Point me towards the swim-up bar

One of my massage playlists (okay, most- apologies to those clients with weak/easily-influenced bladders*) features the gentle sound of water accompanied by a slow (snail-like, really) plonking piano melody. It’s just a beat shy of aimless, actually, and when I say “plonking,” you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Alright, sometimes there are some “plinks” in there as well.

During an extended massage session Saturday, the water was trickling merrily along and the piano was steadily plonking away, when my zentality** was shattered by an acute awareness of each… hesitant… piano… note.

(In my book: "Good" massage music = something that can easily be ignored for 45-120 minutes at a time.)

Plonk! (pause) ploonk (pause) PLINK! (pause, pause) and out of nowhere comes this rage-filled (red-faced, throbbing-neck-vein) voice in my head roaring Just! Play! The DAMN! Note! Already! Play it! “Plink plink plink!” Play the FUCKING NOTE!

It was a good moment to make a mental note to switch out some of my massage music. And maybe calm the fuck down a little. I’m guessing unspecified homicidal urges/violent rages are probably not what one looks for in a massage therapist.

* Easily-influenced bladders!  Set your boundaries!  Stricter curfews!  Monitor their interactions with questionable peer groups!

**zen mentality. (TM) Quinn, Nothing Notable, 2008



Well, after much debate and mental/emotional angst, Monk and I decided it would be in everyone's best interest for my brother to move out of our house and into Sister's for the coming year.  Since we'll still be attending support group meetings, having him over for the occasional dinner, going to the gym with him and seeing him in class (Monk and my brother are enrolled in the same Monday night class for the coming semester... OMG!  Study buddies!  BFF!  Squee!), the main difference will be a) we get the guest room back and 2) no one will be standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at me as I make a sandwich in the afternoon or attempt to make conversation with my spouse.  Oh, to live a scrutiny-free life again!

I could go into the details of the decision and what our concerns are, but I've declared a moratorium on the in-depth analysis of the situation for the time-being and would like to focus on the fact that, in less than a week, our "houseguest" will be no more.  He plans to make the move on Friday (FRIDAY!) and a couple of weeks after that Monk and I will celebrate by changing the locks and leaving the country.

Okay, we won't be changing the locks.

But, Mexico, here we come!  We've dug up our passports and booked a trip to a resort in Tulum that offers snorkeling, scuba, and tours of ancient ruins.  At least, those are the highlights given to family and work colleagues.

Here's where I admit that the main selling point to our getaway is listed in the brochure as... "three swim-up bars."  Three!  Because we are not the kind of people to slum it at a place that would only offer one.  A person has to have some standards, you know.


Is this irony?

(or: Yes, When You're Living It, You Can Make Fun of It)

(rather: When You're Living It, You HAVE To Make Fun of It)

(If You Don't Want To End Up Losing It Completely)

Last night my brother and I attended his weekly mental illness support group meeting (dinner out, for a change of pace).  I was struck by how far he's come in the last several months when, not only did he contribute to and initiate conversation, he actually challenged one of the members after listening to yet another (the same, recurring, lather, rinse, repeat) diatribe.  

Just tell me honestly, who among you could actually keep a straight face when one schizophrenic waits for the other to stop ranting and, after a beat, calmly but firmly tells him: "You're paranoid."

Ah, life.  Sometimes you are too good to me.