Living on the Bedge.

This was me, a year ago. It's time to post it. I'm so grateful that I don't have to live there today.
 
At this moment, I am blogging on the bed. Next to me are two used cups; four cereal bowls with spoons, all licked clean by the dog; two empty yogurt containers, also licked clean; an almost-empty bottle of club soda from a couple days ago; my purse; a couple of used paper towels; and crumbs. Quite a lot of crumbs, in fact, both in and on the bed.

I’ve been living on my bed for the past three months. Eating on the bed. Playing cellphone games on the bed. Listening to NPR on the bed. Watching movies on the bed. This, even though I have a perfectly good living room and dining room and office. My day is spent traversing well-worn paths, and every damned one of them leads to my bed. Which, by the way, is on the floor because I've never put the frame together -- because I won't let anyone in my house to help me.

Depression. I've had it since I was about twelve, although back then I didn't know it had a name. You can see when it happened in the family photos: the light went out of my eyes. There was no there there. Alcohol brought the light back, until it didn't anymore. Later, sobriety brought relief. But even now depression is a frequent visitor. Thank goodness for meds that take the edge off.

Like addiction, depression is cunning, baffling, and powerful. It's just as patient, too, and as subtle.  It intrigues me, seduces me into unlit, unsafe places. Sometimes it breaks the door down with some big calamity like a death in the family. More often, though, it wafts in through the cracks by way of a small mistake, or a brief lapse in integrity, or a familiar sound that reminds me of failure. Sometimes I summon it myself by listening to really dark songs again, and again, and again. The buzz I crave.

Once depression gets a toehold, it takes on a life of its own. It convinces me that I'm just fine, while it reprograms my mind and my heart like malware running silently in the background. Before I know it, I'm in its caress, warm and thick and downy, sequestered from the world like a baby in the womb – but also cut off from anyone who would help me find my way out. And honestly, at that point, I don’t always care if I find my way out or not.

Despair, with an isolation chaser.

I may not even know depression has taken hold until someone asks the right questions. Ask me how I am, and I'll tell you, "I'm fine. Now let's talk about you."
 
But ask me about my actions: Did you get the mail today? Did you open it? When’s the last time you changed your sheets?  Are there dishes in your bedroom? Have you been listening to sad music? When's the last time you showered? Have you been ignoring phone calls? How many meetings have you made in the last seven days?

By writing this post, I know I’m making the decision to stop. Frankly, I’m not thrilled. But if I waited until I felt like doing the right stuff, I’d rarely accomplish anything of value.
 
That's as far as I got with this post. Writing about it was all the action I could muster. It was just enough.

Lazy- Ass Librarian Friday: Babies!

Two of my favorite animal babies. Oh, and by the way, each of these organizations needs donations.

What Ever Happened to Dennis Fimple?

It was just ten minutes ago, yet I can't for the life of me figure out how I got there.

I started out on eBay, window-shopping for vintage starburst clocks. Something distracted me, and somehow I wound up at some movie site or other. Among the many actors' names on the monitor, my eyes caught the name "Dennis Fimple."

Dennis Fimple? Geez, what a name! And an actor? Really? Uh, maybe he played a hotel desk clerk in some shitty soft porn movie. Or maybe in the third grade he played the lead in "George Washingon's Gold Button."  Whatever this guy did, though, I was pretty sure he could have done a lot better if he'd had the good sense to change his name. Maybe at least I would have heard of him.

Yes, I mused. There ought to be some good blog fodder here. Something touching and sweet, about how everyone is uniquely important and special, even this poor nobody. Maybe I could even make people cry. Yeah, Dennis Fimple was mine. I alone was kind and wise enough to see his value.

So I googled him, and then I felt like an idiot.

This is Dennis Fimple: a talented character actor whom I recognized immediately. Thoroughly successful, thank you very much. He was in a shitload of TV shows and movies. 

What is it the Big Book says about contempt prior to investigation?

I'm considered to be a "nice person." It's a trait I value highly in others, and one I'm willing to work for in myself. Most people smile when they see me coming, and I really like that. Besides, doing nice things for people feels, well, nice.

But this time, when I thought I was being nice, it was really just bloated patronization.

Dennis Fimple is three-dimensional. He worked in a Cheetos factory. He taught school, and he delivered newspapers. He had lots of stories about his experiences, he liked to read, and he was very much into antiques and collectibles. Oh -- and best of all, he was in Truck Stop Women, and I have the movie poster!

Dennis Fimple. A regular guy who seemed to fly under the radar.

I do believe I would have smiled when I saw him coming.

 

 

I'm so sorry...

I promised you an utterly self-indulgent and narcissistic post, and I aim to please. This started out as a blog post. Then it was a letter. Now, it comes full circle.

 “I’m sorry.” People tell me I say it a lot. My mother said you should never say you’re sorry unless you really are. Well, I really, really am.

 I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't know it's supposed to be high T-cells and low viral load. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you better this evening. I'm sorry I'm not prettier, thinner, taller, funnier, smarter, or more graceful. Sorry I walk too slowly. Sorry my socks don't always match and occasionally my underwear is inside out. Sorry I haven't been a better mother. Or daughter, sister, wife, or friend. Sorry for opportunities squandered. I'm sorry I said [insert anything here]. I'm sorry I didn't say [ditto]. Sorry I ran over that rabbit in 1986. And 1999. And 2005, it was never on purpose. Sorry I wasn't a better caretaker for my cat/dog/horse/turtle/fish/guinea pig/hamster/gerbil. I'm sorry I didn't pick up that rubber band on the sidewalk yesterday, because now some poor cat will get tangled in it and die. I'm sorry I brushed my mother's teeth during her last days instead of just holding her hand. I'm sorry I latched onto you like a barnacle on a ship. Or a lamprey on a shark, and I'm sorry I don't know the difference between a metaphor and a simile. I’m sorry I said “I’m sorry” in 115 emails in 2012. I’m sorry I never delete emails. I'm sorry I'm dull and shy and inept, and I sometimes wonder when you'll grow impatient and move on to more interesting and challenging companions.  

When it comes right down to it, I'm sorry for taking up space. It seems a waste. Yet I'm aware that this reveals my huge ego. So I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I'm sorry.

But we seek progress, not perfection, and there is progress. There are even a few things that I'm not sorry for. I'm not sorry I blocked traffic one day to help a turtle cross the road. I'm not sorry I had a daughter, or went to Harvard, or gave up my car, or that I broke my foot. I’m not sorry I fell in love. I'm not sorry that when they made me play an Oompa Loompa at the GLBT chorus concert, I held up signs during the final show as I moved crossed the stage: "Will trade" "sex for" "speaking role."  It brought the house down.

And I'm not really all that sorry I latched on to you.

In which the Subversive Librarian Returns to the Blogosphere

So Chicken Licken came up to Henny Penny and said, “Hey, Henny Penny! When the hell are you gonna blog again? I mean, it’s been more than a year, for Christ’s sake! What’s the problem? Too lazy? ”

Henny Penny looked sadly at Chicken Licken and replied, “I have nothing new to say. Everybody else has already said it better.”

“Aww, you’re off your nut, Henny Penny!” said Chicken Licken. You have plenty to say!”

“It would be nice to start blogging again,” Henny Penny said with just a little bit of hope. “What do you suggest I write about?”

“Ummm… Oh, I know! You’re in love. You haven’t blogged since you met her. Talk about that!

“Well, yes, I’m very much in love. She’s wonderful! Passionate, talented, sexy, and she has a job!”

“Oh, that is new! Congratulations!” smiled Chicken Licken.

“Yeah, but that’s kind of personal.”

Just then, Ducky Lucky came up. “Quack! Whatcha doin’?”

Chicken Licken replied, “I’m trying to get Henny Penny to start blogging again. She says she’d do it but she can’t think of anything to write about.”

“Oh!” said Ducky Lucky. “Why don’t you write about your dear friend Mark King? He’s one of the Grand Marshals at Atlanta Pride this year, you know. And you do love riding on his coattails!”

“Hmmm. That’s a thought.” Henny Penny pursed her lips for a moment. “Naah. He gets enough publicity already without my help. Besides, he never did autograph my copy of his book, APlace Like This.”

“I see your point,” quipped Ducky Lucky. “He’s already famous.”

“You know what?” Henny Penny said. “I’m going to post TODAY.  I’m not going to put it off any longer!”

“Quack! That’s the spirit!” Ducky Lucky shouted, and Chicken Licken cheered. Then the three friends sat down on the curb, in silence, thinking as hard as they could for a topic.

Owlie Jowlie wandered up the road to join them . “Sports!” is all he said.

Henny Penny looked directly into Owlie Jowlie’s big round eyes. “Who the hell are you?” she snapped. And with that, Owlie Jowlie shuffled away, looking slightly hurt.

“What the fuck!” said Chicken Licken.

Henny Penny, Chicken Licken, and Ducky Lucky all returned to deep thought, their chins resting in their hands. After a little while, Foxy Loxy came strutting over the hill, merrily whistling the theme from The David Susskind Show.

“What’s up, my fowl little friends?” Foxy Loxy sang.

“Oh, Henny Penny is trying to decide what to blog about today,” said Chicken Licken.

“And about fucking time, too,” quacked Ducky Lucky.

Foxy Loxy narrowed his eyes. “Why,that’s easy, Henny Penny. You’ve already got a draft post that’s chock full of angst and inner turmoil. Post that one.”

“That piece of bullshit?” clucked Henny Penny. “It’s self-indulgent and utterly narcissistic.” She paused for a moment and smiled. “I’ll post it tomorrow.”

And so she will.

Call me Madam...Librarian

A funny thing happened on the way to my librarian degree.

 But first, a confession. My master's degree in Information Science has been in limbo for a long, long, long time. I mean, I worked as a librarian for many years, and I took all the classes and everything, but when I finished my master's-degree coursework at Florida State in 2002 (or was it 2003?), I kinda sorta owed the school money. And they wouldn't give me my degree until it was 100% paid off.

This meant that I did not have that coveted credential that is the sine qua non of library-job riches:   "You must have an MLS degree from an ALA-accredited school." (in job listings, this is sometimes written with a sneer).

I made the last payment in 2006. Or did I?  According to my recollection, I never actually sent in the last payment. No payment, no diploma. But in 2006 I was too busy screwing up my life to take care of such details. I was a depressive in survival mode, and I figured this was one more thing that was never going to get fixed.  Who needed their silly old degree anyway?

Recently, though, I've been in the process of cleaning up my credit and trying to clear past financial wreckage. So I summoned up my nerve and I called FSU to see if my degree was still on hold. The nice man on the phone told me he had good news and bad news: Yes, my degree was on hold. And I owed ... wait for it ... a single penny. Which FSU generously wrote off.

That didn't end the matter, quite. It took a little time for the plucky, intrepid FSU staff to track down my transcript (most of my school records had been destroyed years ago). But track it down they did, and they conferred my degree retroactively as of 2006. At long last, my diploma arrived, and it's a beaut!
.
So now I am a bona fide, real-live, I'm-better-than-you-are-because-I-have-a-piece-of-paper librarian. Oh, pardon me. "Librarian" is so passe, so card-catalogue. What I am is an information scientist.

With a big-ass librarian diploma.

Why you should never sell your used digital camera on eBay without deleting the pictures.

This.

CDC: Mark's Story, Let's Stop HIV Together

I'm very proud and honored to be part of  CDC's new national HIV awareness campaign with my dear friend Mark King. I'm told the campaign is high profile, and I'm likely to show up on billboards and buses and at the Atlanta airport. This should do wonders for my humility. But enough about me.

The CDC's campaign is terrific -- you can see more stories, and learn lots more, here.

If you haven't been tested lately, it's time. HIV isn't a death sentence anymore, but you've got to know your status. Get the facts. Get tested. And get involved.

I love you all.

Re: Sad message

My dear friend,

This is another hoax, and a hateful one at that. It's been around for years. Here's a link that explains it. The link also shoots down the idea that Muslims, as a group, are Holocaust deniers. Snopes has covered this hoax too.

I am Jewish, and I have no patience for religious or ethnic bigotry. I love you and it's been fun to hear from you, but this is the third time I've had to ask you to quit sending me the anti-Muslim stuff. So regretfully, I must ask that you take me off your mailing list.

Wishing you all the best --
Lynne

From: @@@@@@@@@@@@yahoo.com>
To: "@@@@@@@@@@@@yahoo.com>
Sent: Wednesday, July 4, 2012 9:18 AM
Subject: Fw: SAD MESSAGE

this may be a duplicate cause you are on more than one of my lists. please do not get annoyed - this message needs to be sent round the world

Love and hugs,
@@@@@@@@@

.

IN MEMORIUM This week the University of Kentucky removed The Holocaust from its school curriculum because it "offended" the Muslim population, which claims it never occurred. This is a frightening portent of the fear that is gripping the world and how easily each country is giving into it. It is now more than 60 years since the Second World War in Europe ended. This e-mail is being sent as a memorial chain, in memory of the six million Jews, 20 million Russians, 10 million Christians and 1,900 Catholic priests who were murdered, massacred, raped, burned, starved and humiliated with the German and Russian peoples looking the other way! Now more than ever, with Iran among others claiming the Holocaust to be "a myth," it is imperative to make sure the world never forgets. This e-mail is intended to reach 40 million people worldwide! Join us and be a link in the memorial chain and help us distribute it around the world. Please send this e-mail to 10 people you know and ask them to continue the memorial chain. Please don't just delete it. It will only take you a minute to pass this along.

Lazy Ass Librarian Friday: Two Degrees of HuffPo

Congratulations to Mark King, whose latest blog entry has been posted on the Huffington Post at their request.

Full disclosure: Mark and I have become good friends over the past few years, so I can no longer even feign objectivity. Which is why it's a good thing Mark really is as gifted as I think he is.

It is what it is.

It's about 12:30 on Friday night, and I'm restless. It's that four-in-the-morning-let's-go-to-Waffle-House kind of restlessness that comes with bad news and a long night. Mental exhaustion has set in, taking the edge off any dull emotional ache that might have survived the day. Still, sleep will only come when my emotions are completely dead, when there's no energy left to think, not even about being tired.

My father has lung cancer.

He was characteristically stoic when he told me -- "it is what it is" -- and seemed unprepared for my dismay. It is what it is, he repeated.

There's really nothing else to say.

Well, I'm more unique than average today...

Today I went to the orthopedist (actually, the doctor's PA, who was very good) and got the scoop on my poor old broken foot. Naturally, it wouldn't do for me to have your garden variety, run of the mill boring kinda fracture. No, like any good addict mine had to be special. I have something called a "Jones fracture."

Here's what Wikipedia says about it:

A Jones fracture is a fracture of the diaphysis of the fifth metatarsal of the foot ... at the base of the small toe. Patients who sustain a Jones fracture have pain over this area, swelling, and difficulty walking. The fracture was first described by British orthopedic surgeon Sir Robert Jones, who sustained this injury himself while dancing, in the Annals of Surgery in 1902.

So now, I have a big-ass boot on my foot, which I will be wearing everywhere except in bed and in the shower for the next three or four months. They'll check it in a month and then another month after that, and if it's not healing right they might have to dive into me and put a pin in it. Happily, it doesn't hurt too terribly badly, so it feels a lot more like an adventure than an injury.

Anyway, I say if you're only going to break one bone in your lifetime, make it good. Make it dramatic. Make it count!

Highly technical legal and medical disclaimer: This is not my actual foot.

Mother's Day.

Dear Mom,
I suppose you know I broke my foot on Wednesday. I was in the middle of a photo shoot, and I fell off of a box. It was awesome! The crutches, not so awesome. It doesn't hurt too terribly much, though, and it makes a pretty good story. And it gave me an easy writing prompt with which to reboot my blog after a long period of silence.

Anyway...

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. It certainly has been an interesting year. I moved, again. George died. I hit 30 years of sobriety. Your granddaughter started college and got a job. While she's testing her wings, I'm testing mine. (By the way, thank you for warning me that most mother-daughter relationships aren't as placid as ours was. That advice came in handy this year.)

This year, my faith has grown. I've learned to laugh more, and laugh more easily.  I've started learning to appreciate things about myself. Most of the time, I no longer feel much "guilt for being." But I've also felt deeper loss and greater fear than I've faced since, well, probably ever.

I'm learning how to be a friend, and a daughter, and a sister. I've become reasonably responsible with money. These days, more often than not, I do what I say I'm going to do. This is all basic life stuff, but for me it's real progress.  There's no way I could have grown so much if not for your unconditional love and support, and your wisdom.

I saw the New Mexico license plate at Roxx the other day. Thanks for popping into this dimension to say hello.

Thank you for leaving me your journals. They bring me great comfort, although at the moment they're packed up in some box or other. Oh, and thank you for telling me that when I ride the bus, I should always sit as close to the driver as possible. I always do.

I guess that's about it. Everything is as it should be, except that you are gone, and I am here. But then, I go back to what you told me when you were sick: "If we can be together across thousands of miles -- and we always are -- then mere death isn't going to separate us." And when I can look past the physical, I can see that you were right.

All my love,
Lynne

Why I haven't been posting lately

Well, actually, I haven't been able to think of anything interesting to write. Oh, sure, my head is brimming with brilliant inspiration. Dig these titles:

"My Underwear Has Arrived, and Just in the Nick of Time!"
"When Green Beans go Bad"

And these two, about classical music:

"If it's Baroque, Don't Fix It!"
"Rarely Mozart, but Offenbach"

All right, I guess you had to be there.

Truth is, I'm going through something. Not the little-ups-and-downs kind of something, but the really heart-wrenching, impossible-to-fathom, god-sucks, time-has-stopped kind of stuff.  And I can't write about it here, in this public forum. At least, not for now. Thank god, though, with some outside help and another 90 in 90, I'm looking forward to getting better.

So please don't give up on me quite yet, dear readers. I'll get there.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Wednesday: Navajo Nation sues Urban Outfitters | ajc.com

I'm rooting for the Navajo Nation on this one. Urban Outfitters has lots and lots of other names it can use to make money. Here's the story:

Navajo Nation sues Urban Outfitters

Lifting the Burden: On Money, Footwork, and Blessed Relief

As it turns out, my lovely daughter is taking the semester off from school, which means I have some extra money for the next few months. Isn't that nice?

What's more, I've decided to spend it on me. Specifically, on cleaning up my credit, and then socking away enough money for a small downpayment on a condo or small house. Prices and interest rates are low, and I'd like to take advantage of it.

My chaotic financial history is replete with the usual stuff and wreckage of addiction, even though I was sober when I was creating this mess. Unopened mail. Utilities turned off because I didn't have the money. or because I just forgot to pay the bills. It's probably the part of my life that's been most resistant to change. Likewise, it has brought me the most shame and misery. That, and the food thing.

I happen to know that some of my readers are very stable, sensible people who may not get it. Why not just take care of this shit so you don't have to worry so much? Just stop eating. Exercise, for god's sake. Quit bouncing checks. Pay your fucking bills, dumbass. Duh!

Of course, you're absolutely right, and I've known that all along. But I discovered that it's a lot easier to maintain good health than to try to regain it once it's ruined. I was hemorrhaging money, and I didn't know how to stop the bleeding. From late 2008 until the middle of 2011, there is not a single month in which I didn't have at least one overdraft. My average was about seven overdrafts per month, at $37 a pop. In my worst month, I had fourteen.  From December, 2008 until May, 2011 I spent $8,535 on overdraft charges for over 230 checks. Since May, 2011 I've had just one overdraft -- a slip-up in November.  My credit rating has gone up by about 60 points since then.

In any event, it took a shitload of time and effort and pain for me to get this patient stabilized, and now I've got an extra thousand bucks to toss around every month. I say this not to brag, but to express my suprise, relief, and gratitude for a turn-around that can only be described as miraculous. 

Anyway, this addict still thinks it would be a swell idea, now that things are in some sort of order, to shake things up a little and buy a house. That has led me to a realtor, who has led me to a very nice mortgage broker who told me I can't buy a  house until I get my credit up a little more, and then told me exactly what to do to fix it. Although he probably doesn't know it, he's showing me how to work steps four through nine around money.

So in the past three days, I've gotten into action. I've arranged for the release of a tax lien that was paid long ago, and I've settled four small accounts that were in collections. One of these transactions deserves special mention, and I'll post about that tomorrow. There is still much to do, and some of it is going to be tough.

In the meantime, though, it's a great start, and I'm pretty damned pleased with myself. I really, really am.

On Parenting: The Reprise

Oh, dear. I should have known that this was waaaay too easy. Sigh.

HIV-positive man trounces the APD

Yesterday the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in favor of an HIV-positive man who sued the Atlanta Police Department for refusing to hire him based on his status. The APD doctor who conducted the pre-hire physical told the man – referred to in the lawsuit as Richard Roe – that the APD wouldn’t hire him because he is HIV-positive.  The doctor also advised the APD to prevent Roe from “physical contact or involvement with individuals.”   

Let’s just let that sink in for a moment. It boggles the mind, doesn’t it? A doctor this misinformed to begin with, and then stupid enough to tell the job applicant the true reason for not hiring him?  What a maroon.

So, anyway, Roe sued the APD under the Americans with Disabilities Act, and the APD motioned for summary judgment (a quickie dismissal, basically), saying that Roe hadn’t shown that he wasn’t a direct threat.  (I hate all these double negatives too, folks, but it’s correct because of the burden of proof).

The trial judge bought the APD’s argument, and then added its own garnish to this pile of bullshit. Roe, the court said, hadn’t even shown he was qualified for the job to begin with, apart from any medical issues. The trial court came up with this second issue all by itself, and didn’t bother telling the parties about it beforehand.  The court isn't supposed to do this sort of thing unless it provides notice to the parties. Without such notice, the appeals court noted, Roe felt ambushed.

The appeals court vacated the trial court’s opinion and ordered it to take another look at the case. Noting that the City had no policy against hiring HIV-positive applicants per se, and in fact had some  in its employ, the court said Roe had been “lulled” by the city into believing that his positive status itself is what disqualified him. Accordingly, Roe didn’t introduce evidence showing the trial court that his HIV-status was “non-dangerous.”

So, wait a minute. Roe has to prove he’s non-dangerous? Shouldn’t the burden be on the APD to show that Roe’s condition is dangerous? I mean, I know he’s the plaintiff, so he has the overall burden of proof, but… really?? (Yes, yes, I imagine it has something to do with that whole McDonnell-Douglas-burden-shifting thing. But frankly, it’s my blog, and I don’t care.).

Roe also challenged the validity of the pre-employment physical itself, since federal law requires a conditional job offer before such a medical examination is required. The court of appeals sided with Roe there, too, so he will have the opportunity to present this argument on remand.

It’s an interesting opinion and, of course, I’m pleased with the outcome. But don’t expect it to be a game-changer. The circuit court almost certainly thought the law was well-settled; this is evident by the fact that it issued an unpublished, per curiam opinion.  Unpublished opinions are considered “persuasive” only; they’re not binding on the court in future litigation. In any event,  this case will never appear in one of those big, fancy, expensive books that you see in all those lawyer TV commercials. Hence, proof that the case is not all that important.

Except, of course, to Roe. And anybody who's been discriminated against on the basis of HIV status. And the APD. And pretty much everybody else.

In other words, good news is good news, and any step in the right direction is a welcome thing.

You can read at he opinion here. The Washington Post article is here.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Thursday: The Gay Rights Movement in Six Minutes

I think you'll find that this video is worth your time.

That said, it's probably not the video to send to your dear Aunt Frieda who's never seen a gay person, much less studied up on LGBT history. It's more pep rally than substance; more inspiration than introduction. The story isn't told in chronological order and it leaves out some pretty important stuff (I watched it three times and didn't see anything about the Stonewall riots, for example).

Still, it is full of stirring images. In fact, I hate to admit it, but cynical and jaded as I am, I did feel a definite shiver once or twice. 

Oh! And is that Vandy Beth Glenn behind Barney Frank? I do believe it is!

Hat tip to Good.Is. And hell, a hat tip to us, too.

George: Best. Cat. Ever.

George, from Window Rock, Navajo Nation, Arizona.

 I will miss you so very much, my wonderful little Navajo cat.  Enjoy your new adventure, and I'll see you on the other side.