« March 2006 | Main | May 2006 »

Dirty Girl

The onset of spring, with its baby green offerings, really sucks me in with its promise of continuity. No matter what happens in my life, that peony is going to emerge, red and purple like a newborn baby and pushing up at an amazing speed from a blank spot in the soil every April. I am in awe and buzzing with excitement this time of year. I pace the yard every morning and evening, to see what plants are coming up, what is getting buds, repeating a kindergarten mantra under my breath, "ready, set, grow." I start making a list: dirt, compost, peat moss, purple & orange annuals for this spot, white and purple for that spot, etc. Through some mysterious metamorphosis I have become a plant loving, dirt digging obsessed maniac.

I have no idea how this happened, but it began about the second year into my homeownership. It started with a couple of container plants, and by the end of the summer I'd nearly relandscaped the entire yard with over 100 new plants. Now, I've never been one to like dirty hands or clothes. I've always been comfort oriented, and dirty fingernails and muddy feet weren't in my program. Insects have always horrified me, especially spiders. I managed to contract some sort of mental disease that not only gave me a new tolerance for such things, but in some cases actually makes me desire them! I have CHAD -- Compulsive Horticultural Acquisitional Disorder. I've got it bad!

Working in my garden, I have no less than 100% chance of something, usually a big hairy spider, freaking out after I've inadvertantly moved his hiding leaf or something. If not a hairy spider than a beetle of ominous posture, a centipede or a nasty white pinchy grub. Now, this isn't something that I've come to love. But I swear to you that five years ago I would have never considered rustling my hands through dead leaves to uncover something so (at the time) menial and nondeserving of risk as a crocus. I can't say that I'm exactly fearless when it comes to bugs now, but unless the little bastard is actually crawling on me or jumping at me, I don't even bother to scream. I give an involuntary peep, scoop it up with my spade, pitch it into the woods and just move on. If it's a cute bug, such as a ladybug or butterfly, or even a praying mantis I might even talk to it. (In the bug world, cuteness saves).

Dirt, on the other hand...Let's just say I must have found my inner child when it comes to dirt. Some mood or presence, youthful and carefree and delighted, sets upon me when I get going in the garden. I get snips of memories, like film clips, from when I was a very young child. I remember lying on my stomach on the fresh green grass and watching all the little life move around in its own tiny ecosystem. I was too entranced with discovery --how things felt, how they grew, how they moved in the breeze outdoors -- to care about dirt or grass stains or bugs touching me. I have a renewed love for the feel of the moist soil in my hands, my hair, dampening my knees and socks, streaking my face. I love the smell of the dirt, the plant roots, the cuttings, and the mulch.

And the plants themselves - I'm devoted to them all. I await with baited breath the a posse ad esse of a ripe tomato from the seed I planted. I love finding plants left for dead behind healthier ones at the Home Depot and being victorious the following season when they burst back into life. I am fond of every plant I own to a ridiculous point. Some have names. I mourn for plants that don't make it. I collect seeds and cuttings from gardens of anyone who will let me. I agonize over Japanese beetles and lily beetles and ground bees that set up their little tunnels in my annual bed. I fret pitifully on a solution to the "puppy problem." There is nowhere in my yard, currently, that the puppies can be and not dig into, chew up, or pee on something that I prize. (This will be my Garden Challenge 2006).

Anyway, I welcome this time of year like I'd welcome a bottle of lithium after a six month bipolar spree. Spring and summer's opportunities to play in the dirt like a child and play god with the life in my garden are like hall passes from heaven. Every April, freedom is mine, at least for a few months. Depression cannot break through my armor of garden soil and washes down the drain with the dirt when I at last get into a hot shower. My old friend, mania, nips my heels but I am too tired from gardening to play with her, so she eventually moves on, pouting and swearing she'll be back (yeah, whatever!). I am busy getting my fill of spring and summer and dirt and plants and inner peace and childish happiness, so that when November comes and kills it all, I won't be too devastated. I know it can't last forever, so I will be a dirty girl while I can!

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
- Robert Frost

Posted by Bullyland at 10:35 AM | Comments (3)

I Am WOMAN, Hear Me...Purr?

I had to laugh when on the seacoastconnects.com forums I was assumed to be a man. Well, why not? Are women usually mean and sarcastic, do girls go by monikers incorporating "bull," do ladies feel the need to publicly tell certain people to STFU?

Well, although I do prefer pajama pants to nylons, I am quite a girl. I have pink curtains and three Persian cats, for pete's sake. Bully is only my alter-ego, if it were up to her, she'd have beaded curtains made from the teeth of those who could use some knocked out. You may be shocked to know that I spend lots of time thinking womanly thoughts, checking out hot man-cheeks in Levis, and perusing the web for adorable photos of baby animals. I will share with you some photos from my collection that will leave no doubt in your mind of my sex. Thanks, cuteoverload.com for the daily supply of cuteness that keeps me from completely hardening over like week old Jello. (WARNING: Accessing the rest of this blog entry could cause head implosion and/or unconsciousness)

"Does this hat make my head look big?"

"Is that a dachshund in your pants or are you happy to see me?"

"Jazz paws!"

"Oh...my...God...Is this PLASTIC?"

"Snurf."

"Okay, everyone synchronize your watches...we attack at daybreak!"

"Help me, Puppy-Wan-Kenobi, you're my only hope!"

Sometimes you need your friends...

And sometimes you need to chill on your own.

And now, I'm off to replace my sparkly lipgloss that my German Shepherd ate. So there!

Posted by Bullyland at 04:42 PM | Comments (6)

Testing the Light

While I have nearly recovered from my lengthy cold/sinusitis/pneumonia which managed to rob me of all my energy, will and spirit, I am feeling a weird sense of self retrospection. As always when I recover from an illness (or depression) that is particularly gruesome, my brain kicks into a bit of overdrive and I flirt with mania like someone smelling secondhand pot smoke. I won’t really take a puff of that joint, but it feels so good to imagine the smoke filling my lungs and embracing my brain.

I realize in certain moments of clarity that I’ve sacrificed the full development of my brain for the sake of sanity now. As a young child I was “tested,” my “I.Q.” too high for “normal,” and of course was immediately placed in a “gifted” program where I promptly began to flounder. Back then, they didn’t test emotional I.Q.s, and gifted children were never mental cases. You couldn’t put the two together. Gifted children were supposed to be the shit – achievers, so together, headed for success. Ha!

Now, educators know that many gifted children suffer the cut of a double edged sword. On one hand, they possess above average intelligence and capacity for learning, on the other, their minds are not in any way formed like other children. They require alternate methods of teaching, of being able to express their genius. Otherwise, their abilities lead them to a dangerous path and one they must either take and toy with insanity or not take and dull themselves with television, video games, drugs/alcohol, anything to maintain normalcy. I sensed, subconsciously, as a child that I’d need to dumb it down a bit if I ever wanted to be normal; normalcy was the nirvana I strove to achieve all my younger life.

My mind works in ways I still can’t put my finger on sometimes. But I’m old enough to know that when I allow my brain to absorb knowledge, showcase its abilities, shine – I enter a realm of my own reality and balance a tightrope between normal and insane. Rarely do I really express or acknowledge my “true” brain. The brain that holds a seemingly infinite capacity to learn, express, process; the brain that once its engine gets warmed up can get a million miles to the gallon. This is because of my inner fear that it will just drive itself to the edge of the planet and keep going off into space.

I read books about people like John Nash, David Helfgott, and various other brilliant freakish people who never drew the line or separated normal reality from their own realities. I wonder what it must be like. I doubt I’ll ever really know. I’ve too much at stake to really unleash my inner Nash, my Woolf or Plath. Sure, I might leave behind a wealth of brilliant work but at the cost of my life and the welfare of my family and friends.

Who knows, maybe one day, when my kids are grown and I’m finally on my own completely, with no one to disappoint or hurt, I’ll go into the light, all the way until my hair catches fire. I won’t stop several feet short, feeling the warmth from a distance. I will allow my brain to gas up and go. Til then, though, it’s meds and blogs and Wonder bread. Cheers!

FEELING MUCH BETTER
(or, Bipolar Sonata in G versus A minor)

Happy to report
I’m no longer reading
Bukowski's rancid poetry
And listening to Albinoni's adagios
Or worse
Nothing at all
Wearing black with gray
Waking from dreams of vivisection
Or worse
Hostage to winter's echo
Seeing only a sea of dead leaves
Exhausted, immobile,
Swallowing aspirin
Like salvation

Happy to report
I'm reading novels
And listening to Folds
And better
The library and a new CD
Wearing black with pink
And better
Shaving my legs
Sleeping dreamlessly
And better
Able to see spring's onset
Raking away the leaves to new grass
Finishing the laundry, washing the dishes,
Swallowing aspirin
Once a day

Posted by Bullyland at 03:38 PM | Comments (4)

I Remember Mama Said

I’ve had a tough time being myself lately. Between my oldest son’s shenanigans of late and my youngest’s emerging independence (in other words – bossy and borderline insolent), I am worn out. Constantly cutting deals with utility companies gets me in a state of semi-panic. A trip to the grocery store leaves me filled with anxiety. I am unable to sleep at night and late to work every morning. I can’t make it to a payday without the bank covering overdrafts and I’m overwhelmed with a sense of doom. I’m exhausted, depressed and feeling a bit defeated.

I have barely been able to keep up with any housework. My house is filthy. Dishes are piled up in the sink, and my kitchen floors and counters resemble the old relief maps that hung on the walls in my elementary school. Animal hair has taken on a life of its own in corners, on stair landings, and formed veritable blankets under each piece of furniture. My bedroom floor has become a store-all for stacks of unwanted clothing and linens – an interrupted attempt at spring cleaning. The cat litter boxes in the basement have been ignored for two weeks. Dirty laundry piles up in the basement; I am living out of laundry baskets and wearing mismatched socks. I am sinking.

I have been winging it my entire life. It rarely brings me down. I thrive on beating the odds again and again. Fat or thin, I always have a tremendous store of energy that keeps me moving. I have family and friends who love me and a formidable angel of God has always had my back. I’m able to slide through the muck with grace because I know that what I have is precious and I am privileged to have it.

So what could bring me now to this lowly emotional and physical stature? It’s simple. I’ve been quite ill for several weeks. A head and chest cold that preceded bronchitis has morphed into pneumonia. I am like my usually unsinkable mother – physical illness is really the only thing that can get me down. When you throw in a full time job, (single) motherhood, sole proprietorship of a house, care of two dogs, three cats and three fish tanks, it doesn’t just suck – it is a cold, glassy, galaxy-sized vacuum of suck.

Every day when I wake up, I tell myself that I will get something done that evening. I will not just collapse on the couch after my son is in bed. I spend every ounce of energy I have keeping life normal – being normal – for my son. Once he is asleep, however, I have only the ability to collect a glass of ice water and yes, collapse on the couch. I avoid the stares of my dogs, with their heads cocked and ears perked toward me in suspended confusion. (She looks like Mom, smells like Mom…but that isn’t our Mom.) The cats lounge grudgingly on the dirty carpet and regard me with disdain. Their expressions tell me that if I don’t do something about the litterbox situation soon, they’ll revolt and I’ll be stepping in cat shit. (And you thought our hairballs were disgusting, missy!) Even the fish are feeling my neglect – my catfish has developed ick. Yick.

I’ve wondered lately if I can go on like this. I’m so tired, it’s too hard. I should sell the house, rehome the pets, find a no-nonsense apartment with no yard to take care of and rejoin the Laundromat scene. It would be so easy. It would be a relief at this point.

I won’t give up yet, though. If I did I would spend the rest of my life gloomily ruminating my surrender. I’ve had worse times and made it through. This is nothing.

In my past, when I’d been in depressions so black I could see nothing else, I’d consider ending it all. How easy it would be to just go to sleep and never have to wake up to fight another day. After months of swinging between maniacal glee and unrelenting blues, I’d be exhausted beyond belief. I could focus only on the pain that lie ahead in wait. During one of these episodes my mother, frantic and wise, begged me to hold on for just one more day. She told me that no matter how dismal life seemed today, that tomorrow would always arrive with the promise of a better day, the sun would come up again, like magic. It was such a simple concept. And it worked. Every time I was at the end of my tether and tempted to let go of it, I’d remember her words and go to sleep. In the morning, every time, there it was – a new day, a new chance that in itself lifted my spirits.

I know that today I am ill, tired, and feeling pummeled by adversity. However, my illness has stopped getting worse, and now every day is the same – a plateau. If not soon, then eventually I’ll be better. Today, I feel hostage to my job, motherhood, my money trap house, my animals, my responsibilities. I’m at the end of my rope, but I’m holding on tight because I know that tomorrow is a new day and brings the chance that I will be feeling well. Then my children, my job, my house, my responsibilities will instead be my freedoms -- hard won and worth living for.

(Thanks, Mom!)
*******************************
TIME OF THE DANCE

-patty griffin

Posted by at 11:09 AM | Comments (20)