Calling

Two biscotti, a brownie with ice cream, and a cup of coffee later and here I am again, with you. That's what I get for watching a bad movie and going to bed so early out of boredom.

The unicorn meat eating cats didn't go out yesterday; today, they are frantically chewing on the doorknob and tunneling through the wood. It doesn't matter that I keep the litter boxes empty and the cat bowl full...they want OUT. There are just too many interesting goings on outside. My apartment is small competition.

I figure that if I have to endure being bipolar, that I should get to be manic all the time. That's only fair, right? It's depression that makes me pay. Did you know that the number one reason for bipolars to go off their medication is that they like the effects of mania?

Ah, mania, my friend. With mania I am: brilliant, sexy, hip, on my way to the top and no one can stop me. I am a shooting star, designed by heaven to be the greatest wit on the planet since Oscar Wilde and Douglas Adams. Any day now, someone at Penguin Books will spot my blog, and offer me a hefty contract. I have a destiny. I am immortal.

But depression, or even the normal state that I am in right now. How boring and dull I feel. A loser who spends her nights smoking, eating, and drinking too much coffee. I face the blank page and feel no inspiration that will live for generations...I'm just a recovering drunk and my dog is a spaz.

True, I do have cats raised solely on unicorn meat, but from my death bed that looks like two expensive, picky cats.

The only thing that helps me live through the dullness is the thought that the pendulum will, one day, swing the other way.

And this is not to discard the effects of having another psychiatric disorder that I am not ready to tell you about yet. The stigma is that bad. When I was recently diagnosed with this other disorder, my therapist at the time told me the stigma is so widespread that even surveys of mental health specialists show that they have a negative viewpoint of it. And, no, I am not a sociopath, or a homicidal maniac, or any of those really nasty buggers you can't treat. I know this will be a relief for the classmates I will be meeting at my high school's 30th reunion.

Indeed, my new, wonderful therapist, is a specialist in my disorder. And, once again, I have yet another disorder that won't let me take any of the really good drugs. Talk therapy is the only thing that works. Or, if I wasn't in recovery, I could take the really good drugs. I can't win for losing...

Instead, today I am just myself, in this small corner of the world, flinging her voice out to you, as a star sends energy out to other, distant stars. And hoping some of the stars are thinking back to her...yes, I am like you..."To give off light, one must endure burning..."

Wait 5 Minutes

Max is resting comfortably by my feet, as always. Corgis really win in the faithfulness category; no wonder Queen Elizabeth has a lot of them. Someone to love her despite Charles' questionable taste in second wives...

The cats are staying in today, they just don't know it yet.

Either way, I am surrounded by their love this morning. And when Beth and Bubba came to visit, they thoughtfully bought me my favorite gourmet coffee, Tanzania. Every morning, as I am imbibing, I am sharing a special cup with them.

And peaches are in, don't forget the peaches. It truly is a special time of year when peaches come into harvest...they taste what a zinnia looks like.

One of my favorite subjects: Curiosity has landed on Mars. Good for Humanity! It gives me hope somehow that everything might turn out alright, when we have such dreamers and doers in our midst. Despite all evidence to the contrary, we may yet survive.

As you may be able to tell, I am clinging to my anti-depressant with all I've got. It's just the order of things, up, down, up, down. At least I have been resting the last two nights. And I'm not drinking, that always helps for those of my ilk. Otherwise I would be toasted at this hour and thinking about passing out. Which can be fun, but is very, very boring for those on the outside of it.

Although sleeping well, that is, not being manic, has its downside. I don't get much twilight time with you and my garden. And I don't feel particularly creative or brilliant. Not even a dull sparkle. But rather something moving in the mud, waiting to be born, alone and unattended by the gardener.

I might blog later today...cheers!

Maximillion

Max submitted to having his blood taken, but it looks like it might only be epilepsy. Until tomorrow...

Maximum

The unicorn meat eating cats are out hunting...I thought I heard a neigh in the distance about 3 AM, but I wasn't ready to release them, so they lost out on that one. The dog, Max, is having seizures, so he goes to the vet today.

I woke up Saturday morning as he was peeing on me, huddled under the covers, where he was trying to hide from his affliction. It brought to mind a host of afflictions he could be suffering from. And for the very first time since my beloved service animal Eddie died, I realized I loved another dog.

I have had this corgi mix for about a year and a half, and, of course he is cute and amuses me. He was a rescue that a friend thought would be perfect for me. It was too soon after Eddie's passing though. I tolerated him, and he slowly learned to trust me. That's what touched me the most. It was pathetic watching him distrust the human in his life, he had been abused at some point, certainly.

Now he sleeps and breathes me; he is protective of his owner and tolerates my mood swings. He is used to running all day or sleeping all day, whatever I choose. So when I realized he could die, I also realized I don't want another dog. I love him. Wish us luck.

Update later.

Biscotti

We sat on the porch last night and listened to the cicadas sing.

Which is to say, the dinner was marvelous. The wine and beer flowed and the dessert was divine. I wished again that I could drink, because the Sangria was Ellen's own concoction, but it would have taken several gallons to make me happy, so I enjoyed watching Beth and Bubba drink. And when our voices echoed to each other out of the twilight, we took our leave and made our way home.

I enjoy watching others drink but I don't enjoy watching someone get dead drunk in a solitary fashion, either alone or in a crowd. In other words, the way I used to drink.  The cicadas are still singing, and the cats are out hunting. The lavender bush is humming now, a deep bass to the zinnias' tenor. And you are here with me, in this twilight time, drinking your coffee and eating the biscotti I bought for you...

Crickets on the Fairground

Back to reality. The zinnia and the morning glories were glad enough to get the rain yesterday. And Mary and her family came over for a pool party. Swimming in the rain, while the sun is shining, is nothing to be sneezed at, in my opinion.

One of the unicorn meat eating cats loves company, and came out to be loved on. The other never saw daylight. The dog, Max, loves all those kids coming to visit him. I love all those kids coming to visit me.

But dear Mary: when you ask her over for dinner, she brings all the food and more. Just having her goddess like proportions to hug made my pulse slow. Now I know why ancient peoples depicted the Goddess with a large stomach and breasts. She is mother, she keeps fear at bay, she promises tomorrow and a successful hunt.

She was a good answer, life always is, to the anxiety that hovered over me all day, and eventually came to inhabit my body. It's like a storekeeper renting a space to sell his fresh produce. There is a calm, empty lot and presto! You turn around and all the other Bad Things That Happen to you have come to set their tents, too.

You look at their wares. You have mental illness; you have to. There is no choice involved. There is nothing particularly toothsome that you want to buy, but your body insists, like a thirsty child asking for water. You hear the far cry of the vendors you don't want to meet in the distance. "One drink won't hurt." "You can't handle this stress, take a pill, snort this, let's share this needle" later and all the work you and your therapist have done is gone. Like dust settling after a rain. 

You're left alone on the fairground, panting into the dirt.

I survived yesterday without a drink. That sanity didn't survive with me is not the point. My mind knows when to come and go. That's dissociation. It's a survival reflex, fight or flight, gone haywire. And all the therapy, the endless drills and tears, the careful building of networks, has paid off.

And you realize then that, despite the store owners' promises, there was nothing to really lose but yourself. That's the highest stake, the prize for a good fight. A storm of fear has left you alone, clinging to the earth, surrounded by the animals and the zinnia and the quiet dark. And this blank page.

Go for the Gold

I found out last night that the dog can reach the cat food. No wonder he's having stomach 'problems', to be delicate at this hour. And, of course, the cats want out, wildly. But I'm not done sleeping so they are trapped inside.

Drink because you are sad. Or drink because you are happy. Drink because it's raining and drink because the sun is out...And I know some of you are saying, "That's right, Alise. What's wrong with that?" Aaahh. If I could only drink like that! But that was a lifetime ago and may it remain in the past, already.

I'm not jealous. I remember the utter joy of drinking at 5 AM. That's the best time to drink. Particularly if you have a job, so you can make that all important first impression on your co-workers...well, maybe a little jealous. What's breakfast if you can't enjoy it twice? Always assuming you can get it down in the first place.

Now, you might think I am against drinking, since I can't, but you would be wrong. There's nothing I like better than to watch a group of adults get shit faced. Of course, going to an event that has some promise can fizzle, if it's one of those parties where everyone drinks one glass of wine after, or with, food. How utterly useless to drink one glass of wine.

No, no. You need at least three people getting snockered, to have fun at a party. One person getting drunk signals desperation, or some sort of insipid alcoholism. Two getting blitzed signals marriage or financial or child-rearing problems.

But three, now. If at least three people are getting hammered at a party, the evening holds promise. You can also get that fun dynamic going if you are serving Bloodies in the morning or early afternoon. Bloodies can be drunk at any time, and is a party lifesaver, if every one seems particularly dull before breakfast. After all, it can be counted as a food group if you factor in the tomato juice and the optional piece of celery. And the Tabasco and the pepper guarantees its acceptance as a food...

A Mimosa, fruit juice and champagne, is another good breakfast drink, but it's a bit half-hearted. It just doesn't carry the same punch as a good jigger of vodka. Champagne, as a drink, should be left to the grandparents of the newborn just so they don't go into cardiac arrest at the celebration. Or for their 50 wedding anniversary, with a tiny sliver of well-bleached cake.

Irish Whiskey, or coffee and whiskey, sounds like a breakfast drink, but it isn't. It's for rainy days stuck inside. And really, it's the only one of the above drinks that should be consumed with some form of tobacco. No one who uses tobacco as a "chew" need apply. Smoking is the combination that "makes" the experience of an Irish Whiskey.  Although chain smoking with a Bloody is protocol for some women who went to a private, woman's college...it's a sport, really.

No, it's the solitary, lonely glass of wine that makes me insane. What in hell is your system going to do with one glass of wine? Why bother? Do it right, or don't go there in the first place, sugar lips.

And if you're pouring it down on top of food, just go and shoot yourself. No, alcohol is meant to be enjoyed in vast quantities, or not at all.  I would love to live in Russia; or, enjoy a shot of vodka every time you turn around. That's how to consume. It takes dedication, people. I know, I've been there.

And, curiously enough, it is the British who have perfected drinking like a sport: by horseback riding all day. "Following the hunt" is a good excuse to get toasted even before breakfast. And it's nothing to imbibe a cup of cheer if one has the handy flasks that make it all possible. Even "hill toppers", or spectators, drink heavily. That is dedication.

The closest Americans can get is the flask at an American football game on a starry evening. And we are so puritanical, we don't really enjoy it. Our beer is too weak to make much of an impression. Plus, with the prices you are paying, it's not really a choice. You would have to drink a case or more at top dollar, and then there is all that 'going to the bathroom'  business, as one is cold. And you're having it on top of the stadium hotdogs...

For some reason, my ancestors in Scotland  did not perfect drinking and sport. The Brits perfected drinking and moving at the same time. Brits think: "It's a sport, and it's supposed to be fun, right?" The Scots tend to drink after the sport (see Wikipedia's definition of golf), and never serve it with food. In fact, touring Scotland today generally entails going to one distillery after another. If you stay at the ubiquitous B & B's, you only have breakfast to slow you down. If you add food to the mix, not that anyone is eating, then it's an Irish event. In fact it's a stereotype, a body, food, and drink altogether, is a wake.

Well. Glad I could straighten out that national heritage thing for you there, now that the Olympics are in London. Here's to all the spectators who will come away with so much more than memories: a tattoo, extras on the credit card bill, and a few pints of Scottish whiskey to bring home...