in the form of my husband.

Today before he left for work he looked me in the eye and said, “Remember-you are still recovering from a serious illness. You are not well.”

And it was a good thing he reminded me, because I’d already begun to hear the siren song of a little voice in my head that said, “You know, I bet it would be totally fine for me to vacuum the entire house today all by myself.” And I believed it.

What is that-that part of me that has absolutely no connection whatsoever to reality?

I really don’t know.

All I know is, that part of me will not be vacuuming today. Lying on the couch and watching NCIS on DVD is probably a much better option for me.

Apparently this past Monday, September 10th, was A Very Special Holiday known as Free Hug Day.

And if ever there was a time that I was grateful to be The Biggest Hermit On The Face Of The Earth, it was then. Because along with my myriad other fears (See: Snakes, Real and Imaginary, Calling People On The Phone, Going Anywhere Near The Bathroom During A Thunderstorm), I get really nervous whenever people try to hug me. And that’s kind of a problem, because I live in the South. And down here, people hug. A Lot.

I really can’t explain why, but I get really anxious whenever anyone invades my personal space, which has apparently expanded over time until it is now approximately the size of a seven figure, luxury home complete with its own gated community.

Back in my church-going days I used to get so anxious every Sunday. Because in addition to all of the religious issues, such as “Why Everything You Like About Life Is The Gateway To Hell”, I also had to endure The Greeting. In theory I can understand that it seems like a really good idea to make friends with all the people sitting next to you in your pew. But to my way of thinking there is really no need for even a handshake, much less an embrace, when clearly a brief meeting of the eyes and an acknowledging head shake will do. If you have never seen me before that day, and will probably never see me again, then why do you feel it necessary to clutch me to your breast as if I were the Prodigal Son finally returning home?

And while we’re on the subject of breasts, can we just talk for a minute about how awkward it is to be, say, a well-endowed, double D-sized babe, and have to endure a full, frontal encounter with some other woman’s “girls” in a moment that can only be described as, The Big Squish?

I imagine that if you are a guy reading this then you might be thinking, “Hey, having to get up close and personal with breasts? I really don’t see what the problem is.” But I think that if you had to regularly participate in some kind of obligatory social ritual which required you to press your family jewels up against some other guy’s cash and prizes, you would quickly be singing another tune.

So needless to say I did not participate in Free Hug Day, which for me would have translated into Free Have A Nervous Breakdown Every Single Time Anyone Even Looked At You Until You Ended Up As A Quivering, Whimpering Mass On The Floor Locked In The Fetal Position Day.

But if anyone ever designs a holiday along the lines of Free Quietly Sending Nice Thoughts To Other People While Safely Locked Away In Your Hermit Cave Day, I’m totally there.

(For those of you who’ve been following my saga with the imaginary snakes.)

Last week I tried to explain to one of our friends, who also has his pilot’s license, why I just was not OK with him taking my husband up for a ride in his plane:

“It has nothing to do with you (and it really doesn’t). It’s just that deep down in my heart, I truly don’t believe that planes should be able to fly. It really feels like that violates all the laws of nature. I think that the only reason it’s worked so far is that we’re all under some kind of magical spell. And it’s only a matter of time before the spell ends, and all the planes in the world come crashing down.”

After many years of therapy, and medication, and working on myself, my support team and I have together come to the conclusion that this may be the time when I can gradually begin to get off of my anti-depressants. Yay! So yesterday I had the following conversation with my coach as we worked out a plan to support me during this time.

We discussed the various symptoms I’ve noticed before when changing medications or doses, and came up with a list of things to watch for.

My coach: So on a scale of 1-10, how intense do these symptoms have to get before you either call me or your doctor to get some help with them?

Me: ……..

Me: Um, usually I just wait them out and endure through them until they’re over.

My coach: I know! But we’re not doing it that way this time. That’s the whole point of this scale. This time we’re going to do it gently and easily, so gently as a matter of fact that you might not even notice a damn thing!

Me: Oh.

Me: I can do that?

You know how when you’re attempting some sort of behavior modification, such as quitting smoking, or losing weight, or planning some sort of highly flammable, explosive revenge on all the spammers who insist on filling your inbox with their constant offers of mature grandma/teen/ebony/latino shemales, the experts advise that you never let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired? Well I’ve found that that is also an excellent checklist for me to run through in my mind to determine whether or not I am in an appropriate state of mind to post something on my blog. Only for me my issue isn’t so much with hunger as it is with sadness, so my acronym is actually S.A.L.T.

I’ve developed a little pre-posting questionnaire for myself that looks like this:

Sad

1. Do you frequently find yourself using phrases containing the word “existential” when other people ask you how you’re doing?

2. When you last talked with your coach, did she use the words “skewed” and “not real” to describe the way you are currently perceiving the world, and then:

a. ground you from using any self-help tools for the next week

b. suggest that you immediately gag yourself with duct tape so as not to irrevocably f&*@ up every single one of your current relationships

c. suggest that perhaps it was not a good idea to experiment with getting off your medications and not tell anyone about it

d. all of the above

3. Are you about to post something that sounds like this on your blog for the entire Internet to read and wonder about:

“But whatever the reason suddenly the box flies open again, and instead of consciously acting as the rational, competent adult you are now, you’re unconsciously reacting as a 5 year old. Or a 12 year old. Or in my case, a 19 year old without the first f*&@3*^ clue as to how to deal with other human beings.

Yes, that’s right. Lately the Enormous Blind Spot of “Things I Never Resolved Back When I Was 19″ has finally overtaken The Car Of “Speeding Blissfully Down The Highway Of Jenny’s Life”, and smashed head on into the Giant Brick Wall Of “Hi. This Is Your Life. I’ve Been Trying To Get Your Attention Now For The Past Couple Of Years, But You Never Listened. So Unfortunately Now You Have No Choice But To CRASH.” (Self-judgment, much?)”

[Read more…]

Right now I am supposed to be coming up with a 2-hour lesson plan for a new Spanish class I’ll be teaching starting tomorrow. Unfortunately, I can only write about verbs and vowels for so long before I start getting antsy and looking around for something else with which to occupy myself, and then before you know it my husband has come home to find that I’ve given away all our pots and pans because they weren’t “pretty enough”.

So in order to keep myself entertained and to circumvent any boredom-inspired domestic disasters, I have been reading back through some of the funny spam messages I’ve gotten recently. Such as,

“fortuitous amputee”: (Really? Because I seriously doubt that’s how they’d describe their situation.)

“thousandth madhouse”: (Yep, that could just be a synonym for “Jenny’s Mind”.)

“hardcore pregnant”: (Is there any other way to be pregnant? Half-assed? Not totally committed yet?)

And in the category of, “If I Never Saw These Words Combined Again, It Would Still Be Too Soon”:

“mother’s soapy enema”, and

“mature grandma”

Upon picking up his jeans from our bedroom floor my husband remarked, “Someone is apparently sending me a message that they’re glad we’re home. The ‘tail on a stick’ and the rope (2 cat toys) were both lying on my pants.”

My response: “Ooh, it’s just like the wise men bringing gifts to baby Jesus.”

AKA, “If Something Is Stupid, I Am Going To Point It Out To Everyone.”

My husband: “I might get the Nintendo Wii before Christmas. If I do, then I’ll be asking for some of its accessories on my Christmas list.”

Me: “I heard that people are having a lot of trouble with those.”

My husband: “Yeah, apparently the strap keeps breaking on the wee-mote.”

Me: “Excuse me, the what?”

My husband: “Yes, that’s what it’s called. The Wii-mote.”

Me: “Hm, and apparently it was named by Elmer Fudd.” (”I wost my wee-mote. I wuv my wee-mote.”)

Never really being one to leave well enough alone, and apparently not having yet met my internal quota of Things To Obsess Over by demanding of myself that I visit each and every one of the almost-300 blogs that participate in the Thursday Thirteen meme, I’ve been shopping around for some new blog activities in which I can participate.

So this week I participated in the Friday’s Feast meme, which was a lot of fun, and tomorrow I’m planning on participating in Blog Fodder. But not only do these new memes offer me the opportunity for some high-quality obsessing over these brand-new participant lists, this Monday will only be the third week that Blog Fodder has been around. And they leave up all the previous topics. And there really aren’t strict rules about how you participate. Which means that I can go back to the very beginning and answer all the questions starting from Week One. Because having a perfectly complete and uninterrupted set of Blog Fodder posts of course matters a great deal to…um,…absolutely no one. But it sure does make my inner OCD girl happy. So here we go.

Blog Fodder #1: What Are Some Of Your Memorable Experiences At School?

[Read more…]

Today my husband called me into the living room to watch the video “White and Nerdy” by Weird Al. And before we go any further, you must stop whatever you are doing right now and watch this video, if only to see Donny Osmond perform the most hysterically awesome Nerdy White Man Dance in the entire history of time.

Then when the video finished, we proceeded to act out our own version of “Nerdy” right in our very own kitchen.

Me: “We need to do some laundry.”

My husband: “Do we have enough detergent?”

Me: “You told me that there was enough for one more load.”

My husband: (eyes me suspiciously)

My husband: “Oh that’s right, what was I thinking? You’ve been knocked out this whole week.”

And it was then that I understood. I have spent the past week recovering from pneumonia, and I have a really hard time being sick because I hate to be bored. So my husband was worried that, despite his prohibition on such activities, I’d snuck behind his back this week and performed housework. Because, sadly enough, that is what I do when I can no longer contain my inner rebel: I look for something to clean.

Me: “Don’t worry, dude. I promise I haven’t done any illicit loads of laundry this week.”