Do You Know The Way…

 Well, so. It’s four days to Christmas in Cowlumbus, and things are not turning out the way I expected. My journey to understand this newfangled technology some strange set of people hath created is leading me down a twisted road and I’m thinking I need Lewis Carroll. It may be getting close to the time where I return to a beloved old pastime of prowling antique malls and thrift stores for books—but I think this time I will be choosy in what I select. So in addition to my search for scrap industrial/residential building materials, I’ll be looking for discarded literary treasures available in my proximity. I may have to hold off until we get our annual gift from my mother-in-law Carol, but that should come in early January (just in the Nick of Time).

I attempted to drive the highway yesterday and found it extremely difficult. I learned pretty quickly that I now have an extremely challenging time navigating a situation with speeding cars, trucks and semis weaving all around me, and let me tell you emphatically that this was really not such a big problem before I got sick this last time and had to go to the hospital. So I’m upset about having this new disability, and really, really tempted to try and investigate why I got sick, who’s responsible, who owes me restitution, etc. Dad always said, “Tells don’t sue” but to be dealing with bipolar and now not to be able to drive the highways anymore? No more driving the beautiful interstates across this great country of ours? I’m furious! Sitting here four days before Christmas boiling like tea pot? No, this is not what I expected.

I am going to have a zoom with my AA sponsor Shawn at 2:30 today to talk about anger and turning things over…maybe talk about Step 2 (Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity). Michael is out doing last-minute Christmas shopping, and I’ll have a tasty dinner for us tonight. Might wrap some presents. One Day At A Time.

Love,

The Grinch

Countdown to Christmas

 Well a Top O’ The Morning dear reader(s), I continue my background research for my upcoming series of artworks which as you know I hope to sell to finance my steak dinner and now perhaps a new Ford (if I can convince Michael to buy American). But dearest Michael, he seems to be in love with the imports so I’m not sure if I can broker a deal. I am also proceeding cautiously towards Christmas Day this Sunday, with events planned and things to do last minute before the holiday arrives.

One thing I forgot to do was get a Christmas tip to the trash guys—poor things, they work so hard and probably get forgotten by everyone during this holiday season. I must remember to get to Chase bank to get some cash for the post man; I’m thinking maybe $5 but you know me, I’ll probably slip him a $20. I may be late, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Today I am meeting my sister for our annual sibling lunch, then I go get my hair done. Next, I’m picking up flowers for my mother in law Carol’s 81st birthday, and dropping those off. I’m looking forward to visiting with her and spreading some holiday cheer! Will try to pop in on mom, but may be pressed for time and have to head home to cook dinner. 

Very cold weather and snow is forecasted soon and I’m not sure whether to be excited or not..I do like a blanket of snow on the ground as it is picturesque and I’ve got those wonderful black, furry boots from Toronto that the shoe salesman said were also purchased by a local television personality. Hmm. It’s a beautiful day today, the air is crisp and clear, the hounds are snoozing away, our tall, sturdy Christmas tree stands majestically in front of me. It’s Christmas time. Blessings.

Safety Dance

 Brrr, an early good morning, I awoke this a.m. greatly unsettled after a disturbing dream filled with strange characters like a cult, a bank drive thru, an older Asian (?) man offering advice, and of course Michael saying no to the purchase of an exciting new Volkswagen model I wanted to purchase. Freud eat your heart out. My dream left me most unsettled at first, perhaps not so much what my subconscious created but rather the fact that I can actually remember dreaming last night—something that rarely ever happens thanks to my meds. So as to be expected, I came downstairs in search of coffee and some way to ease my sense of fear. I saw the Calm app on my phone but of course you have to pay for that so my next/only option was to go to YouTube and hooray one can find soothing music with video for stress, anxiety, just about anything, really.

So I think I was led down this rabbit hole of anxiety by a movie I watched Saturday night about chess champion Bobby Fisher, whose brilliance was eclipsed by crushing paranoia. In a way, I wish I hadn’t seen the movie, as I prefer to hang out sometimes in the ignorance is bliss quadrant, but hey, Michael had the movie on and I saw it so into the memory bank it went. Fortunately, I don’t really have paranoia and given my employment and earnings track record I’m certainly not brilliant. So hopefully this looney tune won’t end up like Bobby (something tells me I may have a happier ending). I’m undecided, remember?

We are officially entering into Christmas week, and cold weather is here, with temps plummeting on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I immediately think of all the mentally ill homeless, who I am praying hard make it to shelter either at the Faith Mission, a church, or maybe the library can stay open special hours to accommodate those in need. You just know the stubborn ones will want to stay in their tents on the banks of the Scioto (though I think the City did shoe them away from there). Sadly, some will just refuse to come in from the cold, and I suspect these are the dually diagnosed addict/mentally ill not in recovery. And these are the nameless, faceless people we lose, people who had such promise but just gave up. 

Alas, I’m trying to find the happiness in Christmas 2022, but it just seems like Fate is having her way this year, much to my chagrin. Kevin Bartholomew actually was too busy to make it to our place to repair our sewer drain so we may be at the mercy of Eco Plumbers, who may or may not be here today. With our luck, maybe the pipes will freeze this weekend (or the car won’t start) but I’ve got fingers crossed and I knocked on wood to prevent all this. Michael hinted that maybe indeed we might have to sell this place, but given his insisting we move to Florida, I’m tempted to start hatching a scheme to keep us in Columbus…oh, I’m just unsettled this morning, and probably what I need is connection to my Higher Power, letting him control outcomes. 

I guess I should also remember “Dare to Dream” and all that jazz, and carry on with my plans for the week. I am meeting my sister Tracey on Wednesday for lunch at high noon at the Cheesecake Factory, our annual Siblings Holiday Lunch that Chip is conveniently missing because he’s vacationing AGAIN. Now Melissa, don’t be jealous, some day you might travel too…maybe. Do the Christian thing and wish only good things for Chip and his family as they float on their Gin Palace wherever they might be.

No, no bad thoughts this Christmas—why should we make room for those anyway? Hey, gas is cheaper. I can tip my hat to that. Down Broad Street to mom’s house we go!

Poor Richard

 Well dear readers, this morning started off with quite an exciting bang, aided by Apple and Google (plus a friendly nudge by Benjamin Franklin and Fellini). I think it may be the Giant Eagle cinnamon I added to my Starbuck’s coffee that got me headed off to a good start—but the fact that a $45,000 pipeline repair bill may be looming has me most definitely feeling pressure.

But being one who prefers to look at the glass half full rather than half empty (or maybe undecided? Note: remember to try and get mom’s needlepoint capturing this dilemma), I’m going to resolutely NOT have a bad day today. Even though Michael reports the downstairs toilet is backed up (installed on the cheap 22 years ago by an AA friend), precipitated by a screwed up sewer drain or something to that effect, he has made a speedy call to Eco Plumbers, a knowledgeable company running ads on Channel 6.

I may be unable to bathe until Monday (what do I do about going out tonight and Shawn’s soirée tomorrow?) but I know I can find a solution, somehow, some way. Michael says the stock market is garbage today, then he uttered, “America is garbage” and that makes me feel sad that he feels that way. I think I blame Twitter for influencing his current views but seeing as I have no Twitter account who am I to judge that Wild West?

Speaking of garbage, I am reminiscing about those art pieces back in the 2000s that I threw in the trash can in a fit of manic psychosis. Included were some pieces that might be considered a “painterly” attempt at communication (scene of Muslim women comes to mind); there is also my self portrait that I entrusted to a friend to keep safe—if he sold it I wouldn’t begrudge him though I’d like to get a glance at it at some point in the future.

Good news! Entrusted plumber Kevin Bartholomew just called and as usual, that hard-working gent keeps weekend hours and is coming here tomorrow (Saturday) to fix the drain! Although it may be a temporary stop gap, I should be able to shower before Shawn’s gathering which would be relieving. Michael put some ambient music on after Kevin’s call and I’m finding it soothing and stimulating my creativity. So I’m going to go over to mom’s this afternoon and perhaps continue working on my Christmas piece for Michael, tentatively titled, “Rembrandt in Macaroni.”

Have a good day, dear readers. Remember, don’t change for me, change for you! (Hee, hee)

Shaken Not Stirred

 The early bird gets the worm, so I’m delighted to report that on my new medicine “cocktail” I am going to bed at a reasonable hour and rising to see the dawn break. It’s wonderful. And importantly, I awake feeling clear-headed and actually quite curious (somewhat rambunctious?), though fortunately tethered firmly to the ground and in reality. What a relief. I’m continuing my dance with YouTube—and their pesky AI—but also now weaving in Wikipedia (who I hope to give a $2 donation to before the year is out). 

A very interesting sidebar has developed involving dear friend Sue Weiler’s attempt to organize a gathering at her parents home on December 28th. In my opinion, she may have made a key tactical error by trying to send invites through Facebook—but you know these kids today, they are so hesitant to heed warnings about social media…Sue is trying to rectify the situation through email, but alas she is coming up short. 

I’m chuckling again, remembering when I was back at Smith my Freshman year in the Fall of 1984, making plans for a midnight gathering at my folk’s place with the Horny Devil gals. I took a piece of my monogrammed stationary, slid it into my Brother (?) typewriter, and whipped off an invite template for “Cocktails and Conversation” hosted by none other. Then I went to a Xerox or Canon copier either on campus or in Noho (this was how you attempted proper invites on the cheap) and for a quarter or so a page, printed off 12 invites—keeping the original for myself. Alas, it’s now long gone (along with some of my juicy journals) but I do at least for now remember creating it.

So hopefully sweet Sue can figure out this SNAFU modern technology has wrought upon her little soirée. In the meantime, I’m continuing on with my artwork, hoping to have some pieces to sell at the German Village Trash and Treasures Day Sale in May 2023 (date to be announced). I plan to take a portion of my proceeds to the Hyde Park Grill for a steak dinner and to hopefully purchase the Seafood Tower appetizer (may need to include Mom to get this purchased). I’m diligently collecting “castaways” in the German Village alleys, but may need to expand my search to the scrap yards, as I’m looking for metal (preferably wavy) and other assorted bits and pieces. I’ve never been to a scrap yard, and I’m most eager to see who’s working there—perhaps they might let me take photographs. As I well know, ALWAYS ask for permission! Chuckle.

Finally, today is Thursday, and that means therapy, more analysis, more of Fetter prodding me to unleash some inner-feminist side (or so I think). That’s just not my thing as of now, though, for reasons somewhat complicated, perhaps driven by Fate, something deep that I’m going to keep locked away for my own safety. I don’t trust women. Period. Maybe a few I’ve met I might consider confidants but I can count them on one hand.

So on that happy note, let me conclude that it is another Gray Lady Day in Columbus and my house is drafty and my feet are cold again. Time for more coffee, perfunctory call to Mom to go over the Wall Street Journal, eat some lunch, then scoot. I do so love driving the back roads of Columbus. Took getting me off the crazy highways around here to see everything that is around me! So Much To Discover….Ohio The Heart Of It All…who comes up with these catchphrases?

Brilliant.

In The Limelight With The Puppet Master

 Good morning faithful reader(s), I awoke this morning after a long, refreshing night’s sleep with a clatter (wondering what was the matter)—and I’m sitting here chuckling. I’m remembering when I gave a reading of a Christmas poem with Colleen Duffy at the CSG Holiday dinner my senior year. There I was, bedecked in a peach lace top and taffeta skirt (?), purchased by my loving late grandmother Virginia Snook Tell in Palm Beach I believe, though my memory is dicey. Anyways, I came downstairs and thankfully no one had fallen, nor was there a thief in the house, it was just a dog gate that had toppled over.

So as is my usual morning routine, I made some coffee then settled in to my recliner and turned on my trusty (small) iPad to Google YouTube, and my, off we went to the races with much going on to entice me into a world of great possibilities. Basically my first thought was if we are going on said journey, I would like Michael to metamorphosis into Johnny Depp—though I’m sure there are other endless possibilities of who might accompany me (special preference to Tip O’Neill Jr.). 

But being ever so cautious and a touch wary, as is my nature, I must report that I do now feel a bit of “Who’s Zooming Who” as I weave my way through my foray back to creating art (hey, who wants to make money anyways?). When I felt like the Puppet Master might be afoot at Google, I immediately turned to good friend T. Boone Pickens, someone I never met (though I did meet Daniel Yergin who wrote, “The Prize: The Epic Quest for Oil, Money & Power”), but have always deeply admired and felt excited when I heard about his adventures and machinations. 

Alas, many have forgotten about Boone, but let me tell you he was a force to be reckoned with, and humorous to boot. Ah, those characters of the Eighties, true legends, and I’m curious why Generation X has apparently given up for the most part (just biding their time til they get a meager inheritance from the folks?). Me, as you know I was abruptly sidelined by the pharmaceutical industry, and I won’t be resentful (covered that yesterday) though perhaps some kind anonymous donor might kick some funds over to J&J or Eli Lilly or Merck so future generations of bipolars might have an easier road to traverse than me.

But Tis The Season for joy, and I’m absolutely thrilled my creativity is back. Perhaps today I’ll go hunting for my lime green teddy—Michael needs a little vavoom and I’m gonna try to get this menopause body to cooperate…I think.

It Can Happen

 Greetings all, another early to bed early to rise (this morning around 3:30), and I find myself just tickled pink that something quite wonderful, almost inexplicable is happening: my artistic “eye” is now fully open (along with my brain) and at long last I am back to making art again! I have long known that many, many bipolars are blessed with creativity—for those needing a primer, see Kay Redfield Jamison’s “Touched By Fire.” Yesterday was a toe-dipping exercise of creating a piece of macaroni art for husband Michael (at his request); quite simple really, just some Barilla elbows, newspaper clippings, Elmer’s school glue, glitter, and some glass shards collected by Michael that had been left in the alley, remnants of the Rumpke recycling truck.

But it was this morning, December 13, that a real breakthrough happened—and upfront I give quite a lot of credit equally to Google and my Basset Hound Miss Lily. A strange marriage of the two happened, and I won’t, rather, can’t (at this juncture) explain how this happened. Suffice to say a blessed Union occurred and it was captured on my trusty (smallish) red Apple iPhone which I’ve decided to never part with. At this point, you, faithful reader, may be wondering if I’ve tripped the light fantastic again, but as someone who is intimately familiar with bipolar manic psychosis, I can assure you I have never felt more sane in my life. So there.

But who am I, just a broke, unemployable weirdo, so I guess what I’m going to do is ride this artistic wave and see where it takes me. Back to this morning’s breakthrough, I am going to begin work pronto on a new piece that is loosely titled, “It Can Happen” (hat tip to the awesome band Yes), though I’m also toying with another title, “The Puppet Master.” The latter refers to a moniker that often came to me in past psychotic “delusions” where I would have a strong sense that someone/something was manipulating me. But at the time, it didn’t bother me in the least; actually I felt quite exhilarated that someone, anyone saw some worth in what I was seeing. I have a piece of art I did during true psychosis where I tried to marry a quilt with a collage, and there is a big black eye along with black figures around the edges. Perhaps some of the themes I was trying to capture in “Manic Quilt” will find their way into “It Can Happen” (winkedy, wink).

Speaking of strange bedfellows, did I tell you about the time—I believe I was a junior in High School at the illustrious Columbus School For Girls (harumph)—-that I married an American Eagle quilt pattern to a Wang computer? And Dr. Wong still had the nerve to give me a B- (or was it a C?) in Algebra. Just another brick in the wall of my rejection to Dartmouth College, though I harbor no resentment towards them. The sweatshirt Dad bought me from Hanover when we visited in ‘83 still fits, so I’ll wear out maybe the next time I’m at Burger King.

Perhaps though I should examine what I’ve been feeling a slight touch of lately: resentment. I know Webster’s has a concise definition of the word, but I’m looking for an emotional answer to it. Sure, we can all rush to Google and look up the word, but what does resentment mean to you? I think to date the best answers I have heard come (again) from A.A. meetings I have attended. Unfortunately, I cannot relay what I’ve heard as such meetings are intended for anonymity. But here, I can say that my resentment leads only to bitterness; bitterness leads only to a hardening of the soul; this hardening leads to despair; despair leads to the drink (or the pills or the weed or whatever you choose to escape your demons).

So when I start to feel resentment, which admittedly I have a few times over the past few days, I try to immediately switch gears and look squarely at what makes me peaceful. This morning, that is my two Basset Hounds, Miss Lily and Sir Little Legs, sleeping soundly on their respective “beds” (Lily’s a black, furry dog bed from Amazon) and Legs, a weirdly-shaped blue couch from the old Lazarus Department Store downtown. And of course, I know Michael is having bizarre dreams in the dented, cheap $450 full mattress from that furniture shop on E. Main Street in Whitehall.

The other thing that helps me through resentments is laughter. I’m immediately taken back to the movie “Animal House” (yes, based on Dartmouth) and Faber College’s quote, “Knowledge Is Good.” I’ll leave you with that to ponder today. Me, I have to figure out a way to get to the East side AGAIN without Michael getting suspicious….to be continued.