Crazy

A week ago Thursday I had a nervous breakdown.

No, seriously.

I don’t remember where Erin was… maybe her boyfriend’s house? But I came home from dinner with a friend and completely lost it. I had a higher than normal stress level already thanks to a crazier than crazy week at work, but while that contributed, it wasn’t what made me upset.

It all started when I read this. To summarize, the post was written by a woman I admire, and contained her thoughts regarding those who recognize their own mental illnesses, but do not seek the help that they need.

…and the thing is… I do recognize my own mental difficulties. And I do want to seek the help that I need.

But I can’t afford it.

As in, I have no mental healthcare. As in, even if I decide to go anyway and work out a payment plan, I need a referrel from my pcp, and I'm not allowed in her office until I pay my back balance. As in, I can't both eat and pay my back balance.

So I lost it. And cried to Brian for close to an hour on the phone about how fucked up our healthcare system is.

And also about how… so what if I got help? What if I don’t want to get help? What if getting help actually makes me better?

You see, what terrifies me more than anything else, is that I might actually get better.

Because then it would be like nothing ever happened.

And do you see how not ok that is?

By the time I crawled into bed I really couldn’t imagine getting out again. Except that I had to. Because I had work the next day.

That Friday was the longest day of my life. I cried at least five times, sneaking into the company bathroom or out into the hall to try and keep it under wraps. A coworker asked me for a small favor that fell well within my job description and it was all I could do not to burst into tears and scream at him, “WHY ARE YOU PUSHING ME OVER THE EDGE RIGHT NOW!?”

I started to worry if my weekend might be spent in a ball on my floor.

Um… no. Seriously.

Erin was gone for the most part to her brother’s wedding, and for the first time in my entire life I considered whether or not I might need to check myself in somewhere to make sure I didn’t hurt myself or just go completely crazy before she got home.

I opted for bed, which was a bad choice since my upstairs neighbors decided to play music at midnight. Music I swear I could hear even in the confines of my basement where I finally set up some blankets for myself. Music a sane person could not have heard that far below them.

And so Saturday I gave myself an ultimatum. Curb the crazy or check myself in.

I started at the gym, took the day one step at a time, and made it through relatively unscathed. Told Erin what had happened, got honest with a lot of friends regarding my mental state, and only let myself do things I knew full well I could handle.

And I made it through.

So now I’m taking each day at a time. And so far, I’m doing ok.

But I wanted to share how scary that breakdown was… how scary a breakdown can be. Because I’ve always been of a firm belief that if I can count on anything in this world, I can count on myself.

And that few days not only could I not count on myself, but I didn’t recognize myself as anyone I had ever wanted to become.

Why He's my Best Friend

"What are you getting me for Christmas?"

"Bride, I don't have any money."

"Whatever, you still owe me for the hotel after the wedding."

"Oh right, what was that? $25?"

"No, only $15..."

"Ok... how about I give you my old UMaine Hockey sweatshirt and we call it even?"

"Ok."



Don't tell Brian, but I aready stole his good brown belt in exchange for the $15 hotel stay.

read this read that!

So I'm sorry for leaving you hanging on the whole romance between me and Mr. Indiana Jones, but I've been sort of busy writing about other things for other places.

As in, I'm officially going to be writing on a regular basis for the Weekly's music blog and I am really freaking excited.

My first post is up, so go here and check it out. Along with a charming little photo of myself where, unlike my last Weekly staff photo, I manage to not look like a Who.

And while you're reading that, I'll work on securing a third date with Indiana Jones, and report back as to whether or not he owns his own whip.

Woo!

Indiana Jones

Remember when I met a cute archaeologist in the midst of being a bar freak? And he was a good kisser?

We had a date last night.

But I'm not going to write about it because, you know, that was that other blog, and I actually really like this guy.

What I am going to write about is HOW FREAKING RELIEVED I was to find out that he's not conservative. Because lately, it seems that everyone I meet, is. And what the fuck is that? I mean, c'mon, this is Vermont.

You know, if you want to get wasted and pick up the (very young) captain of the local University's football team and bring him back to your friends house to kiss and stuff, you really shouldn't have to worry about him scoffing when you tell him you're against the war. Because then you have to shush him and pretend you have enough tequila in your system to let it slide.

I mean, that didn't happen.

I'm just saying it could... and I don't like it when it does.

What I do like is when cute archaeologists are not only liberal, they're 'green' too. Like so green that they want to start a business that has to do with being green. And SO NICE that they don't laugh in my face when I react with a big excited, "YOU KNOW, I'M ON THE WEEKLY'S GREEN TEAM!"

*Swoon*

I mean, it's not totally cool that he lives above the bar where you could maybe get wasted and pick up that young football captain... but that would only be a problem if that actually happened.

Which it didn't.

Babe, could you push over? We don't have enough room over here.

"So he's really leaving?"

"Yup."

"And he's taking her with him?"

"Yup."

"So they're going to live together and work together?"

"Uh huh."

"Hm... Does he realize that when you live with your girlfriend you can't sleep with other people?"

"I'm not sure."

"Wow. That could really throw off his lifestyle."

The Bar Freak

This is what my purse looks like when I get home from the bar:



Um... what the fuck?

My friend Tyson recently got a bartending gig, and in an effort to bring back the great friendship we shared a year ago, a friendship that fell victim to various love triangles and scheduling conflicts, I have started hanging out at his bar. The key to restoring friendship, it seems, is free tequila.

Yeah, like I couldn't have told you that already.

Hanging out at the bar with Tyson pretty much consists of watching him code html on his laptop while I fold paper cranes and we both spout random thoughts at each other regarding work and love and everything.

"You probably look like you're the bartender's girlfriend," my friend Allison decided.

She's right, and Tyson agrees. Which is great because it means creepy people don't approach me.

Tyson thinks it's something else that keeps them away.

"You're like... the bar freak. The crazy girl. The guy that sits in the corner just watching everyone."

Gee, thanks Tyson.

He's right though. You should have seen me last thursday - surrounded by paper cranes and glasses of water, eating a huge turkey and sourkraut sandwich. I was definitely the... "bar freak".

Oh, but wait? What was it that happened that night, Tyson? Was that the night the adoreable archeologist challenged me to a game of pool, and then a game of darts, and then a game of exchanging phone numbers, and then a game of kissing me good and hard by my car?

OH LOOK AT THAT TYSON! THE BAR FREAK WINS AGAIN!

Thanks, Bro.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

This year is my first "grown-up" Thanksgiving, and so far I'm loving it. What I mean is, I only get Thursday off from work, not Friday, so I decided to skip the four hour drive to my aunt's house for the annual dinner and am instead snug in Vermont doing dinner with the Veterans.

I had considered taking the day off and going anyway - combining the family Thanksgiving with a visit to Billy. But then he got wasted and flew out of the back of a pick-up truck that was going 30 miles an hour.

No, seriously.

Last night I baked white chocolate chip craisin cookies, and boiled some local Vermont cranberries into today's cranberry sauce. In a couple hours I'll start the next batch of cooking - sweet corn casserole and everyone's favorite green bean casserole.

And then it's off to Drew's to get fucking bombed.

No, seriously.

We might be thankful for the food, and thankful for our new friendships with each other, and thankful for living where we do as it means we can make our entire thanksgiving meal local and organic (yeah, we're hippies about that. So what?), but mostly we're all very thankful for our ability to self-medicate.

Which we will be doing entirely with growlers of locally brewed beers. SEE?

Really what I'm thankful for is the fact that I'm housesitting for the family that I used to nanny for. HELLO BIG SCREEN TV DOUBLE HEADED SHOWER HUGE KITCHEN AND GARAGE! Right now I'm snuggled up in bed watching the Macy's parade and with the size of this TV, those little Menudo boys are LIFE SIZED!

And does Good Charlotte not have a real drummer or something? Because they totally hid him under the Brooklyn Bridge on their float and all I could think was, "you finally get to be in the Macy's Parade and your whole family is probably gathered around the TV to catch a glimpse of you and you're stuck under the Brooklyn Bridge? Dude. That sucks.

Anyway, best wishes to you all for a happy day full of good food and good company!

And let's all put our bids in now for plenty of leftovers.

Does your poo sink?

Last week I had my first appointment with my new GI Doctor. That is, my fourth GI doctor in two and a half years. By now, I should be used to the routine questioning that comes with any first doctor's appointment, but I gotta say, this one took the cake.

Are you on any medication?

Yes. [Tells her].

Any other medication?

Well, birth control, but it's not pills, it's the nuva ring.

Is that one of those where you only have four periods a year?

Um... no.

Because I always wondered... like everytime you have a period, is it three huge periods combined?

Um... I really don't know.

Do you smoke?

Nope.

Do you smoke EVER?

Looks at her quizically

...No.

Drink?

Yes.

How often?

Whenever possible.

Twice a week.

How many drinks?

Depends on who's buying.

Three beers.

Coke? Heroine?

Nope.

Tattoos?

Tattoos comes after heroine?

Yes.

Where?

Exactly where they can't be seen.

Here. And here.

Are they legal?

No, they're fucking prison tattoos. And they're right next to my track marks.

Yes.

And have you been having regular bowel movements?

...

And do they sink to the bottom?

?!?!?


Welcome to the world of a girl with both Colitis, and constantly changing health insurance. Love the questioning. LOVE IT.

And oh, BY THE WAY, the last question? Where did that come from?

No, seriously. I remember my parents going over the basics of... healthy pooing... like when we were really little... and sinking was never discussed. Like, "wipe front, then back" was covered, and "tell us immediately if it's ever red" was covered, and "snakes are not going to come out of the toilet and bit your bum while you're pooing, Bride" was even covered, but never once was I prepared for a doctor to one day question me on whether or not my poo sinks.

I'm still somewhat baffled.

Crunkity-drunk-drunk

You know when you're a little bit drunk because they had free beer at the Worker's Center party? And you decide (in your partially drunk state) that it's really important that you go buy more paper for the peace crane project you have started in honor of the Veterans? And then you get really excited about all the different designs of paper and suddenly you've dropped forty dollars on paper (PAPER!?) and you think, it's ok, because it's helping to end the war?

And then you realize it's really NOT helping to end the war?

And that it's really just a way to keep your hands busy because wrapping your mind around the awfulness that is the state of the world is really just too much to handle? And pretending that folding a bunch of paper will somehow help all your new friends with 80% plus disability ratings is easier than digesting the weight of an 80% disability rating?

And so you go home and pour yourself a glass of wine because if folding paper isn't going to cheer you up, you may as well get a little more drunk?

Yeah.

I hate when that happens.

Cheerio-THIS!

I just saw that commercial where the little girl makes the Cheerio-heart card for her grandfather and I got all weepy-eyed about what an amazing grandfather my dad will make to my unborn children.

Is that sweet?

Or is that just retarded?

VetSpace

So this past weekend was Veterans Day.

I was sort of amazed at how many people were completely unaware. But I guess not everyone spends their days COMPLETELY SURROUNDED by Veterans like I do.

I called Billy, like I do every year, to wish him a happy day.

And I bought a card for Matt because I frankly couldn't resist when I saw the display down at Rite-Aid. After reviewing each of their super-macho-ultra-patriotic-republican-twinged choices, I finally settled on the one with three children waving American flags. The card read, "Hurray for Veterans!" and I signed it, "to my favorite one".

"I thought Nate was your favorite one," Matt laughed when he read it.

"You're ALL my favorite one!" I shot back.

"Favorite one" is my standard phrase for any and all Veterans, but especially the super cute, charming (protesting) ones that seem to have overtaken the Northeast. Like some sort of collector's item that can be bought and traded like baseball cards.

Of course in reality my favorite one is Billy. And unless Matt, or Nate, or any of the other cute/charming/protesting Vets can go back in time, pick me up in a snowstorm after my car breaks down, deliver me to my parents' abandoned beach house, and then make sweet sweet love to me (for the very first time) in my childhood bed, then BILLY STILL WINS.

Which brings me to my recent separation anxiety with myspace.

Wait.

What?

No, really. I recently decided to delete my myspace. My personal myspace that is. And despite my strong convictions that there is really no need to keep each and every person I've ever met up to date on EVERY DETAIL OF MY LIFE, there's been this nagging thing holding me back.

And I finally realized... it's Billy.

Fucking shit, Billy!

Because Billy was the reason I joined myspace in the first place. Back when he was still stationed in South Carolina and we would stay up all hours chatting online and we wanted to see pictures of what we were each up to in our own little corners of the world.

"Right, when you were stalking me," Billy reminisced.

"Uh, NO!" I fought back. "YOU WANTED TO SEE MY PICTURE TOO!"

"Ok, FINE," Billy conceded. "When we were stalking each other."

Yeah, that's more like it.

And as horribly pathetic as it sounds, I'm sad to give up my place in Billy's top 8.

OH MY GOD LOOK AT ME WHINING ABOUT TOP EIGHTS!

Sigh.

Oh well.

I guess we'll always have Veteran's Day.

Glasses Asses

Yesterday I finally went for an eye appointment and now I am hot again.

Wait.

What?

Back in college my mother paid for my contacts, bought me two new pair of glasses, and then said, "ok, you're on your own." As in, from that point on, vision was my own financial responsibility. As in... fuck.

So I did what any poor early-twenties girl would do and I made those contacts and glasses LAST. The one year supply of contacts lasted me about a year and a half, and the glasses lasted me almost three years. Before they broke. Both pairs. Because that's what happens when you're a nanny. Who drinks a lot.

Since then I've been wearing a pair of glasses with a prescription I was given in high school. Or to translate, since then I haven't been seeing very well.

Plus, when I decided to go without anything on my eyes for Halloween (glasses just didn't really go with my JEM outfit), I got the usual comments.

"Wow, you look really different without glasses," the Veterans told me.

"Oh yeah? Do I look hotter?" I joked.

"Yes," they said, without missing a beat.

"Gee, thanks," I scowled at them.

"Well I mean, I'd fuck you either way," Jon assured.

Yeah. Thanks.

So I finally decided it was time for an eye appointment. But when your healthcare does not include vision, and your wallet does not include money, that is easier said than done.

Luckily I discovered that Wal-Mart has eye appointments for only eighty-four dollars. Eighty-four dollars! And since I had put $100 in my health savings account the week prior, I was more than covered. Hell, that left sixteen dollars for medicinal tequila!

In the end, I spent one hour and $100 at Wal-Mart that day, and walked out with a new prescription, new contacts in my eyes, venetian blinds, a box of kleenex, coffee, and a strawberry frosted donut with sprinkles.

I might not be a huge fan of Wal-Mart, but I'm a pretty huge fan of that.

Let's raise a glass to Sleep[Aids]

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for going ahead and creating a new blog and then never posting in it. Ever.

The thing is, I've been pretty booked. Re-learning how to sleep. At night. Like a normal person.

And then this past weekend things got pretty crazy when my upstairs neighbor got wasted and threw a pumpkin through my dining room window.

But that's another story.

It's been about a year since I slept normally. Coincidentally, it's also been about a year since the murder. A year since I started leaving more lights on. A year since I lined up all my seasons of Friends next to my TV and started playing them all night long, waking every few hours to the "dun-da-da-da da-da-da da-da" of the menu screen. A year since my pre-disposition to inherited anxiety suddenly awoke in full force. A year since I lost the ability to CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

I mean, don't get me wrong. It's not like I haven't had a single night's sleep in a whole year. But if it happens infrequently enough that I wake up in wonder and awe and say to myself, "oh my god I think I actually SLEPT last night!", then SOMETHING IS WRONG.

Getting to the root of what that something is has been the bigger issue.

For the first six months of sleepless nights, I hardly even took notice. Sure, I was tired all the time, but I was also staying out late and getting up early. It never even crossed my mind to question why my few hours of sleep were never really sleep, but instead just restless tossing. I just waited until I arrived at my job as a nanny, and then snuggled up with the bay-bay, his hot little breath calming my own breathing and knocking me into deep unconciousness.

But when I got the job at the Weekly and suddenly had to face not being able to sleep on the job, my body was thrown for a loop. And I became very aware of the fact that my sleep at night was anything but.

And so I started going to bed earlier.

HaHA! Look at me! The innocent insomniac who did not realize that not being able to sleep has NOTHING TO DO with what time you go to bed!

So there I lay in bed. Wide fucking awake.

And you know what's really good for anxiety-ridden insomnia? More anxiety.

Oh my god I'm still not asleep. If I don't fall asleep right now, I won't get the full amount I need to feel rested in the morning. Oh my god I'm going to be late to work again. And shit, I have that meeting tomorrow and I'm going to yawn all the way through it. And fuck, guess what, I'm still not asleep.

It was around May that I said fuck it and started taking Tylenol PM.

GOOD GOD ABOVE! Who invented Tylenol PM? I fucking love Tylenol PM. It is my new drug of choice. By far.

But let's face it, it's not a solution. It's basically the same as drinking a half bottle of red wine each night before bed. Not that I'm judging anyone who does that. [Cheers to you!] But let's be honest, it's not like it's real sleep. It's drugged out, feeling a tiny bit stoned in the morning, sleep.

Which can be nice. I'm not totally opposed to feeling stoned in the morning...

But this week I decided that NO. NO MORE DRUGGED OUT STONED AM SLEEP! Just real sleep!

And do you even know how much effort that takes? Monitering your water intake and exercising the apropriate amount each and every evening and setting alarms to make sure you eat all your meals at normal hours and stopping all activity precisely one half hour before your ideal sleep time?

I don't work that way.

But for the past week and a half, I've been trying it. And while my results are thus far inconclusive, I can tell you what I do know and that is this: Re-learning how to sleep allows no time for blogging.

And so...

Goodnight?

Sox, what?

So in case you didn't hear, the fucking Sox won the fucking World Series last night!!!!

(If you're a Boston fan, you're automatically required to say fuck at any possible juncture. I mean, fuck.)

I would write a whole fucking lot about the fucking amazing win but am frankly still too distracted by the absolute fucking charm that is Jacoby Ellsbury.

Him, I'd like to fuck.

Last week gone, A new week to come

You know when you really have to pee?

No, I mean, when you really have to pee. Like, when you're on a road trip, and someone else is driving... maybe someone you don't know all that well? And you start to have to pee, but you don't know the driver that well, so you wait another twenty miles before you say anything? And then because they don't know you that well, they assume you can probably hold it? And then it's another 40 minutes before you finally stop and by then it's all you can do to not take off your seatbelt and spread-eagle your legs, just to take any and all pressure off your bladder?

And so the driver finally stops, and you leap out of the car with renewed energy and do that sort of half-walk-half-run that always ends up looking like a weird-skip towards the door, because you know, you don't know this driver that well, and you want to look cool, but really there are beads of sweat starting to break out on your hairline. And you know what? That sweat is probably urine. Because it has been that long.

And so you finally make it into the bathroom, and then into the stall, and the beat of your heart is already calming with the anticipation of the sweetest release known to man-kind: that is, peeing after such horrible torture, and you sit down and suddenly you realize...

...THE SEAT IS WET.

And then there's no way you can even enjoy that you finally get to pee, and in fact, you probably don't even pee all of what you have to pee, and you probably get back into the car still having to pee. Because the fucking seat was wet.

You know when that happens?

That's sort of how my week went.

It started out with such promise. The doctors told Erin she could come home this Thursday and with that said, we were in the home stretch. The home stretch of me being too scared to sleep, and her being bored out of her fucking mind.

Eric made plans to come up and visit and after a month of not seeing him, I was more than excited.

Matt the Veteran filled me in on a big event Friday night and included me in the tabling plans without asking, which some might have construed as rude, but I took as a compliment. I really felt like I was part of something important.

And then little by little, things kind of went to shit.

First the doctors decided that Erin could not come home. And more frustrating than their news, was their reasoning. Let's just say it was based on test results which had no comparison.

So here's to another week of hours camped out at Fletcher Allen. Another week of wanting so badly to do something to make my best friend feel better, and another week of realizing that no amount of cards, flowers, games, dvds, and other electronic devices, will change the fact that she's stuck in the hosptial.

Then Eric's plans to come visit fell through. And somehow, this lead to a fight. A pretty frickin' huge fight. And for the record, I do not fight with my friends. Like... ever. Talk about upsetting.

And then the Friday night event kind of pancaked. Is that an expression? I don't think it is, but it's the word that immediately came to mind. And what I mean is... it was good. It was fun. But it fell... flat.

There were people. But there weren't a whole lot of people. And there weren't a whole lot of tee-shirt sales. And Matt the Veteran's posse of groupies (ie infatuated college girls clad in super-cute going out outfits) were there, and while I find them adoreable in some respects, in other respects they just make me feel like the chump in the Cause tee-shirt and chucks, who buys the Veterans drinks and tucks them in at night, and let's face it, is past her cute-college-girl days, and somehow unwillingly merged into 'neurotic den mother'.

And then, after three encounters with a rude bartender, and four defensive plays against aggressive Veteran-groupies, I ventured to the bathroom where I was met with a crowd of college girls who, too ditsy to be aware of my presense, were talking shit about Veterans who speak out against the war, and in the middle of rolling my eyes, and sighing loudly, and saying quite audibly, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME," I literally unzipped my pants and sat down onto a wet toilet seat.

Yeah.

The fucking seat was wet.

And to be quite frank, it was all I could do to not just plant myself there for the rest of the night. In some downtown club's bathroom, dressed in activist garb, beaten down by the bartender's bad words, and with some other person's urine smeared all over my own ass.

Matt the Veteran was in a bad mood, too, and told me so on the way home.

"You know what?" I told him. "I can't wait for Monday. This whole fucking week has just been... off. Monday things will be fresh. Monday things will be good."

And I think it might be the first time I've awaited Monday with the anticipation of a birthday or a vacation, but at least it will be a new start. A new countdown until Erin comes home. A new countdown to yet another Veteran event. And maybe Monday will even bring some sort of resolution with Eric. Because I miss him. And as much as his words hurt my feelings (like, whoa, SO BADLY hurt my feelings) I just want to see him.

But not as much as I want Erin home.

Because if this past week has taught me anything at all, it is that Erin is my family here. Yeah we might have our stretches of time where we barely see each other because we're both so absorbed with our separate social circles, but at the end of the day we come home to the same home, and that's really all that matters. She's my closest relation within 230 miles, she's my designated emergency contact person, and she's the only person in this whole state I can completely confide everything and anything in, without judgement. In a relatively short friendship, we have faced broken engagements, anticipated weddings, murder, and soon, new babies. We've seen each other at our lowest, and we've seen each other at our highest. And, frankly, we've seen each other really fucking high.

Erin, you bitch, don't make my mascara run. Dropkick those fucking Fletcher Allen nurses and COME HOME. Me and Kathy Lee, we need you here.

Without you, it's just one big wet toilet seat waiting to happen.

Greenbean.

I’ve lately been trying to be more consciously green. And by green, I do mean environmentally friendly. Not… green-colored.

I guess it’s that whole ‘practice what you preach’ idea. I talk the talk, so I gotta walk the walk. I… shit… ran out of cheesy motivational slogans after only two. I’m so bad at this.

Anyway.

The Veterans and I recently went to see "The 11th Hour", Leonardo DiCaprio’s answer to Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth”.

Mmmm, Leo.

I’ll never let go, Jack! I’ll never let go!

It was a good film but one line from it has stuck with me more than any other message it tried to impart. That is, use your vote. And remember, your dollar is your vote. So only buy things that you feel ok about buying. Meaning, if you don’t like sweatshops, don’t buy sweatshop clothes. If you don’t like corporations, don’t buy from them. If you don’t like fast food chains, you really shouldn’t drink their strawberry shakes. And if you don’t like cigarette companies, you gotta stop getting drunk and bumming those Parliament Lights.

As we left the theatre I told Matt the Veteran how that was the line that stayed with me, and how I was going to make an effort to really start buying only products I felt ok about. And not just clothes, but all products.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I mean, Christ, your shower is full of Suave bottles. Suave!”

“HEY!” I countered. “Suave is only 99 cents!”

I swear to God that’s the last time I let that dirty-ass hippie use my low budget shower.

So with a fresh paycheck in my pocket, I stopped downtown on my way to the hospital to check out the latest at American Apparel and The Body Shop.

Using my vote at American Apparel is a debatable choice. After all, they don't support unions and their CEO has more than once been accused of sexual harrassment. But in the end I let the fact that the clothes are American-made override my dislike for all that, and for their pedophilia induced advertising campaign. I needed a couple solid colored shirts, and decided that the six or seven times I have cringed at one of their model’s crotches spread over the back page of the Weekly was not quite enough to cancel out the fact that there would be no sweat shop guilt upon leaving the store.

[At least not until 2009, when I strongly believe a scandal will break and we will all discover we paid $75 for leggings stitched together by blind grannies in the ghettos of Bagdhad. Or some shit.]

I dropped about two thirds of my paycheck there, and then traveled on to the Body Shop where I dropped over $20 on shampoo and conditioner ALONE. Yup. You heard me. From $2 on Suave to last me a month, to over $20 on little bottles that will force me to wash my hair only every three days. I clearly should have skipped the Body Shop and simply gone to City Market. No wonder hippies dread their hair. Green products are just too expensive.

And so at the end of my green shopping trip I found myself with one cute outfit, four or five showers worth of hair-washing, some face wash, and about four dollars left in my pocket.

Thank god Erin is in the hospital this week. Because if I didn’t have her patient room service to mooch off of, I’d be living on ramen.

I would end this by saying ‘it ain’t easy being green’ but that seems way too cliché.

And oh wait, I guess I just ended this by saying that.

hey! hey! Hospital Stay!

Erin was admitted to the hospital this week. Crack cocaine overdose combined with a raging infection of VD apparently lands you there. But they’re just calling it ‘exhaustion’.

No, I’m kidding.

Maybe.

In any case, she’s living at Fletcher Allen for a while, and so am I by default. After all, my anxiety certainly can’t handle staying at my apartment by myself! At least not for more than the few hours required sleep time! As it is, I had a very realistic dream about Michelle last night, and SWEAR TO GOD I heard a construction guy on a walkie-talkie in my living room yesterday morning.

We’ve been spending our time in the hospital folding paper cranes for a public art display we are planning for early November. I have to wonder when the nurses pop in, though, if they think we are folding them for Erin’s health. Like if we fold 1000, we might miraculously cure her tendency to sell herself on the corner by the OP. Or to do lines in the bathroom before watching the kids at the Y.

No, I’m really kidding.

The nurses are actually pretty awesome. And some are pretty adorable to boot. None are able to hook up our borrowed DVD player, though, and in that capacity, they suck.

And so we are watching episode after episode of EVERY CRAPPY TV SHOW EVER PRODUCED. With short blips of the Sox during commercial breaks, because Erin knows that I can only keep her company so long as I know how my boys are holding up, and I know that watching a baseball playoff game in entirety while already on an IV, might just be the thing that would kill her.

In any case, we are now accepting donations. Of… pretty much anything you want to give us. Whether it be more paper for cranes, or a laptop for Erin, or a sizeable monetary donation to the hospital itself so they can set themselves up with some wireless internet. Mmmm, Internet.

And maybe a flask of scotch while you’re at it? Erin’s got this crazy sci-fi anterior veina-cava tube set up, and we want to do some experimenting.

No, I really am kidding.

Seriously.

The Anniversary

This past Sunday was the one-year anniversary of the day Michelle was murdered.

It was also the one-year anniversary of the day we realized she was missing. Of the day Erin's friend assured me she was "totally fine". Of the day I curled up on my bed with my cell phone clutched closely, waiting for a phone call with any news, good or bad. Of the day I put all of Dorsey's birthday party supplies back in the fridge, only to stare at the veggie dip every time I opened the door until it finally went bad and I threw it out, unable to eat what had been meant for that night's planned celebration.

This past Saturday was the one-year anniversary of the day she disappeared.

It was also the one-year anniversary of my first time eating at Koto, and my first time doing sake-bombs. It was the one-year anniversary of my first time meeting Julia, and laughing at her tendency to eat raw miso paste. Of showing Dorsey's parents the O.P. Of assuring them, even if only with a locking of the eyes, and quick nod of my head, that I would keep an eye out for her, make sure she was safe. It was the one-year anniversary of introducing Michelle to James. Of silently thinking to myself that they would make a great couple. Of meeting Tommy and Mike for the first time. Of saving Michelle's phone number in my own cell phone, the official mark of becoming real friends.

This past Friday was the one-year anniversary of the event at Higher Ground. Of waiting until midnight to do birthday shots with Michelle and Dorsey. Of not having quite enough room in my car to get us all to the bar. Of making Michelle ride with an overhead projector on her lap, a memory that seems strangely surreal in comparison to the next night's events. Of later on allowing Dorsey to walk away from me towards another party in town, even though I could tell she was blacked out. The anniversary of the last time I would ever let that happen.

A week ago Sunday was the one year anniversary of the first time we lost Michelle. Of the first time she decided to walk alone back to campus. Of the party on Green Street, where Dorsey, Michelle, Erin and I all swigged cheap whiskey from the bottle Erin's friend had brought along. Of Dorsey, Michelle and I officially deciding to all move in together once Erin finally graduated and moved away. Of us deciding that if nothing else, our apartment would be awesome. Yes, it would have to be awesome.

Today was the anniversary of the day we took over Kinko’s. Of me setting up the kids I nannied with coloring books on the floor, so I could help Julia and Hannah run copy after copy of the Missing Person flyer.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we formed the search party. Of me not being able to focus on the seriousness of what we were doing. Of me instead worrying that my mother would have a fit when the news showed a shot of me wearing denim on denim.

Next Saturday will be the anniversary of finding her. The anniversary of leaving the staring people in the press conference and instead watching the news from the Channel 5 van outside City Hall. The anniversary of Tommy's anguished cry as he pushed by me, out of the van and into the arms of his mother who held him, and cried with him, for the girl he had grown up with side by side. The anniversary of buying out Like Cola's entire stock of red wine and piling everyone into my living room for our own non-denominational version of sitting Shiva.

Next Sunday will be the anniversary of Dorsey's parents returning to town. Of them buying us a hotel room to allow us a chance to hide out from everything. Of my old boss wanting to help so bad that she leant me a TV on which we watched endless episodes of Friends in that hotel. Of my first ever panic attack upon finding myself disoriented in the dark. Of our big trip to the Pennycluse, and Outdoor Gear Exchange to buy everyone pepper spray.

The anniversary of the official start to the winter spent under the influence.

The anniversary of the official start of Dorsey moving in.

The anniversary of the official start of the rest of lives, with every last bit of us changed.