The most horrible feeling in the world as of right now is realizing that the demon you thought you had beaten so long ago wasn't beaten. Just beaten down.
You tell yourself "I did it! I beat you, and you'll never be back to bother me again!". And you convince yourself of this. And you convince everyone else around you.
"Oh, I don't need medication. I've recognized my triggers and can see when I'm going down a dark path. I just choose to turn around!"
You try to be positive and happy, and it works. For a while.
The problem is that it's all a lie. It's a false sense of security. Before you even realize it, you are in the tightest grip of all and you can't see any way out of it. At first, you blame family drama. And then you blame change in seasons, or monthly menstruation. Or you take it out on someone you think is after your happiness. And then you try to blame it on your feelings of rejection from the one you love the most.
But the reality is - depression never leaves forever. And you can't do it alone. And by the time you realize you're in it, you've made too many mistakes to say "I need this. I can't do this.", because then it just sounds like an excuse.
I'm going to take advantage of that EAP at work. I can't do this alone, and I've effectively caused my own rejection from the one I need the most because I made him feel as if I don't trust him.
I'm so tired of being sick and sad and in pain. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't function. I can't I can't I can't. And I need to. And I will. But it will take some time.
18 October 2011
30 September 2011
05 May 2011
"Where's Part Deux?"
I know, I know. You are all waiting for the second installment. I'll post it when you least expect it. Like...next Christmas.
Hey, these things take time!
Hey, these things take time!
01 May 2011
Part 1: The Unseasoned Traveler (Needs More Salt)
This is the first post in a series of...a few... posts which will haphazardly chronicle my recent trip to New Orleans, Louisiana for the NO Marriott Shake Ya Brass! Jazz Fest Experience. I was blessed and lucky enough to have a good friend who is a travel writer and was invited to do a story on the NO Marriott. Or the travel company. I honestly can't remember which, so I'm not naming names. Other than the very important ones that you, dear reader, will need to remember.
I'll begin with Delta Airlines. More importantly, the airport in Akron, Ohio. This airport is the shortest drive from my home, therefore the first choice. That's the only reason I'll use it again. If it were a house, they would describe it as "Cozy and charming". They'd lie to you. Security was pretty lax and involved one disorganized line that wrapped around to the check-in desks. I would say it moved quickly, but I'm pretty sure that I dozed off while standing there.
I hesitate to call the biscuit tin with wings an airplane. I believe it was the Airbus, seating an estimated total of 140. It was straight out of the early 80's, complete with dilapidated seats and the stale smell of body odor and farts. It was grand. We were late on take off due to Akron having had to close a runway for repairs. My 7:00am flight turned out to be 8:00am, which made me late for my connecting flight in Atlanta by about 2 minutes. TWO MINUTES. Urgh.
The attendant at the arrival gate was reluctant to be helpful. I'm not sure I blame her, I'd hate that job. Do not rely on the Delta app to rebook your flight, I kept getting an error. Also keep in mind, the digital boarding pass on your Delta App is not available everywhere. Short version - I was booked on the next flight out which turned my 35 minute layover into almost 2 hours. Not terrible, as I've never had to navigate my way alone in that airport. Hell, I've never navigated alone in any airport. Tracie is not a seasoned traveler. In fact, this is her first flight ALONE.
*cue heartwarming music*
Enough with the whining about air travel. I got to NOLA safe and sound, and still before my travel partner. My driver (oooooo fancy!) was waiting by the baggage claim in Louis Armstrong with a sign with my name on it. I took his picture, because I'm a Yankee Yokel.
This is Bruce, possibly the nicest person I have ever met.
If you ever happen open the occasion that you would need a limo service in New Orleans, call up American Luxury and request this man. Also, tip generously.
We'll skip what happened once I arrived and checked in, because it pretty much involved de-stinking and a nap. I will tell you - the elevators in the NO Marriott are just nuts. There is a key-pad in the elevator bank with an LCD screen. You punch in your floor number, and it assigns an elevator, A - H. Very strange, and I had to have the lady checking me in repeat what I needed to do to get an elevator. I adapted pretty quickly, no mishaps there!
My friend arrived around 4 or 5 in the evening, and we had dinner at 6. I really can't give too many details about that because it involved neither menu, nor detailed itinerary for the evening - and my short-term memory is garbage. I'm the person that has to have pictures and souvenirs, or I forget the whole damned thing. Luckily, I have pictures! Not of the gumbo (picture my sad face).
What I can tell you is that Chef Mark Quitney is a genius in the kitchen. Genius may not even be appropriate, because what he does with gumbo is magic. My favorite food is Cajun food, and I was hesitant to like anything gumbo related that did not have pork andouille sausage. Chicken sausage is notoriously dry, but the flavor is unmatched. The chicken andouille sausage in this gumbo was not dry at all, and was magnificent! I died of happiness when I tasted this gumbo. And that's seriously all I remember from that dinner. I like to think it's because the gumbo was just that delicious. The salad was simple, but garnished with shallots. I had to ask what they were, and now I know why they're always raved about. Shallots are nummies. Yes, I said nummies. Somewhere, my friend is shaking her head in complete embarassment.
The woman I was seated next to - we'll call her Fork Lady - claimed to be a travel and food reviewer. Not only was she unbearable in conversation, but she had the audacity to request hot sauce for the gumbo prior to even tasting it. Chef Quitney is giving us a wonderful description of how he created his recipes, why he chose the wines and where they came from, and Fork Lady is just drip-drip-dropping glops of hot sauce into her gumbo. I was embarrassed. Aside from that, she was rude and bossy and continually interrupted the head chef during his monologue.
I digress, I'm not going to focus much more on Fork Lady. I just made a promise to myself and my friend that we would avoid sitting near her in the future. Instead, behold the fresh red fish.
After dinner, full and tired from the trip, we retired to our room to shower and rest up for the early wake up we were facing on Thursday.
Before I end this post, let me tell you that the lobby area of the NO Marriott is gorgeous. The Fahrenheit Lounge in the center was dim and luxurious with a full service bar. Easy navigation to the Starbucks and gift shop, staffed by the most helpful and polite people I've ever met working in a hotel. The room? Not as fancy. Very basic, and I mean very basic. Two double beds that were nicely made up, a desk and desk chair, an easy chair and a flat screen tv. The bathroom was like a closet with plumbing. I was told that NO Marriott had recently renovated the lobby area, so I am left to assume that room renovations will follow. At least, that's what I'm hoping. The magic of the hotel ends as the elevator opens to your floor.
Stay tuned for Part Deux.
I'll begin with Delta Airlines. More importantly, the airport in Akron, Ohio. This airport is the shortest drive from my home, therefore the first choice. That's the only reason I'll use it again. If it were a house, they would describe it as "Cozy and charming". They'd lie to you. Security was pretty lax and involved one disorganized line that wrapped around to the check-in desks. I would say it moved quickly, but I'm pretty sure that I dozed off while standing there.
I hesitate to call the biscuit tin with wings an airplane. I believe it was the Airbus, seating an estimated total of 140. It was straight out of the early 80's, complete with dilapidated seats and the stale smell of body odor and farts. It was grand. We were late on take off due to Akron having had to close a runway for repairs. My 7:00am flight turned out to be 8:00am, which made me late for my connecting flight in Atlanta by about 2 minutes. TWO MINUTES. Urgh.
The attendant at the arrival gate was reluctant to be helpful. I'm not sure I blame her, I'd hate that job. Do not rely on the Delta app to rebook your flight, I kept getting an error. Also keep in mind, the digital boarding pass on your Delta App is not available everywhere. Short version - I was booked on the next flight out which turned my 35 minute layover into almost 2 hours. Not terrible, as I've never had to navigate my way alone in that airport. Hell, I've never navigated alone in any airport. Tracie is not a seasoned traveler. In fact, this is her first flight ALONE.
*cue heartwarming music*
Enough with the whining about air travel. I got to NOLA safe and sound, and still before my travel partner. My driver (oooooo fancy!) was waiting by the baggage claim in Louis Armstrong with a sign with my name on it. I took his picture, because I'm a Yankee Yokel.
This is Bruce, possibly the nicest person I have ever met.
If you ever happen open the occasion that you would need a limo service in New Orleans, call up American Luxury and request this man. Also, tip generously.
We'll skip what happened once I arrived and checked in, because it pretty much involved de-stinking and a nap. I will tell you - the elevators in the NO Marriott are just nuts. There is a key-pad in the elevator bank with an LCD screen. You punch in your floor number, and it assigns an elevator, A - H. Very strange, and I had to have the lady checking me in repeat what I needed to do to get an elevator. I adapted pretty quickly, no mishaps there!
My friend arrived around 4 or 5 in the evening, and we had dinner at 6. I really can't give too many details about that because it involved neither menu, nor detailed itinerary for the evening - and my short-term memory is garbage. I'm the person that has to have pictures and souvenirs, or I forget the whole damned thing. Luckily, I have pictures! Not of the gumbo (picture my sad face).
What I can tell you is that Chef Mark Quitney is a genius in the kitchen. Genius may not even be appropriate, because what he does with gumbo is magic. My favorite food is Cajun food, and I was hesitant to like anything gumbo related that did not have pork andouille sausage. Chicken sausage is notoriously dry, but the flavor is unmatched. The chicken andouille sausage in this gumbo was not dry at all, and was magnificent! I died of happiness when I tasted this gumbo. And that's seriously all I remember from that dinner. I like to think it's because the gumbo was just that delicious. The salad was simple, but garnished with shallots. I had to ask what they were, and now I know why they're always raved about. Shallots are nummies. Yes, I said nummies. Somewhere, my friend is shaking her head in complete embarassment.
The woman I was seated next to - we'll call her Fork Lady - claimed to be a travel and food reviewer. Not only was she unbearable in conversation, but she had the audacity to request hot sauce for the gumbo prior to even tasting it. Chef Quitney is giving us a wonderful description of how he created his recipes, why he chose the wines and where they came from, and Fork Lady is just drip-drip-dropping glops of hot sauce into her gumbo. I was embarrassed. Aside from that, she was rude and bossy and continually interrupted the head chef during his monologue.
I digress, I'm not going to focus much more on Fork Lady. I just made a promise to myself and my friend that we would avoid sitting near her in the future. Instead, behold the fresh red fish.
After dinner, full and tired from the trip, we retired to our room to shower and rest up for the early wake up we were facing on Thursday.
Before I end this post, let me tell you that the lobby area of the NO Marriott is gorgeous. The Fahrenheit Lounge in the center was dim and luxurious with a full service bar. Easy navigation to the Starbucks and gift shop, staffed by the most helpful and polite people I've ever met working in a hotel. The room? Not as fancy. Very basic, and I mean very basic. Two double beds that were nicely made up, a desk and desk chair, an easy chair and a flat screen tv. The bathroom was like a closet with plumbing. I was told that NO Marriott had recently renovated the lobby area, so I am left to assume that room renovations will follow. At least, that's what I'm hoping. The magic of the hotel ends as the elevator opens to your floor.
Stay tuned for Part Deux.
23 April 2011
On the finer aspects of woman-hood.
If you are a woman, have ever been a woman or are about to become a woman, or maybe you're just a man who likes to read things about being a woman and that blog about how horrendous the experience of reading such drivel can be, including the massive run-on sentences - continue reading.
No, today's topic is not about zombies or camping or rescue animals. Or camping with rescued zombies. It's about the menses. We all do it, unless you don't. Some of us start at very young ages (I was 10, aren't you enlightened?) and some of us start quite late. Some of don't start at all. However, the topic is going to be centered around SANITARY NAPKINS (ZOMGZ!) and the marketing.
I'm 32 years old, which means I've been a slave to the feminine hygiene industry for approximately 22 years. My daughter turned 10 years old yesterday. After I scraped myself off the floor and unfolded myself from the fetal position, I told myself "Self. Arm thee with knowledge, for thine clone shall soon be in the throes of puberty! GOOGLE!"
Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't google the phrase "first period" because I forgot what mine was like. Nor did I do it because I have no idea how to shop for things such as pads and tampons. I'm quite loyal to Kotex, and have been for quite sometime. I googled because sometimes, some places have these things called "kits" that you can either get for free because they are full of samples, or for a minimal fee.
I found a kit before I stopped looking. $19.95. Whut?! What in the fresh hell are they packing in these kits that is worth $19.95? Plus shipping and handling? Pain killers? Oh no, nothing that useful. No, it's a few booklets, a "heat pack" that resembles a breast implant, and some cheaply made change purse that they claim can be used to hold a pad INCONSPICUOUSLY. I don't know about you, or even the general male population - but even at age 10 I knew that a lilac colored pouch probably contained something for the bathroom. Save the twenty bucks because it can buy about four full sized packages of tampons. Or a two six packs of beer.
The thing that caused me the most shock, and a bit of indignant sputtering - was this marketing tagline: "Who says tampons can't be stylish?" found within this website: http://www.ubykotex.com/
Really, Kotex? Really?! U by Kotex is a line of feminine hygiene products that are marketed toward...I don't know, fashion forward women? Apparently the theory is that women who are conscious about their appearance will be delighted by products encased in neon wrappings? I'm only speaking for myself here, but the only time the wrapping of menstrual pad made my day was when they stopped with that loud cellophane plastic-y shit and replaced it with something that resembled fabric and made no noise at all when you shoved it in your pocket and raced off to the bathroom. THAT was genius. Why neon? Am I supposed to show this to my friends, hoping to make them jealous?
The important question is this: Will I now have to buy new shoes? And how come I can't buy a box solely in one color? Why not all hot pink? Or better yet - let's market to the goths. Let me buy tampons wrapped in black, the color of my soul.
Upon further investigation (you know, since I was searching for "first period" kits for my daughter) I found a section of the website under Products entitled "Tween". That's what I'm looking for! Since my angel baby is now a tween (picturing me falling out of my chair to a sobbing heap on the floor). So many products! So many options! Oh...wait...nope. There's regular and heavy. That's it. That's okay, BECAUSE THERE ARE PICTURES OF STARS AND HEARTS ON THEM!
Seriously! http://www.ubykotex.com/products/tween
I know there are other brands out there, but I've stated before - I've been loyal for almost 22 years. I could never find a product from another manufacturer that I preferred. But they kill me with the PICTURES on the MENSTRUAL PADS!
Newsflash: We bleed on those. Now, I can't speak for anyone else, but when you're on your period - do you really give a fuck what your pad LOOKS like? Particularly if you are within the ages of 10-12. Your world has been turned upside down. You've got boobs, your back and your stomach hurt so bad you just want to go to bed and die - but you should feel better because you have hearts and stars on the pads your asshole mother threw at you in the midst of your first PMS rage! Aw! Bonding!
Really? I mean, I could go buy those for my daughter. I could give them to her now and let her know where they need to be for when The Event occurs. Knowing her, she'd probably look at them and then look at me and say "Really, Mom? Really?". She is my daughter, after all. I suppose it could be worse. There could be a market for Justin Bieber Menstruation Blankets.
And don't even get me started on this: http://www.divacup.com/
"DivaCup is comfortable, Reusable." <---WHAT?!
30 November 2010
Zombies: What Hollywood (and books!) Have Taught Me.
This post will delight and frighten you. It will entertain and enlighten you. And, no, you will not be getting the time back after reading this.
Anyone that knows me knows that I have this unhealthy obsession with zombies. The Hollywood glamourization (oh, I made a word!) of them, not the voudoun bit with drugs and mindless slobbering.
First, let's explore why they're so frightening:
1. They feel no pain.
I have never heard a zombie yell out "Dude! WHAT THE FUCK!" when you lob a brick at their face. What you get is more of a "Unnnnnhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnn", and they keep stumbling toward you with their mouth hanging open like a slack-jawed yokel. That's terrifying (the yokel, not the zombie). If you can't cause them pain, there's no hesitation. There's no "hey...maybe I should pull back a little and plan a way around that shotgun blast to my face". Just zombie mouth on your meaty bits.
Which brings us to:
2. Transmission is faster and more likely than contracting The Clap.
If Zombie Disease were an STD, all the Frat Boys would be nomming on each other. Every writer has their own version of transmission. The scene in 28 Days Later where Brendan Gleeson contracts the Rage Virus because a fucking ZOMBIE BLOOD DROP lands in his GD eyeball? What the fresh hell?! Now, you know to add goggles to your survival pack. Fucking goggles. Because your eyeballs are now vulnerable.
3. More zombies by the minute.
I've already mentioned that transmission is stupid quick. There's no prophylactic to bar against it. There's only duck and dodge. And hand grenades. So let's say at 9am there are 3 zombies milling about your house. By noon, you'll have 30. Have none of these people seen a movie?
If your neighbor comes stumbling over to your house with half of his face hanging off, and instead of dropping at your feet he dives at your face - what do you do? You do not help this man! No! YOU SMASH A BAT INTO HIS FACE. He is not coming to you for help, HE WANTS TO EAT YOUR BRAINS. This is why the zombie apocalypse happens in movies. They have no Hollywood History to go by. Because of that, they fall victim. Quickly.
Now it's 9pm and everyone in your town has succumbed to cannibalism, save for you and that other asshole with all of the guns.
4. Zombie Biology: How The Fuck Does THAT Work?!
Mmkay. Number one, you're dead. B, you're decaying by the second. What happens when you die? First and foremost, your heart stops beating. Which means blood is no longer coursing through your veins to all of your extremities and vital organs. Your heart and pancreas and liver are no longer filtering out the baddies and sending the blood straight back through clean. You. Are. Dead. First, you shouldn't be able to move after rigor mortis sets in. So as a zombie - you've got about a good 3 hours of chomping before you're easy prey to the living. Maximum stiffness (hardy har) takes up to 12 hours to achieve.
So, for 3 hours you're whooping it up. Brain party. Munching like a pothead at a White Castle. After that initial time, your muscles begin to stiffen. Why? LACK OF BLOOD FLOW. You know, because your heart's not beating. Your brain can only control so much. After that, for almost 3 days - you can't move. You're barely going to wiggle, let alone run after scream queens in the shopping mall. Assuming a zombie has any logic and reasoning skills, you may have found a safe place to hole up until rigor mortis passes. It's not like you're going to starve to death. All you can do is lean and "uhhnnnnnnn". God help the poor soul that finds you on day 4 and decides to poke you.
And now the last, yet most important point:
5. Zombies: Dey iz nut smrt.
This is a smart zombie:
He pumps his own gas, herds the other zombies to safety (and/or food), he even figured out DOOR KNOBS. Now you have the most dangerous animal on the planet. He feels no pain, doesn't get tired, can duplicate himself faster than amoeba, AND HE PUMPS HIS OWN GAS. He'd almost be the perfect man, aside from the whole 'wants to eat you' thing.
This is a dumb zombie:
My eyes are up here...
Hey...back here...hallooooo...
So anyway, zombie logic and reasoning. Does not exist. Even if George Romero created a zombie that relearned things like...hand eye coordination and pulling that trigger makes things go BOOM! And how did he figure out that the fire works were set off as a distraction? All of a sudden his decaying and dead brain is all "EUREEKA!! They're trying to TRICK US! THOSE BASTARDS!! ZOMBIE COUP!" and all of a sudden he's Che Guevara raised from the fucking dead? Nnnnnnno.
Which brings me to my closing (I know, I'm sad too). Every book and movie out there has tried to blame the Zombie Apocalypse on something rational. Science gone wrong, deadly pygmy monkey virus, sexually transmitted disease, etc. This does not explain how it can all break the basic rules of biology. It is physically impossible to become a zombie. There can be no zombie apocalypse if it were the fault of science.
Which only leaves one plausible answer: MAGIC!
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