Oh, Canada!

The husband and I took a trip across the border - no, not to Taco Bell. Across an actual border between the US and Canada.  Times have certainly changed, in that when we used to cross the border, we only needed . . . nothing, really.  Now, we have to be sure to bring our passports, which, I think, is the reason that EVERY SINGLE TIME WE COME BACK TO THIS COUNTRY, the border guards search our car.

Why?

Because my passport photo makes me look like a member of the Gambino Crime Family.  And not like some widow or stripper or even a low level prostitute. No.  I look like a MALE member of the Gambino Crime Family.  And for some weird reason, that was the best photo we could get when we went to get our passports.  Seriously.  I have no idea the confluence of events that occurred when we went to take our photos at the post office, but the poor lady kept retaking my photos because for some reason a photo ghost/poltergeist/monster kept making me look . . . unstable . . . or as if I had no discernable eyes . . . or just weird.  So, instead, I look like some vaguely sweaty, oily, man's mug shot.  To the point where, you know how when you send in two photos with your passport application and then they send you back your passport and extra photo? THEY KEPT MY OTHER PHOTO.

Which I think they made copies of and distributed to every border crossing so that when I venture outside this country, on my way back in I am sure to be stopped and my trunk inspected [and NOT IN THE GOOD LL COOL J WAY], so that the husband and I are sitting in the car, listening to a strange man root around in the detritus of our lives ["Oh, that must be the bag of books I keep forgetting to donate to the library" and "Shit, is that the pile of reusable grocery bags? Why is he rooting around in there? So he can shame me about the onion skins that have been floating around in there for about 2 years?"] wondering if this is the time they are going to bust us for trying to bring back some cooked chicken that my relatives foisted on us.

It is exhausting being me.

The power of positive thinking can kiss my ass

Please explain to me how, in the past two days, I've encountered THREE books about a woman who has an accident thingy and suffers amnesia. THREE.  In TWO DAYS.

First, I listened to Sophie Kinsella's book, which was . . . meh.  I should have quit reading her after the first Shopoholic book, but I keep going back, like a sucker. Or meth head.

THEN, as soon as I finished that book, later that same day, I hit the gym with my work out book, which was about . . . a woman who suffers from amnesia.  This one, whose title I can't remember [is it catching, all this amnesia?], is a mystery-ish one, full of intrigue, but evidently not enough for me to keep reading.  Thanks to whoever recommended it, but it's too much brain trauma at once.

And so many similarities!  Both are women who have amnesia in London and are married and don't feel like they know their husbands.  Sure, one skitters off into chick lit world, and the other delves into the infernal workings of the human mind, but it's too much of the similarity.

Followed by the next day, where I'm on some writer's website who is touting her latest book about . . . a woman who is in an accident and suffers amnesia!

Are amnesiacs the new vampires? Am I missing something here?

PLUS:

My oven, which is about 2 months out of warranty, decides that all its parts are going to fall apart at once.  Yeah. FUCK YOU, oven that is only just over a year old. I CANNOT AFFORD TO OWN CRAP STUFF!

And then? Trying to deal with Maytag? Useless.  Absolutely useless.

Also, dwelling on misery makes me crazy, plus I ate an egg salad sandwich for lunch yesterday, which was a horrible idea, and somehow makes the misery worse.

I tried to do one of those POSITIVE THINKING type things, like a vision board or life list, and then realized that nothing will ever come of it. My life is a awful.  I will never go to Paris, never be a novelist, never go dancing again. None of it. 

How do I reconcile myself to that? How do I just say, "You know what? You're done. This is it. Your life will not get any better. Suck it." and not wallow?

Remember when I was thrilled that I didn't go crazy after reading the book about psychopaths?

Shouldn't have opened my big fucking mouth.

I'm better now, thanks.

Well, I checked out this Yahoo! article on heart attack symptoms, and, unsurprisingly, I have them ALL.

This was after I had the shittiest day in ages, so you must understand that it's not only my hypochondria which has me thinking I'm going to join Elizabeth because this is the big one*.  It's all combining to make me think this is it.  It's over.  Particularly because Saturday was a clusterfuck of aggravation and despair. 

There was fighting with the husband and not-so-surreptitiously deciding we were getting a divorce because FUCK HIM and then we did the, "Are you done being a jerk?" thing on Sunday and then he played a Pearl Jam song he said made him think of me [No, NOT JEREMY! GOD!], so the divorce is off. For now.  [Also, I must ask again, how did I spend my 20s dicking around and NOT fuck Eddie Vedder? WHAT THE HELL? I am SO.PISSED. I didn't head out to Seattle and get him while I could. Goddamnit, Charlie. That's bullshit.]

I also was morose about . . . everything.  Literally every single thing.  Job? Life in general? Debt? Missing my kid? Hating my body/mind/hair/soul? All of it.  It was a no good very bad day.

So I ended up making chocolate chip cookies, which helped a bit.  And then Sunday was actually not terrible and Monday was less hateful.  I hate moods. I want just a flatline of okayness.  With some bursts of OH FUCK YEAH. Is that too much to ask for? IS IT?

Also, apropos of nothing: sometimes when I play WWF, I deliberately put in curse words so it will tell me, "Sorry, that's not an acceptable word."  And then I get all smug and say, "Fuck you, WWF! I WILL DECIDE WHAT IS ACCEPTABLE!" 

I may need more friends in the real world.

______________

*Please, please tell me someone got the Sandford and Son reference? Also, when the girl was smaller and still was at home all the time, we would walk into her messy, messy room and sing the theme song.  She was pissed when she finally saw Fred and Lamont's house on t.v.

Oh, the benevolent internets.

SOPA/PIPA/KELLY FUCKING RIPA

Yes, a day late.

I tried to black out my blog yesterday, but couldn't figure it out.  So I put the STOP SOPA thing on my avi, where it will remain until I figure out how to get it off - good luck with that.  It will be there until the internet explodes.

Here's the thing - this is bad policy.  Being able to shut down sites because of perceived transgressions is not a good idea for anyone. It's reactionary at best and ridiculous at worst.  I am in an interesting, albeit not lone, position of being able to address this as a

writer
lawyer
blogger

As a writer, I know that it is important the my words are my own, particularly those I create for pay and that are used as they should be.  And I've been lucky enough that my work has never been plagiarized, and unlucky enough that my words are evidently not good enough for you fucking wankers to want to steal. WELL FUCK ALL OF YOU. 

Also, nobody has cited my academic papers and presentations, which I also find to be bullshit.  Maybe I need to swear more in them. Or less. I don't know.


As a lawyer, this is just ridiculously bad policy that will only be enforceable by those with deep pockets and spastic trigger fingers.  Go ahead and guess who they are.  Also, a lot of this is addressed by laws already on the books, so just use those. RIGHT?  PS During a copyright law session, a copyright lawyer said he had been to an international copyright conference full of lawyers and guess what? In this international group of LAWYERS who are responsible for ferreting out misdeeds of pirating, guess how many pirated music, etc.? ALL OF THEM. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. Yeah, so there's that.

And as a blogger, I find this ridiculously bad policy because you know what? If I want to talk about what a fucking cunt Gwyneth Paltrow is and how offensive GOOP is, I should be able to. 

"I know!  I brought this on myself!"

Because of the 1st Amendment and also because, Jesus Christ, she is such an abomination.

The first image that comes up for "Gwyneth Paltrow GOOP stupid"

 I know, right?

*******
PS Apropos of nothing, I finally figured out what Favstar is. And by figured out, I mean I clicked on it, went, "Huh." and then closed the tab.  I'll just be famous in my own mind on Twitter. Just like the rest of my life.

I have to think of a title, too? Eh, fuck it: Books.

If it's Tuesday and I'm tired, then it must be Book Report Tuesday.

Let's get to it:

I'm not sure who recommended this, but it is brilliant, so thank you very, very much. It's The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson and I love it for the following reasons:

• I found out I am NOT a psychopath; 
• it is immensely readable; 
• it has enough crime/creepiness to keep you engaged without delving into so much CSI/cop talk that it's off-putting; 
• the guy's writing style is excellent.  It reminds me that you can write about something difficult and somewhat unpleasant and possibly dry and academic and still be engaging.  That's my favorite type of writing.  I mean, say what you will about Terry Eagleton and his Marxist literary criticism, he's highly readable and fun.  And so is Ronson. Without the sanctimony.

One of my favorite lines is this:

"A lot of psychopaths become gatekeepers, " said Bob, "concierges, security guards, masters of their own domains." 

To which I would add - THOSE FUCKING CUNTS AT THE RECEPTION DESK AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICES.

It's also good to note that I can read this book about psychopaths and craziness and not feel like I'm getting sucked down into depression and anxiety. I think this means I'm better. Yay!

****************

I've been listening to Pride & Prejudice during my commute and it is as awesome as ever. And it reminded me that as much as I enjoyed the BBC version, the book is, as always, a gazillion times better. 

And that as much as I like to think of myself as the Lizzie Bennett of my life, I'm probably more Lydia.

Or, god forbid, Mrs. Bennett.

****************

I'm also reading Destiny of the Republic by Candice Millard, which I ostensibly got for the husband for Christmas.  We're actually both reading it a bit at a time. It's well-written, which most history books are not, which never ceases to surprise me because oh, my god, the things that have happened in the world! How can you not string together two sentences about the past that don't make me fall asleep? [I am here addressing every. single. historian. who ever put pen to paper. Because of course they write longhand. They are old-school.]

Anyway, the book is about James Garfield, one of those presidents I know almost nothing about except for the fact that . . . well, before I started reading this, I knew absolutely nothing about him.  But now? I know more, not only about him but also about the inventions and beliefs of his time.  Like Edison! And the World's Fair! And Lister, the guy who invented Listerine, and how all the doctors thought he was crazy to try and kill germs and dress wounds!  Pretty cool.

I am here reminded that once, in my undergrad days, I went to talk to a history prof during office hours about who knows what [maybe just to go gab, because I am a talker], and he asked what I thought of a book we were reading about Teddy Roosevelt.  And I said, "Oh, my god, that book is so dry, I have a hard time getting through it," because, cf., my resemblance to Lydia/Mrs. Bennett, and he, a kindly old man, said in a startled old man voice, "Oh, no. Really? Because a good friend of mine wrote it."

And then I died.

******************

At bedtime, since I've run through all our Nancy Drew books, I've been re-reading Harry Potter. I'm on Order of the Phoenix now, which is a good one. Umbridge! The Weasley twins! Harry being a jackass teenager!

But, oh god, the sheer weight of this book. I am very, very seriously thinking of getting a Kindle [iPad?] because I think I crushed a rib last night holding this book up to read.  I mean, I'm sure I could probably read something more lightweight, like a paperback, but how will I know what happens if I don't keep reading?  I can't just rely on my memory!  And dropping a Kindle on the husband as I doze off wouldn't be as satisfying in that mean spirited/loving married way.

What are you reading?  What book do you use as a weapon?  Have you ever insulted anyone to almost their face?

She who hesitates is shit out of luck.

Since about December, I've been stalking Talbots [what? again, I'm old.] by going online and putting all the cute things I want to buy in my shopping cart.  I check it periodically, particularly when I get a SALE email, and I've been watching the price whittle down and down and down, but never down far enough for me to justify spending that kind of money on clothes for myself [for the husband and the girl? Sure thing! Not a problem! For me? Eh, that shirt I bought 4 years ago that keeps shrinking in the wash so it now shows off my blindingly white belly when I move is fine! So long as I don't move!].
Until the other day, when I got an ADDITIONAL 50% OFF email and even though I was at work, you'd better believe I jumped on that website and checked to see what the price was. 

And it was lower, but not super low.  So I looked at the things in my cart and decided that two of the same dress that I'd never actually tried on but were now final sale could probably go.  And then the price was pretty reasonable, for the number of items, and I started fantasizing about where I'd wear each piece and how much better my life would be when I was fashionably dressed.

I put a reminder on my phone to order the clothes when I got home. I'm not sure why I waited. I just did.

And then I got home and looked at the clothes again, and did some work and thought, yeah, I'm doing this.

But I still hesitated.

See, I hate spending money on myself.  It's completely fucked up.  I will buy something and then, immediately, realize, OH MY GOD, WITH THAT MONEY I COULD HAVE . . . whatever.  Paid a bill. Gone grocery shopping. Bought a kidney on the black market.  Something.  But for the husband and the girl? Not an issue. I was going to spend a couple of hundred dollars on a ton of clothes that would make getting dressed a lot easier, which should be o.k. Particularly since, as the husband reminded me, I had easily spent that in shipping stuff to the girl at school.

I agreed, and realized I need to be kinder to myself [GO, NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION!], so I went back to the computer and hit CHECKOUT  and . . . all but three things were gone. GONE. SOLD OUT. GONE AWAY.

I was pretty fucking sad. 

But it made me realize that I need to just do something when I want to do it.  I need to stop hesitating.

So I've done it.  I've registered for BlogHer 12.

Any of you bitches going to be there?

You'll recognize me.  I'll be wearing the half-shirt.

One day at a time is not just a tv show. Or an AA slogan.

I finally took down my meager outdoor decorations yesterday.  Yes, on Monday, January 9th.  Oh, yours were down the day after Christmas? I'll try not to hate you, much.

I haven't been able to motivate myself to deal with the crappy decorations, partly because I've been sick, mostly because they are so fucking crappy.  We have tons of lights, but only have outlets outside in the backyard, so it's either use giant orange extension cords or do without.  Lately, we've done without.  I miss the lights, and am seriously considering hiring someone to put in an outlet out front, but cheapness and inertia have so far kept me from doing so.

Instead, I've been putting up really shitty looking greenery and some of those plastic outdoor ornaments, which pale in comparison to the lightfest going on next door and across the street, but are marginally better than the creepy ass elf/demon the people down the street set up in some sort of half Halloween/half Christmas tribute.

The main reason the ornaments even came down yesterday was because I was working from home and the mail lady stopped off with a package [fuck it - I'm continuing to order stuff with a goal of receiving a package a week because I LOVE GETTING STUFF IN THE MAIL {this may or may not be a cry for real mail from you all} and I'd much rather order something than deal with traffic and general idiocy] and I was suddenly, immediately embarrassed that she had to walk up to our porch still festooned with greenery and bulbs.

The ornaments and fake green pine[?] garland had to go.  I bought some giant outdoor ornaments from Target after Christmas to put up next year [with lights? Maybe?] fully intending to toss the bullshit stuff I hung up this year.  It's those sad long swathes of plastic pine needles that are never full no matter how much you try and pry them apart and that I got cheap for a dollar each years ago.  But not, "Oh, no way, you only paid a dollar for that?" kind of cheap. No. It's the "Really? A dollar? Each? . . . You got robbed." kind of cheap.

So I went out and pulled it all down and stuffed it into garbage bags, kind of wondering if I should bother trying to save some of the less dumb looking/completely intact ornaments. And shaming myself into actually picking up the bulbs that fell in the flower beds, because do I really want to be that white trash family?

I'm not saying a single thing about the patio furniture that's still on the deck outside.  That's been snowed on.  Twice.

It's all about baby steps.

How's that working out for me, you ask?

So 2012 has decided to welcome me with open arms full of the plague.

I've come down with something wretched, but actually have a doctor's note to work from home all week, so that's awesome. As is the fact that I'm hopped up on inhalers to keep my lungs fresh and clean.

I had to go to the doctor and the pharmacy to get an antibiotic, which sucked, because 1. Those pharmacy fuckers took FOREVER to give me my pills and 2. They tried to give me the same antibiotic but from 2 different manufacturers, so the pills would look different.

I, looking mighty fine for someone who had been awake since 4:15am [when I woke up from having a dream which contained not only a bed, but also Woody Allen and Corbin Bernsen - let's just never speak of that again, shall we?], gasping for breath and wondering if I was actually dying or having an anxiety attack or freaked out about what had transpired in the dream [NOTHING. NOTHING HAD TRANSPIRED.], very calmly and politely told the pharmacy gal that I had crippling anxiety about taking medication, so she'd either need to send that off to another pharmacy where I could get all of the same kind of pill or fix it.

She, taking in my stained clothing, beady eyes and Bellatrix Lestrange hair, chose to fix it, which somehow didn't take NEARLY as long to count out my pills as it did the first time.  Maybe she had a better grasp of the numbers?

And then I had to go to another drug store to get some Ricola, because the pharmacy at my doctor's office only carries Ludens, and if I want to eat a sugar cube, I'll just eat a goddamn sugar cube.  That took longer than I thought it would, because there was some sort of sale going on and there were two different sizes of packaging and my addled mind couldn't quite figure out if it actually benefited me to buy the big bag or 2 of the small ones [FYI, at Walgreens, the big bag is a rip off].

Finally, I got home and started working, which also took longer than I thought it would, as not only is my brain completely addled, but in addition to not only having the plague, the following bullshit occurred in the space of 24 hours:

***  The girl went back to school and was immediately homesick and upset, which upset me, because skyping with your baby who is despondent is a monstrous piece of shit that is doubly awful when compounded with mouthbreathing because your sinuses are full of cement.

***  My mother is off to the homeland with her sisters because her mother is in the hospital and not doing well.  This is . . . not fun for anyone.

***  Fucking Maytag's gas oven managed to last 2 years before the igniter busted and needs to be replaced for two hundred mother fucking dollars.

***  I have 2 freelance deadlines coming up.  One tomorrow and one on Saturday.  HOORAY.

***  I don't have any clean hand towels in the bathroom.

***  I haven't showered today and that always makes me feel like a homeless person.

***  My head hurts.

***  Goddamn Democrats keep emailing me for money. Hey, fuckers, if you actually shilled on my behalf, I would gladly give you some cash. Until then? Suck it.

*** I got my period.

Usually, I would look at all this and think, "Fuck all of it, I'm getting under a blanket and watching Scrubs until March," and despair about how my life is a misery and 2012 is going to blow, but not now, not this time.

This time? I'm looking at this as a positive.

All of this has happened and I didn't swear at anyone or think about running anyone over or cry or feel like nothing will ever get better.

I am better than this.

We all are.

Did you have a bullshit start to your new year? Let's pretend it's January 1st NEXT Sunday, o.k.?

**** I want to edit this to add that I can't explain to you all well enough how happy every comment/tweet/email you send me makes me.  Seriously.  When I'm ready to tear my hair out because I can't focus, I see that I have email and find a gem of a comment and it reminds me that I CAN do this, all of this, because you are all there with me, helping me just by being you.

And, because I can't end this on such a sweet note as that would make all of us uncomfortable, let's do a primal scream - ready? Ready!

MOTHERFUCKER.

XO,

Suniverse

Look out, bitches, this is my year

2012 better watch its back. I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND ANYMORE.

Because I am the worst at following through on things [remember when I was going to work on my novel? Or memoir? Or sew up the tear in my sweater? Can you guess how many of those things got finished in 2011? ZERO. NUMBER ZERO OF THEM GOT FINISHED.], and because I am trying to be kinder to myself [You know, just to see how that would work out. I can always go back to beating myself up later if I want. I'm really, really good at that.  That time in elementary school where I lost $5 of lunch money for the week? STILL KICKING MYSELF.], I've decided to figure out a better way to be better in 2012. Especially since it may be the end of our planet, if the Mayans and that creepy old doomsday Rapture guy are right [is that guy still alive?], and no one wants to go out a loser.

So here is how I'm going to be better/kinder to myself:

I'm going to write more for myself.  I love that I'm getting paying gigs for freelance writing - I just sometimes all the time miss writing something for me and for my goals [of being Queen of All Things] [and a writer with a Stephen King level of fame and fortune and a JD Salinger level of reclusiveness]. 

And I want to remind myself that just because someone else is attaining success does not mean that 1. I should hate them or 2. There is no success left for me.

Instead of getting pissed off when the scale starts creeping upward EVEN THOUGH I'VE NOT HAD ANY CARAMEL CORN IN TWO WHOLE DAYS, I'll just start laughing. Though the laughter may have a manic quality to it, I'm still counting it as laughter, which is not only the best medicine, like a nice buzzy diet pill, but also puts me in a better mood, like a nice buzzy diet pill.

Instead of getting angry at myself for not completing a project on a self-imposed deadline, I'll remind myself that I've actually gotten other stuff done and there are only so many hours in the day [there are fewer hours than that, even, once you factor in all the episodes of Psych I'll be watching back-to-back-to-back. What?!], and putting something off for another week is not the end of the world, and instead, may be more realistic.

I'll also work on being healthier.  Sure, I'd love to fit into my smoking hot mini-skirts and tank tops from yesteryear, but not only would they be highly inappropriate in my current workplace [which is not a brothel or a rap music video], but I also have moved on from wearing a black tank top and black skirt to define my style. O.k., we both know that is a lie and that would be my uniform except that people would start to notice and think I was trying to be Morticia Addams, so . . . what the fuck am I talking about? Oh, be healthier.  I want, for no reason whatsoever, to be able to run full-out down the street like I did when I was a kid and not end up with cardiac arrest.  [This would actually be a bonus if I were chased by an axe-wielding maniac, but that's not my primary reason.]  My cousin is going to run a half-marathon in April and is trying to convince me to . . . walk a 5K.  That's like 500 feet, right?  I can do that.  Ish.

What are your hopes and dreams for what may be our last year as Mayans?