What Do You Mean I Went 2 Days Without Posting?

I simply don't remember not posting to my blog. I'm sure I did it on Friday and now it's Monday. And I challenge you to prove to me the alleged "weekend" was an actual two solid days.

It wasn't.

First of all, I was in motion all weekend. So, it may have looked like two days worth of activity from where you were sitting. But for me, time bended in such a way that my perception of it was that it was not two days, but rather about four hours.

And Since perception is nine tenths of the law, I am of course correct.

The weekend was only four hours, which does not equal a whole day. It's only a sixth of a day. And you got a sixth of a day's worth of posting from me on Facebook, plus some Disco Empire updates and some "Which Harry Potter Character Are You" results from my children.

As far as I'm concerned, I haven't missed any days and am in compliance with NaBloPoMo.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

My Poem From the Other Day

I'm having a really hard time. It's been very busy at work...busier than I've ever been at work. In fact, I did not have a day off in October. Also: We moved. This leaves me with very little time for reflection or thought. I feel like Scarlett O'Hara in that I find myself saying, "I'll think about that another day." And the "that" in that sentence covers a host of items.

Now that things have slowed down a bit, those big items I've postponed thinking about have swum back up to the surface and want my attention. One of these things manifested itself in the form of the poem I wrote the other day that ended with:

On rainy days, when things get tough
When you forget the milk or
I offend your mother
We'll think of this trip
And recall how beautiful we looked with
Moondust in our hair.

This idea of making memories for the purpose of protecting yourself in the future is new to me. I've never been one for the past and I never saw the need for memory. This has changed a bit since Doc and I are trying to adjust to this new thing called bi-polar disorder that has entered our lives. Listen, yo, the statistics are against us. Ninety percent...that's NINE ZERO percent of marriages where one person is diagnosed with bi-polar disorder end in divorce. And that doesn't count the marriages that end when the spouse with bi-polar disorder commits suicide.

Sobering, isn't it? And the stakes are high. Especially when you consider that married people tend to have a lower risk for suicide. When I put two and two together, I get this: People with bi-polar disorder have a better chance of surviving when they are married. And bi-polar marriages have a 10% success rate. So it seems that our work is cut out for us and it is a matter of life or death.

But among those kinds of statistics, I stumbled upon this piece of advice:
Take vacations to help your bipolar marriage survive. One way to help save a bipolar marriage is to take time away from the day to day tasks of everyday life, including the stress of a bipolar marriage. Take trips away together and also mini trips away from each other.


This seems sound and it feels right because it was also an idea that came to me organically when it appeared in that poem. My instincts are: We need to be making some good memories together. We need to be apart to miss each other. So that we're not all, "You don't get me!" and "You never listen!" when things go wrong. We need to put some mutual good will in the bank and maintain our fondness for each other so that we can proceed with a minimum of pain and heartbreak.

I know this isn't a cure-all. But it is one prescription I can get behind. Afterall, we're only here for a short time, why not adventure? And it doesn't have to be as grand as a trip to the moon. But it does need to leave a sparkle behind.

A Love Letter

Dear Summer,

I am at a loss without you. I keep reliving those fleeting, hot days when we spent time together. I know you had to leave and you promised to return. But it feels like a lie. Maybe if you would just write and let me know you're ok and send me a picture, I might be able to believe that you'll return.

I look out the window now and the freezing rain leaves tracks on the window, on my reflection. My sallow face is dark under the eyes and tear stained. I can see some of the things you've left behind...sunflower stalks, the sandbox, the pool. When I go to the shed to drag out the snowblower, I can still catch a whiff of freshly mown grass that remains on the lawn mower and brings back memories of heat and lemonade. These brief flashes of memory restore me long enough to clear the driveway and salt the walk.

I did hear from your friend, the ground hog, that it will be another six weeks of winter, which was disappointing news. And Winter has buried me three times in the past two weeks, which seems vindictive, if you ask me. If Spring ever arrives, I know she'll bring with her the lilacs that you know I love. And the lilacs will give me strength to believe that you will return and we can be together again.

Your fireflies at dusk and your starry nights dazzle me. Your heat and even your humidity make me blush and sweat at the same time. Your brightness and breezes light up my world and carry scents of barbeque and sunscreen. Your bold thunderstorms shake the earth beneath my feet and render me speechless with their drama. I cannot wait to feel your embrace once more.

For now, I will sit under a strong lamp and take some vitamin D. I'll buy a pack of hot dogs and grill them on my Foreman Grill. I'll have a cold Budweiser and turn up the furnace to 90. Then I'll spend the evening throwing darts at Winter's picture. It's a poor substitute but I can't cry anymore.

God speed, my love. Return to me soon.

Love,
Flannery
xoxox

The Dream/Reality Barrier

So the other night, Lucy and I snuggled up and hit the hay. It was all comfy cozy as we watched some Futurama and dozed off. At some point in the night, I was dreaming that an intruder had made his way into my bedroom and was holding his hand over my mouth. I was struggling to move my head and get out from under his arm. I wasn't able to get away, but I did turn my head so I could bite him.

As I bit down on his arm, I began to wake up only to realize that it was actually LUCY'S ARM I was biting. She had flung it over my mouth as she tossed and turned in the night! I disengaged my teeth and she pulled her arm away and rolled over, completely unfazed. Creeped out, I tried to get back to sleep. But could only think of the lyrics to this song:

Grandpa's beard is long and gray
It grows longer every day
Grandma chews it in her sleep
Says it tastes like shredded wheat...

Dear Postmaster General John E. Potter

The above is a screen shot from your very convenient track and confirm page. Everything was going along swimmingly with this package, (which is a Christmas gift my Mom ordered for my seven year-old daughter, who is on the brink of discovering the truth about Santa) until somehow, some fuck-up thought the state on the package read OK rather than OH and sent it off deep into the wrong direction.

So, I called 1-800-ASK-USPS for help because you said "We're here to help." In truth, no one was there to help. I went through a wild goose chase of menu options, none of which were "talk to a customer support representative." I gave up and sent an email through your "Contact Us" link only to be told that a postal service worker would contact me in one to two business days. One to two business days will probably translate to Monday...three days AFTER Christmas.

I called my local post office and finally did talk to a person, Marilyn. She was friendly enough and thought I nailed it right on the head with my OK/OH theory. I asked her if there were any way we could expedite the package, even pay extra. She said no since they have no idea where the package is until it checks in again, which, really? I mean, seriously? You all don't know? So, seeing as how it took 5 days to travel the wrong direction, I'm sure it will take at least that to get back. Which translates to Monday...three days AFTER Christmas.

So here's my theory: The package will arrive in time for Orthodox Christmas and We'll get a call from your representatives around Easter. We'll get no apology and the box will be crushed and have stamps from FL, PA, OK, OBX, NS, TGIF's and USSR (having gone back in time before hitting our doorstep).

The worst part about this is that, yeah, it kind of sucks that my daughter won't get her impossible-to-find anomatronic hamster toy and habitrail for Christmas (Occidental), but at no time did I get an apology for the mistake. I got: Your item was misrouted by the shipper. The error has been corrected and every effort is being made to deliver it as soon as possible. How much extra would it have cost to add "We apologize" at the end of that statement? Why didn't Marilyn apologize to me. Why didn't she have the power to find the package, find a plane and get that thing on there? Oh, yeah...I forgot: you're with the government.

Don't get me wrong; I support the government. Hell, I'm a liberal and I'm all for big government. And I understand you may have had to lay people off and you don't have anyone to man the phones. And it's the holidays...you want some time off too. Fine. Then don't then lead me to expect I'll get service by using a friendly 1-800-Ask-USPS number. Don't give me a shipping window that, while a generous estimate for UPS, would be considered wildly creative wishful thinking by postal workers. And don't mislead me into thinking that the post office cares any more than it did 25 years ago. If you're not going to be a stickler for details, let us know the truth. Change your motto from "Connecting People and Business" to "Using the shotgun effect to deliver mail and trusting that eventually we'll sort it all out."

You'd think that since mail volume fell some by some 28 billion pieces this year, you'd have time to look at an address and put packages on the proper trucks. Or would it just be easier for Ohio to change it's name to Ziox, in order to avoid further confusion. Perhaps you've cut employee's vision care so they can't afford glasses and therefore cannot distinguish between a "k" and an "h." Whatever the reason, I'd call this a fail on the level of urban legend.

Let's just hope Santa bails your ass out on this one.

Sincerely,
Flannery Alden

Update: My Mom received a phone call from an apologetic and patronizing woman. She said she was sorry but the package wouldn't arrive until Saturday. She also kept saying that "Parcel Post is 3rd class mail" and we should have shipped it some other way. Now, my Mom is totally bummed. Thanks, John, for ruining Christmas.

What we have here is a failure to communicate

I don't know, my frequency modulations must not be squelching properly. I can't seem to convey very simple thoughts in a way that others can understand today. It's not a full moon...the weather is clear...I'm still speaking English...I got a decent night's sleep last night.

What the heck is wrong with me?