finslippy

Here is where I am living now. Forward my mail, please.

Utah is innard-dessicatingly dry, and Scott could never find work here, and my family would weep forever if we were to move here, and also all our stuff is in New Jersey. Nonetheless, I cannot leave Utah, ever. Because Utah has this.

This is my two-year-old niece, whom I want to eat whole. Perhaps on a baguette, with some horseradish sauce to offset the sweetness. I haven't seen her in a year. Now she's talking and toddling and asking me how I'm doing and whether I like apple juice and I AM NEVER LEAVING.

Scott and Henry are not yet aware of my plans for us to remain here forever, but I suspect they won't put up too much of a fight.

I mean, come ON. Tell me you could walk away from THAT.

Vacation!

Dear friends, I'm off for a two-week vacation, which will culminate in the frenzied bloodbath—I mean tender lovefest—known as BlogHer. I will try to update when I'm away, but I promise nothing. In the first week I'll be in Salt Lake City, visiting my brother-in-law and his gorgeous family and baking in the dry desert heat, and then I'll be in San Francisco, shivering in their weird hippy eternal springtime. Expect some photos.

Here is a story for you.

We begin with Alice, walking her dog, listening to her iPod. Not bothering anyone. Turning the corner, she sees a small, furry blur rushing toward them. A dog, a comically tiny dog, is running out of a backyard, and headed right for Charlie. It's trailing a leash, so she figures the owner must be somewhere behind it.

Charlie, who is not a lover of other dogs, promptly freaks, attempting to get as far away from the other dog as his leash will allow. Alice tries to continue on, but the dog follows. Where is the owner? No one is showing up to explain why this puffball of a dog is free to accost the general public. The dog, whom Alice has named Teeny, appears to want to play, but the playing is taking the form of nippy neck-lunges. Charlie assumes that the dog wants to tear open his carotid. Unable to make a run for it, he finds himself running in frantic circles around Alice. Teeny follows. Yay! Fun times! thinks Teeny. (Actually, Teeny is probably thinking "tththththththththththththth" because Teeny has a brain no bigger than a nail clipping.) Having grabbed Teeny's leash, Alice is now thoroughly tangled. Her earphone cord somehow gets involved with the leashes. It's chaos. "Hello?" Alice calls out to the empty street. "Whose, uh, dog is this?"

Charlie backs away and slips out of his collar, freeing himself, and darts into the street. Teeny tries to follow. Alice screams for him to return, but he's no fool. And go back to that tiny scrabbly thing who wants at his precious neck parts? No thank you. He can still be seen at the far end of the block, peeing on a bush, eyeing that hateful tiny thing. Alice lets go of Teeny's leash and runs toward Charlie, but of course Teeny gets there first, causing Charlie to run farther away and cower behind a tree. Before both dogs run to the next town, Alice grabs Teeny's leash. She attempts to get Charlie to return to her using her most forceful tone of voice, and somehow he falls for it. Now she's managed to slip his collar back on him! Bet you didn't think that was going to happen! Meanwhile Teeny lunges and yaps and Charlie shrieks in horror. Someone's growling. Her? The dogs? Hard to say. She holds both dogs as far away as possible from each other. Now what?

There are at least two more minutes of Teeny lunging for Charlie and Charlie running in circles and Alice getting caught up in both leashes. There must be a smart way to solve this problem , Alice keeps thinking, I should be able to triumph over a dog who is the size of my fist. Is there anywhere to tie up Charlie for the time being? There is not. So she gets both dogs onto the porch of the house from where Teeny may or may not have come, and rings the doorbell. A larger dog barks and scrabbles at the front door. Charlie looks at Alice, as if to say, Are you inviting that dog out, too, because if you are I don't think I can live much longer.

She rings the doorbell. And rings again. Teeny tries to go for Charlie's neck one more time, and he lets out this mournful howl, as if he's calling out I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT. So Alice ties Teeny to a bench on the front porch of the house, and Alice and Charlie make their way back home. And either the owner of that house will arrive home and think, excellent, I see my evil tiny dog got out to wreak havoc yet again, or else, who left that curiously noisy koosh ball tied to my porch?

Back by popular demand

So, you all want to hear about how Henry got himself born? Well, here you go.

As if that's not all, here's my Wonderland column for this week.

Wii just want you to be happy

The Wii Fit is my passive-aggressive friend who has cool games but won't let me at them until it cheerfully bullies me into submission. A friend who only allows you one response: pressing the A button. This is a terrible friend. And yet I can't stop coming back to it.

Wii Fit: Hello, Alice! Haven't seen you here in a while! [A]

Alice: I've been busy. Give a girl a break.

Wii Fit: ….

Alice: [A]

Wii Fit: Scott was here just yesterday! He sure is getting in shape, wouldn't you say? [A]

Alice: Can we just get on with this?

Wii Fit: …

Alice: Sigh. [A]

Wii Fit: I see the deadline for your goal has past! Did you reach your goal? [A]

Alice: You know the answer to that, you bastard.

Wii Fit: …

Alice: [A][A][A]

Wii Fit: Oooh, I see you didn't reach your goal. You wanted to lose 5 pounds and you only lost 0 pounds. You've failed at this just like you've failed at so much else, haven't you, Alice?

Alice: [pressing A while staring at shoes]

Wii Fit: Maybe you need to set smaller, more manageable goals. Small goals can be encouraging for people like you!

Alice: Sniff. [A]

Wii Fit: I noticed that the last time I asked you why you weren't losing weight, you chose the option, "I don't know." Maybe you need to think a little harder about your choices, Alice!

Alice: ALL RIGHT, ALREADY.

Wii Fit: …

Alice: [A], DAMN IT, [A]!

Wii Fit: Maybe you should come here every day and think about what you're not doing right, and how you can start doing those things right. That's all I ask. Is that too much? Alice? Can you do that?

Alice: A...[lying across the Wii Fit balance board.]

Wii Fit: I noticed that your tears are wetting my balance board! Crying out all that water weight might help some, but another way to lose excess pounds is to stop cramming your maw with processed garbage! Which I saw you doing the other day when I secretly turned myself back on long after you thought it was safe! Those were too many chips for one mouth! That's a Wii Fit Tip!

Alice: [A][A][A][A][A][A]

Wii Fit: Okay, now it's time to have fun! You can stand up now! I'll let you do some Super Hula! And if you come tomorrow maybe I'll be a little nicer! You wait another day, though, and I don't know how I'll be. You tell Scott that, too.

Meanwhile

I see I have been remiss in linking to my Wonderland posts, so let's get right on that. Last week I discussed whether life in the city or the suburbs is better for kids; the week before, I talked about the daily-sex-advocates featured in the New York Times. Things are really heating up over there.

As for over here, one of my lovely readers suggested that, while I regroup, I should link to past favorite posts. And I think this is an excellent idea. It is also the laziest option. Thank you, reader! You are now my favorite. Your tiara is in the mail.

This weekend we went to a wedding reception in Philadelphia, and that reminded me of another wedding reception we attended four years ago—when we were young and foolish, and rented crappy cars, and laughed at New Jersey. Here's the full story of our car dying at the Hess Express.

Inspiration needed, please, thank you.

No way has it been nine days since I've posted. Those dates are wrong. Typepad is lying to you. Which is something I would never do. Also, butterflies taste like candy. No kidding. If you don't believe me, I guess you can lick one and find out for yourself, scientist.

It's Limbo Week here at Chez Finslippy, the week between the ending of school and the beginning of gloriously exhausting summer camp. Right now Henry has two friends over; they're in the next room, loudly re-enacting various scenes from Kung Fu Panda. Until they start kung fu-ing each other and blood spatters the walls, I'll just stay in here, quietly typing, hoping they don't realize it's lunch time and Food-Giving Woman has not yet supplied them with sustenance.

So I'm struggling with a creative block right now, or not so much a block as the feeling that the creative part of me has shriveled up. There's nothing blocking it, it's just a raisin. How do you go to a raisin for ideas? See, even my metaphors aren't working.

I find one good way of getting past these periods is to talk about them, so here I am, revealing my block to the world. I'm not too surprised, frankly. I got out of my daily writing routine when the miscarriage happened and my daily routine became sleeping and crying. It sounds about right that that part of me has atrophied a bit. And I know that these periods eventually end and are replaced by increased brilliance. (Or maybe that's only true for me.) Unfortunately my work demands more than me patiently waiting for my mojo to return. So I ask you, readers: how do you kickstart your creative energy? Just don't tell me to buy a Sark book, because Scott would never let me live it down.

Play me a tune, harmonica man.

The other day Henry up and starts looking for his harmonica, just like that. "I need my harmonica," he says. "Help me look for it." I have things to do (I believe I was peeing, if you must know) so Scott helps him. He hasn't used his harmonica more than twice since he discovered his hands, and I suspect that as soon as he find the harmonica he'll forget what he was going to do with it, but at least the search keeps him busy. Eventually the harmonica is located in his bedside table, next to all the other doodads he hasn't seen since the last time he opened his bedside-table drawer two years ago.

He breathes into the harmonica for a while. It sounds like the harmonica has a disease. Scott runs away. "I need to be alone," Henry tells me. As I flee the environs, he adds, "I'm going to play this tomorrow morning. I'm going to play it very early, before you're awake. I'll be outside playing a tune. So if you're wondering where I am, I'm outside. Playing a tune. " This, mind you, is the first time he's ever mentioned "playing a tune," or being outside in the morning, or being anywhere in the morning. It was an afternoon of firsts, over here.

I could pretend that I was up early the next morning, listening for mournful harmonica wheezes coming from the yard. But I can't lie to you, Internet. I was sleeping. And our front door requires a key to unlock it from the inside, so Henry wasn't going anywhere. Not that he was awake.

I told my friend Wendy this anecdote, adding that I wished I could make it into a blog post but there didn't seem to be a point to it, and she claimed that his lovable eccentricity made it more than enough, so okay then. My work here is done. Thanks, Wendy!

Sub. Mit.

Let's talk about Blogher. It appears that I am going to this year's conference. Last year I wasn't there, and I wept bitter tears all over my keyboard. Never again. Or at least not this year. This year I cry in person. All over you.

So this year there's going to be going to be a Community Keynote, a project spearheaded by one "Ms. Eden Kennedy," whomever she is. I hear she's tall. The keynote will be comprised of readings by you, the blogging people of the blogging world. Bloggers are invited to submit their favorite posts, and 20 of them will be chosen. I'll be helping with the selection, in the humor category. Go to this post to find out more. You also have to send the post to other people, not just me. So don't just start sending me stuff. I thank you.

Better.

Why, hello there. You know what helps one feel better? Prozac, and a Wii. Did I mention that last week was my birthday? And nine days before that was Scott's birthday? So we bought each other a Wii. Also, it's our ninth anniversary, um, tomorrow. And lo, we have a Wii! It's a present that keeps on giving. The Wii, that is. (Okay, also the medication. Huzzah for medication! Damn the naysayers!)

I am 39 now. And Scott turned 38. He's a baby. For nine days we were the same age, so we walked around nodding at each other. "Whoa," Scott said, and I said, "yup." He finally got it. Then I hurtled ahead of him and now he can't possibly understand my perspective on anything. I was born in the SIXTIES, man. It was DIFFERENT.

Nothing to see here

It was four weeks yesterday that I had the miscarriage, and it's a milestone that's whapped me upside the head. I'm not doing so well, folks. Who knew? I thought by now I'd be moving on, and instead I'm right back where I started. I'm hoping that with therapy and time and some helpful pharmaceuticals, I will regain the ability to move through the day and its many challenges without crying or  unleashing my rage at some unwitting bystander (oh, my poor husband).  If posting is somewhat light over the next couple of weeks, you won't stop coming here, will you? Of course you won't. Stop nodding like that.

I've tried to respond to all the amazing emails I've received, but some have slipped through the cracks. And I'm realizing that taking care of myself might mean not spending hours giving back to everyone who was kind enough to open up to me. So if you don't get a response, please know that your email (and/or comment) was read and appreciated, and that I would write a response if I weren't so busy watching "What Not to Wear" episodes and staring at my hands. I lead a rich, full existence.

But did you know? I actually managed to compose my Alphamom column for last week, somehow. And that's not all! As you may have noticed over on the right-hand column, over there, I'm in the anthology "Sleep is for the Weak," (the best title ever in the history of anthologies, if you ask me) edited by the infinitely capable Rita Arens. I'm proud to be in such excellent company, and so glad that Rita persevered in her quest to get this book out. I can't wait to read it.

Want to hear something funny?

I actually thought I was being hilarious, with that last entry. I thought that was a return to form. Hilarity was mine again! I'm back, baby! So imagine my surprise when the comments were in the "oh, honey" and "I am inappropriately hugging you in my mind" vein.  I then read the post again, and, huh, well, yeah. I guess all that talk of doldrums and not being able to dress myself appropriately said more than I meant it to. Now I feel a little silly. Silly, and odd.

To those of you who are worried that I need to seek professional help, please be assured that I have an entire army of professional helpers at my beck and call.  I seek the counsel of mental health-keepers  more than I talk to my friends these days. And oh, I wish I were exaggerating.

I went to see one of them today, one of those medication-prescribing  types, who declared that I am more depressed than I think I am, and menacingly waved her prescription pad at me. She, like the Internet, refused to be dazzled by my hot jokes and my jazz hands. Instead she wanted to know if I've been sleeping and eating, or just entertaining thoughts of suicide. Oh, therapist!  Who has the energy for suicide?  All I ask is to sleep for six months or twelve years or so. Is that so crazy? 

I actually don't think I'm doing all that badly, for the most part, except when I'm doing so badly I can barely breathe. I can engage in chit-chat, and play with Henry. I can go to the store, and do store things! I go about my day and no one is the wiser. There's just this niggling pain roaming about my insides, is all, and at intervals that pain will reach an intolerable level, whereupon I retreat to the bathroom and cry for a little while, or else a long while. But usually the former. These crying retreats have become less frequent, so that's encouraging. Right?

Meanwhile, my professional helpers are telling me that my grief is "normal" but also that I'm depressed. I can't quite wrap my mind around this, because as we know depression is abnormal,  and if this is normal, than it can't be depression. That's logic! Then again, I seem to be unable to think clearly, so maybe there's something I'm not getting or something they said that I forgot to listen to. Next time I should take notes. Or bring a translator. Or just stay home and mail them checks. 

I don't think I'm depressed as much as I am emotionally unmoored. Is there a prescription to help that? I don't know what to do, or what I'm supposed to feel, or how I'm supposed to… hmm. I can't remember how I was going to finish that sentence. I'm a solution-minded kind of person, ready to read the book or take the course or do the work that will make things better, and there's no solution for this. And I'm more than a little dissatisfied with this state of affairs.



 

Nor breath nor motion

Why, hello. And welcome! Welcome to my doldrums. I apologize for not fixing up the place, but there's been so much to do: sitting around, staring into space, muttering at the dog, attempting to nap. Making a sandwich and then halfway through forgetting about the sandwich and wondering why I'm standing there with a butter knife. Like that! So much.

Would you like some tea? I think I have some, somewhere over here. Of course making tea means heating up water and finding the tea bags and. What? Was I saying something?

Why are you jumping on the couch? No, no, that's not a ferret scurrying out from under the couch to attack you. That's a dust bunny composed of the intermingling of Charlie and Izzy's fur. Sorry about that. I would have vacuumed but the vacuum cleaner is so heavy, and who can figure out how to plug stuff in? It's like you need a science degree for that. With the larger prong and then the other one. Why not just one prong? I ask myself that more than you would imagine.

And yes, I was wearing these sweatpants the last time I saw you, thanks for asking. Stained, are they? Huh. None of my pants fit me, if you must know. This is frustrating. But then, at least I don't have a stupid ass face like you do.

Whoa! Where did that come from? I'm sorry. Your face is not even a little assy. Pants are a sensitive topic for me. As are shirts. Also, life. Can you just sit over there and avert your eyes?

I know the phone is ringing. It does that. It will stop, don't worry.

Also, just so you know, if you ask me how I'm feeling I may start screaming and not stop until you leave. I'm just getting a little weary of that question, is all. I feel like having a sandwich, is how I feel. If only I could work through how that's done, again.

Time for you to go? Lucky! I'm glad at least one of us can enter and depart as we please. If it's anyone, it should be you, and I mean that. Sorry about the, you know, dust bunnies, and the insults. Next time you come, we'll find some cups, and then we'll drink some water, maybe with ice cubes! Now if you don't mind, I'm kind of wiped out. You can open the door yourself, right? I thought so. Next time you're here, you'll have to show me how that's done.

Here's the thing.

I know I can have another baby—at least, I'm pretty sure—but right now I don't want another baby. I want the one I had. I saw that baby on the ultrasound, and I liked that baby. That baby was MINE. I spent hours staring at the print-out of what essentially was a gummy bear, and cooing over it. I decided it was some kind of genius baby. In the picture we have, it's kind of sticking its arms out, like it's waving hello at us. Genius! Clearly! Having people tell me that it's for the best, that I'll have another, that what I'm going through right now is all hormones, does not address the difficulty I'm having with the whole idea of THIS baby being gone. Indeed, it seems to imply that the baby wasn't real or meaningful to me. Having someone define the words I wrote in the throes of all this as "good thing it died, because it might have been disabled" makes me want to tear that person's throat out. No. I lost my baby, and it was a good baby, and it was the one I wanted. I realize I never met it, and that I'm not making any rational kind of sense. I realize said baby might have been a genetically nonviable scramble of material. But only I can say that. As for you, you badmouth my baby and I will kick you in the teeth.

I'm a little angry, these days.