Debbie Does Drivel

Here I Am!

OK, you know what? Fine. I don't care. {{Deep breath.}}
I'm going to write it. Now. I'm going to write it now.
Really.
OK: Kev and I went to a marriage retreat this weekend.

That kinda hurt. I mean, you do think I'm perfect, right? With the perfect kids and husband? Can I get an amen? Hello?

So anyway, yeah. We went. It was a long weekend. Lots of talking. Lots of writing. Lots of trying not to cry in front of the masses as Jacko (not his real name) admitted to cheating on Suzie (her real name). The set-up was this: three couples who had attended this program in the past presented talks recounting their experience with dead, loveless marriages. Also, a priest moderated the deal and shared his experience with being imperfect. Then, there were questions and writing and sharing privately and admitting you're a jackass and selfish and that your Dad made you impulsive and overly emotional and prone to telling the people you love that you hate them.

And while we're not perfect, thankfully we did not have to deal with infidelity or drug abuse or any of the other stuff I think some other people had to confront. No, our problem is we don't agree a lot. We can't help it: it's just that Kev is always wrong and he doesn't get it.

So, let me just tell you: I joke. But this program helped hugely (adverb alert). It's offered in cities across America. So if you're a jackass and have a spouse who is always wrong, write me for more info.*

*This program works best if you're the type of person who doesn't have a problem with people singing Bette Midler's "The Rose" en masse.

We interviewed a babysitter tonight. Our regular babysitter turned 21 last year and ever since she discovered the nightlife, we need to be home by 10 so she can go out after babysitting.

Saturday, we had our longtime babysitter start at 2:30 since we planned to see an early concert. I made the major mistake of asking her when we had to be home and she says, "Oh, 6:30-7." So, that's no fun.

Well, Kev and I started drinking. It's like we figured we had to pack a lot of fun into a few hours and that equated to whiskey sours. Well, then we start calling the babysitter, offering her $50/hour after 6PM, if she'd just stay longer (this fee was being subsidized by our wealthy adopted parents, Mike and Dee). Then, I call to see if one of her friends can come over and relieve her, so Kev and I can stay out. Judgment? Out the window.

Then, Kev and I start fighting. In front of everyone. It was something about how I suggested having our neighbor come over and watch the kids and Kev didn't feel good about that. Now, normally, I am not privy to handing my kids over to people I do not know. Though in a pinch, I will leave them on the street corner while I run into the store for a few things. Also, I sometimes go out during their naps. To get my hair done. And drive to Mexico. Plus, there was the time I put them in the trunk while I drank at the Whistle Stop. But I left the trunk open a crack.

Anyway, Kev and I were fighting. Then, there was something about insisting he drop me off in the middle of the street. And so he did.

This wasn't a good night.

So, we interview a new babysitter, because clearly, all the above was the old babysitter's fault. And I start thinking: you know how you can sense the energy of a place or of people? Does she know that we were interviewing her because of a fight and some whiskey sours? Does she know this wasn't a friendly visit, but rather a desperate plea for a babysitter who isn't yet 21?

I don't know, but I've never had a whiskey sour before. Or since.

There is no moral to this story.
Or, apparently, a point.

Oh wait, hold on! The point is: if you have two small children, get a car with a big trunk.

If you like epic tales of gothic insanity, you must try The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield.

Also, if you think you're slightly "off," (see below), you'll feel less so after reading this.

Guaranteed.

One more: if you like the movie Forrest Gump, but thought it'd be a kick to see Forrest with all his wits about him, a lot heavier, and riding a bike, try "The Memory of Running."

Oh, all right, the last one: If you think you're slightly "off," (again, see below) and want to right your brain, read "The Snow Leopard."

So my doctor suggested I go on anti-anxiety medicine.
[Go ahead and laugh. Think smugly to yourself: what took so long?
Consider that it's finally been confirmed once and for all that I am, in actuality, insane.]
Are you back, dammit? (I am of course referring to my husband, Kev, who I've determined through independent research, is the only person who reads this blog.)

My anxiety has intensified over the years, I'll give you that. Now, it's become absorbed into my biochemical make-up and regardless of whether I'm really feeling anxious, I will act anxious. My brain just gave up and thought, "Why put up a fight? Adrenaline come on in. You win. You're feisty. I like that in my hormones, but you're evil. Why you gotta be so evil, Adrenaline? I just wanted to love you."

Here's how the anxiety manifests: when I'm sitting down, I periodically realize how hunched my shoulders are, and sometimes they're damn near up around my ears; sometimes it feels like there is an electricity train running through my blood stream; some evil genius miniaturized the cast of Stomp! and for some diabolical reason that has to do with taking over the world, injected them (through my ear) into my brain.

Other anxiety "symptoms:" hypochondria, irritability, farting.

Anxiety sucks. But I'm not taking the medicine. I'm too anxious about it. Plus, it makes you feel like a robot (again, confirmed through my independent research), and I'd rather be Crazy Debbie then Monotone Debbie. That's because I'm crazy.

So here's what I'm going to do: yoga, listen to gospel music, write in a journal, pray, make a Happy Book. The latter will contain pictures that make me happy, like snapshots of my kids, images of water, and Cold Stone ads. My theory is: if I look at this Happy Book enough, I will re-program my brain and forge new neural pathways. Then, my brain can co-exist peacefully (in another town) from Adrenaline. And except for the occasional booty call, they won't see each other much.

It's gotta work, right? [Kev?]

Kev and I went to a "private" concert last night aboard a San Diego Hornblower yacht. The word, "private," to us at least, denoted fewer people than the 1,000+ who showed up for this thing. Which was fine, because good music is meant to be enjoyed by many, but there was something about this group, in that they were all drunk and stupid.

Drunk and stupid makes for great people watching, if you're not among the drunk, which we kind of were. Anyhow, the multitude of Elaine dancers out there boggles the mind, but if they're having fun, I don't so much mind the visual assault. So things are pretty good. I like Collective Soul, the band who played, and the lead singer's hair was indeed something to behold as he wielded it with great dexterity and joie de vivre.

So my point is (can I HAVE anymore run-on sentences? [please say that in your best "Chandler" voice]), when it was time to get off the boat, everyone went freaking psycho. I kinda thought that most people were like me -- polite and unwilling to elbow an old lady in the gut because she accidentally stepped on your toe. But these people seriously freaked me out -- folks who acted like they were hillbillies at a hay sale. Are there really that many people out there who don't give a flying shit about anybody but themselves? Last night, I thought so and it was really a bummer.

We left the top deck of the boat during the band's last song and waited by the door to disembark. We were somewhat concerned that we'd told our babysitter we'd be home by 10 and it was getting to be WAY past that and she was planning to go out herself that night (I don't EVEN want to get into how old that makes me feel). So we're quietly waiting for the captain to open the damn door. But he's not. And so we stand. Then the throngs amass. Everyone of them must have had claustorphobia, b/c they needed to get out and get out fast. But see, the door wasn't open. No brainer, right? Not if you're drunk and stupid.

So there's people fighting behind us, others elbowing their way to the front, people heaving and breathing and beating and bleating on all sides. Truly and seriously, the whole thing was a sad sad commentary on people. Who are these people? They live among us, they go to see "Snakes on a Plane" on opening night, they all voted for Bush. But so many? In one place? I started twitching. Kev started twitching. Then, when the girls next to us started rowing with the girls behind us, Kev lost it.

He put on stern face and told them to grow up -- in the voice he uses on Alexa. And guess what? It worked. They all looked sheepish. For about a second. Then the doors opened and oh Holy Moses, all bets were off.

And as I looked back on the beautiful boat sihouetted on San Diego Bay, I so wanted to herd all those people back on the boat, lock em in and set the vessel adrift, ensuring that every port of call barred entry, so that eventually they'd have to eat each other to stay alive.

But no, i go home and check on the kids and pray silently that they don't grow up to be stupid drunks.

The other night at 1AM, as I was making tuna during my pre-dawn panic attack, I could have sworn I heard someone whisper my name. It was most definitely one of those "Most Haunted" or "Ghost Hunter" EVPs and it came through most clearly.

So, I'm thinking: is this just the sound blood whooshing in my ears as it pulses with my elevated heart rate and deep-breath taking? OR: something more sinister?

Then I get to thinking: we've recently assumed a lot of stuff lately from those who've "gone beyond," and maybe they're still attached to their things and I am picking up on their energy or they want their stuff back or they want me to treat them better or they just want to freak me out or something.

But why not whisper "give it back" or "beware" or "GET OUT?" Why "Deb?" And it was a male voice.

And the person whose stuff we have the most of, didn't even know me. So that's out.

But, there is the power of threes at work. There are three people whose things we've assumed in the past 7 months. And maybe they've been talking? And the one who knows me told the other two about me?

I feel a little weird about our neighbor person who crossed over. We didn't know him. He was in his 30s, felt sick one night, went to the hospital and died unexpectedly. First of all, I hate those stories, as would any self-respecting hypochondriac. Secondly, his poor wife moved out last month and obviously just wanted to have any reminder of her heartbreak gone.

SO, Kev, who was in the garage as she was moving out, and helped her move some of her things, was the unwitting recipient of a lot of her husband's possessions. A whole tray of CDs (including personal music mixes), watercolor paper with self-portraits (we didn't know this until later), little knick knacks and -- even a boatload of his receipts (long story).

We currently have one of his little Native American looking vases in our living room. Kev -- a natural pack rat and assumer of all things unclaimed -- was so obviously thinking I'd be thrilled with this find, that I didn't have the heart to not display it. So there it is.

Right! There it is! Native American spirits! Of course. Everyone knows they're master haunters. But why call me "Deb" and not by my YMCA Indian Princess name "Little Running Deer?"

The mystery continues.

As I applied a new lipstick this morning, I smelled my past.

The lipstick scent instantly transported me back to high school and I felt like I did then -- the excitement before going to a football game, curling my hair in Ellen's bathroom while she picked out a rugby to wear ( '80s midwestern prep alert), hanging out at Bill's Pizza post-game and hoping my crush would nod my way.

Seriously: I felt the emotions ripple through me all over again. I kept sniffing the lipstick, hoping to catch another high school high, but seems the waxy smell of L'Oreal Sea Lily (as it was called then) evaporates after one inhale.

But I remembered more anyway: applying the irridescent pinky-purply stuff religiously before school every day, carrying the tube in my bra so I didn't have to bother with a purse, digging my fingernails into the lipstick to scrape out the last bits of it.

Which brings me to other smells that would bring me back --
Anais Anais perfume, Budweiser and wool.

Yep, smells like Catholic school.

On my agenda for this weekend:

1) Work 14 more hours freelance editing
2) Read 12 story chapters for my crit group and provide crits
3) Celebrate 6th wedding anniversary
4) Create marketing presentation for client
5) Figure out Dad's 70th birthday celebration

and

6) Teach my kid the breaks of life

#6 will be the most heartbreaking of all my weekend tasks. My three-year-old is currently experiencing social isolation at pre-school and it hurts like a mother (for once, the cliche makes sense). Mean, pink-shirt-wearing, flowy-brown-hair-flipping Ashley is regularly ignoring my daughter who is trying so hard to be her friend. Last week, I watched my daughter's face fall when Ashley (who is almost 5) called Alexa a baby and pushed her out of the social circle.

Yesterday, when I came to pick Alexa up from school, she informed me she had to say goodbye to Ashley. So, she ran over to the jungle gym and earnestly called "goodbye" to Fluffy Head. When Ashley didn't turn her flowy hair head, Alexa began climbing up the jungle gym, hoping to catch Ashley's attention (who was patently ignoring her). Alexa determinedly kept trying to say goodbye to Ashley, who determinedly kept ignoring her, until I'd had enough and swept Alexa away. Not an appropriate response, I'm sure, but I couldn't stand another second of Alexa feeling her first hurt at the "popular" girl shutting her out.

Doesn't this bitchy popularity crap happen later?

Alexa looked so much like I'd felt when I was the geek in grade school and trying to fit in, that my heart ached. I want to spare her that. Plus, it was creepy to see myself in the mirror that is my daughter. I want to tell her that being popular doesn't matter and that past high school, it doesn't mean crap. And that cream rises to the top. And that even when I finally achieved my popularity in high school, I truly found it wasn't worth it.

Maybe I'll just teach her how to punch. It worked for my dad.

So, I've quit my job to work from home and stay with the kids.
And look: this all happened because of "The Secret." Don't download it or purchase the DVD, just listen a minute: thoughts become things. It's the Secret. The laws of attraction: think about what you want and the Universe/God brings it to you.

I affirmed again and again that I wanted to stay home with the kids and continue to earn income and it happened. Really: the opportunities presented themselves -- those things that made it possible for me to stay home.

Of course, now I'm like, "huh?" Does staying at home really mean watching the kids? Like, ALL DAY? Will there be lunch breaks? Free Xeroxes?

It's a definite change for me...and I can have more input into my kids lives. I'll need to resist the temptation to make Little Debbies. Now that should set an interesting chain of events affoot in the Universe.