I didn’t think I’d ever write again.

I’m not trying to be dramatic; if so, I would admit this with a slumped neck and the back of my hand held to my forehead. If you’re not dramatic like a southern belle, well you’re just not dramatic at all.

No, there’s no drama in the statement that I didn’t think I’d ever write again. It was just a matter of fact; a brick wall into which I ran. Actually, I just kind of walked into it and there I gazed into the mortar every day, trying to move my feet forward while facing that brick wall. I took steps, but I didn’t go anywhere.

What bothered me, was that this didn’t bother me. I was okay with being in this place, because I didn’t really have any other choice. There was this ho-hum acceptance of where I was over the last couple of months. Ho-hum, brick wall, la dee dah.

So what were the things that kept me from writing? If I had to guess I’d say first and foremost, winter. If I could weave you any tale with grandeur, it would be my disdain for winter. It would sound very Shakespearean and involve a lot of “doths,” like, “Back off winter, I am doth DONE with you.”

Because of my husband’s schedule, I spent a lot of January in a bad place; a lonely, dark, FREEZING COLD place. Hi, honey! Love you! It was so bad that I actually looked at homes for sale in L.A. Mmm hmm, Los Angeles, people. I needed real people to talk to and I didn’t care if they were complete strangers and mostly said, “Dude.”

But, February meant my husband was home more often and it means that March is coming soon and thank goodness it’s a short month! *said with slumped neck and back of hand to forehead*

There was also the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. No, I didn’t know him. I didn’t even know his name was spelled with one ‘l’ until he died, but when he passed it felt like someone came up behind me at the brick wall, picked me up and threw me into it.

I know people who have died from heroin overdoses. I know people who are in jail because of heroin. It’s personal. And, here was this guy with nearly-limitless resources, talent, assistants, managers, and no doubt housekeepers and a nanny, who could not keep this demon at bay. That scares me.

What about the people who are struggling to just keep their jobs and houses out of foreclosure, and take care of the kids, who might have the urge to take away some of the stress and pain? How do we stop them from using heroin to take them to a place that makes them feel better? How do we stop them from trying it the first time? How do we make sure our kids don’t try something the FIRST TIME? I still don’t know the answer to that. Damn it.

And there was Dylan Farrow (I will not type his name here), the terror threats in Sochi, and so much unbelievable news that I just couldn’t be that One. More. Voice. on the Internet.

But then something snapped, and by snapped I mean it was like a twig soaked in water, then bent back and forth until the bark came off. Then I twisted the wet, woody fibers underneath and gnawed on them a little. It was like that kind of snap. All of a sudden, or not suddenly at all, I wanted to write again.

And, I can’t really tell you why. Maybe it was my med changes, spring on the horizon, tougher workouts, completion of some work projects, more time with friends…I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. All I know is that I turned my back on that brick wall and I was writing.

I don’t know which direction I’m heading, but damn it feels really good to be moving again.

Follow

Email

As my 15 year old daughter came out of the bathroom last night, her 11 year old brother was waiting outside the door. When she entered the hallway, he jumped toward her with a loud, “BOO!” and scared the daylights out of her. I laughed. Mostly because she does her fair share of frightening people around here. Paybacks, dear. Paybacks.

I saw everything from where I was in my bedroom so I gave my son a thumbs-up and said, “Good job! You got her, but you’d better be careful because Dad scared me in that exact same spot when I came out of the bathroom one time and I almost pushed him down the stairs.”

He stared at me. “Really?”

I said, “Yes, really. I didn’t do it on purpose. It was just a reflex.”

And, the hearing impaired kid who suffered with belchy acid reflux for years said, “Ohhhh, I get it! So you burped and it almost knocked him down the stairs!”

Follow

Email

Last week my son got upset by something he had seen on television. He was sitting with both of us, completely supervised, but it was a movie scene which was a little too violent for his special needs brain to wrap itself around. Thanks a lot, Gollum.

My husband kept playing the stereotypical man card saying things like, “You’re fine! Go to bed.” I, on the other hand, hugged my boy, wiped his tears, and explained why we thought he’d be able to handle watching it (even though *cough* I knew he wouldn’t) and then we discussed, at length, the difference between traditional animation and computer animation.

At the end of the night, he put his 50 lb. body on my lap and said, “Dad says I got upset because I have too much of you in me, but I’m glad I do because you care.” I told him that he has plenty of his father in him and that Dad does care, but doesn’t know how to show it. Then I called a therapist for my husband. Not really, but I thought about it.

A couple of days later, my son and I were driving when we saw a stray dog. I stopped my car to help, but someone came out of a nearby apartment and took over the rescue operation. As we drove away, my son piped up from the back seat, “I’m kind of glad we didn’t have to help that dog.”

“Why, buddy?”

He replied, “Well, I can say this because it’s just you and me, right? I thought it was kind of ugly because it was one of those dogs whose tail stands up in the air and you can see its butthole.”

I laughed, “You sound like your dad!”

Excitedly, he said, “I do? I guess I do have him in me after all!”

Follow

Email

I finally removed my last-of-the-summer toenail polish today. It’s almost winter and technically only four of the toes had polish left on them. It was brownish/purple polish so it pretty much just looked like I had four bruised toenails. Well, five because one actually is bruised from the errant placement of a kettlebell.

Logically, I should have pulled out the cotton balls last week before I walked around barefoot in front of some friends. I’m sure they would have appreciated it. They probably would have liked it if I had waxed my eyebrows too. I did shower, though. So I have that going for me. And they for them.

I waited until today to remove the polish because yesterday we went to the movies at this ridiculously redesigned theater where the seats recline. Like REALLY recline.

AMC ain’t lyin’

A friend responded to this picture by saying she thinks we’re on our way to living Wall-E times, to which I say bring on the Big Gulps.

These recliners have nothing to do with my toes. You’re welcome.

The drive to the movies was perilous, though you probably couldn’t see that from the way my husband was speeding down the freeway. He’ll tell you that he was driving under the speed limit and I will tell you not far enough under. It was foggy, rainy, icy, and part of the interstate was shut down due to an accident.

You know how your mother always wraps her fingers around the handle in the car where you’re supposed to hang your dry cleaning, even though no one gets their clothes dry cleaned any more? Here, please soak my shirt in chemicals so I can breathe it in and wear it against my skin. Mmm.

Anyway, your mother. You know how she holds onto that handle and tells you how to drive and says things like, “Please don’t kill us!” – or, is that just my mother? Well, it was also me yesterday before we got to the recliners which have nothing to do with my toes.

So, this morning before mass I was thinking about those roads and our three block drive to church. (That sound you just heard was the collective gasp of everyone who lives in NYC.) I thought about the chance that we could be in an accident and if I went to the hospital, my treatment would suffer because of the state of my toenails.

Don’t act like if you were an ER doctor and someone came in with pretty toenails that you wouldn’t treat them before the person with four, no five, bruised toenails. Because you totally would. If you say otherwise, you’re lying to yourself and should probably go to therapy.

I didn’t want my healthcare in the hands of a student who would probably give up on medicine and go work as a seamstress after treating me, because fabric swatches don’t have feet. I wanted to be seen by a good doctor. Like the time when my daughter was in the NICU and my husband told the nurse practitioner that he wanted a real nurse, not one who was just practicing.

Because I’m a catastrophist I removed the toenail polish and made it safely to church. Which, sadly, also means I didn’t get any morphine or anything. But, at least my toes look pretty.

Well, nine of them anyway.

Follow

Email