Sharing the love and the weird...

Aleigh used to write these great blog posts on things her friends said via email (I think that's what it was called). I'm stealing the idea, except with texts. I didn't even ask if I could. The two of us and another friend, who I will call "Erin" (because that's her name), have had a years-long group text exchange. I can't remember when it started...sometime in the year after I moved to Austin...but I know it will probably last forever. I hope it will. They make me laugh like no-one else can.

Also science says having friends is just as important to your health as exercise. I text/talk to these two waaaaay many more minutes than I spend at the gym.

Two notes: 1) none of these texts are work-related and 2) many of the phrases are mine, but I'm not saying which ones; nor am I identifying the others.

• You know you're getting older when you spend more money on makeup and food than booze.
• Age defy all the things!
• Dear god asparagus. Why? WHY? You know that scene in The Exorcist where the priest's mom goes "why Dimi why you do dis to meee?" That's what I feel like saying to asparagus after I pee.
• Not that I have ever noticed. Maybe I just can't smell it!
• My mother is taking pictures of her TV screen and texting them to me.
• I need a million dollars, stat.
• Quick get Satan and make a pact. 
• I used to have him in my contacts but the last time I texted him he was all like "new phone who dis."
• Satan is an asshole. I texted that I needed to remove four years from my life that I wasted on shitheads and all I got was LOL GRRRRRL.
• You definitely need a lady's maid. 
• I rang a fucking bell for some cottage cheese and blueberries like an hour ago and bitch still hasn't shown up. I HAVE TO WALK TO MY KITCHEN.
• Please save me.
• I think if I cried more often I'd be a better person.
• Okya I’m drrunka.
• Feel free to smack me the very next time you see me if I have become annoying.
• Me when it was time to leave work for the holidays:

I love these group text exchanges. I live for them. There's an awful lot of talk about bodily functions, things that shall never be repeated, even if attributed anonymously. I have announced that I was renaming Thanksgiving "Bakesgiving." Once there was a three-day long exchange about malevolent vaginas. And it was funny as hell. But there was also a day-long exchange about the relevance of historic landmarks and whitewashing history (we have these sometimes so we remember that we're smart).

We live states apart, but laugh and cry together as much as we ever did when we lived in the same city. No matter what happens in my life here, these two are always in my pocket. I'm not very good at telling people how much they mean to me, but I have no trouble telling these two lifelines how much I love them. I hope everyone is so lucky.

Putting friendships to the test...

I always feel like I have to check in with friends from time to time to make sure they still love me. I have tests...sort of like the GMAT, except really annoying and not that hard. Like the "will you drink my spit" test from If Lucy Fell, I like to see how far the limits of a friendship will go.

I can't count how many times I've asked certain close friends, "would you still be my friend if I?" questions. Like "would you still be my friend if I TALKED LIKE THIS?" (imagine cartoony high-pitched voice...or a thick Minnesota accent). Or "would you still be my friend if I weighed 400 lbs.?" (and the ensuing Part B, "would we still go to restaurants together?"). Variations follow, such as "What if I [insert really annoying habit here]?" and "Would you tell me if...?" ("would you tell me if my hair looked like 1999?" and "would you tell me if I was as self absorbed as [THIS PERSON]?").

I know I do it because I'm insecure, because I have trust issues, because I need the occasionally declaration of "this is why I love you." And if I think about it too much, I'm not even sure I'd want to be friends with me.

Lucy: Would you drink my spit?
Joe: Can you take your weird survey somewhere else?
Lucy: Answer.
Joe: I´ll answer your question...but this is the last time I´ll talk about it.
Lucy: The last time.
Joe: You swear?
Lucy: Mother Theresa and the missionaries drink the lepers spit. I wondered if you´d drink mine.
Joe: I wouldn´t be interested.
Lucy: Really? You don´t love me enough?
Joe: Of course I love you. I just don´t want to drink your spit.

Freezer section trickery...

Because I don't like to cook and can't be bothered with it, I buy a lot of "skillet meals" in the freezer section of the grocery store. Most of them take less than 20 minutes to cook and involve dumping the contents of a bag into a large skillet. Hence the name, "skillet meals."

If one is going to nourish oneself in this manner, one should also read the directions carefully. I recently bought an orange chicken skillet meal, scanned the directions on the bag, and threw it into the cart. When I decided to make it for dinner last night, I discovered that everything could be cooked in-skillet - except for the rice, which came in a pouch, which had to be microwaved. Boil it, you say? The pouch had a warning label that said "for microwave use only: DO NOT BOIL." I threw the rest of the stuff into the skillet while my initial aggravation turned into fury that I wasn't going to be able to add what was probably the best jasmine rice in the world. I had to eat the chicken and vegetables with orange sauce. No rice. BECAUSE I DO NOT OWN A MICROWAVE.

A little history: We were one of the first families in our neighborhood to own a microwave, one of those massive metal Radaranges that took up as much space as the floor model Curtis Mathes television set in the den. It was the late seventies, I had three sisters, two dogs, a cat, two guinea pigs, and a soon-to-be divorced mother who had trouble dragging herself out of bed, much less cooking a meal. From 1979 to the early nineties, our home-cooked meals consisted of anything you could nuke the shit out of. It doesn't surprise me that I had a better relationship with Twinkies than with the limp stalks and rubbery greens that served as "vegetables" during my formative years.

As an adult, I have never owned a microwave. I hate them. I hate food cooked in them. The smell of Lean Cuisine makes me want to hork until the rice pilaf and herb roasted chicken I ate in 1993 comes up. If I had a microwave, it would only be an expensive water-boiler. I don't think it's a big deal, but some people think not owning a microwave is the equivalent of not owning a TOILET. Or that it means I am a hippie luddite (which I am not). Or that I'm crazy (which I am not). I've even had people visiting my house comment, "no microwave? That's crazy!"

First, I do reheat leftovers. I just use the OVEN. Microwaves turn leftover pizza into cardboard with cheese. Second, there hasn't been one instance in the past 10 years where I thought owning one would make my life easier.

Now, if I said I didn’t own a microwave because the government implants devices in them to track our eating habits and beam the information to satellites in outer space, or that microwave radiation causes tumors that make you thirst for human blood, that would be crazy.

However, if I plan to continue to eat "skillet meals," I might have to spring for a small one. That I would unplug and store in the closet under the stairs while not in use, lest it emit radiation while sitting on my kitchen counter.

Does that LOOK like a busy bee?

Let me preface this confession by saying I've had a stressful week. Not just work, but Miss Kitty has had UTI issues on and off for a month or so and I got results back Saturday morning that she has "feline lower urinary tract disease," so besides the $300 and something I've paid for bloodwork, urinalysis, antibiotics, etc. so far, I had to go back to the vet and pick up special food and another round of antibiotics, which ran me about $100. AND I have to bring her back to do it all over again in another couple of weeks. Not that I wouldn't pay any amount of money to keep Miss Kitty healthy; it's just bad timing.


So yesterday was Lulu's birthday and since she's torn apart her squeaky man twice (my mom has sewed it up once, but this last time she really shredded him), I decided to go back to PetSmart where we found squeaky man and get her a new one for her birthday. Let me also add that Lulu loves her squeaky man. She sleeps with it and has been looking for it every night since I put it away because she tore the stuffing out of it.

I had just left the vet's office and figured I'd pop in to PetSmart and return home with a new squeaky man. Not so easy. They didn't have any up front (where I found the other one 2 months ago). So I asked one of the women working up front if she could help me find it. We went to the toy aisle and I tried to describe it ("it looks like a cookie cutter and has no face, but it's made from fleece and squeaks...") and the nice lady kept holding up other toys (Lady: "is this it? It's fleece." Me: "That is a SHEEP, not a man.")

I was actually starting to get tearful (note: lack of sleep = tired and emotional) when I realized I had become Parker Posey from "Best in Show" when they lost the busy bee and she had to find another one. Video below - fast forward to the 2 min. mark if you want to know what my PetSmart meltdown looked like.



I spent another five minutes or so letting the PetSmart lady drag me up and down the toy aisle, showing me everything that wasn't a squeaky man before she told me I could probably order it on the web site. I meant to thank her, but instead I said, "if I wanted to order it online, I wouldn't have come to your store!" (or something equally bitchy and stupid).

I called my friend Charlie and told him what happened (he's usually the person I call when I need to do a crazy check). He said, "we must never speak of this again."

Then I went home and took a Xanax and a really long nap. With a day's perspective and some sleep, I feel a lot better, less crazy, and now I know I can order squeaky man on the web site.

UPDATE: My BFF, MK, who is also Lulu's Fairy Dogmother, brought Lulu a fleece covered stuffed squeaky bone-shaped toy that is close to the size of squeaky man last night and Lulu loves it.

Public vs. private...

I was lucky enough to attend Sara Benincasa's "Agorafabulous" show at Theatre 99 on Friday night. My friend Jason wrote a great piece about her in last week's City Paper and I got to be his plus one (Thanks, Jason!).


To sum up: Sara has agoraphobia, struggled with it for years, and turned it into a comedy routine. I, being a firm believer in handling most of life's challenges with humor, admire the sh*t out of her. After reading Jason's CP piece and a little more on Sara's blog, I knew I had to see the show. And I wasn't disapppointed. You can see a clip from Friday's show and read more about Sara here.

Why this was important to me: I've written personal narrative for years and have turned some of the most painful episodes in my life into humorous pieces. I'm flippant, irreverent, and capable of laughing at myself in most instances. But there are a few "no touchy" subjects for me and panic disorder is one of them.

Like Sara, I had my first panic attack at the age of 18. I didn't know it was a panic attack, but I spent a lot of time over a three-year period going to emergency rooms trying to convince them that I was having a heart attack. I was called histrionic, dehydrated, hooked up to saline IVs and sent home, and finally diagnosed with Mitral Valve Prolapse, or MVP - a common heart condition that about one in four women have, but tend to grow out of in their 20s (I did). By the time I was 21, I was frustrated, self-medicating, and nearly incapacitated by panic attacks that were becoming more and more frequent. Four MDs, two shrinks, and two years later, I was finally given a diagnosis of PTSD (something else I haven't written about because I haven't been able to remove myself enough to find the humor in it). I began taking medication for panic disorder, but discovered I didn't need it long-term, because once I knew that I was only having a panic attack and that I wasn't going to die, I was able to use some of the coping skills I learned in therapy to talk myself down.

One of the reasons I haven't written very much about this is because there is such a stigma associated with panic disorders. I had too many doctors (and friends and boyfriends and acquaintances) tell me "it's all in your head" or "you're being a hypochondriac" that I just stopped sharing. I also stopped going to therapy and went for almost 8 years without a panic attack - through the latter part of my 20s. There was a part of me that even believed I could overcome it with sheer willpower. I'm not a weak person and one of my biggest fears is having other people think I'm weak.

After years of being panic attack free, I started having them again after 9/11, again after my grandmother passed away in early 2003, again after I lost two of my best friends in 2003. It was right around this time that I began seeing a new therapist who really knew her sh*t - in fact, she gave me some information about new research linking MVP to panic disorder. Even with the mild type I had, the MVP "episodes" can trigger a fight or flight response that in turn triggers panic attacks. We also started working on the overall issue of PTSD, and my anxiety became managable once again.

I can't say at this point in my life that I will never again have a panic attack. The few that I've had in the past year or so have been what my therapist calls "situational," meaning that something bad happens in my life, I stop taking care of myself physically as a result, and end up sitting in my car outside of Harris Teeter, unable to drum up the courage to enter the store because I'm sitting in my car having an anxiety attack. Driving is another trigger for me. I've had to pull over to the side of the road because of an anxiety attack. I've also woken up in the middle of the night with night terrors that trigger an attack. I don't take daily medication because antidepressants really didn't work for me; plus I tend to (luckily) have very long anxiety-free periods of time, so I use Xanax as needed.

Back to the show: I was amazed that someone who experienced panic disorder that was severe enough to manifest as agoraphobia could take her situation and turn it into a routine that literally had the audience cackling for an entire hour like Sara did. I admire her for that, I admire her for sharing her most painful moments, and for being open about the fact that she takes medication and credits it for saving her life. I think if more people spoke openly about it, there wouldn't be such a stigma attached. And it also helped me see that eventually I'll be able to write about my own experiences with humor, because I saw that there is a lot of funny to be mined there.

My close friends know about my own history. And the few others I've shared it with are always amazed - I usually simplify it by just saying "I'm slightly socially phobic" - because they've read my essays for years and that Kelly Love Johnson is fearless. I'm a lot more comfortable now than I was 10 years ago explaining that the Kelly who writes those essays is my public persona, like a costume I can put on when I want to, and she is fearless. But the private Kelly is just as screwed up as everyone else. She has self-esteem issues. She doesn't like to make small talk. She is not a fan of crowds. She's had insomnia since high school that is entirely anxiety-based. She's afraid of flying, travel, highway construction, frogs, the ocean, hurricanes, the extreme Christian Right, aging, showing weakness, and homelessness. She also hates writing about herself in the third person.

I think what Sara did with her show is merge the two - her public and private Saras. And I hope to be able to do that myself someday, without judgment, without fear, and hopefully with a few laughs.

And one last thing: When I got a note via Facebook from Sara herself telling me she was a fangirl of mine and has been reading my essays for years, I almost fell out of my chair. It's the most flattered I've been in months and I think I'm going to spend the entire weekend riding that high.

I love my neighborhood but it is getting on my nerves today...

I live in gorgeous Wagener Terrace about 3 blocks away from Hampton Park and 2 blocks from the water. I love it here and, despite having to make cutbacks due to lack of a regular day job, I'm making do with freelancing so I can keep paying rent here just so I won't have to move. That's how much I love it. My neighbors are great (even though I never spoke to a single one until I got the puppy in December - now I know at least the ones with dogs) and it's such a diverse neighborhood with lots of "creatives" close to my age working from home too.

However, I've been trying to work all morning (since 7am, BTW) over the noise of my neighbors across the street with a hired crew jack-hammering their walkways so they can build new ones. There are two huge work trucks right across from where my home office is and between the jackhammers, the trucks beeping, and the workmen shouting, my usual lovely day with windows wide open has turned into Noise City. Also, the puppy has gone completely insane from the noise and won't stop barking, so I can't even make phone calls.

Two, there's a sort of meth-head older dude from down the street who is living in a house while he "fixes it up" (that's code for smoking crack in a house that someone is letting him "borrow"). He walks up and down the street during the day and I've said hi/bye in passing just to be nice, but last week he started asking me for cigarettes. This morning, he came over when I had Lou out in the yard and asked for money for the bus. And to use my cell phone. And for a ride somewhere (because I told him I didn't have any cash, which is true - I rarely carry cash). He stood in my front yard scratching his arms while I was ON MY CELL PHONE asking me to use it. Um...no, no, and no. One of my other neighbors told me he's like a stray dog - give him anything and he'll camp out on your doorstep. Don't get me wrong: I have feelings. I feel for his being in a poor financial situation. I feel for him not having reliable transportation. But I don't like to feel like I'm being taken advantage of for being nice. So I had to show my bitch side this morning and that's not a great start to my day.

Today feels like a wash. I can't concentrate to work and am afraid to hang out in the yard because I'd rather avoid Johnny Crackhead than have to tell him to f*ck off.

On a positive note, it could be worse. If I lived a few houses up I'd be next to the duplex that rents to college students who have nightly front AND backyard hootenannies that go on until the wee hours. I've walked Lou late at night past that place and there are college girls puking in the front yard, drunk frat douchebags screaming "I love you man," and 50 cars parked half on the road, half on the sidewalk. I feel for the people who live next door to those assholes. I know them and they've called the police multiple times, but apparently one of the college kid's mom owns the building so they're not in danger of being evicted.

So all I have to deal with is a day of heavy construction (god, I hope it's just today) and avoiding Johnny Crackhead. And I still love my neighborhood.

Update p.s.: So not kidding. Five minutes after I wrote this and posted it, I took Lou out and Johnny Crackhead made a beeline down the street towards my house. He apparently didn't get enough bitch this morning. We're going to change our walk route today.

New baby in the family...

Miss Kitty has a little sister and I am a dog mom! I picked up my little Pomeranian last night (so hard to choose from the litter of four - they were all so stinking cute I could have taken all four home). She's 7 weeks old, is teeny-tiny (the little one of the litter), and is the neediest animal I have ever met in my life, excluding my sister's Yorkie. Miss Kitty hasn't really taken to her yet (she has been in her hidey box since last night), but she will eventually.

The new puppy has no name yet, but she does have the sweetest little face and is quite the spaz. She also has no discretion about where she makes peeps and poops, refuses to go potty outside, and woke me up 14 times last night chewing on my hair and my face, and another four or five times whimpering (potty? No. Food? No. Love? Yes. Just wanted to play at 4am).



I need help with a name! Her bio parents called her Apollonia because her daddy's name is Robin Masters Apollo. I'm not in love with the name Apollonia and don't want to call her Apple because Gwyneth already came up with that one. This is what I know about her so far: She enjoys running around in circles, chewing on the leg of my sweatpants when I stand up, will suddenly pass out for a nap in the middle of playing with her stuffed dog, whimpers if I leave the room and she can't see me, has the tiniest little white feet, and weighs about 2 lbs. I've come up with the following list with the help of family and friends (my mom and Michael have already met her):

Lulu Belle (Lou for short)
Tuffie
Mimi
Tiny Dancer (Tiny for short)
Little Lily

I don't want her to be three months old and nameless, so I have to come up with something soon. Ideas are welcome! Right now, I'm leaning toward Tiny. Tiny Dancer. Too weird?

More pics here.

Also, any training advice is welcome. She is wearing her collar now after some struggling last night, but I took her out this morning on a leash and she did not like it AT ALL. She has a box with newspaper where she is supposed to potty, but pretty much goes wherever she likes, even after I've put her in her potty box or taken her outside every single time she makes wee indoors. I know she's a baby and training is a lot of work. I can handle it, I just need to figure out what to do!

Despite the behavioral stuff, I adore her already. I love her baby growls when she fights with her stuffed dog. She barks at the television. She climbs me like a tree when I'm sitting on the couch. And right now, she's licking my laptop (don't think my Dell warranty covers dog spit, but she's only licking the outside). She smells like puppy, but in a good way. And I fell in love with her sweet little face in a pic the owner sent me before I even met her. Her cuteness makes me weak.

Behold...

This was my old computer background. Margaret suggested that its discordant colors and cacophonous design might be contributing to my general ill humor. It basically shouts, "be peaceful, dammit!" I'm taking any and all suggestions right now so I decided to change it.

This is the new one. It is a photo I took of the sunset on the marsh during a bike ride. It reminds me of riding my bike and it does seem to make me feel calmer. Because I have been in front of one computer screen or another for way too many days in a row now.

I'll let you know if it works.

If this week was musical theater...

The production's poster would have a picture of me sitting up in bed in the dark with a digital clock that says "3:42 am."

There would be a song called "don't let the bastards get you down" and one called "you're going to have dreams about that particular ex forever." The dramatic monologue would relate to not changing to please anyone (if I could get the rights I'd also use the song "Don't Go Changin'" by Billy Joel but I would remix it into a disco version) and I'd be wearing sky blue underwear during the entire production and that would mean something to be analyzed later by a college drama class.

There would be a character playing Freud (with beautifully resonant singing voice) who would explain to my character via song that I should not pull a Frances Farmer and get an icepick lobotomy just so the ex won't keep re-appearing in my subconscious and ruining what could have been a very decent night's sleep. Because the ex doesn't stand for the ex, he stands for something else that I'd like to change about my life right now. Freud is crazy smart.

The dream sequence would not have an actual person playing my ex, but instead he will be played by a series of spotlights and a disembodied voice. Hillary Clinton makes an appearance (played by Amy Poehler) to explain that some relationships are based on love and trust and others are business arrangements. My character agrees with this, but only because she is currently reading The Fountainhead ("yes, Ms. Clinton, he was the Roark to my Dominique...").

The song at the end would be something gorgeous sung by Jennifer Holliday (yeah, I said Holliday and NOT Hudson because I want the original Dream Girl). And everyone will cry as they leave the theater, but mostly because they're happy that everything turned out OK.

Food porn...

All of these things are off limits to me, but in the same way I watch Food Network and No Reservations on the Travel Channel (I actually do have totally non-food-related hots for Tony Bourdain), I've found myself perusing some of the yummy offerings on the web lately and imagining what it would be like just to go all crazy and eat them.

Like fresh sticky buns from William Sonoma. Pastry chef Jean-Yves Charon makes them, you just pop them in the oven. And eat them.

The food equivalent of S&M: Galaxy Desserts' Chocolate Lava Cake. Damn.

Jack and I are no longer friends and the alcohol/sugar combo might send me into insulin shock, I still like to think about breaking out a fork for Tipsy Cake soaked in Jack Daniels. Hey, I'm a southern gal. I can't help that I (used to) like my desserts with a whiskey chaser.

I think it's sort of like being in a monogamous relationship. You can look; you just can't touch. I eat things like a single square of dark chocolate or some fruit when I have a craving for sweets, but that doesn't mean I can't drool over butter-and-sugar-based dessert items. The temptation is there, but whether or not you act on it is the test of character. Speaking of temptation, I think a new episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives might be on this week. I still daydream about that one episode where Guy battered and deep-fried a whole hamburger at Dyer's Burgers in Memphis.

Behold the deep-fried hamburger. Yum.

Ouch.

It hurts to type.

I overworked my arms at the gym on Monday, felt fine yesterday, and woke up this morning cursing. It's mostly in the pectoral or lat something or other (I prefer the term "breasticles") area and my triceps (at least, I think that's what the flabby under-the-arm part is called). I couldn't raise my arms over my head to blow dry my hair this morning. On the plus side, I really enjoy the bench press and the pain is "good" pain. Yes, you should definitely want to kick my ass for saying that.

Last week, I did a cardio challenge class (okay, HALF a cardio challenge class) and I thought I was going to die during the class. Two words: Ball squats. Two more: Side lunges. But the real pain set in about 36 hours later. I had to use the handicapped stall in the bathroom because I needed something to hold onto when I sat down.

No pain, no gain, right? Actually, no pain, no loss. Riiiiight.

A wedding recap...

It was on a farm in the mountains.
Asheville is pretty.
Our B&B was beyond gorgeous (hello, big ass feather bed!).
The Fun Girls were there.
The wedding itself was very Aleigh & Ian (and if you don't know them, you'll have to take my word for it. It was on a lovely farm in the mountains of North Carolina.

I met a llama (and for those of you who have been reading my blog for some time, you know that the llama is my spirit animal and I am a llama whisperer).

There was much merriment. Erin gives her version here. And if you gather from her post that I was the uptight finger wagging one on the trip, you're sorely mistaken. I was just the only one not drinking. But Jemima knows I can be trouble (make sure you read through to the part about where I tell Ian's brother-in-law that I have a good divorce lawyer on speed dial...ON VIDEO).

The only thing that was missing from our weekend was that Aleigh couldn't stay with us too! Of course, there was the getting married thing and the husband-to-be and all. So I'm about to be really, disgustingly mushy right now. You might want to sit down for this one. Even though weddings (and marriage) aren't my thing, I am so happy to have been part of my Gal Pal Al's nuptials. It's rare to know two people who are so perfectly matched, and to share in the beginning of a long and happy union. Yes, I did cry at the wedding. Because I was happy. And if you don't believe me, Jem took a photo. Bizzatch.

Or do I just have PMS?

Do I really want to pull a Britney and cut all my hair off? Or is it just the first hot day of the year and my hair makes me feel sweaty? I keep running across really cute short haircut photos that make me want to take the leap.

Do I really want to get a dog? Or is it just that my cat doesn't love me enough? Will anyone ever love me enough?

Do I really need these? (The answer is: "no, you're supposed to be saving for a house.")

I hate to blame any behavior on hormones because I can be as crazy as crazy gets any day or time, but just to be on the safe side...no shopping, social activities involving other people, or major decision making for the next 24 hours. I have four Netflix movies, a six-pack of diet Dr. Pepper, Green & Black dark chocolate, and enough quinoa salad (why didn't the recipe say it blows up like couscous when you cook it?) to last me for a week. I think I'll make it.

Happy Friday, y'all.