Old Friends

I have fond memories of the time I spent attending St. Cloud State University.  I met one of the great loves of my life. I was a freshman, he was a sophomore. He was funny, charming, talented, adorable and straight. Imagine my delight in finding all of those delicious traits in one young man also studying theatre.

I had an enormous crush on Kirk Aanes. We were both in the play, "Time of Our Life".  Fitting, because that is what we had. My Grandmother came to town with my mother to see the show and Kirk overheard her call me "Kissy" and from that moment forward he never addressed me any other way.

At the Halloween costume party that year and I won first prize (a bottle of Andre champagne) for best costume. I went as Joan Crawford from the television movie about her life. I was dressed to the nines with Ajax, a wire hanger and the most excellent facial expressions. Spot on, really. I deserved that $3 bottle of bubbly.

Kirk invited me out after the party. "Out" meant heading over to his place. I drank my cheap bubbly and he drank coffee. Kirk had quit drinking at some point during high school. A sober guy who's into me? Nice! He played his guitar and we sang Simon & Garfunkel songs into the wee hours of the night. Neither one of us could sing worth a damn, but it didn't matter. We laughed and sang our way through every song over and over again.   

It became our thing. We sang and played every time we hung out. We also acted together again in "The Flies". I played his mother and he killed me. We got such kick out of that. We had become the best of friends and then some.

We also shared an over the top fondness for the movie "Arthur" with Dudley Moore. We knew every scene by heart. When we weren't singing out of tune, we were quoting that film. Our ages clearly correlated with our senses of humor.

Those were some the best times of my youth. Of course, I made the ultimate girl mistake. You know, the lines that guys just LOVE to hear.  I asked Kirk what we were doing. What are we? I questioned.  He replied sincerely, "Well, we aren't just friends...and  we aren't boyfriend and girlfriend (pause), we are good friends who have sex." He was satisfied with his reply. WRONG ANSWER DUDE. Kirk was ahead of his time, a real champion of "friends with benefits" long before it was in style. I, on the other hand, was hoping for something a little more traditional. I was crushed. Angry, sad and heartbroken. I had fallen in love with him at my tender age of eighteen and was devastated to learn that the feelings were not mutual. I was overly dramatic (shocking) and refused to speak to him. This was difficult since we saw each other at school every day and were signed up to compete on the speech team. Our choice was a dialogue from the play "Lovers". I know, I know, hilarious isn't it? Even better, we took first place. We were that good. Mad as hell, never letting up on him for a minute, we took it. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I had a blast performing with him. Any time I spent with Kirk Aanes was great fun. He never stopped caring for me, he just didn't care for me like I wanted him to. Whatever. I know he adored me.

Kirk and I had the kind of bond that could pick up when ever we found each other over the years. 

We reconnected some time during late eighties, and went to see Arthur II. It was horrible but we loved it. Seeing it together was what mattered. Kirk was working at The O'Neill Center in New York City at that time. He told me about a soap opera actress whom he was crazy about and was working up the nerve to ask out when he returned to NYC. They were married for three years.

That summer would be the last time I saw my friend, Kirk Aanes, in the flesh. During the explosion of Facebook we found each other and began to speak on the phone and email regularly. We resumed communication during the Fall of 2008. A lot of life had been lived between us. I was married with 2 small children and Kirk was living in Vegas with a brain injury after surviving a near fatal car accident. The accident put him in a coma for a month. He told me that he woke up able to recite Shakespeare. Of course he did.

While he had certainly changed and was now living with disabilities (had been for ten years), we picked right up like no time had passed. In Kirk's mind that was partially true. He had short term memory loss as a result of the accident, so we  reconnected a few times during each phone conversation. I never minded. It broke my heart but he was still Kirk. I cried for his loss and smiled through my tears at the Kirk he still was. He was still my friend. I still loved  him. He was funny, charming, and more flirtatious than ever. His spirit remained.

He shared his story with me and I encouraged him to write it. I offered to help him put it together. He sent me a file and I am sorry to report that it fell through the cracks of my life. I still have it, I just need to find it. Find it I will.

Our phone calls became farther and farther apart. He moved from Vegas to Florida. I usually tried to reach him on his Birthday. I would remind Kirk that my daughter was also born on August 5th. This delighted him and he would remark that she must be beautiful because she had come from me. Then he would say something wildly inappropriate. That man never missed an opportunity to make a move. Charm with his charm. Score if he thought he could score. He'd try just for the sake of trying. This delighted me. My husband is the other great love of my life, but a girl can still be flattered, can't she?

My last attempts to reach Kirk were last August, 2013 and I was unsuccessful. The phone number I had for him was no longer in service. He was never on Facebook. I didn't try as hard as I now wish I had. I didn't dig. It isn't hard to reach people these days. Again, the complications of my own life distracted me from the pursuit, for this I am deeply regretful.

One of our favorite songs was "Bookends, Old Friends" Kirk always found a way to get those lyrics into the conversation. What a time it was, it was, he would say. Yes, Kirk Aanes it was. We were old friends. Except now, the lyrics of that song have come true and I am the friend left behind. But the memories still remain. Rest in peace, old friend.

The Chew

I am not referring to the daytime television show, although now that I mention it, yuck. I like Clinton, but only when he's on "What not to Wear" helping the sad girl love who and how she is. Are we supposed to know who the other Chew people are? I may have seen the chef somewhere, but it could have been the grocery store. ADHD aside, I have no idea what those folks are saying, while they are saying it! Lips are moving, no comprendo. Can't be good for ratings.

 I do a depression check when I find something or someone really foul. If I am struggling, no one stands a chance. I'd find something wrong with the Pope. And that guy is cool. The only real, no kidding exception is Elisabeth Hasselbeck. No matter my mental state, the sound of her voice and the ignorant, inexperienced, entitled words that come out of her mouth are the devil. I will clarify. She is what I believe the devil would sound like, if I believed there was a devil. I do, however, love me some Barbara Walters! I remember as a kid, my grandmother saying that Ms. Walters should run for president. But Baba Wawa, what were you thinking when you hired that Hasselbeck to be on "The View"? And for crying outside, what took you so long to get rid of her? 

The title actually refers to chewing gum. I do not like gum. The smell of it makes me physically nauseous. Mint is the worst. Gag. I can't emphasize enough how disgusted I am by the chewing of gum and the smell of mint. Yes, I brush my teeth (floss and rinse too) but there is only one specific brand that I can handle. I don't know why. Is it some repressed childhood memory where mint was not affectionate? Did a gum chewer bully me? Tell me I was fat and to have another cookie? I don't know and frankly, I don't give two shits (two smells I tolerate more than gum). I just hate it. I have a fear of ending up next to a mint gum chewing passenger on an airplane. If they are chewing it with their mouth open, then I am really screwed. My chances are pretty high because EVERYONE chews gum on airplanes. Can't you people fake yawn? Can't I have a fear of flying instead?

Hey, gum chewers, where ever did you get the idea that chewing gum (or anything) with your mouth open is even the slightest bit acceptable? Is your mother a pretend prostitute in the movies?  Stop it! Stop it right now. I know I have my issues, but you need to close your mouth. oh, and the cracking, popping thing, even with your mouth closed is also really disgusting and rude. Your dental work is none of my business.

Please. I am begging you. Chew to yourself with your mouth closed. Thank you.

New Kids on the Block

We're getting the band back together. Kidding. A little over a month ago, we moved to the other side of the zip code. I know, doesn't sound too traumatic does it? We have downsized, simplified, lightened our load. I have plenty to say about that, at another time.

Today, my question is, what happened to the welcoming hot-dish from the new neighbors?  Where is the nice to meet you pan of bars? Why is it always about food? Who cares, we are the foodie family and we would like our pie, thank you very much. My friend, Cynthia, tells this story about the welcome wagon she received the very second she opened her new door. There was a terrible storm and people brought food, batteries, flashlights and a steak dinner with a couple bottles of wine. Ok, I made that last one up. I am a foodie with a rich fantasy life. But still. We are very nice people.

We live on a block where I believe the majority of home owners have lived for thirty plus years. Except for the one gal across the street. The woman next to her did say hello while I was hanging Christmas lights. She shared  that the across the street lady lives alone. Divorced. Good to know. The marital status of my neighbors is very important to me. If you've got time to tell me that then you've got a few minutes to bake a pan of brownies. Chop chop sister.

Am I the old fashioned one? On my most isolated of anxiety filled days, I can still muster up a loaf of banana bread for the new people. If it is an especially rough one, I will put the goods together and shove one of my kids out the door to deliver it. If they feel too anxious themselves, then they get the go ahead to ding dong ditch. Leave the treats and make a run for it. It is the thought that counts.

 We are worthy neighbors. I hand write a thank you notes for a thoughtful gesture (for those of you unfamiliar with this antiquated practice, bummer). I return the pan with something I've made because I've heard it's bad luck to return it empty. I don't really believe that, but it is the Minnesota nice thing to do.

I am feeling blue because I miss the old hood. I had a solid set of folks I could count on and they count count on me. In this new place I don't have Gladys Kravitz to eye ball every passing car with the suspicion of the CIA. I always knew she'd had a bad day when she needed ice. I had an ice machine. For whatever reason, she has an influx of aluminum foil so when I was out, she provided a hefty supply. She has a closet full of crock pots and at any time I could go through and find what I needed. We still mock that closet. We would drop everything and run through the neighborhood in our pajamas when one of our dogs had made a break for it.

We no longer have each other to call to warn that the Jehovah's are coming. Batten down the hatches. Hide the pooches and get out of site. Close the garage door, there's still time! The knife selling kids are out in full force, turn out the lights and save yourself. Hurry! Then we would whisper to each other on the phone until we were sure it was all clear.

A side note.  My sister in-law is a very nice woman and had no support system with her when she was bombarded with the knife kid. Cost her $700. I'm not going to lie, those are some really bitchin' knives, but then they had better be.

While my family and I are adjusting to our new surroundings, the holidays are difficult. I am very sentimental at holiday time. I just noticed that mental is over half of that word. Huh.  Anyway, we lived in our former house for thirteen years. A lot of mile stones and a lot of Christmas'.
I do my best to focus on how fortunate we are to be together, healthy and with our senses of humor in tact. We  have love and friendship that over flows. Our dogs don't pee in the house. It's all good. Mostly.

This rant is really coming down to Kravitz. At the end of The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy looks at Scarecrow and says " I am going to miss you most of all". Kravitz is my scarecrow. I am short a carton of chicken stock, I need 2 eggs and some powdered sugar. That may sound like a grocery list to most, but to me it is a chance to catch up with my girlfriend.

Joy at Twenty-eight Degrees

This morning, I went out to start my car and I was immediately bowled over by the weather. It didn't hurt. It has been an especially rough couple of below zero weeks here in the great white north.  We have had windchills making it feel like a body part may just up and fall off. But this morning, it did not hurt. Is this what joy feels like?

It only lasted until I ran into the recycling bin and knocked it over. I have a very poor attention span until the meds kick in...Some call that slow to wake up. Not me. I am an experienced head case, I know the difference. As my son was picking up the nastiness and tossing it back inside the bin, I assure you he was not feeling joy. Sorry pal, I owe you one. Maybe even three. That was a disgusting task.

The holiday season is rough for a lot of folks, and for those of us who battle depression and anxiety, without proper care, they are brutal. I have been reading about happiness and learning many ways to achieve it. A vital one for me is to unload my expectations. This allows me to be grateful when things do go my way. It makes sense then, that knocking over the bin did not upset me. I not only expect that I will make a fumble like that, I expect that my day will be full of them. When it is not, I am truly grateful. As is I am sure, the bicyclist I did not hit and my daughter, whose head I did not burn during the morning straighten. Ahhh, more joy!

I do not expect that my husband will bring me flowers, so when he does, I am over joyed. Full of gratitude. Ok, I should be ashamed of myself. That right there was not an example of zero expectation, but rather an outright manipulation (he reads my blog) that will lead me right into the black disappointing hole of expectation. Hey, cut me some slack, it takes three weeks to form a new habit. Honey, I still want the flowers.

All of this talk about expection brings me to the Christmas lists of my children. Assume you will get nothing. Assume coal and be overjoyed with the moldy orange in the bottom of your stocking. Somewhere in time the wish list lost it's true meaning. IT IS A WISH LIST. You are not registering for gifts, and even if you were, you would still be WISHING, not EXPECTING. You are not placing an order to be picked up in it's entirety on December 25th. Where is the chance for surprise, gratitude and joy? Having said all of that, our family has a firm belief in wishing. Wishing is beautiful and everyone has a right to wish for the moon. Just don't let your wish list get tangled up with that no good trouble making expectation. No good will come of it.

Take care out there in the big chaotic world of holiday madness. Smile and wave. You may turn someone's day around. Or, they will think you are batshit crazy. The outcome is insignificant as you have made no assumptions and expect zero in return. Ode to Joy!

Have a Little Cheer

Tis the season for sugar and booze and everything covered in cheese. I should probably use the twelve days of Christmas to do a twelve day fast. Instead of eating fast and carelessly for way more than twelve days. I am a foodie. I love all things with cream cheese and sour cream. And beautiful delicious butter. Hooray for butter!  I need to snap out of it or I'll bust a snap right out of my pants and then how depressed will I be? I spend too much time living in my yoga pants and not enough time doing yoga in my yoga pants. I love them. They make my ass look great no matter how many cheese balls I've consumed. At least that's what I believe, please don't correct me. I may hurl a bourban ball at you or worse yet,  shove a candycane up your nose. Happy Holidays!

It's a true testament to my rockstar parenting when I see my children reaching for pumpkin pie at breakfast. Don't judge, pumpkin is a vegetable. My daughter screamed in horror when she pulled the foil back last week and that pie had grown a beard. Lesson learned. Eat your vegetables in a timely manner, or things will get hairy.

I have not started with the egg nog. Yet. Again, I am not going to get mother of the year if I don't at least stagger the artery clogging fun. My teenage son treats a carton of eggnog like it's the tiniest glass of juice. Except he does not bother himself with a glass. Just bothers me on that one.

The house is decorated, the tree is up. It has only fallen twice. Thank God for the Dust Buster I received last year. That baby has some serious torque. It's the little things. I do feel some of our family tradition may be waning. The candy canes disappeared before they had a chance to hang prettily from the branches of our very eclectic tree. Go ahead and judge that one.

The lights outside are lovely. Everyone is in on the festivities. The dogs contribute by lifting their legs just out side the front door and on the walk to the driveway. I like to think they are taking part in  the reenactment of the manger scene where baby Jesus was born. Hay is yellow. The shepherds will have no trouble finding our house.  

My son's girlfriend joined us for tree decorating and cookie baking this year and it was great fun! He couldn't wait to show her the pregnancy test we turned into an ornament commemorating his conception. I told you it was eclectic. I am afraid it may be time to add condoms to the tree. Hmmm. How to punch a hole to hang them without damaging the goods...I will be CAREFUL. VERY VERY CAREFUL.

It will be an interesting race to see which goes faster. The condoms or the candy canes. It may be neck and neck. The Swedish Fish candy canes are especially yummy. A real family favorite. Who am I kidding. Neither will make it to the tree. Not a chance.

Hello World

I used to think I was different because of my job. I am comedian. People never get it the first time I say it and even then they think they have heard me wrong. When it finally clicks,

" YOU'RE A COMEDIAN? REALLY? TELL ME A JOKE! " Even better, " I HAVE A STORY FOR YOU AND YOU CAN USE IT IN YOUR SKIT! "

Years ago a soccer mom asked me if my act was dirty (tone was a tad accusatory, almost angry) and would she be able to bring her twelve year old son? I replied that I am not a blue act, however, the subjects are adult and I don't know lady, do you bring your children to night clubs? Is that how you spend quality time with the family? If you want your kid to hear about my uterus after child birth, say the word. I'll make sure you get front row seats. Then I'll ask you during the show, if you and the Mr. are still doing the nasty...or have the little pills killed your sex drive? (I note here that I am not an angry, mean, comic. I was not on stage when we had this conversation and the part where I hand her her ass during my set, was pure fantasy).

I know a lot of mommies take that little pill in the morning to stave off the blues. I remember when the playground lady was chasing it with Bailey's in her coffee. I also remember when I thought we had that in common. Not the Bailey's part, I am a dirty martini lover through and through. But not on my worst day have I shaken one in the morning. I can't promise you that it hasn't crossed my mind, I just don't remember. It's hard enough for me to find my car at Target.  Where was I? Right, having the little pill in common. No such luck.

It turns out that out of the four kinds of Depression a person can have, I have them all. Jackpot! There may be more but the book I'm reading says there are four. That's enough. I don't want to know about any others. The hardest one to recover from is the one that stems from my childhood. Stem my ass, more like a trunk the size of a four thousand year old Sequoia.

Throw in ADHD, Dyslexia, and just enough OCD to screw with me but not enough to keep anything organized. Not enough to actually be helpful. My hands are clean and my spices are alphabetized. That's it.

Running neck and neck in severity with depression is the chronic anxiety. Debilitating. For as long as I can remember, I have been saying that I only like crowds when they are seated neatly in front of me. It wasn't until recently, I realized that I have had this paralyzing anxiety all of my life. I didn't know it was a treatable thing with a name. I thought it was one of my many flaws and as such gave it it's due. In the hole of shame where I used to spend most of my time. I say "most of my time" because while I'm on quite a cocktail of meds and therapy and yoga therapy, it ain't all unicorns and martinis. Far from it.

While I am different because of my job, that just isn't the great separator. I have come to realize this at long last. I'd like to thank my most recent complete and total breakdown for getting me to this place. Finally. I have arrived at the acceptance stage. Sometimes I head back and visit anger, but I forge ahead with the love and support of an enormous village. 

 I give thanks to my husband, my beautiful and amazing children, my therapist, my massage therapist and my shrink. I am wildly grateful for my friends. You have saved me and helped me save myself. Thank you thank you to my dogs, Matthew and Ike. You physically cover me in dog love during the darkest of times when I feel paralyzed from the neck up. 

If you have come across this blog and are still reading, I thank you too.

Drive safely people, tip your servers, I'll be here all week.