I started my double dose of Effexor today. Hooboy! Am I feeling woogy!

If I recall correctly, and if I follow the same steps – I’ll be woogy through Friday and then headachey all weekend.

Good times.

Still not anorexic.

But that’s okay because I’m already feeling more energetic and baked brownies this weekend so it’s great that I’m not anorexic!

This is subject to change in accordance with my pants size.

I woke up to thunderstorms on Saturday morning. Poor Stella, she was a nervous wreck! And Yoda was nowhere to be found. Scooter was fine. Scooter’s always fine. She’s Adventure Kitty, that one.

The plan for the day was to take neighbor Judy Beauty to Rusty Rabbitique’s occasional sale and flea market. But with the rain and it being an outdoor thing I came up with Plan B.

I took Judy Beauty to downtown Minneapolis. She got the royal, Logic, tour.

We parked in the IDS Center’s ramp, where I showed her the very spot where I ran into Bruce Springsteen and met Clarence Clemons.

In the Crystal Court I showed her where Mary Tyler Moore was photographed for her show, sitting at a table up in the balcony of what is now known as Basil’s restaurant.

(Just below, and left of the flag, you can see a little balcony area.)

I told Judy old IDS stories from 1982 – how I was the person to process any Crystal Court insurance claims, including the “bag lady” who wanted to sue us because she hit her head on an escalator step while trying to pick up a fallen coin.

I told her about the homeless people who found their ways into mechanical rooms, setting up residence.

I told her about how I’d sit in the circular reception desk, lunch coverage for the Crystal Court concierge, directing everyone to places all over the downtown Minneapolis area. Meeting and greeting all sorts of individuals.

I miss downtown.

We went shopping at Macy’s. Judy Beauty found a cute, textured jacket within minutes of shopping. While she was checking out, I grabbed and tried on a pair of jeans and sparkly top. Making my own purchase minutes later. Score!

Then we went into the Oval Room and chuckled at the prices. Trying to guess what they cost. “$700″ I said about one blouse. “Nope,” Judy Beauty said, “It’s $1,500!” We both looked at the blouse, which was just a blouse that had some plastic “jewels” on the cuffs and collars and agreed that we could replicate it for less than $10 with a visit to Michael’s.

The most expensive item we found was a pretty dress for $3,500. It was then that I noticed the watchful eyes of two sales associates, making me worry that if I made any sort of fingerprint on a garment, I’d have to buy it!

Macy’s in downtown Minneapolis on a Saturday is pretty much a ghost town. We saw about 1 or 2 sales associates per floor so it was kind of surprising to see two of them in the tiny Oval Room area. But with prices like that, you have to up your surveillance game, I’m guessing.

We left Macy’s and had lunch at the Rock Bottom Brewery on Hennepin Ave. I really like Rock Bottom. It’s a brew pub/restaurant but I feel so comfortable there – it’s the kind of place I can imagine hanging out at with a book and a beer for an afternoon. I’ll have to give that a try some time. It was kind of busy, with lots of families, so it was no surprise to hear that the were all eating before they went to see Raffi in the State Theater, next door.

After lunch, the rain had stopped so Judy Beauty and I took a walk outside. We stopped at Candyland, a candy/popcorn shop that has been in the location since I worked at the IDS Center in 1982/83. I’m guessing it may have even been there before. When I worked there, I frequently went in for a bag of popcorn for lunch – A Chicago Mix of regular, cheese, and caramel corn. The hand-printed sign is probably the same one that was there back in ’82!

We walked on and I showed Judy the Mary Tyler Moore Statue. Why neither one of us would stand next to her for a pose is proof that we are self-conscious dorks. Sorry about that. All you get is Mary.

We went home and I crashed on the couch. I got up later and headed back out to do some shoe shopping at local department store, Herberger’s, where I found sandals that I think I can wear to work – less toe-exposing.

And of course, I found some new work pants and a couple of tops.

I have no control!

No wonder my work-mate Lori is always giving me grief for my new clothing!

When I got home, Nugget and Thing 1 were getting ready to head out to First Avenue (back to downtown Minneapolis) to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club in concert. I stayed home and rented the movie “Guilty Trip,” which made me chuckle – for the most part.

And I know this entry has gotten long but here’s the thing – I felt so “normal” yesterday. It looks like my weepy-without-being-able-to-weep days are behind me!

I grew up in a time where girls were taught to be proper and polite. Women had to wear hats and gloves to church. They were second-class citizens.

I’m not sure when I became a rebel to that but proper and polite left me when I was still young, much to my mother’s chagrin.

She tried to make me less of a tomboy. My older sister was a total girly-girl. Hair rollers, dresses, girdles. The few times that I wore nylons with a girdle, I wanted to crawl out of my skin!

“You need to speak more softly. Don’t be so loud!” was my mother’s advice to me in high school when she was let down that I didn’t have a boyfriend. “Boys don’t like mouthy girls!”

As thought I could be anything different than what I was.

Quick story: When I was nine, mom gave me a purse, hoping to make that girl she expected out of me. She tells the story about how, at the end of the day, she heard the school bus stop and drop off the neighborhood full of kids. All of a sudden she heard a lot of screaming and yelling. She looked out the window and saw me chasing a boy down the street, hitting him over the head with my purse!

I love that story!

***

During college, I dated a guy named Dean for about a year.

Dean was a shallow asshole, always commenting on my appearance, even though I was in the best shape of my life, running every morning before classes.

Dean and I spent a year yelling at each other. He’d comment on my weight (I was not overweight at all) and I’d tell him to shut his face. I finally had enough of this and broke up with him.

Dean, who did not attend my college, ended up transferring to the same university, assigned in the dorms to the room of a friend of mine so we ended up staying in touch.

Several months after school started, Dean called me, crying. His new girlfriend of several months had broken up with her because he’d hit her.

“What should I do?” he cried.

“Don’t hit anybody. Leave her alone and move on,” I replied.

Several months after that he called me again, crying. His next new girlfriend broke up with him because he’d beaten her up as well.

“I feel terrible! How can I get her back?” he asked.

“You can’t. You need to get into counseling to find out why you keep hitting these people,” I replied.

I continued, “I have to ask you. We fought like cats and dogs. We screamed at each other for a year but you never, once, hit me or pushed me or even threatened to touch me. Why didn’t you?”

“You would have told everybody,” he quickly replied.

Interesting and dead-on.

When I think of the women I know who’ve lived in abusive relationships (unfortunately I know too many) the biggest thing that happens to them is the alienation in their lives from anyone who could be supportive – their families, their girlfriends.

When I think of the women I know, who’d been in abusive relationships I can recall how quiet they were about their abuse. How polite they were. How they disappeared from my life.

I think that Dean may have hit it on the head.

Another thought is that I never felt it was all my fault when Dean and I argued. I can’t recall what we argued about but I know it had something to do with his jealousy. I am totally the wrong person to have to deal with someone else’s jealousy. I’ve got many male friends, including the one he was living with, and he had to decide that if he was going to be with me, he was going to have to accept that because no matter how hard he tried, I wasn’t going to change for him.

That entire year he never stopped trying to dominate me. I wasn’t going to give up my friendships; I wasn’t going to be quiet and polite. I was going to stand up for myself when I needed to and if I needed, bring along reinforcements.

The reason I stayed in the relationship so long is because I’d just gotten out of a long relationship (with my ex-husband, who I started dating soon after Dean and I broke up) and Dean was gorgeous. Dumb, chauvinistic, gorgeous.

I lost touch with him after college, only seeing him once at a bar. From what I’ve heard, he married a woman who emigrated from Mexico. I hope, but I doubt, that she has lots of friends and family in her life.

I just read an interesting blog entry on Say No to Stigma, the blog of The Meninger Clinic. Here’s the link to click on.

In it was this:

To be ill means that you cannot recover by a mere act of will. If you’re mentally ill, you can’t just change your mind—think positively if you’re depressed or stop worrying if you’re anxious. We increasingly understand the complex psychological, social and biological bases of mental illness. We have increasingly diverse treatments. But the foundation of treatment for all illness is caring and compassion, along with hope—which must be founded on realistic expectations that respect the often daunting challenges of recovery.Jon Allen, PhD, senior staff psychologist

We are still waiting for an available bed for our son. I asked him the other day if he’d received a call from them (they’ll be calling me as well, and I’ve heard nothing) He replied that he hadn’t heard from them and that he didn’t think he needed to go anymore.

Fuck.

He thinks he’s got the willpower to stay sober and stay mentally healthy. 

I let it go, not wanting to get into one of our weird arguments. Later on I said, “Okay. If you don’t want to go in to inpatient treatment, it’s probably time you should start looking for a full time job.”

“No. I think I’ll go in,” he replied.

Ahem.

One for mom!

***

I’m settled in to my lower dose of Effexor. I double it on Tuesday so I’m expecting more woogy-headed moments. Followed by a weekend of headaches. But I like how I’m feeling less Weepy Without Being Able To Weep. And the bonus is that my Tamoxifen-induced hot flashes are less frequent and less severe. I still have them but they are less embarrassing, for the most part.

If you’ve never had a hot flash, I don’t think you can understand the BAD that is a hot flash. And to have them every 15 minutes or so, because of the Tamoxifen – for 5 to 10 years – can make someone want to stay home and stay naked. I’ve been tempted to rent an apartment to stay in for the next few Tamoxifen Years, all by myself, so that I could do just that. Unfortunately I’m not rich (until I win the powerball tonight, of course) When I do win, I’m getting myself that Naked Apartment!

I’d invite you over but then you’d have to see me naked. If I DO invite you over, make sure to say No! Just say no! Unless you’re prepared to live the rest of your life with hysterical blindness.

I’ve got the day off and I’ve got absolutely nothing on my calendar. Awesome!

Unfortunately, I’ve got a list of about three trillion things to do. One of them: looking for Nugget’s back-up phone battery.

Jesus! The dude can’t find anything!

It goes back to the day when he was a kid and his mom told him to grab a frying pan out of the cupboard. He opened the cupboard and totally blanked on what he was supposed to be looking for. His mom reached in around him, pulled out the frying pan and smacked him on the head with it because she was just exasperated!

Always exasperated, she once el-cabong’ed a guitar over his brother’s head.

Anyway. I worry that she numbed the finding shit synapses in poor Nugget with that skillet smack down.

This past weekend, Nugget could find the battery recharging case anywhere!

Where did you put it? Why are you always moving my stuff?

Jesus! Always with the Jesus! in this house. Like  said on Facebook yesterday, Stella thinks her nickname is Jesus Dog (because she is unaware of the comma)

The “lost” case was in the closet right where it always is. Only it was horizontally placed rather than vertically placed, per usual. Not that I ever place it either way. I have nothing to do with the rechargeable batteries around here.

Is it a guy thing, this inability to locate stuff they put away themselves? Or is it environmental? Do all boys not bother to find stuff, knowing their mom will find it for them?

Nugget’s mom should maybe have smacked him on the head a few more times.

If I find the battery,  I might not tell him where it is.

Jesus. Mother’s Day weekend and I post that horrible life lesson about my mom? Lightning might strike me at any moment.

If my siblings read my blog, they might dislike me even more than they already do. We are an environmentally-unloving family. I mean, we do love each other, we just don’t seem to like each other much. Or maybe it’s that we like each other some but we just can’t show affection for each other. That’s probably more realistic.

I just got off the phone with mom. She’s not feeling well and has asked her favorite child, not me, to take her to urgent care. I had plans with her this morning so she knew I was available but who needs me when you’ve got another child you love more?

Do you think I’ll ever get over this messy relationship? Thankfully, at this age, I don’t feel like it’s all my fault – as I did when I was younger. I don’t totally blame my mom – I’m very guilty of being an awful daughter.

Happy Mother’s Day.

I recall one hot summer day when I was 4 or 5; neighbors were gathered on lawn chairs, in someone’s driveway; eating, drinking and chatting. I was running around with a group of kids, probably those same jerks who talked me into pulling my pants down, when I stubbed my toe, nearly ripping off my entire big toenail.

I went running to my mom, one of the lawn chair gatherees, hopped onto her lap, looking for help from her because she was not just my mother, she was a nurse.

“Get off of me!” she screamed, jumping up from her chair, causing me to fall to the ground, “You’re getting blood on me!”

Maybe she was drunk, maybe she was just an asshole, but it wasn’t my mother who took me inside to tend to my toe, it was one of the neighborhood moms.