Raise your hand if you love your boobs!

You know how sometimes you stretch your upper body skyward, especially when you're sitting on the couch leaning backward over the curved arm and rockin' a nice curved arch in your back? And then you're feeling an awesome stretch in the top part of your chest so you pull your arms back down to place your hands on your chest, just above your fabulous titties, with your back remaining arched, and you feel the muscles in your chest stretching? And then you feel the lump on your right side where once there wasn't a lump?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

At first I thought I was imagining it, how could I possibly have a lump on my breast? I felt up my right side and then my left. And then I did it again. I did the tapping/kneading thing with my fingers that the doctor always does. I placed each hand exactly symmetrical from one another, making sure that they were in the exact same spot on each side, just to make sure that I was comparing an apple with an apple and an orange with an orange - well, or something like that.

Isn't it said that the definition of insane is 'doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result?'

I pulled my shirt off to make sure I was covering the area thoroughly. Holy shit, I could see the lump! That wasn't there last month.

Maybe I just pulled a muscle in yoga class. Or maybe my muscles on my right side had strengthened differently than those on my left. I am right handed, after all, and I carry cases of wine up and down flights of stairs at work.

"J, come take a look at this," I beckoned my lovely wife to come and check out my titties.

"Shit. What the fuck?"

"I know! What do you think I should do?" (Okay, I know this sounds completely idiotic now, but it was just what came out of my mouth at the time).

"Um, you need to call the doctor. And you can't procrastinate this one - I know you hate doctors, but this could be serious. Will you do it today?" I told her I would.

But when I called my doctor's office, they freaked my shit out even more. After telling me that they want to see me within three days, they told me that my doctor was on vacation and I'd have to see a different doctor. Have I mentioned that I hate doctors? Since the urgency of this visit was non-negotiable, I conceded to a visit with a different doctor, provided it was a female. Then the nurse on the phone asked me to describe the lump.

"Well, it's above my breast and it's slightly elevated." Apparently this was an inadequate answer, because she seemed a little bit exasperated and asked me how big it was.

"Um, I'm not really sure. You mean you want me to measure it?" Alright, I'm really not this dumb, but somehow idiotic things kept coming out of my mouth that day. I think the nurse thought I was being an ass, because it seemed like she was losing patience with me.

"Is it the size of a marble? or a golf ball? or an orange?" Now here I was really perplexed - it was supposed to be globe-shaped? Mine was more akin to the pit of a mango.

"I guess it's about one inch wide by about two or so inches long. It doesn't really resemble any of the objects you mentioned."

"Is there any blood or pus coming from the area?"

"No." Suddenly I was feeling like I was crying wolf, but I had a lapdog on my hands. My stats just weren't measuring up to her expectations. She scheduled me an appointment for a couple of days later.

I was a nervous wreck for those two days.

In the meantime, I accompanied J to an OB/Gyn visit the following day - we needed a greenlight in our efforts to become pregnant. I was caught by surprise when I encountered a lump in my throat while J was having a breast exam. That throat-lump was in between the size of a marble and the size of a golf ball. Was I envious of her lumpless breasts? Were the possible ramifications of my pending visit just hitting me? I was scared.

I asked J to come with me to my visit with the-doctor-who-wasn't-mine.

In walked a stereotypically attractive 30-something woman who didn't smile and spoke very quietly. She seemed like she was strung out on Valium. She seemed apprehensive about touching my breasts and her hands were a little bit cold - not unlike her demeanor. She seemed unconcerned and suggested that the lump was a result of too much coffee or too much stress and that it would probably go away after I had my period. She told me to set up an appointment with my regular doc for three weeks later.

It was a long-ass three weeks before I showed up at Kaiser for my appointment with my usual doc, who isn't afraid to touch lesbian breasts.

"Oh, you didn't get the message?" the receptionist asked me.

"Message?"

"We called you yesterday and left you a message that Dr. D had an emergency and had to cancel all of her appointments for today."

"Oh. May I reschedule?"

"Sure, let's see...Dr. D can see you in February of 2008 - what time is good for you?" Okay, I'm exaggerating a little bit, but she wasn't able to get me in that week. Or the next. The receptionist was able to get me in the next morning with a nurse practitioner, Maggie Bunn. Now, I don't know why I have an issue with nurse practitioners - K sees an NP and she's awesome, better than most docs I've been to...I guess I worry that they might not catch something a doc would catch or that their medical advice might not be as thorough or accurate. This has never been my experience - I have no idea where I acquired this bias. I guess I watch too much ER or something.

Maggie Bunn turned out to be fantastic. She was gentle and comfortable with me and very forthcoming. She told me that my lump had the qualities of being benign, but she wanted to be absolutely certain and had me set up an appointment with mammography and one with a breast surgeon. As she gave me the contact info for both departments, she gave me some additional info, off the record.

"When you make an appointment with the breast surgeon, be sure to insist on the woman doctor - she's wonderful. There is also a man and, well, he's extremely arrogant and all I can really say is that I strongly urge you to see the woman, Dr. Xy - even if you have to wait longer for an appointment."

I got the picture.

When I called for my appointment with Dr. Xy, the receptionist told me that she could get me in sooner with Dr. Xx. I told her no, that I was much more comfortable with a woman doctor and that I didn't mind waiting longer to see Dr. Xy.

"Dr. Xx is a really good doctor - he'll be gentle." The receptionist was really jonesin' for me to concede. I wouldn't.

"No, I'd really prefer to see Dr. Xy." Was this chick gonna power-struggle with me?

"Well, may I ask why?" Now, obviously I wasn't going to tell her that Maggie Bunn told me to insist on Dr. Xy. But, man, this woman was relentless. I decided to go for a lighthearted angle.

"You see, it's like this: I wouldn't take my car to a mechanic who's never owned a car before..." This is my stock explanation for those who ask why I insist on a female gynecologist.

"Dr. Xx has a wife and a daughter and a mother and they all have breasts." OMG, did she really just say that? "He knows what he's doing and he's a really good doctor."

Well, shit. Then why is she trying to coerce me to schedule an appointment with him, rather than honoring my first choice?

"Look," she didn't know this, but she picked the wrong chick to intimidate, "I was sexually assaulted by a man. I do NOT want a man touching my breasts. Can you please respect that and make an appointment with Dr. Xy, as I originally requested?"

She couldn't argue with that. I couldn't believe I'd just said that out loud. And to a complete stranger. At least I got her to stop goading me.

Before my scheduled appointment with Dr. Xy, I was required to have a mammogram. The tech who was in charge of squishing the hell out of my boobs was very cool - she chatted me up and complimented me on my tattoos. The doctor who reviewed my mammography pics concluded that I should have an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech was somehow under the impression that I was a complete idiot and condescendingly informed me that, "most women don't know this, but breasts are asymmetrical."

"Yeah, thanks, I knew that." Was I supposed to, upon noticing that I had a lump, just look down and remind myself that bodies are assymmetrical and go on with my business? Again, I was made to feel as though I were making a mountain out of a molehill.

"Well, it looks like you just have a benign mass of tissue here. Nothing to worry about. I'll have the doctor come in here and talk with you."

Five minutes later, a woman in a white coat breezed into the room. "Hi, I'm Dr. Zippy. All I see here is a benign mass of tissue. Do you have any questions?"

She took my silence to mean 'no' and bid me farewell. She was in and out in less than a minute.

So it appears that I do not have breast cancer. I'll continue my monthly self-exams and throw in the occasional couch-arm stretch for good measure. I don't like that the medical media scares the bejeezus out of women, urging them to worry the second anything seems amiss with the girls. But then when we do, we're treated as though we're freaking out over nothing.

Marbles, golf balls, oranges, mango pits - they all deserve attention. And don't let anyone goad you into believing otherwise.

Please excuse Bad Kitty from her tardiness...

Every now and then, I take an unplanned and unanticipated vacation from blogging. It just happens. It's inevitable. And, frankly, I feel less grounded when I'm not blogging - partly because I see stories everywhere I go and I want to sit down and retell them and it clogs me up to hold all of those stories inside.

Fear not, I didn't go on some sort of bipolar depressive bender and what I'm hoping and thinking will be a barrage of stories in the near future is not a bipolar manic bender. For realz.

I've had a lot going on and it's hard to believe that I've somehow been busier since school has ended than when I was in school. Here's a sampling of some of the topics that may appear here in the near future: my in-laws visiting for ten days, my pending job search, my mother, the fabulous Indian feast that I'm preparing for my father's 60th birthday this weekend, random happenings, my travels, a medical scare that I'm hoping is just a scare, my next tattoo, a project I'm working on that is taking much longer than anticipated, the continuing saga of The IncrediblyTrue and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, books I've been reading, concerts I've been to, etc., etc. and, oh yeah: J and I are trying to have a baby.

So, without further ado, I hereby declare myself...BACK ON!!!!

Desert Island food

just in case

1. Unagi
2. Barely seared Ahi
3. Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche
4. Mangos (already cut up for me)
5. Panang Curry
6. Rare Filet Mignon
7. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
8. Artichokes (steamed, with drawn butter)
9. Tarte Tatin
10. Fresh raspberries

Happy Crappy Mother's Day

I called my mom this morning to wish her a happy Mother's Day.

She asks what we are doing today and I tell her homework, which is true. She tells me that she and hubby are going to brunch with Ann and her family to the local private country club. She adds that Aunt Sally and her husband are "apparently coming along." Mom's unsaid commentary is clear: Aunt Sally has no children, therefore she has no right to celebrate Mother's Day. Aside: Mom and Aunt Sally are very close, although Mom speaks lowly of Aunt Sally often. (I'd hate to hear what she says about me).

Natch, she'd like to see me. Natch, my Mother's Day gift to myself was not seeing her. Quelle dillemma. As is the case nearly every time I've spoken to her since late January, she asks when she can see me. Late January because she and her husband went on a vacation somewhere (don't remember where - they take a LOT of vacations) and she bought me a "gift -it's not much" (this is how she says it every time she brings up said gift. So this is how I say it every time I refer to said gift. In all fairness, I must confess that I sort stole this literary device from Frank McCourt's book, 'Tis, which I recently finished reading. In it he refers to a character as "Michael down the hall - what's left of him" at every mention of this character, as that's how Michael's mother refers to him. Okay, I'm a little bit of a copy cat. So what?

Anyway, since late January I've had the same response to her inquiry - well, I have Monday nights off or you can drop in and sit up at my bar and have a glass of wine (I comp her drinks every time - she leaves me a 15% tip every time)...if you come on a slow night, I'll have a chance to chat. Aside: the restaurant where I work is on her side of town. The ball was always in her court and she never returned it. Now, it's Mother's Day and the two-year anniversary of her mother's death - I'm feeling sensitive and guilty. I ask her if I can take her out to lunch tomorrow. (Confession deux: I'm having cocktails with my friend, H-Bomb, tomorrow evening, so I'll have the opportunity to numb and purge after lunch with Mom).

I know, now my mom looks all nicey-nice buying me a "gift-it's not much" from her vacation and wishing to see me. Keep reading.

She, of course, accepts and asks where shall we go. I let her know that I'll be in a nearby town running an errand and, for my return trip, I'll be within a mile of her office - perhaps somewhere in that vicinity. For some reason (because she's really nosy - that's a whole other post) she wants to know the specifics of my errand and where it's located. I tell her I don't know the location off the top of my head. It's not private, but it's none of her damn business either (sometimes her commentary is unbearable - she ALWAYS has commentary, usually negative). I'll tell y'all, though. I'm dropping off a bunch of clothes to donate to a women's shelter. Mom asks if it's work-related or school-related, because then she might know where it's located and can help me with directions. Huh? I change the subject and suggest a few restaurants. She counters by naming a few chain establishments. I ask if she'd mind going somewhere that isn't a chain. For some reason, when I name a few more non-chain places, she starts repeating the chain establishments, along with a few more of same. She suggests 12:30, but adds that she might have to switch it to noon, as Aunt Sally might want to join.

She asks how we're doing and then tells me about a lesbian couple she knows who just had a baby. Obviously, they had artificial insemination, she adds. Aside: she likes to throw in any possible anecdote of any random interaction she has with a gay peep, probably to make herself seem tolerant?

This morphs into a conversation about my sister, Ann's, newest baby, Ellie. She's cute, Mom says, but what a chunk!! She's the fattest baby I've ever seen! Mom continues, "Well, you know that Ann doesn't keep them on any sort of schedule and any time they ask for food, she just gives it to them."

Aside: one of Ann's daughters appears nearly anorexic and the rest of her children are slender and average sized for their age. But Mom has more to say about Ellie, "Seriously, she's in the 105th percentile! You should see her legs - they are SO chubby."

Mom goes on talking more about Ellie, using the words 'chunk'/'chubb'/'chubby' at least three more times.

My silence (thank goodness she can't see my face) prompts her to change the subject. She tells me that she spoke to my sister, Haley, who is flying up from San Francisco to attend my graduation (since we were only permitted four tix, which I'd already assigned to Dad and his wife, as well as J and K, I had to jump through hoops to obtain tix for Mom and Aunt Sally (who is very sweet, by the way) - Mom doesn't travel alone - and then even more challenging hoops to procure a ticket for Haley). She tells me that Haley can't decide if she is going to bring her friend, Kristin, to the event, as that is who she will be staying with in Seattle. I inform Mom that there is no way that another ticket is possible (she's already been told that it wasn't easy for me to get her a ticket and even more difficult to get one for Haley) and I re-explain why.

She's somehow content to continue talking about my graduation. She asks if we'll be going out to dinner beforehand or what. I tell her that I'll have several grad-related errands to run all day prior to the ceremony (which is mostly true). I'm having lunch with my dear school friends and our families - no way in hell I'm letting Mom ruin that. She begins complaing about what a waste of her time it'll be to drive all the way up to Seattle (have I seen the price of gas?) just to see me walk across a stage and not even be able to see me in person.

Her cell phone then rings in the background and she "has to take the call." I can overhear her end of the convo, which of course is work-related.

She returns to the phone and I remind her that there is a dessert reception prior to the ceremony. This isn't good enough because I won't have much time to spend with her on account of my need to socialize with everyone there. Aside: I have asked my mother, on numerous occasions over the years, for alone time with her - it never happens, as she always invites hubby or my aunt or my sister along. I tell her that perhaps there'll be drinks or something afterward, but that will likely involve several others. She frets, informing me that breakfast the next morning is out of the question because she needs to leave by noon and, according to her, I never wake up until after 10am. Aside: this was true on non-school days in my teen years.

I apologize to her that I'm not able to spend more time with her [over the 24-hour period that she will be in Seattle]. She adds that she has no idea where the ceremony is being held and, since she doesn't know where she'll be going, I'll need to send her an address with directions and, if possible, a map. Aside: I emailed this info to her about a month ago, albeit sans map.

Later this evening I received an email from her stating that Ann might want to come along to lunch and that she says that Stanfords has good salads, so let's go there (slender Mom is perpetually on a diet - always remarking if I've lost weight and saying nothing if I've gained...although I'm certain that she reports this to others). She only has email at work, which means she spent the post-brunch part of her Mother's Day at her office - likely alone - working. This makes me a little sad for her.

I can't wait for lunch tomorrow.

My mother is so FUBAR.

My mom = not a mom

As those of you who read regularly might know, I have Bipolar Disorder and, when diagnosed last fall, was in a quandary as to whether or not to tell my (insensitive) mother and, if so, how. You might also recall that I have promised some 'mom posts' and I think it's high time I delivered on that promise and got some of this shit out of my system. Nah, my mom never beat me or anything; she never forced me to take drugs or to obtain them for her (actually, she did send me to the convenience store at age 7 to buy cigarettes for her - yes, they used to permit this in the early 70s); she never forced me into a prostitution ring or dropped me off on the side of the freeway (although she often told me to "go play on the freeway" when I was little when she perceived me as 'bugging her'). Her abuses were more subtle and of the emotional and the psychological variety.

I've spent many therapy hours, much $ and quite a bit of personal anguish trying to adapt to the impact of her insensitivity. I even spent about a year and a half or so not speaking to her and asking her not to contact me so that I could have some space to work out my issues with her. She did not respect these boundaries and called and emailed me with a stalker-like fervor (when, ordinarily, when I AM in contact with her, she maybe - maybe - contacts me about once a month, oftentimes to forward me some inane email of jokes that aren't funny or internet phenoms about women being attacked/raped/preyed upon and I have to send her the Snopes link debunking such hype). I've done everything in my power to mother my daughter in a drastically different way in which I was mothered.

About a week ago, and since it was weighing heavy on me and distracting me from other things, I decided to tell my mother about my diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. I sent the following email to her on a Wednesday and then heard NOTHING from her until Sunday. The pain, paranoia and rejection I felt over those four days sent me spiralling downward.

What was she thinking? What would she say when she finally did contact me? When would she finally contact me? Does she realize that no contact whatsoever - not even a quick note or phone message to acknowledge receipt and tell me she needs a couple of days to digest - freaks me out a lil?

Following my email to her is a synopsis of her response.

Hi Mom,

There's something I've been needing to tell you for a little while now and just haven't known how to do it because I wasn't sure how you'd respond. Last fall, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and have been on medication for this ever since. I was started on a pretty low dose and have already noticed a tremendous difference in my mood stabilization and my sleeping habits. I still am somewhat symptomatic, though, and am just now raising the level of the dose that I'm on.

Although Lithium is the most common medication prescribed for Bipolar Disorder, my doctor opted not to prescribe it to me due to my Essential Tremor (shaking of my hands - turns out Essential Tremor is the same thing that Katherine Hepburn had...many people thought she had Parkinsons, but she actually had ET). Apparently, Lithium would make my hands shake even more (which I wouldn't be able to tolerate because of the ridicule and humiliation I already endure because of it). The medication that I've been prescribed is Lamictal, which is a drug that is also used to treat seizure disorders.

I believe that the onset of the Bipolar Disorder was approximately in my mid to late teens or as late as my early 20s, maybe sooner, as it's hard to know for sure. Knowing the symptoms and thinking back, that would be my guess - maybe you remember times before that when I exhibited similar symptoms - I don't know. It's not at all uncommon, though, for Bipolar to go unrecognized, unreported or untreated by those who have it for various reasons. In my case, I was reporting (and being treated for) Depression, as the symptoms of that were noticable to me and didn't seem normal to me. However, although I've had symptoms of Mania for some time, I didn't think much of it and always perceived them as normal or "that's just how I am" and that it was no big deal. In my many years of being treated in therapy, I've had several practitioners ask me if I have manic episodes. Not fully understanding what is meant by this in psychological terminology, I replied with an adamant no. My thought process to that question went something like this: manic? mania? who has mania? maniacs do. who is a maniac? Hitler, Charles Manson, etc. I'm not a maniac, what a ridiculous question. Hence my response. I never asked what they meant by that and none of them ever pursued it any further (probably either due to my adamant response or because they perceived me as relatively intelligent and it never occurred to them that I might not know what that means in that context).

This is something that often has a genetic disposition (i.e. it runs in families and can be passed down biologically). Anyway, since I've learned that those with Bipolar often have family members with mood disorders (which are a result of a brain dysfunction) - not always Bipolar, sometimes Depression or other mood disorders, I've begun to wonder if there are other members of the family who may have had Bipolar or Depression that went undiagnosed. My suspicions are that perhaps grandma or grandpa may have had a mood disorder.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions, probably some that I can answer and some that I might not be able to answer as well. I've done a fair amount of reading on the subject in order to learn more about it. I have a friend whose sister has Bipolar and I've spoken to her about it. A friend of mine (from when I was an undergrad at PSU) who committed suicide about four years ago had Bipolar and she never told any of her friends (not sure how many in her family knew). I wish I'd known so that I (hopefully) could have been more tolerant of her behaviors that often seemed irrational to me. Largely because of this, I think it's important for me to be out in the open about it and seek support when I need it, rather than trying to deal with what I'm experiencing on my own. Also, children of those with Bipolar have around a 25% chance of having it, as well. I'm giving you a link to a website that I think explains the disorder relatively well and might answer some of your questions and in a language that isn't riddled with much medical jargon. In my opinion, this site doesn't fully address my experiences (whereas I've found that some others do), probably due the brevity of the explanations here and that it's intended as a quick and simple overview. I can give you additional sources, if you want. Anyway, here's the site:
http://psychcentral.com/disorders/bipolar/

If you're interested, and if it's reassuring to know, there are many famous people with Bipolar Disorder (many of them writers, which comes as no surprise to me - I've often had all-night-long writing binges, something I've always thought was normal) and here is a website with a pretty comprehensive list: http://www.mental-health-today.com/bp/famous_people.htm

I'm sorry that I felt compelled to do this via email. I have found that I do much better expressing my thoughts in writing and I had a lot to say and wanted to get it all out, so this felt like the best means of achieving that. I don't want you to take any of this information personally or feel like it's your fault in any way. My upbringing and the parenting I received has not impacted this condition in any way, according to what I know about the disorder. I'm telling you this because I think that, as my mother, it's important for you to know and I hope that you don't see it as any sort of attack or something I'm doing to make you feel bad. I love you and I need your support.

Thanks for listening (and for taking time out of your busy day to read this).

Love,
(insert my name here)

When she finally contacted me on Sunday, she informed me that she got my email and not to worry because she still loves me. (Um, I hadn't even considered that not loving me as a result was an option). (Yes, my mother tells me that she loves me, although it feels more like a rote thing - especially since she once told me that she"loves me, but she doesn't like me." Upon hearing this [some 20 years ago], I began to wonder how I could ever love myself if my own mother didn't love me). She then asked me if I'm taking medication for it and whether or not it's helping. (Um, yeah Mom, read the email I sent you). She tells me that she doesn't know if any of our relative had it, but that's probably because people used to have cancer a hundred years ago, but they just didn't call it that. She says that Grandma "had depression," but that is probably the only mood disorder in our family history. I asked her about Grandpa, who I thought exhibited some symptoms of Bipolar. Mom says that Grandpa didn't have it, he was just a procrastinator. I asked her to elaborate. She tells me that he always "got these grandiose ideas about doing huge projects, like painting the house, and then would start on them really enthusiastically, but then never finish them." Sounds like Bipolar to me, I tell her, especially in conjunction with his late night energy and dalliances with his many mistresses. No, my mother counters, that was just procrastination. She then tells me that SHE is not a procrastinator, that SHE always completes tasks from start to finish and hates leaving things unfinished, like her father did.

Mom continues, telling me that she doesn't know much about it, but she knows a lot of people with it and they just take medication for it. (Um, did you get the links I sent?).

She then changes the subject, asking if she will see us on Mother's Day. She reminds me (disgruntledly) that she hasn't seen my daughter, K, since last Mother's Day. I get that she misses K, she just doesn't go about expressing that in a very constructive manner. The changed subject continues and revolves completely around her and how busy she is. She never brings the discussion back around to 'it' and eventually has to go, because she is at work (she owns the company).

Interestingly, my lovely wife, J, predicted that I would hear from my mother before Mother's Day because of her need to be acknowledged on that day.

During my entire conversation with her, she never once used the word 'Bipolar,' it was always 'it.' Does she realize that her discomfort with this news was shining through her words, despite the fact that she 'still loves me'? Does she realize that her constant reference to Bipolar as 'it' and the brevity of our conversation about Bipolar in general felt marginalizing to me?

Exes and Whys

It's common knowledge in the lesbian community that lesbians often stay connected to their exes - some even remain best friends after splitting up. Apparently this happens less frequently in the hetero community but, alas, it still happens.

Writing this epic tale of the rise and fall of one of my former relationships has gotten me thinking about exes and my connections to them (or lack of, in some cases) and the corresponding whys. Now, for those exes who are regular readers of my blog (methinks there are three, maybe four...), worry not, as there will not be any bean spillage about you (pseudonym or no). Unless there becomes a delightful and non-incriminatory tale to spin, in which case I would only do so with your expressed permission.

I can sort my exes into three distinct categories:

• the friends (this has something of a wide range, as not all of whom I have regular contact with, but our most recent [and potentially future] interactions could definitely be construed as friendly)
• the foes (I think there are only two in this category - obviously Amaris is one; maybe someday I'll tell you about the other one - 'tis not a pretty story)
  
• the estranged/disappeared (one of whom I'm sad to have lost touch with [my fault for having a nervous breakdown, then losing stuff, then moving to another state, then having an unlisted phone number] - he's a wonderful person and I adored his family...perhaps someday I'll put my mad librarian skillz to work and see what turns up in a search for BP)

Funny thing is, I do have more exes as friends now than when I was masquerading as a straight girl (or a reasonable facsimile). Why is this?? Is it because I am older and I have more exes from which to choose? mebbe. Is it because, as a lesbian, I feel mega-pressure to be nicey nice with the exes? nah.

'Tis weird, though, eh?

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 8

Part A: Validation Collection

A-J takes me for a ride on his Tom Kramer scooter (see a Tom Kramer mural here photo courtesy of Red Bat, used with permission) and we ride around the Warner Hollywood lot, hoping to see Johnny Depp, but to no avail. I ask A-J about Hester. He can't stand her and is happy to gossip with me about her. A-J assures me I have absolutely nothing to worry about; that his perception is that Amaris is getting a thrill at being idolized in her profession and, since that is a new thing for her, really, it's pretty novel and feels good. Ever the sweetheart, A-J proclaims me 'hot' and 'smart' (as if that's all that matters, which I'm gradually learning is not so) and tells me to fuhgeddaboutit.

A quick check-in with some of Amaris' closer friends coincides wtih A-J's assertion and some even call me crazy, assuring me that Amaris adores me and to stop my worrying already. I return to Portland with these reassuring voices and the image of a homely Hester in my head, something of a mantra to keep me stable and grounded and prevent me from teh crazy for realz.

I follow up with Amaris' insistance that I consult with a therapist about my fears and instability. I select a compassionate lesbian therapist with a PhD (I later come to learn that her girlfriend is in my [previous, not current] grad program) and begin weekly visits to her cozy office downtown. She tells me everything I want to hear, confirming that -of course- I would feel threatened and betrayed and fear losing my girlfriend to Hester. I let Amaris pay for this, as per her initial request.

I feel better already.

Part B: Editrix seeks room for let

With still months to go on post-production, Amaris decides to seek a room to let, having tired of couch surfing and tracking myriad keys to the homes of her various friends. She can afford it, but it'll mean fewer trips home to Portland. I'm not sure how I feel about this, as I have a month to go in my first year of my grad program and, while thriving in therapy and handling the whole Hester situation with greater aplomb, it just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, regardless.

A few days later, Amaris tells me she has been offered an alternative to letting a vacant place: she could stay in Hester's guest room! for free! which would mean they could carpool! which would mean she would save money! which would mean more trips home to see me!

I am thrilled. Not.

I think I'm gonna puke.

Dyke drama. Ensues!!! Amaris moves in with Hester and immediately books several trips home for all of the weekends until my schoolyear is over. This is supposed to pacify me. It does not.

Part C: Lies, lies, lies, yeah

Amaris flies home, as per her regularly scheduled program. Things are tense. I tell her that I'm just not comfortable with the whole living arrangement thing. She returns with the don't-you-trust-me card and I see her and raise her.

"It's just, I dunno, what if you guys are just hanging out talking and she goes on one of her crying sprees and is seeking comfort from you and then you're all holding her and trying to comfort her and make her feel better and then, before you know it, you guys are kissing?"

"Well, that's kinda what did happen." Okay, this is so not what I was expecting Amaris to say. Seriously. In the script in my head, her line was, "That would NEVER happen. If it seemed like something that COULD happen, I wouldn't have taken the room in the first place."

"What the hell?" To say that I was irate here would be akin to saying that Mick Jagger is skinny. I continue, "You have got to be fucking kidding me. What the hell does this mean?"

Amaris is telling me to calm down, saying that it's not what I think. When I sorta kinda calm down, she tells me that she pushed Hester away when she went in for a big sloppy one. While I was secretly delighted to hear about Hester being rejected, I am still pretty freaked out.

After a couple of weekend visits home, I'd grown accustomed to finishing my waiter shift on Friday night and then driving to the airport to greet Amaris from her flight into Portland. Things seemed to be going alright. Then she calls me one Friday morning and tells me that she can't get her regular flight that evening and that she'll be arriving the next morning instead.

Huge red flags, frantically waving the fuck all over the place.

I ask her what's going on on Friday night that she wants to stay in LA for. She tells me I'm not listening and that the evening flights on Alaska Airlines were booked to Portland that night. She also tells me that she'll be spending the night at her friend Lori's house and Lori will be driving her to the airport in the morning.

I'm so not buying this. I call Alaska Airlines and inquire about booking a flight from LA to Portland later that evening. There are PLENTY of seats available.

What comes around, goes around...

If you've already read this post, you know that I played hooky from my dreadful internship and throwing caution to the wind as to how to explain my truancy.

Am I always this irresponsible? Hell no.

Have I ever done anything like this before? Probably, I don't know.

Was I worried about the ramifications of my disappearing act? Oddly, no.

As you might recall, I opted for a frenzied house cleaning spree over an afternoon feebly attempting to catalog items under the tutelage of a chastising, belittling *martyr (Patricia).

I did not call in. I did not inform them in advance that I wouldn't be coming that day. I just never showed.

How did I later explain my absence?

Easy. I decided to turn the tables on Patricia and give her a taste of her own medicine. I decided that, when asked about my absence, I would simply tell Patricia that I told her a week ago that I'd be gone that day.

Cruel? yes.

Unusual? Not so much.

Keep in mind that we're dealing with a woman who frequently berated me for not doing things she hadn't even taught me yet, then insisting that she had told me before. (A quick check-in with the other intern, Steven, revealed that he'd been taught things that I had not). Perhaps it was immature to pull a stunt like that, but I did what I needed to do, for my own sanity. Nobody was harmed by my irresponsible behavior and the additional day away from the library was good for my soul.


*A good friend of mine suggested the making of T-shirts, replicating the font from the '70s era "I'm a Pepper!" shirts, that say "I'm a Martyr!" We could then give one to Patricia and one to my mother.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 7

Part A : Look! A Pirate!

Since Amaris was in the film biz and working on a film lot, it was inevitable that she would see celebrities on occasion. It was not at all unusual for her to mention seeing Drew Barrymore at the ATM (Drew Barrymore uses an ATM?) or that Heather Graham was at the Poquito Mas (Heather Graham eats?). She would sometimes tell me about celeb sightings in and around the (what was then called) Warner Hollywood Lot, including the commissary, and she absolutely had my attention when she spoke of an I-spy of Johnny Depp!

Now I was really jealous. I love Johnny Depp! Amaris only saw him once, but felt compelled to inform me each and every time Hester saw him, which seemed to be often.

Part B: Can't I just take two aspirin and call you in the morning?

Amaris continues to spend what appears to be every waking moment with Hester and I continue to be perturbed by it. Amaris arrives home for the weekend with a gift for me - it's a sexy swimsuit and she wants me to try it on. It looks great and I find myself distracted by this, along with the attention I'm receiving because it looks great.

The weekend was going very well, in fact, until Amaris' cell phone rang at a most inopportune moment. Of course it was Hester and she was having a difficult and emotional time over some thing or another and needed to talk to Amaris in order to feel better. Amaris took the call. I laid there feeling resentful and wondering why Amaris couldn't see that she was being played. After what seemed an eternity, the phone call finally ended and it was inevitable that Amaris and I had angry words with one another, as opposed to the loving intimacy that was pending.

Somehow, the angry words turned into Amaris suggesting insisting that I find myself a good therapist and work this out in therapy. She even said that she would pay for it, provided that I stay within a $100/hour ceiling. Initially, I was really offended by this. How dare she think that this is all about me being screwy in the head and not even remotely about her and her shady behavior with someone who is clearly smitten with her? It seemed she was accepting no responsibility whatsoever for her actions and apparent loyalty to this Hester chick.

On the other hand, maybe it would be a good idea for me to work it out in therapy. Perhaps I'd find some validation because, of course, the therapist would agree that I am right in being concerned and freaked out by this situation.

Part C: GWF seeks confirmation that her gf isn't fucking around

I visit L.A.

OMG, Hester's homely! Yay! She's also really friendly to me and I don't get any weird vibes from her like there is anything going on at all. She even lends me her umbrella (which was also homely) so I can shop on Melrose in the rain (real Oregonians don't carry umbrellas on them) and, later, she is on Johnny Depp alert for me.

It's like she's trying to be my friend or something. I'm not sure if I'm in the market for new friends and I am then a little bit skeptical of her outward kindness toward me. I still plan to keep my eye on her (as painful as that may be, as she really isn't easy on the eyes).

Part D: Look, it's the Coppertone Baby all grown up! But her ass is covered this time...(damn, where's that dog when you need it?)

Life becomes momentarily grand again when I return from shopping and walk onto the lot toward the editing suite, just in time for a Jodie Foster sighting! Being the dork that I am, I look at the lovely woman emerging from the black BMW stationwagon and think to myself, "whoa, that chick looks like Jodie Foster." And, since I had not yet lived in Los Angeles, my world had mostly consisted of seeing people who resembled celebrities on occasion but, upon further inspection, would turn out NOT to be the presumed celebrity. Then it occurred to me that Ms. "even hotter in really true life" Foster was in the process of editing up Home for the Holidays on that very lot and so, of course, it was really her.

I tried to act normal and not seem like a gawker star-fucker, lest I be 86'd from the lot for good. She smiled at me while she grabbed some bags from her car and went into the building. I never saw her again. Well, until the trailers for Contact started to show up. But she didn't smile at me from those.

Part E: Donning the martini goggles at Musso & Frank

Amaris tells me that we will be going out for martinis with Hester at the famous old-timey restaurant on Hollywood Blvd., Musso & Frank. I wondered what it was that Hester drank and whether or not she was good at it. Amaris and I ordered Bombay Sapphire martinis and Hester copied us. I couldn't quite tell if that was really what she wanted to drink or if she was dying to feel as though she fit in. Our conversation was a little awkward and forced (what on earth did Amaris expect?) and Hester only seemed even remotely comfortable when she and Amaris were talking shop.

I return to the hotel with Amaris actually feeling A-OK about this situation. Not only is Hester homely, but she's super insecure to boot. What could there possibly be to worry about, right? Ah, what a load off my shoulders that is!

The New York Times thinks I'm a nutcase.

In the New York Times crossword puzzle of Monday, October 23, 2006, the clue for 5 down reads "Nutcase." Turns out the correct 6-letter response is: "maniac."

This is a problem.

Je Suis le mental case, Part 3

The Lack of Order within my Extremes

This last fall, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder. I've shared this information with some friends and only a handful of people in my family. Mostly, I chose to share only with people who might respond in an understanding and gentle manner. This is one of the ways I take care of myself.

As a result, my mother does not have any idea that I have (have had) Bipolar Disorder. I'm not sure if I will tell her and, if so, how I will tell her. Since Bipolar is often present in more than one family member, I'd like to learn if there might be someone in my family history who had Bipolar Disorder (even if it went undiagnosed) - I suspect this may have been the case with one of my grandparents.

I've struggled with telling people and worry that it makes some folks uncomfortable. People respond differently, though. It's interesting. Some get that "aha moment" look (sorry to quote Oprah) and I can tell that much of my mood swingage and behavior unpredictability suddenly all makes perfect sense to them. People who already know someone with Bipolar Disorder have been the greatest - they know how to respond in a very gentle and respectful way that doesn't make me feel defective. I get a little bit annoyed when I reveal this information to someone and their response is: "yeah, I think I might be Bipolar, too." I mean, I don't want to rain on anyone's parade or anything, but that just seems really insensitive and when I'm struggling to tell something that is difficult for me, "me too" is not the first thing I want to hear in response. Maybe that makes me a hypersensitive wuss, but I don't care.

There are a couple of reasons why I feel compelled to have this information out in the open.

First of all, I have been symptomatic for many years and have not been correctly diagnosed until recently. The new medication that I am on has completely changed my world and I wish I could have been diagnosed and medicated sooner (plus, if my words -here, or in my daily life- help even one person who is struggling the way I was, it's worth it). Why couldn't I get to this point any sooner? Let me explain.

Here are some of the red flags of my diagnosis: depressive episodes (both major and minor, recurring, sometimes without explanation or not pertaining to current upsetting situations), chronic and debilitating insomnia (during which time I would often experience bouts of creativity - writing all night long, or go on cleaning binges, or rearrange the furniture in the house, or cook gourmet dishes all night, etc.), extreme variances in energy levels and irritability levels and degree to which I would participate in things socially, then there were the sex and shopping binges.

Seems pretty cut and dry, huh? However, much of what a medical/psychiatric professional is able to conclude depends on how the information is reported. Without having any idea that I was skewing an analysis of my problems, I have always placed an emphasis on depression and insomnia when I sought treatment. And then I would be treated for depression and insomnia. Why wasn't I reporting manic episodes? Because I had no fucking clue that I was experiencing manic episodes. I even had a therapist, many years ago, ask if I ever experienced manic episodes. Not really knowing what this meant in psychological terms, only what I thought it meant socially/pop-culturally, I looked at him indignantly and gave him an adamant "no." Since he had no reason to believe that I didn't know what the hell he was really asking me, he accepted my response and moved on.

Herein lies the problem: when asked if I had manic episodes, my thought process went like this ---> manic episodes? ---> mania? ---> maniac? ---> who is a maniac? ---> Charles Manson, Hitler, Aileen Wuornos ---> have I gone on crazy-ass killing sprees? no, I have not ---> I'm not a maniac, what a dumb question. Hence, my response to him.

As a result, did I ever tell this therapist about some of the things I do in the middle of the night when I had insomnia and all of the energy I had that enabled me to do these things? Of course not! They just didn't seem important to me because I'd spent so many years experiencing these things on-again and off-again that I just thought it was no big deal - I'm just a little weird and that's just me.

So, I've been taking medication (Lamictal, no Lithium for me because it would make my Essential Tremor worse) since last fall and, not only have I not experienced any polar mood swings (or anything remotely resembling them), but my insomnia is virtually GONE. In the past few months, I've had insomnia about twice and, both times, it has been situationally related. This is a major improvement over having horrible insomnia 4-7 nights a week, every week. Sure, I got a lot of writing and schoolwork done then, but at some expense to my health. While I don't miss my depressive episodes and how they felt and all of the crappy thoughts and self-talk that come along with it, I have to admit that I miss my middle-of-the-night writing binges a little. I fear that I am less creative now (on medication) and less interesting, as a result. I worry that it will make me less successful, probably because I would often measure my self-worth by what I was able to accomplish in the middle of the night when the rest of the world is sleeping. Ultimately, though, I believe the medicated route is more beneficial to me in the long run, even though I hate the idea of having one more pill in the til-death-do-us-part pillbox. But now I know what normal feels like and what it's like to sleep seven hours a night every night and there's something really likable about those things.

There was another reason that I wanted to bring this issue up. Three years ago, an old friend of mine, E, shot herself. Sadly, she was struggling enormously and had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, amongst other things. Even more sadly, she chose not to share this information with anyone she knew, including her closest of friends. As a result, when she would seemingly disappear and not return phone calls and barely acknowledge her disappearance when she would return, we all just thought she was a flake. And a liar. Consequently, E would frequently find herself losing friends and attempting to acquire new ones. After one too many times of dealing with her lying, betraying, and disappearing, I told her that I couldn't be friends with her any more. She responded to my lengthy letter of explanation as to why I could no longer be her friend with an email. It said, "Great to hear from you. Let me know when you're in Portland again [I lived in LA at the time] and we'll do lunch."

I didn't know what to make of her apparent denial and I had no clue about her mental diagnosis, nor had I really thought beyond the fact that she could be a flake and would get on my nerves. I never did rekindle the friendship or run into her when I moved back to Portland. It was about a year or so after I sent her that letter that she killed herself. I attended her memorial service with a dear friend of mine who was also close to E at one time and then later took some distance from her. It was then that we both learned that she had struggled with Bipolar, and all of its symptoms, and that she wasn't so good about staying on medication.

It breaks my heart that she was unable to reach out to anyone and perhaps, if she had, she might have had more empathy in her life and fewer people abandoning her. I was saddened when I once did a Google search for her after she had passed away. E had taught English Comp. at a couple of the local community colleges and I stumbled upon a site that posted student reviews of professors. E had two reviews, both of which were graded 'F.' One student even went so far as to explain her review by referring to E as 'Miss Flaky Pants.'

So this is the part where I get to my point. And it is this: if some of the symptoms I've described sound like you or someone you know, you might want to further investigate. Talk to your doctor, your therapist, or someone you know with a PhD (okay, kidding...or maybe not). Don't take my word for anything, I'm not a doctor - I'm just a kitty. But just remember that if you have a Miss Flaky Pants in your life, there might be more than meets the eye. If I knew then what I know now about E, I would have responded to her irrational behavior much differently, or so I like to think.

Also be kind to yourself and to others.

Poof!

Breaking News!!!

Disappearing blogger found buried up to shoulders in articles detailing the minutae of indexing and abstracting, after barely emerging alive from the planning of Mother's 60th Birthday Surprise Party...cites 60-hour workweeks, holidays, lack of Internet access and family drama

PORTLAND - Alive, but somewhat disoriented, relatively unknown blogger, Bad Kitty, emerged this week from an avalanche of homework, family dysfunction (good and bad, past and present), and internship-rude-awakening to find that she does, indeed, still have a life. Time was wasted watching the somewhat sucky Golden Globes, with the hope that something exciting would happen.

A summary of events and potential topics for the near future include:

* Mother - one of these days she'll get around to that dish
* The anniversary of her first brush with death
* restaurant tales, including the latest updates on Manager-dude
* the internship of enlightenment - now she thinks she know where she DOESN'T want to work
* the continuing saga of the incredibly true and heartbreaking tale of her first Hollywood break-up
* the onset of American Idol, Season 6

and so much more. She thanks readers for being patient and understanding and looks forward to her return to the blogosphere.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 4

Part A: Dabbling in another tax bracket

I make a fine trophy wife and rock my glamorous duds with style! I get to shop in SoHo and pay full price! I dine extravagantly! I become the proud owner of a fancy schmancy Mont Blanc pen! I score the previous season's hand-me-downs from a successful production designer!

Part B: Billions and Billions and Billions of Stars

I am meeting up with a famous director to watch a quirky mockumentary at a nearby film center; I swim in the backyard pool of a handsome young actor; I meet an Academy Award winning director and screenwriter at a baby shower; I am attending film premieres and going to dinner parties with famous directors and Hollywood stars (A-list & B-list). Some of them are even speaking to me and I am quick to compose a list in my head of which famous folks are utterly charming.

Part C: Avec Le Charmante et Avec Accomplissez L'Abruti

I'm not sure if it's wise to name names, but let's just say that one was a spot-on for a Johnny Cash impersonation, one was an Indie actress from a very famous mother who drowned many years ago, and another has nudged Parker Posey from the Indie It-Girl mountain of fame. Some others, well, not so charming. Again, I won't name names (see Chapter 1 in which I assert that I can not afford to be sued), but I'll just say that one of the least charming celebrities I ever met through Amaris has appeared on the covers of several celebrity-focused mags and tabloids recently.

I'm happy and having a fun life...Amaris is wonderful and intelligent and we enjoy our myriad adventures. Despite that our life revolves around her work, I find that I don't seem to mind much, since I find her work intriguing.

Part D: Like the Shell Game, but not

Amaris is torn between staying true to the Independent film model and remaining dedicated to the art of filmmaking versus accepting more lucrative positions on more mainstream films. Shortly after she turned down a large sum of money to edit a film starring the current governator of Cauleefawrnya, she accepted a post on a different mainstream film with a much more fascinating, albeit predictable, premise.

As much as I loved so much of my fabulous stuff, I loved art and happiness more.

I was proud of her for opting not to work with the former Mr. Olympia, and I supported her decision to take the road less moneyed. Her decision led her to a two-month stay in a somewhat exotic and very tropical southeastern locale. She saved her per diem for airline tickets for my then 6 year-old daughter, K, and I to visit for two weeks over the Christmas holiday. Hooray for world travel!!

Part E: Dusting off the passports & learning how to say thank-you in another language

Determining how to spend my time in this tropical venue was never a problem. K and I went shopping in the major metropolis nearby and also at the local open-air markets. We were subjected to death-defying taxi jaunts (and K immediately learned what was meant by the words "AirCon" on the side door of the taxi). We lounged poolside and consumed beverages decorated with umbrellas and tropical fruits (except for the hotel's "monthly special," which came with a stuffed monkey...I know, I don't get it either). K determined that her new favorite genre of food is "room service." We have Christmas dinner with a Hollywood director who bears a striking resemblance to Santa Claus.

As I return home from this luxurious vacation, I am so optimistic and feeling fantastic about my life with Amaris. Neither she nor I have absolutely any clue that our world is about to be shaken and our relationship will be put to a test like never before...

Empathic Teen - Not for Sale

So, the other morning, whilst preparing for their days of school and work respectively, my teen daughter, K, says to my lovely wife, J, "did my mom have a rough night last night?"

J looks up, bewildered. "I don't think so. Why?"

K gestures to the small dry-erase board that is held by an uber-strong magnet to our refrigerator and says, "last night when I went to bed, the board was blank and now it has three booze items listed."

J looks at the board, where we all typically will jot down which grocery items we have just consumed the last of, thus simplifying the shopping for whoever eventually takes on this task. In my handwriting is the following list and nothing more:

Grand Marnier
Absolut Peppar
Bushmills

J laughs and tells K that she's pretty sure that I'm simply preparing for the holidays.

I beam with pride when this tale is later retold to me - my daughter knows what Bushmills is! She is so smart!

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 2

Part A: Someone's got some s'plainin' to do

I was crushed. Crushed, I tell you. Here I was, reluctantly willing to go on a blind date with a girl from L.A. and unexpectedly, after meeting me, the girl bails on the real part of the date, leaving me rather high and dry, or neither as the case was. Without even really knowing her, and after previously considering her charming, I was a little bit angry at Amaris.

I leater learned that she flew back to L.A. to do whatever it was she did there. I'd asked Jackie what gives with regard to Amaris backing out on the fun at the last minute. I asked Jackie if Amaris was just snooty and didn't think I was cute enough for her, being all shallow and from L.A. and all. Jackie assured me that it had nothing to do with me or my appearance and not to worry about it.

A few weeks later, I stumble upon the scrap of paper in which Jackie had jotted down Amaris' email address for me. I vaguely remember her suggesting I email Amaris, who was new to being online and might need some help navigating and such. I was about to throw it in the trash and then something compelled me not to.

Instead, I brought the scrap directly to my computer desk and logged onto my AOL account. I listened to the intermix of high pitched and crackly sounds as I watched the three icons on my screen change, the telltale crowd of faceless icons eventually indicating to me that I was connected with America Online.

I went directly to my mailbox and typed out a missive to Amaris. I told her that it was nice meeting her and that it was too bad that we didn't get a chance to get to know one another a little better while she was in town. I expressed some sort of sentiment indicating that I hoped it wasn't something I'd said that caused her to change her mind about going out with us that night. I further expressed that I had never been set up on a blind date before, so to get stood up on my first one felt like quite the blow.

"Blind date?????" she fires back.

Turns out she didn't know nutt'n 'bout no blind datage. What gives? you ask?

Part B, in which Amaris tells the real story behind her abrupt departure...

Well, lemme tell ya. It is revealed to me that Amaris and Jackie once had a little fling-a-ding culminating in Amaris realizing that alcohol impairs her judgment and Jackie realizing that she wants herself some more of that Amaris. No bueno. So, even though Amaris had been informed of the later gathering, she was not informed that she was being set up with me and was convinced that it was a ploy for Jackie to get her all liquored up so that she could, well, you get the picture. Since Amaris wasn't down for that, she pulled ye olde "look at the time...I gotta go" card so as not to have to spend the remainder of her evening peeling Jackie off of her.

I was but a decoy!!!

And dyke drama lives on...

A New Frock for my Blog!

My blog's been good to me, so I got her a new frock!

I've also sprung for accessories!

Now featuring TAGS!

Who's got links now? I've got links now!

je suis le mental case, part 2

Essentially, I Tremor

I have a neurological disorder called Essential Tremor. Personally, I think that is one of the stupidest names ever, but since I'm not able to change that anytime soon, I should just get over that. It's a tremor, to be sure, I have no problem with that part of it - it's the whole "Essential" bit that I just can't wrap my head around. There's really nothing "essential" about it. But I digress.

While the onset of Essential Tremor can result in a trembling or twitching impacting many different areas of the body, it is most commonly found in the hands or the face of those afflicted. The tremor is sometimes, but not always, noticeable in a resting position and is frequently seen in moving gestures, particularly those with a more precise or finely tuned sense of movement. Love espresso though I may, those demi-tasse cups are killer. Chopsticks are also difficult for me to maneuver, but I still insist on using them. And it's safe to say that I could never aspire to become a brain surgeon.

For some time, I simply thought that I drank too much coffee and left it at that. I later was able to rule out this theory when I asked my doctor about my shaky hands.

Essential Tremor is surprisingly common (more so than Parkinson's Disease), yet I had never heard of it prior to my diagnosis some ten years ago. And while many are under the impression that she had Parkinson's, Essential Tremor is actually what Katherine Hepburn was afflicted with and that caused her to tremble.

To settle the tremor, I take beta blockers (specifically Inderal) and that seems to work most of the time. Alcohol works, too, but isn't always advisable. Unfortunately, the condition seems to worsen with age and I'm pretty much maxed out on the dosage of beta blockers that I'm permitted to swallow. You see, beta blockers lower one's heart rate and blood pressure and since, in both cases, mine are already on the low side, the consumption of the beta blockers plummets my blood pressure into the alarming region.

And, still, I shake.

Not such a big deal if I were a go-go dancer or a dog washer.

The worst part of it is not so much the shaking itself - it's not as though it is painful to tremble, although it is a little bit agitating. Worse, though, is how some folks respond to me when they notice my hands trembling.

I kid you not. Peeps are downright MEAN. I have had people ask me if I am an alcoholic or a junkie or if I am jonesin' for a fix; I have had folks exaggeratingly mimic my tremble (often with an affected crazy-person expression on their face); I've had customers at work tip me less because I shake and have been the recipient of cruel career advice (i.e. "maybe you should get a job where you don't have to carry things"); I've had people nervously grab things out of my hands and I've encountered people who have just said rude and obnoxious things (in addition to those previously mentioned).

I wish it didn't bother me so much when folks say rude things or when they mimic me, but it does. I don't know why. Years ago, before I knew that I had a neurological disorder, I would cower in shame at the rude comments and mimicry. Now, I just look people directly in the eyes and tell them that I have a neurological disorder and can't help it and that I'm sorry if it makes them uncomfortable. Usually, when this happens, people will shut up already. Unless, of course, I am at work and am serving them a martini and accidentally spill it. But then I just make them a little extra to (over)compensate for what I spilled and that usually shuts them up.

The moral of this story: be nice to shaky people please!

Je suis le mental case, part 1

I'm mildly agoraphobic.

I mean, I am not fearful of actual marketplaces per se, but I don't do so well in crowds or around folks who take up a great deal of emotional space. With elevators, I'm great as long as I'm the sole rider (or if I am amongst family or friends); otherwise, 'tis freaky for moi.

So I guess it's not so much the open spaces that prove alarming for me, but the people in the open spaces that I have a hard time with. Is that still agoraphobia?

Sadly, none of my phobias seem to have names and all of the phobias that DO have names don't seem so applicable to me.

Arachnophobia - nope
Xenophobia - nope
Homophobia - absolutely not
Acrophobia - no
Claustrophobia - oh, definitely. ok, nevermind.

Here are some of the other things I have a hard time with - are there names for any of these phobias?

loud noises
flourescent light/direct (non-natural) light
abandonment
dental work
fire (pyrophobia?)
change

Looking at the bright side, I should consider myself fortunate to be living in an era in which I can fearlessly blog about my phobias and not during a time in which I might have been burned at the stake or put away in a mental institution.

Yay 2006!

une petite update

By the way, our floors look fanfuckingtastic! Hooray for Pergo! The bad kitties have been forgiven, although we will be garnishing their allowances until the beauteous new floors are paid off.

just the facts, ma'am

Some random facts about my blog:

1. All stories here are true (so far)
2. Some of the names have been changed and for various reasons, usually to cover my own ass or prevent someone from possibly getting into some sort of trouble
3. When I do use real names, I usually ask first
4. Sometimes when I blog about people (and even when I change their names), they inadvertently find my blog and leave a most surprising comment (like here)
5. I try to stay anonymous and don't post bonafide pictures of myself mostly for future employment reasons
6. This started as a school assignment (see this post)
7. All opinions are mine and are subject to change
8. I try to avoid saying anything I might later regret
9. I am not Japanese, despite my URL...it's actually an homage to two of my longtime favorite folks, Hello Kitty and David Bowie (not in that order) (as HK is a cat from Japan and DB sings about a cat from Japan in Ziggy Stardust, hence the plural); for the record, my predominant family heritage is Scottish and Native American - a very funky combo