Let me tell you

If any of you have been thinking about seeing the movie “Because I Said So,” let me offer some unsolicited advice: Don’t. Back away from the Blockbuster shelf. You’d be better off renting Macualey Culkin’s recent crapfest “Sex and Breakfast.” Maybe. Truly, with either train wreck you’ll find yourself wishing you had those two hours of your life back, feeling impatient and resentful and realizing that there isn’t enough wine in the world (or at least, in the house) to soften the blow.

Perhaps this was not the right time for me to sit through a movie about a ridiculously over-bearing and excessively emotional mother who meddles so much in her daughters’ lives she ends up placing a personal ad to find her youngest child a “mate.” And watching Diane Keaton try for wacky physical comedy, spending most of the movie shrieking and flailing around was, to put it mildly, excruciating. It’s likely the movie was made more torturous for me because I have been consciously ignoring my OWN mother for over a week now, ever since a meeting with my brother’s counselor and a rather depressing conversation with his psychiatrist left us with the more-serious and negative diagnosis, and an ever-expanding gray area where the future should be, of straight schizophrenia. There is yet to be a game plan or concrete prognosis for his potential and long-term care- the only thing we can be sure of is that there is no clear-cut way to Deal With This. Who knows how long we can take him living with us, who knows what he will be capable of in a few months, who knows whether he will be able to hold down his job from week to week, who knows who know who knows.

I sent an email to my sister and mother last week summarizing the new situation and have decided to take several days off from my role as family counselor, ignoring my mother’s insistent phone calls, not up to committing two hours each night to her ranting, grasping at straws, and thinly veiled accusations of the “what did you and Monk do (or not do) to bring this all about??? He was FINE before he moved to Texas!” My emotional inbox is full. As is my plate piled high with guilt sandwiches and your-shirking-your-responsibilities pot roast.

(As Pepe Le Pew would say:) L’sigh.

So perhaps sitting through two hours of overly-emotional maternal histrionics last night was not the best idea. Also, Mandy Moore is in it. So really, I should have known better.


I've grown accustomed to your Facebook (profile)

I'll admit I do have a MySpace account. Unfortunately I lost interest in it about 5 minutes after its creation and now it has been so long since I've logged in that my login ID and password have been completely obscured from memory by about ten layers of mental dust; even if I could find them in the swiss cheese of my brain, I wouldn't want to pick them up. I keep waiting for the day when blogs and MySpace and Facebook and such fade out in an anticlimactic, the-times-they-are-a-changin death scene, but for now they still seem to have a tenacious grip on the 13-80 year old demographic. I've become quite adept at ignoring emails telling me that "SexyLexi has sent you an email!" or that "JoeCollegeAlum misses you!"

(Ignoring the impulse to post my frazzled, depressed musings on the pity party-inducing, unoriginal stresses in my small life, however, still needs a little work.)

An old friend (former friend?) (Someone who used to send a group email to everyone he knew, filled with paragraphs about his mundane life, but never seemed to have a moment to send a personal inquiry) (ok, there’s no easy label) (hi, Bitter? Party of one, thanks) sent me a generic Facebook invitation the other day. Not annoying enough with the “hey, come read all about my life and how fascinating I am on this website” message, or with the idea that I would have to create yet another random account for yet another website I would keep forgetting to visit, and then subsequently forget my login ID anyway, never to visit the site again, but the most annoying bit of the email was, drumroll please... My name? Was misspelled.

My FIRST name, people.

So, join Facebook? Yeah, I'll get right on that.


That's how it is, I'll see you later

Alternative title considered for this post: "Cabin Fever." But I didn't want to get your brains stuck playing a Jimmy Buffet song all day. Also, I may have already used that title sometime last year (but am far too lazy today to go back through old posts to verify this).

Reasons I would like to just fuck off to another country for a bit:

*Tax season. Several months of massage income to report, of which every penny was relied on to get us through this transitional period. So, come April, Monk and I are looking at owing a terrifying amount to the good ol' US of A.

*My brother and his co-dependent, aimless ways are slowly but steadily driving me around the bend. The day I get the house back to myself for an afternoon is the day I fall down on my knees and weep great, joyful rivers of tears for this pseudo-parenting, emotionally-draining adventure finally coming to an end. Unfortunately, that day is so far away Monk and I have lost sight of it by now.

*Credit card bills. Don't get me started.

*Business is SLOOOOWWW. As in, non-existent, as far as the self-employed bit goes. Chair massage jobs are still trickling in, but still there have been far too many staring-at-the-wall, run-a-lot-of-personal-errand moments in the past few weeks. Probably thanks to the holiday scarring of wallets and that silly tax season thing. With little promise of significant money coming in anytime soon I'm starting to wonder if now would be a good time to take off for a while.

*The house. With the housing market in the toilet we decided to go ahead with a bathroom expansion (our "master bath" being the size of a shoebox, with a tiny shower we are unable to use thanks to a plumbing mishap last year), to make our immediate lives less hellish and perhaps increase the odds of actually selling this crapbag in the next year or so. Unfortunately, renovations cost money. Which we don't have. So we continue to enjoy sharing shower facilities with my brother, who has an eerie sense of timing and will decide to take one about 2 minutes before I can I get in there. Even minor repairs like fixing up all the other bits and pieces of this money pit are not feasible at the moment. Am I the only one who regularly fantasizes about simply taking a match to the place and walking away?

Not that I would leave Monk to deal with my brother or the dogs or what-have-you, not really, I swear (although I admit the thought of running out the door screaming "so long, suckers!" HAS crossed my mind once or twice) but I find myself visiting volunteer websites more and more frequently lately, trying to figure out if a two-week stint building houses in Guatemala or teaching English in Costa Rica might be on the agenda in the next few months. Unfortunately, you have to pay to volunteer, and $2500 is money that can't be found in the proverbial couch cushions right now. Sigh.

So, I'm stuck. Mentally climbing the walls. And stressed. And probably bumming you all out right about now so I'll just take my Debbie Downer ass out of here and come back when things are looking up, whenever that may be.


But really, who cares?

I made the mistake of scheduling my national certification exam for a week when Monk would be out of town and my brother would be, well, around. All the time. Making noise and messes and just generally being in my space. Although since he has no idea what to do with himself when he isn't working (which is pretty much most of every day), the latter was inevitable.

For weeks I've been trying to focus and retain and not panic, etc. for the exam that would basically be the culmination of everything I've been doing over the past year. I thought for sure I'd be taking it at least twice. Which was really going to suck since a) I'd already told a bunch of people the exam date and geez how humiliating would it be to have to tell them I'd failed? along with b) we don't really have the money for me to be taking this test more than once. Oh, and c) wahhh, I just want to get this over with and behind me, wahhh, I miss drinking.

So anyway, as of 5 p.m. yesterday, just call me Nationally Certified. I'm not confident enough to say I made that test my bitch, but I'm pretty sure I could have gotten it to pay for a drink or two.