Still Golden (Girls) After All These Years

It wasn't long ago that I was laying in a fetal position, a big ball of regret, confusion and hopelessness, on the cold (and dusty) kitchen floor of my studio apartment in New York, located at the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel. 

The depression that I have endured since I was a child, had come back with a vengeance, testing my strength, resolve and ability to get up off of the floor.

It was a lonely and scary time. I'd cry until my tear ducts were dry, came close to checking into a facility, and couldn't come up with one valid reason for being. Therapy, medication, Pilates, and The Golden Girls, saw me through those debilitating days. That's right, The Golden Girls.

My boyfriend was out of town last week, and it had been a challenging few days for me, both personally and professionally. The usual suspects; Why am I here? What am I doing with my life? Why aren't I working more? What's it all for? What's my purpose? I'm too old. It's too late. I can't write. I'm tired. And on and on and on. 

So last night I turned off the lights, walked up the stairs in a trance like state, took to my bed and cried. I realized that I hadn't had a good cry in awhile, and well, apparently I was overdue. I noted something interesting however. I laid down on top of our brand new comforter, instead of burrowing underneath the sheets. History has taught me that, if I went under, I might not come up for a good long time. The cruel days of yore live inside of me, and I didn't want to have a repeat performance, staying underground while weeks and months passed me by. I had to get up.

Just as easily as I dropped myself onto the bed, after a short while, I stood up and got off of it. The good news about living with depression and getting older, is that with all of the practice that I've had, I have more control over this crippling evil.

I walked downstairs, lit some candles, and manically flitted about the kitchen and living room. Sometimes, it's as simple as moving. If I'm lucky. I made a big healthy salad for dinner. I prepared a bowl of tuna fish for the entire week. I washed fruit so I wouldn't have to wash it every time I wanted said fruit. I made muffins that I won't eat but that my boyfriend will. I organized mail, receipts, and refilled the tea light candles. I opened a bottle of Syrah, and emptied the dishwasher. 

I could feel myself rounding a corner.

The Golden Girls were on the television. I was going to switch the channel, because I watched the show every night, during that lost and empty time in New York. But then I thought the timing was somehow poetic. I was alone, in the throws of an incident, and yet I felt different. In some perverse way, I wanted to go back, because in going back, I could see how far I've come. 

The girls were always there for me and they never disappointed. I counted on those back to back episodes at six o'clock. They focused me in such a way that I was able to forget the crap ass shit that I was living. Watching The Golden Girls comforted me like nothing else could. I desperately needed routine and structure, and as bizarre at it sounds, they gave me a purpose. 

Last night was different. Although I felt the familiar stabs of depression, I was better equipped for battle. During the second hour of The Golden Girls marathon, my heart softened and my mind eased. I let the past in, just long enough to feel compassion and love for it. I wasn't watching with the same consciousness as when I had watched all those years ago, because I am not the same person as I was all those years ago.

It's funny, the television rerun thing. As I grow, marry, divorce, move forward, fall back, move on, and fall back again, I can turn on The Golden Girls and there's Sophia, Dorothy, Rose and Blanche, just as I left them. They're just as funny as they were in 1985, doing what they do best; making whoever watches them feel better. Some things will never change.

"Thank you for a being a friend, traveled down this road and back again. Your heart is true, you're a pal and a confident." 

Thank you girls. 

FCC Rulings and Rug Turds

If you've been reading my blog, and I don't know why you wouldn't be, you know that I am very sensitive to television volume. See this blog. Well, I'm happy to report that the FCC has weighed in on this very heated, and all important topic of turning down commercial volume.

It's the calm act of 2010 and has to do with excessive commercial loudness. You know what I'm talking about. You're watching, I Hate My Teenage Daughter
and all of sudden you hear, "DO YOU WANT TO SAVE MONEY ON CAR INSURANCE. GEICO, IT CAN SAVE YOU 15%," at a volume that would wake the dead. But now commercials will have the same average volume as the programs that they so annoyingly interrupt. Glory be.

I know many of you were also wondering how my office was shaping up. Well, I was making progress but then I had a bit of a setback. I bought a rug several weeks ago at Home Goods. It was an 8x10 for $299. Although this is a lot of money, I didn't think it was excessive for such a large area rug. I thought I was getting a bargain and pretty darn proud of myself for spotting such a good deal.

I shoved the rug in the back of my Mini. It was a tight squeeze to say the least. My boyfriend was thankfully home and helped me unload it and bring it into my office. He had to leave but I decided that it couldn't wait and so I tried to lay that baby down by myself. It's a large wool rug, which makes it uber heavy. First I had to lay down the non-slip padding. That shit really works. Once it's down, it's down. I couldn't position the f'er where I wanted it and I started to sweat.

I unrolled the rug, using ever ounce of strength that I had, and tried laying it evenly over the padding. I was at it for a good half hour. That was funsy. When my boyfriend came home, he looked at the rug and said, "I'm not sure it really goes and it's uneven." Fuck. He asked me if I had a pad underneath and when I nodded in the affirmative, he said that I didn't need one because the rug was so heavy, it wasn't going anywhere. Hey, thanks, where were you an hour ago?

I think he took pity on me and helped me roll up the rug, remove the padding and relay the rug. Great. Nice and even.

Three weeks later.

I couldn't stand the rug. No sofa matched it and it shed. A lot. At first I thought that if I vacuumed it often, then the shedding would stop. It didn't and it got ridiculous. The rug coated my socks with its teeny tiny fibers just after walking across the room, and the fibers were migrating into other rooms in the house. I decided to vacuum one more time... just to what? I knew it was a piece of crappy crap. Why was I wasting my time? Because I probably had some writing to do and this was a valid distraction.

As I vacuumed, the fibers weren't being sucked up. Instead, they turned into fiber balls. What? And then the light on my vacuum went off. DANGER! DANGER! WILL ROBINSON! I opened the canister, or rather I tried to open the canister but it was stuck. When I finally got it opened, this is what I found.

 Get out of my sight!

My boyfriend and I moved my two ton desk and I rolled the crappy crap rug up and immediately returned it to Home Goods.
 
The moral of this adorable tale, "You get what you pay for."And I obviously paid for a rug that shed lint turds.

Why Did You Tell Dad That I Got My Period?

My Lover and I were talking the other day about his twelve year old son having his first girlfriend. I’m not sure that I can remember what girlfriend and boyfriend meant in seventh grade. I do know that I went to my first co-ed party, played spin the bottle, and prayed that it would get too late in the evening to play seven minutes in the closet. I was quite shy in the romance department back then.

In any case, I asked my Lover if he was going to have a father-son talk, including favorites like, “It’s perfectly normal to masturbate, but class it up a bit and don’t use a friggin’ sock.” My Lover said that it wasn't necessary. Huh? Not being a full time parent, I was confused.

My parents had talks with me. Or were those my TV parents? Parents are supposed to talk to their kids about sex and, more often that not, how to avoid it, right? Don't they say things like, "I'm here for you, if you ever want or need to talk." Mine did.

Apparently, my Lover (I want to see how long it takes before you get nauseated by the word) didn't think so. He’s the youngest of five, from a working class family in Portugal. There weren’t a lot of sit-downs with his parents, unlike my hippy dippy- consciousness raising- pot smoking- macrame plant holder making- denim cap wearing- Three Dog Night listening- free to be you and me- parents. He never talked about sex, bodily functions or anything too personal, with his parents, unlike my parents. I wish I'd been from Portugal.

Most of the time I didn’t want to tell my parents anything, but in some perverse and distorted way, I felt compelled to talk because they said that I could, and I didn't want to hurt their feelings. I wanted it to be like the families on TV. I wanted to be on the receiving end of that glorious undivided parental attention. I soon learned that it was best to get that attention from an anonymous audience, while singing and dancing on stage.

Flashback to 1980.

I was in eighth grade and babysitting at a neighbor’s house. I hated babysitting for that family. There was never anything good to eat, the kids were dorks (and that’s coming from a dork) and the husband creeped the crap out of me. I remember him driving me home one night, and when he pulled into my driveway, he said, "Okay, pussy, thank you for your help." Ew on every f’in level. I convinced myself that he didn’t mean it in a vaginal way, and that it was a throw back to his generation when pussy actually meant pussycat.

Even at 13, it sounded gross and inappropriate. If it happened today, and I’m not sure why I’d be babysitting and getting rides home, since I have a car, I’d report him to the authorities and see if his name was on any public sex offender's lists.

I got my menses (gotta love the word) for the first time that night. My mother was beside herself. She didn’t know what to do first. Um, how about finding me something so I don’t soil my Carter’s. It would be a few more years until I discovered thongs!

And what she came up with- wait for it - wait for it - was a goddam belt, which was like suspenders for a sanitary napkin. What the f? What is this 1870? It’s 19 fargin 80! My mom told me that I was too young for tampons, and wanted to ask the doctor first just to make sure that it was okay to shove something up inside of me. That was thoughtful of her.

I begged and pleaded with my mom not to tell my dad. She promised and I went into my bedroom. Not ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was my dad. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and I swear, I think he had tears in his eyes.

"Congratulations. I'm so proud of you. You’re a young woman." Okay, first of all, thanks mom, I hate you, and I’m never ever going to tell you anything ever again, ever, as long as I live! 

And secondly, really, dad, congratulations? For what? I had no control over this. It wasn’t like I studied hard for a test and got an A! I didn’t see this happening as an accomplishment or something to tick off of my To Do list. And I wished that he didn’t say woman, because at that age, certain words, like woman, sounded icky to me and made me uncomfortable. Don’t try to figure that one out. Suffice to say, the whole ordeal was embarrassing.

A few years later, even after all of the menses drama, I trotted my ass back to the mommy well, after losing my virginity, because, “You can tell me anything,” and I'm an idiot and I wanted to share. Again.

My mom wigged out. It wasn’t in a, ‘I'm so disappointed in you. How could you have done such a thing? I'm not taking care of it, if you get pregnant’ sort of way, but rather in a, 'I’m not ready for this’ sort of way.

CUT TO: The Present

This is a cautionary tale, kids. Think twice before you believe your parent's supposed openness. My belief is that parents really don't want you to tell them shit because it only re-enforces how ill equipped, ill-prepared, and utterly clueless they are. There's no need to shove their faces in it. Go tell your grandparents instead.

Can A Television Break Up A Couple?!

I loathe having a television in our bedroom. I don't like to watch TV before falling asleep, I like to read. My bed partner, however, loves watching TV before bed and claims that he can't fall asleep without it. That's a hot steamy pile of turd, because on the few times when he didn't watch TV, and instead read, he was out like a light in less than 10 minutes.

The man is so resistant. He thinks that because he's used to watching, there's no other way. I try to tell him that it's a just a bad, stinky, unhealthy and annoying habit, and he can break it. I've begged him to let me help him.

He doesn't see that watching television stimulates the brain, which is why he channel surfs (the daddy of all stimulation) wondering why he can't fall asleep. His logic is so ass backwards and he's usually a very logical man.

To watch, or not to watch is hands down, the topic of most of our arguments. In the beginning, I tried to be a good sport. It wasn't only the sound that bothered me, it was the light. I've put socks (or whatever is laying around) in front of the cable box and DVD player because I can actually 'feel' the light. Of course this just gives my bed partner more ammunition, "You're nuts. Who does that?" I'm nuts because I'm sleep deprived.

I tried wearing an eye mask but when I rolled onto my side, where I like to sleep, it was very uncomfortable. I think it was too cushion-y. Now I just face away from the television and hope that by the time I'm ready to roll to the other side, he's turned the fucking idiot box off.

I still have the issue of volume. How loud does one actually have to have it, when the television is only a few feet away and it's BEDTIME?! Huh? How loud? I have superior hearing. It might have something to do with the satellite dishes I call my ears.

Nevertheless, I can hear the television when it's super ass low. Naturally, I expect my bed partner's hearing to be the same. It isn't. The level at which he likes to watch could wake the dead. And if he did wake my dead grandparents, they could watch TV together at a deafening volume. But whereas my grandparents were actually deaf, and needed the volume, because they were like elevendymillion years old, my bed partner is NOT!

I made an effort and tried earplugs a few months ago. When I removed them in the morning, I felt crazy dizzy. I couldn't stand up. It lasted a whole day and I was convinced that my head put pressure on my ears, and pushed the earplugs into my gentle ear canal and fucked with my equilibrium. Hey bed partner, I hope watching the season finale of Spartacus was worth it.

I’ve slept in the basement, where it’s quiet and as dark as a bat cave. But am I really going to sleep without my bed partner. Pause for deep contemplation.

We're building a house (details to come) and my bed partner already has the locations (plural) of two of the televisions. He wants one over the fireplace (it makes me throw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it) and a television in the bedroom. We have a vaulted ceiling, so he wants to put it high on the wall, so he can watch in bed, but then have it on some kind of mount that allows him to lower it, swivel it around, and watch from the bathtub.

This is far from over. Every time he brings this idea up, which thankfully isn't too often, as toilets are our immediate priority, I don't say a word. It's my version of reverse psychology. I want him to think that I'm all for it, and then, when he least expects it, I can gently and calmly show him the error of his colossally retarded idea. And I mean that in a loving way.