Dear Diary,

My mother is an idiot.  Monday and Tuesday she was home from “work”, as she was “sick”.  You’d think this would mean she would do her duty and pay attention to me, but no.  She needed “rest”.

Whatever.

The whole enterprise was thoroughly exhausting.  Rolling on my back.  Romping on the bed.  Head-butting mom.  Tugging the covers off of her.  Tugging the covers off of her again.   Sitting on her head.  There are only so many ways you can showcase being cute for attention before it takes its toll.

I resigned myself to her insubordination, and retired to my new favorite spot: the dryer.  It’s cozy.  It’s dark.  It’s filled with bedding that they call “clothes”. It’s better than the supposed bed they bought me, which is only good for one thing: fornicating.

So yesterday mother finally emerged from her cave.  She stumbled around pitifully, hoarsely calling for me.

I could not be bothered.  The woman ignores me all morning and then expects me to come running?  Please.  There wasn’t even one chewy treat in sight.

In a vain attempt to exert some control over her life, she tidied up by putting some dishes in the sink… and closing the dryer door.

With me in it.

And proceeded to wander around, aimlessly calling my name.

It took a few minutes and some scratching to realize what she had done.  She lavished me with kisses and hugs.  She apologized profusely.  She gave me treats and rubbed my belly.  I eventually caved and granted my forgiveness, as humans are simple creatures who require care and patience.  The poor little dears.

I am a merciful god.

Bones,

Horatio

For the past two days, I have been in sickness hell, for which there was a brief reprieve for a couple of hours last night. Of course I thought I was fine and went out. Worst idea ever.

I am convinced there is some sort of devil inside of me trying to get out in every conceivable gross way possible.

At one point I found myself standing helpless in the middle of our living room. (I will spare you the awful specifics regarding that situation.) I was completely freaking out, upset and sick, asking the DOG what the hell I should do. Horatio responded by jumping on me, thinking I was going to feed him.

I couldn’t help but laugh. There I was, a grown woman, rendered helpless by my own sickness, seeking council and guidance from an eighteen pound Scottish Terrier who growls at walls and naps in the bathtub.

Being sick has never been one of my strong suits. I remember in the days of yore (middle school and high school), getting sick was a one way ticket to freedom. You may be sick, but you were taken care of, fed, and given a day of relaxation away from pop quizzes and geometry proofs.

It isn’t the same anymore. No one is going to bring you soup because your fiance is at work and can barely boil water. The dog isn’t going to be a bit of help, unless you consider him rolling on his back, whoring himself for a belly rub, beneficial for your health.

Instead I find myself alone, pitifully dragging myself from room to room. There was no one to help me up off the bathroom floor after an episode where I learned that apparently water isn’t acceptable to my stomach either.

So here I am, on the couch, grudgingly staring at a box of saltines, because it is the only thing that my body doesn’t reject. I am a loser who wishes she was at work instead of wasting away. I know, I enjoy going to work. Let me adjust my pocket protector and retape my glasses.

In being able to spend more time with the pooch, however, I did learn that Horatio likes to sleep in the dryer during the day, if the door is left open. Silver lining to the sickness cloud, I suppose?

Snapped by Patrick today out near Stadium Armory, which is in Southeast DC.  At least Fannie Mae didn’t steal their paint? Yeesh, sign of the times, I suppose.

I am donning my Serious Sally Cap for this post today, because something rather upsetting happened to me yesterday.

As a few of you know, I have Attention Deficit Disorder.  It’s not something I advertise.  I’m not ashamed, but it’s not a huge deal either.  It’s something I just sort of deal with, because there are plenty of people out there who are dealing with something more grave or dire in nature than my own pithy afflictions.

I haven’t been on medication for it steadily for a number of years now.  When I moved in with my father, and he asked me whether I needed to stay on my medication for ADD, I said “No, Daddy, of course not!”  (I had been on medication while living with my mother, from the age of seven to thirteen or fourteen.) It was a sad effort to be the perfect daughter.  While there were some consequences to that decision, I was young, and I lived in a structured environment that didn’t allow that much room for error.  I wasn’t forced to compensate much for my lack of internal organization and impulse control, because my dad and stepmother were doing it for me.

It all backfired when I went away to college.  Since I moved out on my own at 19 years old, I developed my own mechanisms for coping, but it’s always been a problem.  It’s something as an adult that is very hard to deal with, because you no longer have your parents to clean up after you.  You have jobs and bills.  I always felt completely overwhelmed. I could go into the ins and outs of what it feels like to have it aside from that, but that’s really not the point.

Yesterday I had an appointment with my new neurologist to get me back on track with medication.

As with any visit you make to a new doctor, you have a ton of paperwork to fill out initially, and you get the little mini interview by a nurse or doctor’s office desk jockey.

We were going over my medical history with the usual questions about previous surgeries, any allergies to medications, etc, when we got to the point of my visit.

She looked at my answer, which was “Attention Deficit Disorder” and looked a bit skeptical.

“ADD? You don’t really need medication for that, do you?”

I could not believe it.  I mean, I get that for a long time ADD was over-diagnosed.  It was the bi-polar disorder of the late 90s early 00s.  Still, it felt like a slap in the face.  I know, in a lot of ways it’s not personal.  She didn’t know me, etc.  And trust me, I hate that so many parents were so quick to label children just being children as unruly, “hyperactive” and in need of ADD medication.

Aside from all of that, given the setting of a doctor’s office, to be questioned like that… it hurt.  I couldn’t help but take it personally, sadly.  It’s not something I can help.  It’s something that has gotten me in trouble at work, with school, and in my personal life.

Part of me is still upset by the question.  It’s that look you get when people think you should be able to “deal with it” and “focus harder”.  They think you’re lazy and would rather medicate than do something about it yourself.

Thankfully the rest of my visit was great.  My new doctor is wonderful, understanding, and really gets what I’m going through.

Last night I filled my prescription, and I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.  My personality hasn’t changed, but I feel more in control and happier.  I feel like I’ve taken a huge step to improve my quality of life.

Well yesterday I somehow managed to get the honor of “Employee of the Month”, which really was shocking.  (Hooray!)  We also received our monthly bonus, and I was pleasantly surprised with mine.  To celebrate, I decided to continue to work on updating my wardrobe from the Liz of Yesteryear to Liz of Today.  I kicked off my new look with a new haircut, which I realized I never showed off here:

Please ignore the obviously exhausted expression.

Over the past two days I ordered three new pieces to add to my wardrobe:

Double Weave Blazer

Grey Wool Coat

Grey Twill Slacks

Instead of blowing the entirety of this month’s bonus on clothing, I treated Patrick (fiance) and myself a lovely dinner.  Spinach and feta pizza with wine. Yum.

As many of you know, however, I have this insatiable lust for handbags.  I have spent the past two days scouring the internet-earth for a bag that I love.  There is ONE bag I love, but Adventures in Shaw snagged it first, and us having the same bag is probably not the best idea, heh.

I never ended up ordering a bag, surprisingly, but I did come across this fashion disaster in my web-travels:

I’m not sure how or why this bag came into existence.  It makes no sense.  My first gut reaction was obviously repulsion, but after that I just had to wonder who really thought that this was a good design for a bag.  I guess if you’re color blind…

Aside from fashion, what is weighing on my mind the most?  The Redskins vs. Dallas football game this weekend.  I will sadly be watching this game all by my lonesome at Finn’s in Capitol Hill, as Patrick will be out on the Eastern Shore to celebrate his dad’s birthday.  Hopefully the only depressing thing about the game is that I will be solo.

Other than that, I was invited into a book club by a good friend which I am very excited about, and started another book club with aforementioned Adventures in Shaw. (Good idea, Miss Shaw!)

Since the phone seems to never stop ringing, and the people on these calls are extraordinarily long-winded at best, I will end this.

Is it Friday?

The concept is rather simple and quite compelling.  A poem called “The Culling Song”, a lullaby for the weak and infirm, is reprinted in an anthology of literary pieces from around the world.  The only problem is when uttered or even thought by someone, it will kill.

As with many of Palahniuk’s books (Fight Club, for one), this book does not suffer from a lack of colorful characters with a distaste for life and humanity.

While the characters are rich and interesting, I find them to be more of a backdrop than the actual story when I read his books.  His characters seem to be a stage where he once again revisits the idea that humanity is grotesque.

It often makes me wonder whether that idea is more important than the story he is telling to him.  I’ve read a number of his titles and often find that while the details are fantastically different, I feel as if I’m hearing the same morality tale over and over again.

Humans are selfish animals.  You may see beauty all around you, but it is tainted by greed, our base instincts, and our own cruelty.

The point is an interesting one, and I do see his point.

I would, however, at points during the story have to put the book down due to feeling, well, a bit grossed out from the imagery.  You can almost smell the stench he has created rotting off the pages.  While there were a number of points I felt like this, I’m not sure if I would call it gratuitous, as it all does seem to have a point.

I cannot deny his place in the literary world, as he is a singular writer with a singular voice.

Yet his books often leave me feeling unsatisfied.  The endings are neat and all the questions are answered, but I don’t feel like many of his stories truly go anywhere, other than to make some grand point about humanity.

I guess after pages and pages of pratically drowning in metaphor and how we’re all a bunch of “noise-aholics” and how our world is a foul beast, I expected a little more than grandstanding.  And for someone who seems to have such a distaste for our species, I’m surprised how he gets up every morning without seeing ugliness all around him.

Or maybe he does, and that’s why he can’t stop writing about it.

3/5 stars.

I remember when I lived far far away from the family, back in the days of Boston and Ft. Lauderdale, things seemed so difficult.  Well, for my first MAJOR adult relationship, which lasted about 2 and a half years, it was actually relatively easy.  He was Jewish and I was… well, not Jewish.  The holidays didn’t really have to be divied up.  Plus, we were in our late teens, early twenties, so for all the posturing of a “serious relationship”, we were still kids who went home to our respective families for the holidays.

In my last relationship with The Ex, we both were living away from our families.  His was in North Carolina/Southern Virginia and mine was in the Washington DC area.  The holiday season required finesse and planning, because we both came from divorced families.  There was the Christmas with my mother.  Then there was the Christmas meeting with my father in his office in Georgetown.  Then there was Christmas with his mother.  Then there was Christmas with his father.  All the while, Bubba was snoozing in the back of my Pontiac Grand Am as we drove up and down the East Coast.  (That’s right.  For those of you who remember him, Bubba is making an appearance in this blog.)

As if the plans themselves weren’t complicated enough, there was also travel time that needed to be included.  From South Florida.  About as far south as you can go in this great country of ours before you fall into the ocean.

I remember thinking to myself that it would be a wonderful day when I lived in the area and the holidays would be less complicated.

Flash foward to the present.  I’m marrying a lovely man who, as luck would have it, has family that is somewhat local; about an hour away from Washington DC.  We were a couple last Christmas, but we were still only a few weeks old, so this is our first official holiday season as a couple.  Very exciting stuff.

I got my wish!  Family in the area!  No horrendous travel plans!  No worries about vacation time due to travel time!

Yet here we are, in the midst of trying to organize our holidays.  Who gets what time of day.  When are we arriving?  Well we don’t have a car, so we have to rent one.  It’s not mired in drama, but it’s definitely still quite the event!

This year, more than any other year, I’m realizing how when you’re an adult the holidays just… change.

You’re not just orchestrating families anymore.  There are company parties.  There are your own parties and the parties of other friends.  Oh, Jesus! Do you have someone to watch your cat while you’re away?  And just how are you going to fit that 50 pound turkey in your freezer?  Don’t forget that Aunt Mildred needs a Christmas card too, otherwise she’s going to hound you for forgetting her again until next holiday season.

I still love the holidays without a doubt.  I do, however, miss the days when all I had to do was listen to awesome holiday music, watch awesome Christmas movies, and rip into awesome gifts.

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”.

Time really has no mercy when it comes to marching on, in spite of our protests. That, however, can be a good thing.  Memories that stung fade into white noise as wonderful and beautiful images, people, and events replace them.

The only downfall is sometimes you can be surprised by something out of left field that reminds you of a time, person, or place that you had completely forgotten.

As I was going through an old email account, trying to track down my ancient PayPal account information, I came across something that felt like a punch in the stomach.

An old email (an e-love letter, if you will) from The Ex.

He and I did not have a conventional start, to put it mildly.  It was written during a time where I was refusing to speak to him, as anything associated with him had become an operatic drama.  I chose the simplest solution: shutting him out.  He didn’t take to that very well, and sent me a virtual manifesto that he entitled my “Get Out of Jail Free Card”.

I’ll wait for you. I’d probably wait longer for you than you’d wait for me. For me, I’m tired of the game, tired of the hunt. I knew I would be when I found that certain someone that touched me in an inexplicable way. That’s you, Liz. I can’t explain it, wouldn’t want to if I tried. I just know we have something together.

I remember when I was writhing in angst and agony following our protracted and messy break-up, I would do the smart thing and re-read those words over and over again.  Apparently I enjoyed the pain.

To look back on it, I feel so detached.  I find myself saying things like “what pretty words these are”, but there is no emotion.  It’s like finding a curious coin on the ground and admiring the detailing, yet still unsure about its country of origin.

Heidi and I were chatting this morning about how it’s bizarre to look back on our life at the times where we felt our world was falling apart around us, and how wrong we were… a few times over.

We feel as if we’ll always be somewhat haunted.  Granted some “relationship ghosts” are harder to exorcise than others, but with time they blend into the background of your life.

Re-reading this letter, I could recall everything about the moment when I first read it.  Sitting in my small room in my apartment that resided in Brookline, Massachusetts.  It was snowing outside, and I was bundled up at my desk.

Then it was a proclamation that, in a lot of ways, terrified me.  I was not a huge fan of being chased or having my personal emotional “space” invaded.

Now, it’s a reminder of a time and place that no longer exists.  I smile a little at the sweetness of the sentiment, but it lacks its power and luster.  It’s a faded memory.  I think it became easier over time to let go when I realized the Ex was beautiful with his words, but a lot of times it felt as if the version of him that existed on paper was so very different than the one who stood in front of me for those two and a half years.  I wanted to trust the words, but never could.

As I move forward in life and in love, with a happy marriage in the works, I sometimes look back and smile.  While my relationships in the past have rarely ended well, it is satisfying to let go of some of the old anger and resentment.

Anger and bitterness can be the peskiest ghosts of all.

Sometimes it’s best to just say “Thank you for the words,” and move on.

Photo by Me.

I am emerging from the fog of my post-election hangover to join the rank-and-file bloggers by commenting on the election results.

Yesterday I wrote about freedom of opinion and my intention to vote for the Republican ticket of McCain/Palin.  The majority of responses were respectful and thoughtful, but of course there’s usually one bad apple to spoil the fun; or do the bad apples add to the fun?  Who knows.

Anyway, I did just that.

As I headed to the polls in the rain, I couldn’t shake that element of excitement in the air.  Everything was electric.  I was soaked due to an ineffective umbrella, but didn’t care.  There is something special about a day where we all stand up and voice our opinion and are given the freedom to do so.  While many of us wanted change, we may not have agreed on who was the best choice to get the job done.  It didn’t matter much to me during my voting process.

It was a feeling of being apart of something larger than myself.

No matter who you voted for, this was one for the books.

I did vote for McCain.  And yes, I did shed some tears over McCain’s speech.  Your personal affiliation aside, you have to admit that his concession speech was filled to the brim with class and graciousness.  It was hard for me to watch a man that I have had so much respect for over the years exit the national stage, as some have said “for a final time”.

I watched the results with my fiance and two wonderful friends.  All three of them voted for Obama.  Yes, it was hard.  It stung.  Through the disappointment,  however, I’m glad that’s how I watched the election.

Both sides throughout this campaign have been talking about unity, bipartisanship, and the proverbial “hand reaching across the aisle”. It goes along with the old saying of “A house divided cannot stand”.  It seemed right to have a mixed group of voters in our gathering last night with that message of coming together floating through the air.

While huddled in Adventure in Shaw’s basement last night, we all sat there and witnessed… dare I throw out the word du jour?  History.  (I may have had two or seven cocktails, but I bore witness, dammit.)

“An Historic Night” is a phrase that has been thrown out countless times. It has been used so many times in the past 24 hours that it is starting to resemble an apology that has lost its impact due to overuse.

That said, it doesn’t change the fact that I went out and bought newspapers this morning to preserve this moment.  It doesn’t change the fact that last night while huddled with those who I may not have agreed with in terms of my ballot, I was able to say I was proud to be an American.

I hope that this really is a new dawn for our country that has had a merciless cloud of darkness hanging over it for the past eight years.

Results aside, I do look forward to tomorrow, and the tomorrows that follow.  While partisan politics will always cause some animosity, I look forward to pulling together some instead of ripping each other apart.

Congratulations to President-Elect Barack Obama.