agreed the scorpion, "But then I wouldn't be able to get to the other side of the river!"

"Alright then...how do I know you wont just wait till we get to the other side and THEN kill me?" said the frog.

"Ahh...," crooned the scorpion, "Because you see, once you've taken me to the other side of this river, I will be so grateful for your help, that it would hardly be fair to reward you with death, now would it?!"

So the frog agreed to take the scorpion across the river. He swam over to the bank and settled himself near the mud to pick up his passenger. The scorpion crawled onto the frog's back, his sharp claws prickling into the frog's soft hide, and the frog slid into the river. The muddy water swirled around them, but the frog stayed near the surface so the scorpion would not drown. He kicked strongly through the first half of the stream, his flippers paddling wildly against the current.

Halfway across the river, the frog suddenly felt a sharp sting in his back and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the scorpion remove his stinger from the frog's back. A deadening numbness began to creep into his limbs.

"You fool!" croaked the frog, "Now we shall both die! Why on earth did you do that?"

The scorpion shrugged, and did a little jig on the drownings frog's back.

"I could not help myself. It is my nature."

Then they both sank into the muddy waters of the swiftly flowing river.

So the question becomes -- having heard this story and been stung repeatedly by scorpions -- why do some of us keep inviting them to climb aboard?  And why are we always bewildered when we get stung?

Attagirls, part 2 ...

And then I got this email from Therese Borchard.  Therese writes the Beyond Blue blog on Beliefnet, and even before she wrote me this email, I thought she was the grooviest.  And yes, that's my blog listed there ... number three!

-------- Original Message --------

Subject:	Blog.com's Top 10 Mental Health Blogs
Date:	Tue, 4 Nov 2008 09:24:41 -0500
From:	Therese Borchard

Hi folks,

I've been asked by the blog directory/website, blogs.com, to select the 10 best mental health blogs. I picked yours! I'll send you the link when it's up. Best, Therese

1. Finding Optimism

http://www.findingoptimism.com/

2. Bipolar Beat

http://blogs.psychcentral.com/bipolar/

3. We Must Not Think Too Much

http://wemustnotthinktoomuch.blogspot.com/

4. Furious Seasons

http://www.furiousseasons.com/

5. The Trouble with Spikol

http://trouble.philadelphiaweekly.com/

6. Postpartum Progress

http://www.postpartumprogress.typepad.com/

7. Coping with Life

http://www.coping-with-life.com/

8. Storied Mind

http://www.storiedmind.com/

9. If You’re Going Through Hell Keep Going

http://www.mcmanweb.com/

10. McMan’s Depression and Bipolar Web

http://www.mcmanweb.com/

Attagirls ...

We all think we should be too old for pats on the back ... but I don't think we ever are.  Got a couple of lovely surprises this morning that left me with a little glow of "Hey!  I'm ok!"

My efforts to identify the "big brown bird" I saw eating a dead deer this weekend let to a long, chatty IM exchange with my pal Laura Erickson.  Said long chatty exchange led to identification of the bird (baby bald eagle) and being the subject of her program today.  But the best part was where she identified me as her "dear friend."  I know I'm Laura's dear friend and she is mine ... but it still sounded nice on the air. You can listen to the mp3 program by clicking here or on the radio: 

My moral life ...

Just had coffee with one of my best friends, Jeff. He's one of the coolest people in the universe, too: smart, kind, encouraging, enthusiastic, too many dogs (!) ...

Anyway ... I sent him the aforementioned forward from CatholicVote.com and he LOVED it, of course, and sent it along to a bunch of people he knows.  But he said that that I should not have asserted what I did in my response, in particular "... i'm utterly opposed to most of what it said morally, spiritually, intellectually and emotionally ..."

"You do not disagree with that video," claims Jeff.  "You live a very moral life, you live a very family-centered life."

Now isn't that the loveliest quality in a friend?  The ability to see good things in you that you hadn't thought of?

I am counting my blessings.

Oops, I did it again ...

Ah, the conundrum of e-mail forwards, especially these days.

After weeks of getting red-neck Republican anti-Democrat e-mail forwards from one friend (I didn't realize anyone I knew was rich enough to be a Republican?!), I got a forward from another dear friend yesterday from CatholicVote.com and that, apparently, was the tipping point.

I love this gal; and one of the many things I've admired about her for years is the way she lives her faith and walks the walk.  She's one of the best "advertisements" for Christianity going, but she never pushes what she believes on other people.  Which is why I suppose it was unfortunate that I chose this email to reply to -- and of course, when I have something to say, I always hit "reply all" ...

So now her brother is most decidedly vexed with me and I have to decide whether to continue the debate of issues with him via email, not reply at all, try to point out that "see, when you feel your deeply held beliefs are under attack, you also feel compelled to fire off an email," or just write him a pleasant e-mail focusing on what a peach his sister is.

I'm leaning toward the latter.

But I'm wondering: some of these forwards (in particular ones I used to get about the immigration issue) strike me as almost as inappropriate as racial or sexist humor.  Conventional wisdom seems to be that in the face of "jokes" like that, you need to shut the joke-tellers down firmly and let them know that you find that kind of thing unacceptable.  But what about politics and religion, especially in the form of forwarded e-mail? If you take issue with a forwarded message are you risking hurting a friend over nothing more than electronic junk mail?  But if you just delete it, are you giving tacit approval to the views expressed?

Ah yes, morality in this grand new century.

One thing I'm sure of though ... it can't be legislated.

(See how I am?)

I can see clearly now ...

... what my dogs look like ... and they can see clearly now, period.

Melvie Koleen needs to have the hair trimmed out of her poor blind eyes ... but we leave her coat fairly long and augment with sweaters from now until June!

Meanwhile, six-pound Helen will probably end up with a sweater, too ... and she, too, needs the hair trimmed away from HER poor blind eyes...

Maudie the Moose just needed an overall shave.  Unlike Melvie and Helen, she and Rosalie are almost always too warm.





 

We lost the poof on top (Hallelujah!  I can see her eyes again!) and had them trim her tail short, too, in case she ends up playing with her new puppy pal in the burrs -- I mean, woods.

And finally, Rosalie the topiary.  The object here is to cut her rotund little body short, thus helping to keep her a comfortable temperature.  The fur on her little stick legs is left a little longer to help balance out her round little body.  

Then she gets a little "moustache" to camoflage her tusks.  Rosalie only has about five teeth, but four of them are truly massive canines.  

However, there is nothing a little snipping and Rosie's irrepressible joie de vivre can't overcome. 

Dogs never lie about love ... but everything else ....?

Jeffrey Masson wrote a wonderful book called "Dogs Never Lie About Love."

About other stuff, though?

Take Helen Anne, for instance. Friday afternoon, she was on three legs. Still arking happily, still wagging her tiny tail, but holding one of her hind legs up tight to her body.

Since she seemed basically cheerful, and I could ascertain no blood or shattered bone, I decided to give it a few days.

Saturday: three legs.
Sunday: three legs.
Monday: three legs.

So I called the vet Monday morning, made an appointment for 9:45, raced home to bring her in: she's not only on four legs, she's hopping up and down on her hind ones with delight that I'd come home.

As my father used to say, "They don't give Academy Awards for performances in the kitchen."