Archive for Sunday Scribblings

The Date

January 14, 2008 · Filed under G, Sunday Scribblings

Back in 2002, I was a newly-minted divorcée, reeling from an on-again, off-again relationship with a psychotic recovering alcoholic with addiction and abandonment issues. I decided to join Match, forsaking Matchmaker (where I met the aforementioned fuckwad) and steering clear of Nerve for its oversexuality (I did join Nerve eventually, but really only for the risqué tshirt available to members). I was posting more and more bitter profiles, writing that “I’m not interested in children. Mine, yours, or anyone else’s. If you are, don’t write to me. I am a diehard atheist. If you persist in believing in god, don’t write to me.” And so on. After going on innumerable horrifying first dates (most notably the guy who forgot to shave his beefeater’s mustache so he looked like his profile picture and spent the evening bragging about his RV trips to Nova Scotia. With his son.) I finally found a profile that looked promising. Very sarcastic, as bitter as mine, and there was a line in there about his ideal woman being an ugly, two-faced troll otherwise known to law enforcement as Martha Stewart. I read, “ideal woman…Martha Stewart.” Since I was worshiping at her altar in those days (I still do but I’m a bit more realistic now), this seemed to be the guy for me. Also, he was listed as an atheist. I think there was something in there about not wanting kids. The only rough spot was that his location was in Brooklyn. Over a bridge. I HATE BRIDGES. I’m a total gephyrophobiac. Tunnels, too. But for a shot at love? I sent him an email, he sent one back, we chatted on the phone (he seemed, distracted most of the time. I put that down to shyness. Ha!), and we agreed to meet. April 19th, 2002, at Grand Central Station. By the clock. In those days I was blowing out my hair every day, and the weather, well, it was April. I had a last-minute first-time customer who I apologetically shooed out of the shop at six on the dot (”Normally I’d stay open late for you but I have a first date tonight and I really need to get ready.” She understood.), flew home, primped, scented, moisturized, dressed, and exploded out to the train station with seconds to spare. It was thunderstorming. As I regained composure on the train, I said to myself, “This will either be the worst date in history or the best.” My hair frizzed, then curled, I panicked. I wasn’t going to look like my picture (he later told me that he was glad that I didn’t look like my picture, as it wasn’t very good.). I arrived at Grand Central right on time, and proceeded to the clock. I thought he’d said that he’d be wearing black pants, he actually said a black shirt. With a penguin on it no less. I saw the clock, and a cute blond guy standing there. No black pants. I looked at him, and he at me, and I slowly shook my head. Damn, if only. He said, “Lysa?” and I started. “Gary? I thought…never mind.” We drew nearer and he smiled, softly, and said, “Hi.” I said “Hi” back, grinning. This was going to be a good night, I could feel it in my bones.

We started walking toward the exit, talking about nothing, my train ride, the weather, our respective days. We finally got to Heartland Brewery in Union Square, went upstairs, and got a table away from the hubbub. We did a lot of staring and smiling. He had a messenger bag, and a, 11″x14″ photo portfolio. I asked to see his pictures, and he said, “Really? I mean, if you want…” “I want.” I opened up his portfolio and looked inside. Photos of 9/11, the aftermath, the Tribute in Light, a handsome cat, macro shots of flowers, a park, snowy cityscapes. Real talent within the unassuming vinyl binding. “These are really, there’s something special here.” He sat, smiling. We did a lot of that that evening.

We ate, something delicious and bad for us. Then came dessert. Being at my fighting weight, I didn’t hesitate to order Key Lime pie. He had the apple crumble. The waitress set down our dishes and I took a bite. My face smoothed, my eyes closed, a groan rumbled deep from within. “I don’t get that channel,” he said softly. I came back to Earth and my eyes flew open. I can’t believe I just did that in front of a new guy. Practically creamed my jeans from pie, for goodness’ sake. I couldn’t help it, it was so damn tasty. He got the check and we left, rather quickly.

We walked downstairs and out into Union Square Park. Hesitant at first, then surer, he held my hand. We sat down on a bench, people-watching. I leaned in close, and we kissed. Stars exploded above us. Angels sang. I nuzzled his cheek, his neck, the breath going out of him, and he said, “I love your scent.” Note to self: remember what the hell I put on this evening. As we were kissing, and I was nervously looking around (yes, kissing with my eyes open, I know, so outré) I saw Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick walk past. Schweet!

After about an hour spent entwined, we walked for what seemed like miles, past the Salvation Army offices where they were hanging a new sign (”Blood and Fire.” Nice.), past numerous shop windows. For some reason unbeknownst to me, a light bulb went off in my head. “You haven’t by any chance heard of a tv show called The Prisoner, have you? It’s from the ’60’s…” I asked. “I have every episode on DVD,” he replied, eyes wide. We looked at each other, and in voices worthy of Montgomery Burns of The Simpsons, said, “Excellent, Smithers.” We both gasped.

We stopped in front of what looked like an installation art piece. There was a railing keeping passersby away from the window, and Gary leaned in, fast. Clonked his forehead right on the glass, shaking it. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing before quickly asking if he was okay. He was, just a little shaken.

I checked my watch, saw that it was going to be a race to the train, and we headed uptown. Kissing on the platform, I boarded the train home, with promises of a phone call the next day. Not believing, but wanting very much to, we finally parted. I spent the train ride home blissful, recounting the evening.

He called the next morning. No three-day rule for him. Thank goodness.

We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’ve been together ever since. Married one year, one month, one week. Not that I’m counting.

————

On this day: Grey Day 2006

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Ah, the ’80s

December 17, 2007 · Filed under Sunday Scribblings, bipolar

To be fifteen again, is something I both wish I could do, and am glad I will never have to repeat. Fifteen was a nightmare of an age for me, the bipolar disorder had really taken hold of my physiology, with all the classic attached symptoms; the drug abuse, hypersexuality, the not sleeping thing. If I could go back armed with my present-day knowledge, I’d fight for a proper diagnosis, instead of the misdiagnosis of schizophrenia and the attendant drugs that I was given. But there was some fun in that completely fucked-up part of my life, if only while I was manic. I went dancing nearly every weekend in the city. Mostly at the four-story-high Danceteria. I turned around my high school ring and wore it on my left hand, like a wedding band. Although I wasn’t fooling anyone about being married, I never owned a fake ID and never ever got carded. I was a crazy girl back then, with a penchant for vodka and 7Up. I didn’t drink much, didn’t need to, the mania was fueling my drive to dance, alone, or with anyone who sidled up to me. And dance I did, both with my girlfriends, when they dared to accompany me, with our purses in the middle between us, shoes off, sweating like rock stars, and alone, defying my parents’ wishes for my to not go by myself. The music was loud and electronic, and it was a blast, being out there. I watched the clock like a hawk. The derelict train left Grand Central at 1:30 am on the dot, and I only missed it once. I’d been with Steve something-with-a-J back at his place for some risky behavior. He’d promised to get me back to the station on time, but he didn’t. Ass. I called my father, crying, telling him that I’d had a fight with my girlfriend, Sarah, and she’d left the club before me, and I’d lost track of time. Dear old Daddy came and picked me up in his Porsche, me looking like a total whore, makeup running from the sweat, and freezing. The cops pitch you out of Grand Central after the last train has left, so I waited patiently out in front, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in neon yellow fishnet tights, four-inch stiletto heels, a micro miniskirt, a torn tshirt, and my grandfather’s army jacket. Trying not to attract attention. I garnered some inquisitive stares, but no offers. He pulled up, unlocked the door, and did not scream at me, but instead, asked if I’d had fun. How clueless my parents were. If I could go back, I’d rage until they finally listened to me instead of shutting me out. They saw all sides of my illness, but not many people knew anything about it back then. Instead of doing that, I went out to dance. And hoped for help which never came.

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“I carry…”

November 18, 2007 · Filed under Sunday Scribblings

In my bag, whether it be a bona fide knitting bag, or my regular Paul Frank Skurvy pink with skulls bag, the following:

At least one knitting project, currently a sock of my own design, made from Colinette’s Jitterbug in “Blue Parrot”

a brown leather Raika Filofax, personal size

a fold-out wallet from Sportsac, pattern in “Partridge” (no longer available. boo hoo.)

clean napkins from The Westchester’s Food Court (Nathan’s and Ranch 1)

a pink glitter pen that Suzanne gave me

a small bottle of Tums Smoothies

a travel toothbrush

Motorola cell phone and pink Bluetooth headset

Hello Kitty Band-Aids

pill bottle filled with two 40 mg caps of Geodon, one 80 mg cap of the same, four tabs Motrin, one tab Excedrin Migraine

pill bottle filled with lorazepam (generic Ativan)

two Triple Chocolate Chaos Balance Bars

pair of red leather gloves

pink leather card case from Neiman Marcus with cards that don’t fit into the wallet

Ralph Lauren sunglasses, not in the case

Ziploc bag with at least one clean baby wipe

pen with hand sanitizing spray

three Commerce Bank pens

dental floss sticks in a little plastic case

more Hello Kitty Band-Aids

TheraMints (with Xylitol!) in Eclipse mint case

receipts waiting to be logged

pink aluminum size C crochet hook.

Because you never know when you might be on The Price Is Right.

—–

On this day: Started Priscille’s poncho 2006

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Cue the cash registers

November 5, 2007 · Filed under Sunday Scribblings, bipolar, shopping

“Money, its a gas.
Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash.
New car, caviar, four star daydream,
Think Ill buy me a football team…”

– Pink Floyd

One of the bad things about being a privileged kid with bipolar disorder is that the spending sprees that are one of the classic symptoms of the disease don’t really get you into trouble. Yeah, you might get a talking-to, and the ‘rents might even go so far as to take away a credit card, but there’s never any real damage done to your peripheral life. However, you’re definitely doing a number on your psyche, building up lots of regret and guilt and memories to be replayed over and over (and OVER) about all the stupid shit you bought and how it didn’t even begin to fill the cavernous pit that holds your soul hostage. Add risky sex and drug abuse to the broth and you’ve got yourself one hell of a complex with aeons of therapy in your future (paying shrink bills doesn’t give quite the same frisson of delight). My husband loves to use as a warning to others the time I was in full-blown rapid cycling mode and went to Manolo Blahnik and spent $3600 on crocodile shoes. For three pairs. They were half price. I still have them, and the $400 pair of Versace patent leather zebra-printed cockroach-killer stilettos that never made it out of the bedroom even once. I really should stick them on Ebay and be done with it; the Versaces and two pair of the Manolos are pretty uncomfortable, good just for sitting and looking pretty. I’d keep the kitten-heel loafers though. They make me feel like a million bucks. Or at least, they used to make me think I felt like a million bucks. I’ve pretty much ended my mammoth spending sprees, although I’m hard pressed to keep my wallet shut when there’s something I want, be it a new tshirt on Threadless or a glittery eyeshadow at Sephora.

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“My first act as Queen/King of the World will be…”

October 21, 2007 · Filed under Sunday Scribblings, bipolar, meds

Universal health care for everyone. EVERYONE ON THE PLANET. And by that I mean good, effective, reasonable health care where the doctors and nurses don’t treat you as if you are a blight upon the Earth. Or crazier than they’ve ever seen before. Or stupid and ignorant. Even if you are. I don’t intend for doctors and hospitals and drug companies to go broke or die trying, no, not at all, but to be simply reasonable about the whole thing. For those of us who require more, erm, attention in the health care department than others, I think that it shouldn’t break your bank to try to be well. I think that Big Pharma ought to change the wording for their “indigent patient programs.” Here’s what the dictionary had to say about the word indigent:

1. lacking food, clothing, and other necessities of life because of poverty; needy; poor; impoverished.
2. Archaic.

a. deficient in what is requisite.
b. destitute

Deficient in what is requisite. Oh, man, is that a stigma. As if we needy folks aren’t needy enough, you have to add stigma to the top? And I, working retail, make too much money to be considered. Do you know what retailers are paying these days? Oh yeah, there’s a pretty passable discount, but do you actually know what my paycheck reads for standing on my feet with crazy clown smile on my face pushing one more extravagantly priced knife, one more hurricane lamp, forty hours a week? After taxes and insurance (for both of us, because as a one-man operation, my husband doesn’t qualify as a small group for insurance), it isn’t much. I took a pay cut to work where I do now (but the insurance is actually better and cheaper than at my last job, so it kind of evens out), and my employers are pretty high up on the pay scale retail-wise, trust me, I’m not cranking on my job, just the whole benefits thing. Ha! They have the nerve to refer to the whole scam as benefits. And I’m at the mercy of the insurance company, they get to decide if I’m worth the cost of my medication. One company, years ago, decided that they weren’t going to pay for brand-name Wellbutrin any more, just for bupropion, the generic. My thoughtful pharmacist (can you taste the sarcasm?) informed me that it was a “Class A generic,” meaning that they are bioequivalent (containing the same active ingredients as the original formulation). However, as Wikipedia points out, “Bioequivalence, however, does not mean that generic drugs are exactly the same as their innovator product counterparts, as chemical differences do exist. Some doctors and patients emphatically believe that certain generic drugs are not as effective as the products they are meant to replace…” She then adds, flippantly, “I mean, it can’t hurt to try it, right?” Lady, it will hurt you, me, and anyone who gets in the way if this shit doesn’t work. Luckily, for everyone, it did work, up until recently.

Or maybe I’m just cranky.

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