Category Archives: mixing medications

1000 ferris wheels

I once read that about people who make and fold 1000 origami paper cranes.  Some do it for luck or longevity or luck or wishes or hope.  Some do it for love.  Some do it for peace.  I assume some do it for the same reason I make ferris wheels.

I make them over and over again, from tiny kits that arrive in small envelopes whenever things get difficult.

bloggesswheel

I turn the small metal tabs in.  I fit the speck-like tabs into the delicate, almost invisible slots.  I place 100 tiny metal pieces -like forgotten shavings- together to make each car, each strut.  It’s comforting to me when I need comfort most.  When life gets too large.  When the world is too loud.  When my skin is to raw and sensitive to be touched.  It’s then that I go into this tiny world I have perfect control over.

The work is both challenging and mindless.  I close a tiny door.  I add a hanging car.  I straighten a spindle.  I imagine myself in this little world, an invisible guest on this fragile and exquisitely imperfect wheel.  It does not spin exactly but the cars gently sway.  One car breaks loose and plummets to the floor.  I find it, a minute later, hidden in the seam of the tile and I rescue it and return it to it’s place, giving the metal tab an extra twist with my tweezers and holding my mouth just so as if I am casting a spell.

Stay put, I command in my head.  You are where you belong.  To everything there is a place.

And I line the pieces up into their places.  I make them right.  I make them fit.  I put things the way they are meant to be, even if only in a tiny world that rests in the palm of my hand.

In the morning I show my daughter the shiny metal ferris wheel.  She oohs and ahs and rocks the small cars, probably imagining real ferris wheels she will ride one day when she is grown.

I lay the tiny wheel down, my invisible anxieties and worries sitting calmly on each seat.  I say a prayer to keep each worry in its place.  To glue it there.  One for “fear of going under water.”  One for “one day she’ll leave me”.  One for “I’ve forgotten something important that I can’t remember”.  One for “paralyzed with doubts”.  One for “broken”.  And those small passengers all sit in silence, quieted at last, as I place the wheel with all the others.  And there it will stay while I take up life again.  Until, that is, the next week when I can’t think for all the worries and anxieties and angry voices screaming in my head.  And then I will place last week’s empty ferris wheel on a sidewalk  or tree branch for a small child to find, and I will open the thin envelope in my desk drawer and slip out the new metal sheets waiting to be cut and folded and pinned and pressed into life.  Into fear.  Into both.

And the wheel comes around again.

ferris bloggess

Note: I know many of you have noticed I’m not quite myself this month.  I’m fine…just crawling out of a depression that has taken more out of me than usual.  I’m coming back, but slowly.  Thank you for being patient.  Thank you for being you.

 

I can’t tell if this happened because I have a medical issue or because I’m just really lazy.

Yesterday I went to pick up my meds and while I was there I handed the pharmacist my prescription for my ADD medication and she was like “Sorry, I can’t fill this one.  We can only fill prescriptions within 21 days of them being written” and I guess I can understand that but I’ve been walking around with this prescription for a month because I’m not really focused enough to remember to refill my meds if I’m out of my ADD meds and the pharmacist was like, “Yes, but you’ll still have to get a new one” and that sucks because first of all, the fact that I’m making my meds last long enough that my next prescription expired proves that I’m not abusing them or selling them on the street, so if anything I should be rewarded by getting more drugs.  Plus, now I have to make an appointment to see my shrink to get another prescription and I’ll have to tell her I kept getting too distracted to fill the prescription that I insisted that I needed because my ADD was making me too distracted.

But technically she already knows I’m irresponsible and have ADD so really it’ll probably just make her happier that she’s doing an excellent job diagnosing me.

Although she’s not really doing that great if she actually expected that I was going to fill my prescription myself within a normal time limit.  I suspect it’s a test and I failed it.  Or she did.  Maybe we did as a team.  I’m not good at evaluating right now because I’m low on ADD meds.

Someone please make an appointment for me with my shrink.  And remind me to get her to call in my meds this time.  And then take me to the pharmacist to get my meds before they call me with that ” YOUR PRESCRIPTION HAS BEEN READY FOR WEEKS AND IF YOU DON’T PICK IT UP SOON WE’LL RESTOCK IT.  YOU ARE WASTING OUR TIME” message.  And then bring me a cheesecake.  And take me to the post office.  And make me drink more water.

Jesus.  I need a babysitter.  For me.

I blame the meds.  Or lack thereof.

PS.  I don’t have a graphic to go with this post so instead I’ll show you the business cards I made for myself.

furiouslyhappycards2Please note that I forgot to put my name on them or a website or even what FURIOUSLY HAPPY is.  I think it’s pretty obvious I made them without the benefit of drugs.  Or possibly it seems more obvious that I am on drugs if I made business cards with Rory’s taxidermied raccoon face on them.  Depends on the kind of drugs, I guess.  But!  You can do this with them:

furiouslyhappycards3

They would come in much more handy if I ever left the house long enough to give out business cards, but at least I have some now, so…you know…baby steps.

 

Bloggess Life Hacks that might get you arrested, part 87.

bloggess life advice

PS.  I put this on twitter a long time ago but people keep asking why it’s not on the blog.  So now it is.  It’s sort of a rerun if you follow me on twitter, but it’s still good, solid advice.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HERE IS YOUR PRESENT. THE CAT IS ON THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON AND WON’T MOVE. I’M NOT YELLING AT YOU.

IT IS MY MOTHERFUCKING BIRTHDAY AND I HAVE A SNIFFLY-ASS NOSE.

It should be against the law to not be able to breathe properly on your birthday, but such is the curse of the Capricorn…always having to share a birthday month with Jesus, and usually taking too many antibiotics to have another margarita.

birthday juanita

But, it is my birthday and if I could ask you for a present I’d ask you to go buy my second book, but I’m putting the finishing touches on it this week so you are off the hook.  Unless you haven’t read my first book, in which case get thee to a bookery.

Still, it feels like birthdays should have presents and so in celebration I’d like each of you to do something wonderful for yourself.  Maybe buy yourself those shoes you can’t stop thinking about, or watch bad tv that you love, or pet all the cats at the animal shelter, or tell the person you have a secret crush on that I’m forcing you to make out with them, or just lock yourself in a room and read until you make yourself dizzy.   It’s up to you.  Or if none of that does it for you, I’ve made you something.

It’s a horoscope.  It is non-refundable so I hope you like it.  Also, there are probably a lot of typos.  I blame the margaritas antibiotics.

WHO ARE YOU?

Capricorn:  The tears of a Capricorn can heal a broken typewriter if applied directly.  You can provoke those tears by reminding the Capricorn that they have a terrible mascot/patronus.  Seriously…goat head + fish tail = WORST MERMAID EVER.

Libra:  Never ask a Libra to mail you a five dollars.  They suck at this.  PROVE ME WRONG, LIBRAS.

Leo:  No one is good at eating corn on the cob, but Leos are the best at not being good at it.

Sagittarius:  Never tell a Sagittarius to calm their tits.  They will become violent and stabby.  “No, why don’t you calm your tits, sir?  MY TITS ARE WILD AS THE WIND.” ~ Said every Sagittarius ever.

Cancer:  Cancers always tap on the glass, even when the sign specifically says not to tap on the glass.  If you tell them not to tap on the glass they will tap even harder while staring right at you.  Don’t fuck with Cancers.

Pisces:  Pisceses are confusing.  Mostly because spellcheck doesn’t even recognize that Pisceses exist.  Instead it’s telling me that the plural of “Pisces” is still “Pisces”, which seems wrong.  But I guess the plural of “fish” is still “fish,” so that sort of makes sense?  But if the plural possessive of fish is “fish’s” then would the plural possessive of Pisces be Pisces’s?  Pesci?  Oh my God, my head hurts.  Thanks a lot, Pisceses.

Aries:  The Aries wants to correct your poor grammar on the internet but they won’t out of fear of writing something grammatically incorrect in their correction.  Except sometimes they will.  They’re terribly unpredictable, those wily Aries.

Gemini:  Almost every adult Gemini is missing his or her original teeth.  That’s right.  Your secret is out, Geminis.

Khaleesi:  Not a real sign.  True heir to the Iron Throne.

Scorpio:  Scorpios act all tough, but really they are a full sack of feelings.  Who hurt you, Scorpio?  TELL ME WHO HURT YOU.

Virgo:  Virgo is simply not having it.  None of it.  None of your motherfucking bullshit.   Awww, you done fucked up now.  You better run.  Virgo’s got a knife.

Taurus:  The great tragedy of the Taurus is that they can’t eat cheese.  No, that’s not right.  It’s that they are always making witty references but no one in real life understands the references.  No.  Hang on.  Is it something about gluten?  Shit.  The great tragedy of the Taurus is that no one remembers what their great tragedy is.

Aquarius: The only thing Loch Ness Monsters find more delicious than an Aquarius is two Aquariuses.  Don’t go into the water, Aquariuses.  That’s how they get you.

PS.  Happy birthday to you.  I know it’s not your birthday but I’m getting a head start on next year.  Unless it is your birthday, in which case I totally knew that.  That’s why I made you this horoscope.  Happy birthday, us.  We’re awesome.

It’s (not) Flag Day.

When I was a kid I was assigned “Flag-Duty”, which basically meant that me and a classmate were responsible for raising and lowering the flag at our elementary school.  We were taught the special way to fold it and everything was fine, until one day the wind caught it when we were folding it and a corner of the flag touched the ground and my co-flag-folder lost. her. shit.  Then she confessed to the principal and he got pissy and said that now we’d have to destroy it because it had “touched the ground and been soiled”…which sort of seems like an over-reaction and I was like “Yeah, but it touched AMERICAN soil, so why would that dirty it?  It literally just touched AMERICA. How is that bad?” And then said he was going to have to burn the flag and I was like “You’re going to burn the flag?  Is that even legal?” and he was all “It’s illegal not to, and since you were so careless now we have to buy a new flag.”  But then the next day he gave us the “new” flag and it totally had the same tiny hole in the corner as the last one and it was really obvious that it was the exact same flag, so basically he just made me feel bad for grass existing while he lied about his flag-burning exploits.

I was reminded of all of this because I just saw a painting of Betsy Ross showing George Washington her flag, and she and all of her little child laborers are like “Look at this bad-ass flag we made.  The only thing that would make this better is if we had glitter, except that glitter hasn’t been invented yet.”

Via The Library of Congress, who might be fine with me not crediting them on this one, now that I think about it.

But George Washington is just ignoring all their hard work and he’s glaring at the corner of the flag touching the floor, like “OMG, I can’t trust you bitches for anything” and his compatriots are all “Bitches never have respect for anything.  And, by the way, you’re totally poking your sword into Betsy’s rug.”  And then Washington would be like “WHAT?  I NEVER” and then they’d explain that they meant it literally and not in some weird sexually metaphoric way.  And also, why did the painter purposely paint trash on the ground of her house?  And is that a turtle on a cushion using a cane to turn the pages of a book?  What am I even looking at?

PS. I actually wrote this on Flag Day, but I didn’t publish it then because it seemed like it would be disrespectful.  I mean, not as disrespectful as impaling other people’s rugs while criticizing the work of illegal child-laborers, but close.

In The Library

For those of us with triskaidekaphobia the year 2012+1 will be an entire year of forced behavioral therapy.

It’s a stupid superstition but one I still struggle to shake as (for me) it’s wrapped into a weird layer of OCD-based terror.  In my mind, every time some one says the unlucky number, everything becomes unlucky for everyone who has just heard that number, and only saying it again will cancel the negative effects.  Except that it’s impossible to know exactly if you’re on the lucky or unlucky side of life, and so maybe you say the unlucky number to get you out of an unlucky period but then you get your arm chopped off and then you realize that you were in the unlucky period before, so you say it again and then your leg falls off because you’ve just said the unlucky number too many times and fate is now pissed that you’re fucking with her.  This all makes sense in my head.

That’s why yesterday at my friend Laura’s house I was a bit of a nervous wreck entering the first day of this terribly named year.  And so we decided to change the name.  To “The Library.”  At first I thought this just made me feel immediately better because the booze had just kicked in, but now I’m perfectly sober and I’m in the second day in The Library and I feel so terribly comforted.

(by Johanna Ljungblom)

In The Library you are safe.  It smells of old books and worlds you’ve yet to explore.  It smells of worlds you’ve loved that beckon you back.  It smells of the bacon sandwich the guy in the corner has smuggled in while he devours words and food, not sure which is more filling.

In the library you are prepping.

Everything that happens in the library is just preparation for the next year.  That means if you fuck something up this year it’s fine.  This whole year is just practice.  The library is made for that.  Maybe you spend the year writing a book no one will ever read.  Maybe you spend the year recuperating from last year.  Maybe you burn the Thanksgiving turkey and forget an important birthday.  It’s okay.  It happened in The Library.  It was just practice for next year.  Maybe it’s insanity, or maybe it’s just me, but somehow I think we all need a year in The Library.  A year where it’s safe to make mistakes.  A year where it’s okay to have to escape and stare out the window without someone asking you when you’re going to get back to work and fix your life.  A year where we all whisper quietly about our plans and our wishes and dreams and darkest fears.  A year in The Library.  A year of getting lost in dusty, forgotten corners, and a year of finding the want.  (The want to leave.  The want to play.  The want to shrug off the dreams and walk out in the sunlight.  The want to pounce on 2014 with glee and rapture.)

The Library opened yesterday.  It closes 51.9 weeks from now.

Welcome.