Friday, January 30, 2009

Krazy Kats: A Friday 'Hello Out There'



Yes, I'm a confirmed Krazy Kat Lady.

And yes...the little bastards, along with my dog Chico, run my life.

But I thought this was so appropriate...especially since today I put my kitten in her place. She thinks she runs the house, but she doesn't (although she has successfully destroyed my blinds and is now trying to ruin other parts of the house).

Photo by Dale Harris


I'm turning *cough* years old on Sunday...another birthday. One would think I'm old enough to handle the little furballs...but they always find a way to my heart...and my pocketbook.

TGIF, folks - have a great weekend.

xo
Billychic

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Sad Face

I try not to get too confessional and weepy on the internets.  I strive to keep my little corner of the web as entertaining and drama-free as possible.

However.

I recently read this article, and for this first time I feel ready to go public with something I try to down-play as much as possible: my depression.

Get ready for some deep shit, you guys.

It began after I graduated from college. My years at Shenandoah were some of the happiest of my life. College was where I found a "group" for the first time. It was where I learned about and submerged myself into music and theatre. It was on the campus newspaper that I discovered my talent and love of writing and humor. We all tend to "find ourselves" in college, and my case was no different. I was content.

Then I graduated, and that was that.

Suddenly, my closest friends were scattered all over the country. Days that were normally full of classes now needed filling. After two years in my own apartment, I was once again sharing a bedroom and living under parental rule (this wasn't necessarily a bad thing, as I'll get to later). I didn't make a plan for the future. Outside of a month overseas I had nothing solid to look forward to.

Partly, this was my own fault. When deciding as a teenager to dedicate my life to the one thing that made me blissfully happy, there were a lot of things I didn't take into consideration. Mainly, the fact that my life- which at that point had a rhythm and order of school and summers- would never have structure again. I had no idea how important that was to me, or how I would deal without it.

After I returned from England, I used that left-over energy to get myself cast in my first show out of school. I was in theatre again. I was in my element. I made friends. I felt like things could be better, normal. There was life after college. However, every show has to end, and as closing night approached I began to panic at the prospect of facing the empty days again. Was I strong enough to do this forever?

It was at this point that my parents realized something was wrong. We talked. I confessed how miserable I was, and how I didn't understand why. All that happened to me was graduation, and that happens to everyone. Why was it harder for me?

Immediately, my parents got me to the doctor, got me on anti-depressants, and into therapy. The next couple of years my parents were heroically patient as I fumbled with prescriptions, day-jobs, frustrations, and set-backs. Eventually, with the help of the medication and through working with my therapist, I became healthy enough to move to New York, while my parents continue to be a rock of support and love from home.

I'll end my story there, even though the story never truly ends. I'm still in therapy. There are still set-backs and struggles and the shadow of a threat that my worst days may yet return. That is the nature of depression, though. It's not a disease that you "cure". It is something you may have to deal with your entire life.

I once again need to express my profound love and gratitude to my parents. In my stubbornness, I never would have admitted on my own that I needed help. Without them I know that depression would have killed me someday.

That felt good to get out.

The reason I felt the compelled to air my own dirty laundry, was because today I became painfully aware about the misconceptions that still surround depression.

The article I linked to is about a theory proposed by let's say scientists. To wit:

"According to scientists, depression is good for us. They suggest that medicating depression as if it is a disease stops us embracing our miserable side and removes the motivation to change our lives for the better."

Fascinating. Go on.

"Being sad can leave victims stronger, better able to cope with life's challenges, and can lead to great achievements."

That's true! I achieved a lot during my own depression, like sleeping 16 hours a day and losing ten pounds from simply not eating!

"Studies suggest sadness could have a protection function. For example, an ape that doesn't obviously slink off after it loses status may be seen as continuing to challenge the dominant ape - and that could be fatal."

Oh, now that's just silly. If an ape doesn't pout after losing to a stronger ape, that doesn't mean he wasn't appropriately emo. The ape could have just been really stupid. Darwinism, people! It works!

"Professor Jerome Wakefield, of New York University, said: 'I think one of the functions of intense negative emotions is to stop our normal functioning - to make us focus on something else for a while.'"

And that's when my brain exploded.

What's wrong with this article is that regular human sorrow is being generalized as depression, and that's a dangerous misinterpretation.

There is nothing unhealthy about sadness. Sadness is natural and inevitable. Without sadness, there would be no happiness. Sadness is a part of life.

Depression is not sadness.

Clinical depression is a physical condition. It is a numbness. It's the inability to feel happy, sad, angry, anything. It is not healthy and it doesn't have to be accepted by anyone as "natural".

Unfortunately, there is no medical "test" to diagnose depression, much like ADD, it's redheaded step-cousin (which I also dealt with at one point Hi, ADD! I miss you! Hey! Look at what the cat's doing!). It's easy to declare someone as depressed because it all depends on the sufferer's words and behavior. It's a tricky little devil, and hence all the fuzziness and grey areas surrounding it.

That doesn't make it any less real.

I put my story out there in hopes that someone with unshakable opinions on depression as "weakness" will read this and think about it in a different way. I hope it will open up a few dialogues about depression, diagnosis, and treatment. Above all, I hope someone who is depressed themselves will read this and get the help they need and deserve.

Thank you for your indulgence. Now, back to my regularly scheduled nonsense.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Are You a Good Wife or Girlfriend?

This is priceless.
From Housekeeping Monthly's May 1955 issue: "The Good Wife's Guide"
and of course...don't forget...
A good wife always knows her place!

(click the image below to see it larger and follow along)




How about these as replacement bullets? Item by item:


  • Forget About Dinner - let him bring in take-out or make his own damn meal. You just spent a day working yourself or with the kids...suggest pizza, chinese, or thai. If he balks, take the kids out to a restaurant (or go alone), and leave him at home.
  • Prepare to Be Comfortable - since he's probably not even going to notice you as he makes a beeline for the bar for a cocktail after surviving yet another day not getting canned in the New Economy, feel free to wear sweatpants, your hair up in a ponytail, and a rock t-shirt and bare feet. If he wants you to look pretty - tell him to buy you some new clothes.
  • Be a Little More Gay - go bang a woman instead. You'll get a lot more on your returns.
  • Don't Worry About the Clutter - just hide everything in the closet. Preferably his.
  • Dusty? Don't Worry! - get one of the cats or dogs to run their tail back and forth through the dust...it will be moved around enough so that everyone sneezes but you can actually see through to what's underneath!
  • Make the Place Comfortable - and then I recommend buying a JackRabbit vibrator...because catering to YOUR comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
  • Turn Up the Stereo - crank up whatever tunes you want to hear; encourage the animals and kids to make noise! It's gonna be a fuckin' party!!!
  • Be Happy to See Him - if he deserves it.
  • Greet Him Accordingly - if he's a darling, then be his sugar mama. If he's an ass, tell him he can kiss yours, and head out with your friends to the nearest pub.
  • Listen To Him - and get him listen to you. If you both have issues about your day, you can share them together. If he thinks that his problems are the only important ones, remind him that he's going to have an even bigger problem if he keeps acting like that.
  • Don't Be a Doormat - if he comes home late all the time, goes to places without you (including dinner) on a regular basis, and basically just thinks of you as the doorgirl/coat check chick, then find yourself someone else who does love you and leave his ass. Be sure to try to talk to him first; if that doesn't work, then be sure to not be home when he DOES get home...make him wonder for a change.
  • Your Goal - to be the best person you can be for yourself...and if he's a winner, he'll be able to enjoy and reap the benefits of that and celebrate that with you.
  • Don't Greet Him Bitching - he's probably had a rough day, too. However, once he's home, feel free to share your life and the issues you may have, and encourage him to tell you about his day. If there is a crisis, that supercedes anything and blurt it out when he gets there.
  • Have A Game Plan If He Stays Out All Night - including a baseball bat to bust upside his head.
  • Greet Him With A Cocktail - and then ask if he wants one too.
  • Have a Pillow Fight - it could lead to some really good sex.
  • Concerned? You Have Every Right to Ask Questions - any relationship that isn't a two-way street verbally is destined for the dumpster. You need to listen to him...and he needs to listen to you.
  • A Good Wife/Girlfriend Alway Knows - period.

Friday, January 02, 2009

A New Year of No Devotions

We were at Arthur's last night, an ancient Dixieland pub just south of Village Cigars on Christopher Street. Taut balloons hung in bunches, some in plastic bags to open and drop when the New Year rang in. A blues band thumped, the blind guitarist growling (the white bassist took our eyes with his broad back and terrible hair).

M the barback in a black shawl, black pixie hair, matching eyes tired, moves as an old wench. She is drenched in oil and resigned about the fact.

I keep thinking about Mickey Rourke (the bassist reminds me). That damn movie, The Wrestler, it got to me. And later I go on Youtube and he's on a British talk show talking about his seven Chihuahuas and the kisses one gives when he blows on her ear.

My roommate and the girl in the zebra shirt are against the wall. They have glitter on their faces, so do I. We make up dances based on cooking skills: "The Pepper Shaker," "The Pizza Cutter," "The Dough Roller," etc. I drink four Sidecars, a glass of Grand Marnier, and an icy length of Patron Gold. There is joy and laughter as there must be, as people insist on, as is doled out on special occasions committed to drinking. I am happy because I am not sad, because there is no point - to worry about dying, to hear the rockets in Gaza, the snipers in Mumbai, the dying in Darfur, the screaming in the Congo, Rick Warren at the inauguration, Mickey Rourke kissing his dogs, everybody in my office playing cards in the conference room - no one asked me. I can't think about these things because I am not alone, because there are people here who will give me cigarettes and be amused by my tongue which comes out under a pair of crossed eyes, because there is Joe with his hand on my thigh and his worried look and his endless cash and his dedication and love and me thinking about Mickey Rourke and his vanquished face, stretched and pinned behind the ears, but not in a way you'd think was intentional, in a way you'd think was lonely, like he went to see a comedy all by himself in the middle of the afternoon.

Goddamn that movie, it's eating at me (his hearing aid on the night stand, like mine).

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Happy New Year. My roommate and I bump butts. Joe and I kiss and hug and kiss and hug again. There are text messages but not hookahs. There are bathroom breaks but no hook-ups. There are no "devotions to God," not like my Mom's New Years (she went to a wedding). "We gave our devotions to God, and then we drank," she wrote in her Myspace blog.

The boys and girls split. We are at a diner, we are in a cab, I'm asleep, I'm not, I'm sliding my credit card and see the cabbie has a mustache and holds a look I recognize as concern but might just be hurry. Doors are opened, shoes slide on ice. I look back before shutting the door to make sure nothing is left behind and in the empty stretch of leather sits a pool of piss-colored light, seat buckles limp in the crux like small, dead animals. Happy New Year, we say to the driver, Happy Fucking 2009.

We are in the hall, my cat stares. There are showers and chocolate. I fall asleep with my laptop on my belly. The morning, my roommate tells me she dreams the cat attack her and she kicked him out in a flood. She feels guilty and I make fun of her. I tell her it's a classic inner-demon battle dreams and make coffee. My roommate and Zebra leave and I crawl into bed with my laptop. I google "Mickey Rourke."