From the monthly archives:
“Why does there have to be money anyway?”
“I asked my father the same thing when I was eight,” I tell her. “He told me something about raccoons and monkeys and pineapples becoming too burdensome. I still don’t understand.”
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I do not have the passion it takes to be a tweeting, blogging, Facebegging mother of two. Something had to give. My occupation, my breasts and my thighs have already given up the ghost (RIP, darlings) and Twitter was the next logical thing to go.
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While my daughters knelt
before an altar of Barbie imposters
and their dollar disco dresses,
I prayed to you, a test-drive
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I’ve had a lot of good birthdays, mostly a long time ago. I’ve had a lot of crap birthdays, especially in the second half of my life. I hate the pressure. I hate the fact that I’ve become someone who dreads her own birthday. That seems pompous and self-absorbed, the act of despising one’s own birthday. Narcissistic, and trendy. A terrible combo.
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Despite reports to the contrary, chivalry and gallantry were not dead—not until you threw them under a bus last week and proceeded to hump their remains in the middle of a busy street.
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And when I got there, to Steve Martin’s house, he had all this great FOOD that I wished I had in my refrigerator, and he was mocking the FOOD! So I ATE some. Stuffed some in my mouth when he wasn’t looking. Felt bad that I was STEALING FROM THE TERMINALLY ILL. But, dude, a tormented girl has got to EAT.
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Dear God. I pulled over in the gravel, cringed as traffic flew by, narrowly missing the turtle with zooming tires.
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Manic depression is a tragicomic disease, until the comedy flees and only tragedy is left in its wake. The suicide rate for bipolar bears is staggering. If you are in over your head with a beloved bipolar, do not hesitate to get help from a crisis team. When your bipolar loved one becomes unrecognizable to you, yes, it is time. It may be time, before that point, but who can say? There are stubborn bears. They don’t want you to know how bad it’s gotten. They want to be like you. They want to be good, calm, normal, successful—like you.
There is simply no “right” here.
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We can make our guesses,
of course. That is one that
that can’t be helped. Guesswork
is to human as gossip is to human
as to wondering where the socks and
toenail clippings go is to human.
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