Forty-Two, with Infinite Majesty and Calm

Post-retirement, I have found myself adrift in the sea of self-identity. I was "Christine Wy, Student!" Or "Christine Wy, Archivist!" for many years, and now, having retired from health complications at the age of 37, I look at 42 and try to understand "the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything." And you know. Despite being 42. I can't find it. 

I've begun to live in a morass of reflected glory, specifically, via my highly accomplished husband. I revel in the twists and turns he reveals to me about his research and feel so enmeshed in the process that it has begun to feel as if it were me, as well, preparing his research.

And then he goes away. 

Then the article is written, the book published, and I forget to read it. The presentation at the conference is a success, and I'm so amped for him, I forget I really wasn't there participating at all. It's so much a part of me now, that if somehow what I "do" comes up, it turns into "Oh I'm disabled, but let me tell you about my husband!"

And it's become soul crushing. 

I do not want to be, "Christine Wy, Disabled!" How much does that suck? How unrelatable, how miserable, how small and insignificant? How -pathetic-??

In my brightest moments, I think of myself as "Christine Wy, Health Advocacy Trailblazer!" but it's not something I know how to relate to anyone who doesn't meet me on Facebook, who meets me "on the street," as it were (As if I ever leave the house!). 

I feel horrendous guilt that I don't volunteer with health or political organizations, even just online. Truly a magnificent weight is upon my shoulders on this one. 

But Facebook. On Facebook I'm a rockstar of health transparency advocacy. I talk about chronic pain, chronic illness, and especially mental health, a subject I've tried to skirt in this blog. Ok, all subjects I've tried to skirt, and admittedly, the reason I didn't talk about it on here is fear. 

A lot of people have found my blog since moving to Florida whom I have been very uncomfortable with reading my posts. It really gnawed at me. At one point I was looking for more gainful employment, and more than one interviewer told me, "By the way, your blog is hilarious!" 

Oh. Mah. Gawd. Exactly one of my greatest fears when I set out on this "fun" little adventure, future employers. But, I'm a librarian, and librarians find everything, so honestly I wasn't -too- surprised, more like a little miffed that I wasn't obscure enough. 

So yeah, health? Icksnay on the bipolarsnay!! 

I think I've reached a point where transparency is of utmost importance to me, because here's the thing.... The direct messages. 

I get direct messages from people I've met all over the globe who tell me, "I wish I could be brave like you and talk about my mental health!" 

You know what? I don't think I'm all that brave. I think I'm more defiant. I feel like mental health stigma is a battle that must be fought, and if it has to be me who leads the charge in my little corner of the Internet, then Viva la Revolucion! "Onward marching broken soldiers!" (You have to sing that.) 

But I can't hold onto the "defiant" in me, not in real life. I hold onto my husband, desperately, like a life raft connecting me to my former life, something tumultuously unstable but that I hope will hold me up in the passage from one continent to another. 

But where is this new continent? It must be online, because bluntly I don't fit in in Florida, and my number of local friends I can count on only a few fingers whom I'm physically able to hang out with. I was always popular as an adult. Until Florida. So I just don't understand. I'm really not sure why no one here seems to like me, or at best only admires me from afar, ironically via asking my husband about me versus getting my actual phone number.

I'm pausing now to say that I feel like I got off track, but that it felt good getting that out of my system. Talk about "Things that Still Make Me Stabby after Ten Years!" And I mean that, earnestly. It hurts to become unpopular when you're used to being in the soirée's inner circle.  

Back on track!

I guess all that's really left is to tie this menagerie of Fresh Back to Blogging spew of nonsense up, so here, let me attempt that....

I propose my own answer to the "ultimate question:" find my defiant. 

Somewhere in me is that bad mama jama who wants to break down the walls of silence surrounding mental health. I'm so open and free with anyone and everyone about my life's journey through chronic health conditions, and that's fuckin hella balls to the wall kickass to me, so why isn't that my identity? 

"Christine Wy, Bad Mama Jama," here to bust down your stereotypes of what cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs looks like, sounds like, and feels like. Stand back. It's on. 

I Went to California and All I Got Was this Lousy Head Cold!

I could never be able to afford to do this normally, post-disability, but I had some airline flight credit I had to use before it expired, so I took off to see bestie C.S. (not Lewis).

What ended up being the most exotic thing I did was going to a "sesh." I loathe that term, don't even know what it's shorthand for, and it just makes me feel like a poseur to say it since I'm not part of that culture.

In case you don't know what a "sesh" is, it's basically an only quasi-legal farmer's market for shit tons of weed.* Like Shit. Tons. Of. Weed.. I've never seen anything remotely like this. Nothing. Growers with the equivalent of multiple small garbage bags full of ounces and ounces of cannabis, in multiple strains, and as I observed, usually three strains per booth. It was pretty ridiculous.

To give you an idea of the scope of this scenario, I can't becount the number of tables set up by the growers. The two rows of growers snaked all over a large property, and was just crazy big to my virgin eyes. There had to have been 40-50 booths, I really don't know, but it was crazy I tell you, crazy.

I didn't buy anything, even though I had been on the lookout for a nice CBD infusion topical cream for my aching hands, but I was so overwhelmed, I had no idea from whom to buy! There is a guy I regret not buying from, actually, but, doubt I can do anything about that now!

The problem was that there was some family drama, and then to saddle up the dramallama,  C.S.'s child brought home a head cold.....

Oh Boy!! Omg I wanted to sterilize everythinggggg, but how could I? It wasn't my house, and how do you tell a child in their own home, "DON'T TOUCH THAT OR YOU'LL KILL ME!!"

And it's true. I am immunosuppressed, so my odds versus germs are basically bunk, but, I just had to strap in for the inevitable! And hoo-doggy, did that inevitable ever come!!

I was there from a Friday night to a Wednesday morning. I woke up in th middle of the night Sunday, and there, I felt it, the tickle in my nose and throat that made me say "HELLO ILLNESS MY OLD FRIEND!! Thanks for showing up on vacay!!" Monday morning brought me to full misery status.

C.S. had to work, so it gave me bonding time with his girlfriend, and plenty of time to rest in bed, rest that I desperately needed to accrue for that evil, high altitude journey home.... And boy-howdy did that suck! In the immortal words of Tod Flanders, "Ow! My freaking ears!"

I wish I were at leisure to talk about what happened there in toto, because it was deep, and it made me feel like I had purpose to be there at that moment, but it is too personal and not my journey to share. Suffice it to say I inserted myself into a lot of complicated storylines and gave plenty of unsolicited advice, but, that's pretty much standard for one of my vacations!

Despite the mayhem, I had a dreamscape of a time--and I hope to go back under less germy circumstances!

Love to C., J., and little petri dish A.,
Your Eternal Buttinsky,
 XOXtine

*PLEASE don't forget California is a legal cannabis state!

Hi! I'm -trying- to come back!

You know, I just wrote this awesome blog post about my feeeeelings and stuff and the emotional journey I've been on to reach a point in my life I feel like I -might- be able to write again, only, shit happened, and it published in a wrong, dead, never even used blog instead of here because of Google taking ownership since I created this blog. I'm a little annoyed.....

Lemme try to recap:

I went away because I was so depressed about how shitty my health is, which it truly is, but as much as that's the reason, it's really the beginning of the avalanche of reasons.

I felt like I was stuck in a trap of CONSTANTLY whining about my health, and it only reinforced my depression, making me feel even worse mentally and physically. 

I'm pretty fucking open about being Bipolar 2, and I have a host of physical ailments that are boring (bipolar is wayyyy more interesting, believe me, just ask my long suffering husband! ;) ), so admitting I was clinically depressed for yearssssss is no big deal to me. I hope you can deal with it too, because I'm sure mental health stories will come up.

But here's the thing, here's why I feel like I might be able to write: I'm happy again. At least sort of, at least as happy as a Major Depressive Disorder Bipolar 2 chica can be! Between med changes and forcing myself to learn to live with my health and not be oppressed by it, I feel loads better, loads more in control of where my brain goes, and loads happier.

It's been amazing to recover this part of myself, I truly hope I can keep my blog running again. I miss you all and your hilarious feedback, so yeah, please stick around and we'll see what happens!

Thank You,
Christine Wy
Unkillable Cactus Killer

The Children's Kitchenette and the Cat

I grew up in a small, tight-knit neighborhood with a local Catholic school most kids went to. Through this connection, my brother joined a Boy Scouts Troop. I think they're called "Den Leaders" or "Pack Masters" or whatever code for guys who molest small boys.

This Den Leader hosted his troop meetings in his fancy basement or something. It may come as a surprise, but I was a weird child--sorry to shock anyone. My mother was always trying to pawn me off on people (as most mothers do, no judgment), so she sent me to the Boy Scout pack troop because Den Leader also had a daughter a year or two older than me.

As a boy stuck in a girl's body at that age (I blame it on having an older brother for a role model), I desperately wanted to go to the Masonic-Temple-In-Training meeting. No, I was sent upstairs to the girl's bedroom to play with the kitchenette. She didn't like me, and she generally snubbed me at school--like pretty much everyone else anyway.

We played fried fake eggs, we made fake hamburgers, we had “lunch” together, but I spent most of the luncheon conversation begging her for us to sneak to the basement. They had her a lot more house-broken than me and she refused. “Boy Scouts is for the boys” she informed me sternly.

Their giantly overfed ginger tabby wandered in, and I was thrilled. My daddy didn't let us have pets, and boy I wanted to play with that tabby so bad. She said that he was mean and I shouldn't mess with him, but like that was going to stop me, it sounded like an invitation for mayhem of course.

Suddenly! I had a brilliant idea! "Let's put the tabby in the refrigerator!" Oh my god, I was SO overwhelmed at my genius! Cat + fiber-board fridge = Pure. Entertainment.

She begged me not to, and I begged her to help me catch the cat. Brainless girl refused.

I caught fat ginger tabby by leaning against the door so that it could not escape and grabbed it in a way that was probably hideously torturous. I shoved it in the top shelf of the fridge and closed the doors. "Ha-ha! the cat's in the fridge!" It howled and hissed and scrambled and made a ruckus, torture time over.

The doors to the fridge wouldn't open. At all. Despite both of us tugging and pulling and warping the flimsy fridge, that ginger was stuck for life.

The clearly upset the completely unadventurous and unimaginative crying girl ran wailing in tears to her mother.

I don't know what happened in the kitchen. My mom came to the bedroom red-faced with clenched teeth and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me down the steps to the front door. My brother, not grabbed, was also red-faced and maybe choking back tears of embarrassment, and we all hustled out the door. I was completely confused. I just stuck a cat in a fridge, seemed like fun. I knew about power tools, and I figured once that troop thingy was over, her dad would just come up with a drill and use a screw attachment to reverse screw off the hinges to the door. I mean, that seemed like what I would do, right?

 I always wondered why I was never invited back and my brother quit Boy Scouts.

Blasé

Ennui continues: "que est-ce que ce est."

I'm still lurking about

This blog is not dead, I swear. I know I haven't posted anything of substance in forever, I am just totally uninspired by my life right now. I'll come back one day.

Love,
Lady C

B-a-n-a-n-a-s

I have never been able to resolve my feelings about Andy Warhol, and attending his museum in Pittsburgh only made my confusion worse. Eccentric genius whose very life was performance art? Arrogant prig, self-absorbed in his own belief he was genius? A phony? Maybe my confused perspective was his actual goal. (He even wore a gray-haired wig before he naturally grayed. Isn’t that pretty cooky?)

Here’s the source of my current angst: a banana necklace.

I traded a hula hoop from my Etsy store for a handmade lamp-worked glass pendant of a banana on a black background. The artist described it as reminding her of Andy Warhol’s banana art, which it kinda does, but more plants the seed in my mind that that’s what it is. I wear it with my ID necklace as kind of a totem. Life’s bananas, but it’s a performance art theater of the absurd participated in whether opting to or not.

When I feel on the verge of bananas, Andy Warhol reminds me to act my role in the theater of life. I can’t control bananas, but I can sculpt it to my own script, sans gray-haired wig.

First, an explanation

I know I don't write as much anymore. It's for a couple of reasons.

Number one, real life is sort of more prominent in my day-to-day than it has been in the past. There's not as much space for writing.

Number two, I have found out that people where I work have found my blog. My blog started out as PG when I thought I was writing for my family. When they didn't read, I upped it to PG-13. When I realized just a handful of select friends were really reading, I pretty much took the blog to rated R.

Now that I'm more exposed, I feel compelled to be more careful, but the stories I really want to tell are still rated R. The diarist side of my brain hasn't found its way back to the simpler, less potty-mouth times. And it's not even that I swear, it's my questionable subject matter. Like writing about potties.

And now, enjoy a doughnut with me.

Glory hole

I have a weakness for Krispy Kreme doughnuts that borders on pathological. When I was a kid, for evening entertainment my parents would load us in the station wagon and take us to Krispy Kreme. We’d watch as the raw doughnut dough circles came down the conveyor belt and slid into the deep fat frier. Then, like magic, that rotating arm would flip the doughnuts and fry the other side, leaving that thin white band of unfried dough around the edge of the confection.

Glory of glories, the fried dough made its way to the shower of icing. A curtain of pure liquid sugar joy glided dreamily over each doughnut. And the icing, that transcendental wonder of the icing, some of the curtain of sugar glaze never made it onto the doughnut and fell back into a recovery vat. Oh, heaven above, if I could just stick my face in that sugar rain and catch the extra in my mouth.

“Now frying,” the sign blinked, my favorite sign ever. “Now frying,” the still warm doughnuts were delicately pricked directly off the line with what looked like a bamboo chopstick and placed in perfectly gridded order in a dozen-sized box. Dad ordered one box plain glazed, one box chocolate glazed. We all ate one of each, sitting in front of the magic doughnut conveyor belt, watching with rapt childhood attention, high on sugared sweets.

Twenty-five years later, and I have become allergic to wheat. I discovered it one day after eating a waffle. I felt horrible afterward. The next day, I did not eat a waffle, and I was fine. Just in case, just to prove the scientificity of my experiment, I ate a waffle again. I was sick. Like anaphylactic sick. So, poof, the world of wheat disappeared. I’ve been off wheat for a while now, and although I miss it like I’d miss chocolate (mac n’ cheese! Where are you?), I’m safely healthier.

Today, however, someone brought my supreme weakness to work—Krispy Kreme. My co-workers can never remember that I’m allergic to wheat (not that it’s their job to remember), and more than one person said, “There’s Krispy Kreme in the breakroom.” Evil. Pure evil. I ignored the Krispy Kreme, I reminded myself it was poison, I fought my burning sweet tooth, but I succumbed.

I was sitting alone in the breakroom eating a snack of string cheese. Two open boxes of Krispy Kreme stared at me. “They’re not there,” I said. “You’ll die,” I said. But then the much, much louder voice said, “DIE IN A GLORY OF CONFECTIONER’S GLAZE!”

I picked up one doughnut, gently, not breaking the integrity of the glazing shell. “I’ll just take a bite and see what happens.” I chewed slowly, afraid and exhilarated. Swallowed first bite. “I’m OK.” Next bite, chewed deliberately and carefully. “I’ll finish this doughnut, and that will be all.” I felt fine. My throat didn’t squeeze, my nose didn’t run, I didn’t sneeze—I was fine. “OK, another doughnut.” Thoughtful bite, careful chew, swallow. Second doughnut, gone and no reaction. Then the glutton in me took over, my doughnut demon started screaming, “Third doughnut! Third doughnut!”

You know I listened to the doughnut demon.

I knew I was really pushing my limits with the third doughnut, but I told myself, “There’s always the emergency room.” Yes, that is actually how I justified the third doughnut, a trip to the emergency room for eating a third doughnut.

Bite, careful, slow, bite. I knew this was my last Krispy Kreme ever, and I knew it had to be perfect. Alone, in the breakroom, with two boxes of Krispy Kremes as my friends, I started doughnut three. I chewed deliberately. I chewed carefully. I chewed mindfully that this, this glorious confection was my last. I savored like I had never savored before.

I finished, still terrified I’d be in the emergency room in minutes, but reveling in the magnitude of my doughnut accomplishment. And then my throat got tight. Assessment: throat not emergency room tight, throat allergy medicine tight.

I rushed to my office and tore apart my purse looking for that lone Sudafed I knew I had floating around in the bottom. “Sudafed, Sudafed, must not die,” I chanted to myself. Finally, Sudafed, lots and lots of water.

My nose ran for a while and my throat burns, but I did it all for Krispy Kreme. It was stupid. Terribly, wretchedly stupid, but for Krispy Kreme I took the chance. Three doughnuts. My last three doughnuts, and god they were worth all the agony for the joy of those precious minutes of bliss. I don’t need meditation, my transcension is fried.

Footloose and fancy-free? Not so much

“And stay away from the lakes,” the HOA orientation woman, says. “It may not look like it, but there’s gators in there.”

The orientation group stares at her with our mouths half-open.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “We just pulled out a seven-footer last week.” A seven-foot alligator. Living fifty feet from my brand-new home.

“And because it’s been exposed to humans, they euthanize them.” Gator, euthanized, for living in my lake. “It’s done humanely by the Fish and Wildlife Service. Well, actually, they contract it out to someone, but anyway. Once they’ve been around humans, they can’t be rehabilitated.” She pauses. “And don’t forget, all the lakes are interconnected through underground systems, so don’t think there aren’t gators in your lake. Believe me, they’re there.”

“Gators?” a shaky woman asks.

“You can’t see ‘em, but they’re there, believe me.”

Am I scared? Horrified? Both? I shoot a look at Matthew and mouth “OMG,” meaning, “freakin seven-foot alligators fifty feet from our brand new home.”

A friend told us, “If you walk the nature trails, your dog will get fleas and ticks. Oh, and so will you.” But, the realtor had us believing in the recreational possibilities of our dog walks on the nature trail. That’s bunk too?

The HOA woman tells us, “And the snakes on the nature trails—let me tell you that I don’t walk the nature trails. Moccasins, cotton mouths, Southeastern rattlesnakes….” I shoot another look at Matthew. He looks kinda blank.

“I tell you, one time, I was in my golf cart, and there was a moccasin right in my path. He was mean, they’ll strike unprovoked, and he was lookin at me,” she trailed off. “I turned around and went another way.”

Tick infestations, alligators, vicious snakes, what sinister place have we moved into?

“And if you get a flat tire on your bicycle on the nature trail at night, don’t feel around for it. There could still be a snake tooth in there.”

Me, terrified, “Do bear bells work?”

The whole room turns to look at me like I’ve just appeared from outer space. “You know, bear bells. You wear them in the woods. The bears hear the bells and are afraid that something’s in their area so they hide. Bear bells?” Everyone turns back to HOA lady.

“Well I’ve never heard of that, and I have no idea.”

The sheriff, who’s been silently sitting at a desk the whole time says, “I’ve never heard of it, but I wouldn’t trust it. Just don’t walk those trails after night.”

We leave, afraid of ponds and nature trails. I thought, “If I stay away from the ponds—which I had no intention of visiting in the first place—I’m pretty safe from alligators. I doubt they’ll come as far as our house exploring out of the water.” Much later I think, “Reptiles are cold-blooded. Are snakes really striking wayward bicyclists on trails at night?” I’m not a fish and wildlife expert, but I am confused. And ticks? I used to be a nature-hiker (remember the bear bells?); I’ve had enough ticks in my life to know how to get rid of them, and I’ve seen enough Discovery Channel horror stories to know what Lyme Disease looks like. No, I’m not out of the woods, but at least I feel a little better.

Dripping to the top

Tonight, I went to Blockbuster for a really bad movie. Matthew’s out of town, so I have guilt-free anonymous liaisons with trash media, then never tell anyone but the internet about it. Fortunately, this is a blog. No one reads blogs anymore, right? Just Twitter?

Anyway, I’m at Blockbuster picking up a Lindsay Lohan straight to DVD movie when I realize I have to pee. Pretty bad. But I’ve used Blockbuster’s bathroom before, and, I gotta tell ya, I’m plannin on holdin it til I get back to the house. It’s not like Blockbuster’s bathrooms are gross or anything, it’s just that it’s a *huge* production. I mean, first you have to ask at the desk, and they oh-so surreptitiously announce it over the intercom that a manager needs to let a customer into the bathroom. Just in case you don’t feel embarrassed yet, you have to stand around waiting for someone with the keys while that whole, long, Friday night check-out line stares at you. Makes you feel real classy.

But the Blockbuster pee party doesn’t end there. Not only is a key-holding manager necessary to let you in, but they stand there and guard the door after you go in. Process that. You’re peeing. A Blockbuster employee is on the other side of the door waiting for you. Which is more humiliating? The peeing or pee-observing? I really don’t want to find out from experience because I’ve got to say that pee observation sounds hand’s down more humiliating than being spied on. And what do they think I’m doing in there? If I were desperate enough to go through all this pee-drama, I can assure you that I’m there on serious business.

Blockbuster. Friday night. Bad movie. I *will not* pee in Blockbuster. I *will not* pee in Blockbuster. I can totally hold it til I get home.

Right.

Half-way to my car, I realize that this is probably not going to go according to plan, but I am determined that I am not turning around and going into Blockbuster. I, Christine Wy, am going to make it home. No. No I’m not. OK, there’s a decent gas station really close by, I’ll just duck in there.

I headed to the bathroom. I could hear flushing sounds, so I knew someone was in there, and I figured I wouldn’t have long to wait for her to come out. Not long enough. Immediately after the flush, the door opened, and out walked an attractive young woman. “Oh my god, she didn’t wash her hands!” was my first thought, being a germ-obsessed weirdo. Ew. Now, being skeptical of her hygiene, I decided to check the toilet seat to see if she had peed all over it—I absolutely loathe seat pee-ers. Yup. The non-hand-washing attractive woman had peed all over it. Dammit.

I weighed my options. Wipe the seat and sit, or perch and add my own spray to the Pollack-speckled seat? I opted for perch.

Relieved of my troubles, literally, I realized to my horror that now someone else was standing outside the bathroom waiting to use it. Oh no! Now this stranger is going to think I peed all over the seat, when really it was a whole urine chain of events that were now completely out of my control!

I did what any level-headed gas station restroom user would do: I tore off extra toilet paper and wiped down the seat. I cared enough what a gas station stranger using the restroom after me would think that I actually wiped down her throne. I’m ashamed, sad, and confused, but that lady will always think, “What a clean, attractive young woman that was peeing before me!

Los Pericos, what do you see in this image?

You may want to check the Wikipedia Rorschach Test site soon. It appears to have some errant Wiki-fiti of an Argentine band squeezed into the intended content.

Dream entry #8

I dreamt about the Russian mob running out the local crime syndicate. The leader of the mob was named “Chemkin,” which I don’t think is a real Russian name. The last thing I said in the dream was to someone trying to get the Russians’ attention: “You don’t find Chemkin, Chemkin finds you.” Pretty bad-ass.

Songs forgotten, faded photos

Like most 18-year-olds, I had some pretty warped ideas about what constituted a healthy relationship. Case in point: Bruce. I wish I could remember his last name so I could publish it. (Just because I retroactively hold onto warped ideals that I expected at the age of 18.)

So, Bruce. He played guitar. I believed that if he really loved me, he’d write a song about me. He did write a song while we were dating, and I kept waiting for him to say “and this is for you,” but he never did. I’d go to his house and he’d pull out his guitar and play his song, and, like a dummy, I’d sit and watch, waiting for those words. I just knew he was so on the verge of it, I could feel my mind meld pulling the words from him, “and this is for you.” No. No one had a song about me.

Like Bruce was a “musician,” he was also a “photographer.” He had this super amazingly hot 20-year-old “best friend” who he’d go shoot with. They’d break into places like the abandoned train station together, and she’d be the subject of all his photographs. GRRR! Another great chance for him to show me his boundless love by making me the subject of his photographs--gone, poof, goodbye. Having little pride at the age of 18, I begged him to take me on his photo excursions and photograph me, but he never did, saying it was better to be with the super hot girl because she was a photographer too. He did photograph me once wearing a beret and sitting in a vintage rocking chair, but he said the photos didn’t come out right. Woe betide me.

I had no pride, Bruce had no shame. He was much older than me, which I thought legitimized my awesomeness, but really it just proved his absolute creepazoid-itude. He did get me into bars, which was cool, but mostly he just stepped on my fragile 18-year-old self-esteem with big steel-toe combat boots.

Thanks for teaching me valuable life lessons, Bruce. I hope you grew up eventually too.

Germfinger

How do you non-germaphobes see the world? Do you touch PIN pads then lasciviously lick your fingers? Yeck! I am prompted, “Please use the PIN pad device below,” and I nearly die. Think of all those grubby, nasty, un-washed fingers that have danced there before you. Just seconds before you were there, someone wiped their nose and touched the PIN pad, and now here you are, typing that little number on the PIN pad with your innocent little digits, while germs wait to attack you.

Elevator buttons? I’ve gotten pretty good at those—I jab with my knuckles. I used to jab with my elbows, but it became too random, stabbing at those little dots with parts of the body that aren’t supposed to be wielded with dexterity. Knuckles. Matthew once looked at me as I jabbed the up arrow with my right knuckle and said, “Really? It’s gotten that bad? Knuckles?”

Yes, knuckles! I have never seen a cleaning staff disinfect door handles or elevator buttons.

O! And the door handles! At work, I cross myself, say a prayer, turn in a circle three times, and just grab like nothing is wrong. If only my office mate knew the horror I cringed every time I had to touch her office door knob. Not that it’s her, but that it’s all the co-workers, all the staff, all the students—they’re all touching the doorknob with boogery fingers.

At my last job, archiving at the newspaper, I would work the Sunday shift by myself. My ritual was to arrive ten minutes late, go to Starbucks for something insanely decadent involving white chocolate or caramel, and then use Clorox wipes on every surface in the office.

I started wiping my keyboard, my mouse, and my phone. Next I made my way over to the office door and scrubbed the handle from the interior and the exterior. The refrigerator doors got a go-over, and, if I were feeling really crazy, the cupboard doors that hid the fridge got a good bleaching too.

Last to get bleached were my co-workers. My lovely co-workers. I had nothing against them, but computer keyboards are like the second most contaminated surface after toilet bowl handles (we won’t go on the subject of toilets and aerosol fecal spray--we just won’t). So here were my co-workers, Chicago, winter, flu season, sneezing and typing in their own stew of germs and they didn’t even know it.

On a light day I’d just use some Lysol and spray down all their keyboards and phones. On a “Christine’s nuttier than usual” day I also Clorox wiped all of their work stations. Thoroughly. I like to think that I was doing them this special favor that they didn’t even know about. Like I was the germaphobe’s Clark Kent, weirdo newspaper girl by weekday shift, germ warfare nuclear committee on weekends. Every Monday, they’d return, grumbling about The Mondays, but, I knew, I knew I did them a huge favor and they were returning to sanitized desks, delivered via yours truly.

I have actually spoken to more than one clinician about this. They all agree that while my germaphobia may be exaggerated, I’m actually not OCD. Isn’t that comforting? I’m a mild form of nutters, not full-fledged therapeutic-like.

OK, now a big secret that’s not a secret anymore because I’m telling you: I hate sharing computers with my husband. He’s not a germaphobe. He could have touched nearly anything and been perfectly OK with it. He could have touched the garbage can, not washed his hands, and then touched the keyboard! Yeep! I deal with it, OK, I’m not crazy. I suck it up and pretend like it’s OK and deal with it—then every few days I do a sweep of the house and Clorox wipe all the computers.

Here’s the worst part: my neuroses don’t transfer to any useful hang-up. Touching a bus railing gives me cold chills, but looking at dog hair on my floor that really ought to be vacuumed doesn’t faze me at all. Why would that be? If something directly impacts my distorted sense of safety, I am god-awful uptight. I have Selective Narcissistic Neuroses Disorder.

I have to go wash my hands now. I touched the keyboard AND the mouse.

Eating at my heart

Cravings are curious, unpredictable things.

When I moved to Chicago in 1998, I was shocked at the number of hot dog stands. Everything from one window booths to large sit down restaurants committed to the peddling of hot dog cuisine could be found anywhere in the city, no matter the neighborhood. Weird. I can’t think of any culinary predilection in my home of Louisville, Kentucky like hot dogs were in Chicago.

I resisted the hot dog ubiquity, but, caving in to the expediency of the dog, I tried one of Chicago’s venerable hot dog institutions, Demon Dogs. It was directly under the Red Line train across the street from DePaul University where I was a student. Desperate for protein, I gave it a shot.

First, Demon Dogs was one of those “Chicago guys” kinda places—you have to say that with the rough Chicago accent to make sense. Demon Dogs spoke a different language than I do, and the entire operation moved through order, prep, and sale so quickly that I had no idea what to do. There was no dawdling in line. You stepped up, stated your hot dog mission, paid, and received it—no nonsense allowed.

Despite my minor panic attack at the foreign wiener experience, I managed to pull it off. Over to one of the stand-up tables, the kind that should have had bar stools but didn’t. First bite of my first Chicago dog: “snap.” What the hell was that? Freaky feeling in my mouth. OK. I can do this. I can order and eat a Chicago hotdog. “Snap.” What the fuck?

I felt ill. My dog had a texture unlike any I’d ever experienced. I ate it, because, like I said, I was pretty hungry, but believe me when I tell you I did not enjoy it.

I went home and described my Demon Dog to Matthew, “And then, when I took a bite, it snapped!”

“That’s just the natural skin casing.”

“The what?” I asked, totally grossed out by this conversation and getting queasy to think of what I’d eaten.

“Chicago dogs are made with a natural skin casing unlike hot dogs you get from the grocery store.”

Natural. Skin. Casing. That means ... intestines! Oh my god. Demon Dogs put me off the whole Chicago dog experience for quite a while.

My first job in Chicago I worked in a chintzy mall store full of second rate shops and scary food. Hungry and desperate again, I went for the Chicago dog. I braced myself, “Snap.” What was it with natural skin casing?

The mall dog broke some sort of barrier for me, though. Yeah, Chicago hot dogs snapped at you, but maybe they weren’t so horrible after all. After the mall dog, I became more experimental. I’d end up trying lots of different hot dog stands, and, eventually I learned to love the snap of a natural skin casing.

From disgust to adoration, me and the dog. I’m typing this from Florida, far, far away from the Windy City dog. And I’m craving. I’d give anything for a natural skin casing dog right now. Cravings are curious, unpredictable things.

Facebook's alternate reality

I’ve blogged a little about it before, but Facebook is doing straaange things to my head.

One: I have learned that I am a Negative Nelly. I look back and remember all the reasons relationships with Facebook’s ghosts of the past didn’t work. They’ve contacted me and told me all the wonderful things they missed about friendship with me. [Insert eerie noise of brain doing flip-flop here.] Hold up. There’s a different perspective?

OK, there being different perspectives is going to seem acutely obvious to people with more evolved brains than mine (most of you), but coming from an apparently self-centered person, this is huge. The world doesn’t exist solely as I see it.

Result of FB Lesson One? I have forgiven some of the hurt that signaled the end of former relationships. I have mentally salvaged the good bits, dusted them off and said, “Yeah, this is worth holding on to.” Channels of communication are re-opened and I’m feeling the love again.

Two: There are people I thought were friends who I may have to de-friend in the real world. A woman I singularly admired as the coolest, awesomest girl I knew keeps company with total flakes. It’s harsh to judge people by lame, isolated computer-generated quips, but the digital company she keeps speaks volumes about her. She gets eighteen comments for everything that she posts and they all say, “Love you!” “You are so cool!” “Rad!”

FB isn’t a digital collective of genius conversation, but all of her friends are so inane. Why would she keep the company of so many sycophantic nabobs who can never string together a more coherent sentence than “Your [classy, elegant party] ruled! Yeah!” And all eighteen of the other respondents said the same thing. What digital “friends” universally declare incoherently that this major, beautiful milestone in your life “ruled”? Unsavory. Sorry friends, you’re judged by the company you keep, and your company says “tacky” all over it.

Maybe that’s the Negative Nelly and I should assume that some people have trouble communicating via computer, but, um, that many of them? I’m going to have to go back to Lesson One and remember the good conversations I’ve had tete-a-tete with this woman and hold onto what I believe about her intelligence. Who knows why we have the friends we have, I guess, I just wish that hers reflected her better nature.
Facebook, you blow my mind. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but Facebook is reconstructing my world view.

Neuroses installment #155: Earplugs

Since moving to Florida, I have not been able to find my favorite brand of earplugs. When I mentioned this to my office mate, she said in disbelief, “You have a favorite brand of earplugs?” I mean, she’s kinda used to the weird stuff like this that comes out of my mouth, so I don’t think she was that shocked, just mentally adding another tick mark on the list of “Christine’s insane” tally. Usual stuff.

So the problem is that my globally favorite brand of earplugs is Leight Sleepers. I highly recommend them if you can find them at your drug store. Their purpose: live music. They are absolutely the right sound dampening to let the music in adequately and still hear people who talk into your ear without the live music making your ears ring the next day. Instead, you come home refreshed, having had a fun time and not sacrificing ear health.

I’ve been getting by with these purple things that I found at a drug store, but they are too dense, the music is garbled, and I can hear nothing of my friends’ voices. Suck. Must have Leight Sleepers back. Google search!

Google turned up several results, the first of which was a 200 pack for $20. Seemed excessive since I really don’t see live music that often. OK, next two offerings are Leight Sleepers brand but not the style I like. Ah, here’s one, a ten pack for $3. Perfect. Click on the store, enter information, go to check out, shipping price $15! You’re kidding me, right? A ten pack of foam nuggets? Not cool dude, not cool.

I searched through the Google results again, but nothing was right. I took the plunge. I bought a case of 200 earplugs. And, the sale was through Amazon, so why not buy two books I’ve been wanting? Things I Learned about my Dad (in Therapy) and It Sucked and then I Cried. Now I qualified for super saver shipping! Rock.

Anyone need earplugs? I have about 160 I can spare.

Losing Me

I was a substitute teacher in Chicago public schools. Believe it or not, the students and in-class work really weren’t that bad. You hear “Chicago public school,” and I know you are thinking terrible scenarios, but it wasn’t the kids who gave me trouble—it was my fellow substitutes.

When there were more teachers out than there were subs to cover, one of the schools I worked at would put all the subs they had in the auditorium and turn all the students loose to sit in sections by class. As for my co-workers, there was this ancient guy who came off like a weather-beaten Chicago mafia grandfather and three young women about my age. I naively bounced into the auditorium thinking “Oh yay! Three new friends!” I sat down, smiled, did the “Hi I’m Christine,” and they all kind of scowled at me. The old guy scowled because that’s just what he did, but I had no idea my cohorts would be Negative Nelly’s too. They wouldn’t look at me, talk to me, or sit near me, and I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t let me fit in. I couldn’t see that we were so different.

I overheard them complaining about no money, shitty jobs, too many student loan bills, and credit cards, and I thought, “I have those problems too… why aren’t they talking to me?” For whatever reason, I was just not invited to the in-club, but I so desperately wanted to join. I came up with a strategy, next opening I got, I’d pretend like the world was crushing me with debt and joblessness too. I mean, it was, but if I dwelt on it I’d be too depressed to move. Moment came, I laid it on.

“Yeah, I don’t make hardly any money here, especially since they don’t call me every day.” They rolled their eyes and groaned, sympathizing.

“I mean, I have crazy student loan debt that I have no idea what to do about. And my credit card? I used that just to survive college, now I have to seriously pay it off? With what?”

“Oh yeah, me too,” one of them said. “I mean, you pay so much for school, then, this is what you get?” We nodded and mm-hmmed.

And then, I felt horrible. They were finally talking to me, but as we continued commiserating, I felt the pull of the credit card and the crappy unreliable job and my rusted-out car.

I was miserable. I went from naïve, cutesy little, “Hi! I’m a teacher!” to an amazingly unhappy depressed person. I would get the morning phone call, “Can you teach today?” and my heart would sink. “Oh great, another day of misery to trudge through.”

Those young women didn’t become my friends. We may have reached a sympathetic level of communication, but they did nothing but bring me down. When I was around them, my world-weary miserable-with-life self would come out. Around them, I became less myself because I had traded in my happiness for acceptance into a tribe of petulant twenty-somethings.

It’s hard to look back at the simpler Christine and not regret the way life’s grind wears out a person’s childhood presumptions about the future, but I can’t forget the learning opportunities I’ve had along the way. The public school triumvirate taught me that sinking to the lowest common denominator just to ease loneliness really isolates you from yourself. I don’t think I’ve lost my naivety completely, but I know I’ve gained maturity from all those hard lessons earned at my innocence’s expense.

Random internet word-spew:

"I guess you can be a bitch like that when you are queen of the internet?"