Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take
I said Doctor, to relieve this bellyache
I said Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take
I said Doctor, to relieve this bellyache
Lime in the Coconut - Harry Nilsson
I've gotten less than 10 hours of sleep in the past week. Last night I got zero. My brain is so fried that if eaten by a zombie his triglycerides would immediately go off the charts. Assuming zombies check things like that, of course.
I'm 26 weeks pregnant, and my rock-n-roll dreams were just thrown a big ol' curve. I've been put on total bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy, which we're hoping and praying will go to term (37-40 weeks). Once I hit 37 weeks I can leave my couch, but for the next 11 weeks, here I sit. Or lie, rather. Oy.
Forgive me if this post takes on a stream-of-consciousness rambling tone. Like I said, I'm fried.
The lack of sleep is due to one of the most common pregnancy ailments, GERD - or reflux as we all know it. In my case it's taking on epic proportions. I'm getting it from the regular, run-of-the-mill causes, such as the growing baby and the extra progesterone. But due to my history of pregnancy loss and preterm labor, I'm also required to take weekly progesterone injections. And now I'm being asked to lie down 24/7. If you've ever had reflux, you know how impossible lying down is.
This situation is not without its humorous side though. Thanks to my insomnia, I've posted some interesting things to my pregnancy support group, including the following gems:
"My husband gives it to me in the butt once a week. It hurts going in, and it aches for a day or two after, but it's totally worth it." (Me explaining how I get my progesterone shots to a young expectant mother who will be starting the shots soon and is looking for others who've been there.)
"All I've had today is the peace of toast...." (Me bitching about not being able to eat due to reflux.)
I meant, of course, "piece" of toast. But in retrospect, I like "peace of toast". It sounds like some sort of kabalistic, new-agey type of nirvana. Or a Facebook application.
Would that I could achieve the Peace of Toast at the moment. To be lying here, warm... golden... buttery. Mmmmm. Even the Catholic in me likes the imagery. Jesus-the-wafer is cold, dry and totally unappealing. Jesus Toast is warm, approachable and easier to digest. Him as Comfort Food. I think I'm onto something, folks. Forget music, I'm going where there's real money - Televangelism!
I'm starving. I could sure go for some Host, eggs & coffee right now.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Getting My Laces Back
Do I need someone here to scold me
Or do I need someone who'll grab and pull me
From this four-poster, dull torpor
Pulling downward
For it's such a long time since my better days
I say my prayers nightly this will pass away
Like the Weather - 10,000 Maniacs
In February of this year I checked myself into the "Waldorf-Hysteria" - a/k/a the Mental Health Unit of the local hospital.
It went something like this: for weeks on end, I'd been crying a lot. When I wasn't crying, I was burying myself in a book or TV show trying desperately to distract myself so I wouldn't cry. And while I've suffered from garden-variety depression in the past, this was something much, much worse. This was unrelenting darkness, oppresive and portending violence at any given moment. It was like living with a mean drunk, tip-toeing through a room where they're on their third drink and are starting to get that look in their eye; the one that you know means all hell is about to break loose.
The day I checked myself in started like most others, waking in the morning and feeling the weight of my gloom crush me before I even lifted my head from the pillow. Still, I hit the shower, got dressed and headed to my job as an insurance representative. (Yeah, insurance. No wonder I was depressed.)
I don't remember the next few hours after that, although friends have been kind enough to piece it together for me. By 8 am I was at my desk on the 6th floor. By 9:30 I was at my friend's desk, crying but saying very little. Shortly after noon, another friend found me sitting not at work, but down the street at the public library. I was staring blankly ahead, and if I was seeing anything it all it was residing with Buckaroo Bonzai across the Eighth Dimension.
Somehow this friend got my attention long enough to take me by the hand and walk me to the hospital, where I signed the paperwork that would make me a guest of said facility for a minimum of 48 hours, possibly more.
I "came to" so to speak as the intake staff were eyeing me and discussing my clothing choices as if they were Joan and Melissa Rivers and I was walking the red carpet instead of a white hallway.
"Belt!" said Exquisitely Dressed Male Nurse, snapping his fingers imperiously. Immediately, two other nurses descended on me on removed the apparently offensive item. I'm sure it did offend them, I'd gotten it on sale at K Mart.
"Shoes?" inquired Male Nurse, in a tone that implied that since I was from rural Washington county, I probably wasn't wearing any. Well, ha ha, yes I was! And best of all, they were leather LL Bean slip-ons, and did not have any buckles or laces. It took me a few minutes, but I finally figured it out. They were relieving me of any article of clothing I could fashion into an instrument of my own demise should my stay prove, uh, therapeutically unsuccessful. I shudder to think what would have happened had I been wearing my BBW thong.
After several minutes of this ritual undressing, I was led to my room (private - thank god we pay for the good insurance) and left to my own devices.
I'll fast forward through the 4 day blur that was my stay. I don't remember much of it anyway, except that in my brief time there I earned the nick-name "Artsy-Craftsy Girl". I pretty much passed the entire time holed up in the therapy room, painting pre-cast ceramic bunnies, fish and vases with environmentally-and-incarceration-friendly non toxic paints. If I recently gave you a hand-crafted, non-dishwasher safe item as a housewarming or birthday gift, this is where it came from.
Four days after my arrival, I was given the all-clear to return to my normal life. I had a diagnosis: Antepartum Depression. Ever the over-achiever, I am not content to wait until after the baby is born to have a hormonally-induced mental disorder. Nope, I'm part of that less-than-one-percent who plummet off an emotional cliff in the first trimester. Yay, me!
As I was leaving the hospital, relieved and yet scared to go back to "normal", the nurses presented me with my belt, my purse, my cell phone... all the things I'd had to surrender on the way in. As they were waving goodbye and wishing me well, the youngest girl said "Brenda, did you get your laces back?" I looked down at my slip-ons, and smiled my first real smile in weeks. I guess I had gotten them back, so to speak.
Two Months Later...
Signing yourself into a mental hospital is scary. Going home is terrifying.
I was thankful for the little things, like a bathroom door that locked, metal utensils, and a bedroom that smelled like lilacs instead of disinfectant. But the question haunted me for weeks. Had I truly "gotten my laces back"? I greeted each morning skeptically, cautiously. Open one eye, then the other. How does it look? What will today bring?
Fortunately, I responded quickly to treatment. My days began to mirror the ever-changing reality outside my window. Winter gave way to spring. Warmth replaced the chill, and the balance tipped, favoring daylight over darkness. Until yesterday, when my worst fear came to pass and I found myself feeling depressed.
I almost fainted, the dread was that overwhelming. But I took a deep breath, and let the feeling wash through me. And it soon dawned on me that this was my old "garden variety" depression. I wasn't falling off a cliff, I was having a bad day. I hadn't gotten much sleep, and I was so busy I hadn't bothered to eat. After a few calming breaths, I was able to go about my day. I wasn't aglow with joy, but I wasn't sobbing, either. I just.... was.
I woke up this morning feeling my normal, optimistic self. In a little while I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air. I'm going to throw on a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes. And just as a precaution, I'm going to tie the laces tight... and knot 'em for good measure.
Or do I need someone who'll grab and pull me
From this four-poster, dull torpor
Pulling downward
For it's such a long time since my better days
I say my prayers nightly this will pass away
Like the Weather - 10,000 Maniacs
In February of this year I checked myself into the "Waldorf-Hysteria" - a/k/a the Mental Health Unit of the local hospital.
It went something like this: for weeks on end, I'd been crying a lot. When I wasn't crying, I was burying myself in a book or TV show trying desperately to distract myself so I wouldn't cry. And while I've suffered from garden-variety depression in the past, this was something much, much worse. This was unrelenting darkness, oppresive and portending violence at any given moment. It was like living with a mean drunk, tip-toeing through a room where they're on their third drink and are starting to get that look in their eye; the one that you know means all hell is about to break loose.
The day I checked myself in started like most others, waking in the morning and feeling the weight of my gloom crush me before I even lifted my head from the pillow. Still, I hit the shower, got dressed and headed to my job as an insurance representative. (Yeah, insurance. No wonder I was depressed.)
I don't remember the next few hours after that, although friends have been kind enough to piece it together for me. By 8 am I was at my desk on the 6th floor. By 9:30 I was at my friend's desk, crying but saying very little. Shortly after noon, another friend found me sitting not at work, but down the street at the public library. I was staring blankly ahead, and if I was seeing anything it all it was residing with Buckaroo Bonzai across the Eighth Dimension.
Somehow this friend got my attention long enough to take me by the hand and walk me to the hospital, where I signed the paperwork that would make me a guest of said facility for a minimum of 48 hours, possibly more.
I "came to" so to speak as the intake staff were eyeing me and discussing my clothing choices as if they were Joan and Melissa Rivers and I was walking the red carpet instead of a white hallway.
"Belt!" said Exquisitely Dressed Male Nurse, snapping his fingers imperiously. Immediately, two other nurses descended on me on removed the apparently offensive item. I'm sure it did offend them, I'd gotten it on sale at K Mart.
"Shoes?" inquired Male Nurse, in a tone that implied that since I was from rural Washington county, I probably wasn't wearing any. Well, ha ha, yes I was! And best of all, they were leather LL Bean slip-ons, and did not have any buckles or laces. It took me a few minutes, but I finally figured it out. They were relieving me of any article of clothing I could fashion into an instrument of my own demise should my stay prove, uh, therapeutically unsuccessful. I shudder to think what would have happened had I been wearing my BBW thong.
After several minutes of this ritual undressing, I was led to my room (private - thank god we pay for the good insurance) and left to my own devices.
I'll fast forward through the 4 day blur that was my stay. I don't remember much of it anyway, except that in my brief time there I earned the nick-name "Artsy-Craftsy Girl". I pretty much passed the entire time holed up in the therapy room, painting pre-cast ceramic bunnies, fish and vases with environmentally-and-incarceration-friendly non toxic paints. If I recently gave you a hand-crafted, non-dishwasher safe item as a housewarming or birthday gift, this is where it came from.
Four days after my arrival, I was given the all-clear to return to my normal life. I had a diagnosis: Antepartum Depression. Ever the over-achiever, I am not content to wait until after the baby is born to have a hormonally-induced mental disorder. Nope, I'm part of that less-than-one-percent who plummet off an emotional cliff in the first trimester. Yay, me!
As I was leaving the hospital, relieved and yet scared to go back to "normal", the nurses presented me with my belt, my purse, my cell phone... all the things I'd had to surrender on the way in. As they were waving goodbye and wishing me well, the youngest girl said "Brenda, did you get your laces back?" I looked down at my slip-ons, and smiled my first real smile in weeks. I guess I had gotten them back, so to speak.
Two Months Later...
Signing yourself into a mental hospital is scary. Going home is terrifying.
I was thankful for the little things, like a bathroom door that locked, metal utensils, and a bedroom that smelled like lilacs instead of disinfectant. But the question haunted me for weeks. Had I truly "gotten my laces back"? I greeted each morning skeptically, cautiously. Open one eye, then the other. How does it look? What will today bring?
Fortunately, I responded quickly to treatment. My days began to mirror the ever-changing reality outside my window. Winter gave way to spring. Warmth replaced the chill, and the balance tipped, favoring daylight over darkness. Until yesterday, when my worst fear came to pass and I found myself feeling depressed.
I almost fainted, the dread was that overwhelming. But I took a deep breath, and let the feeling wash through me. And it soon dawned on me that this was my old "garden variety" depression. I wasn't falling off a cliff, I was having a bad day. I hadn't gotten much sleep, and I was so busy I hadn't bothered to eat. After a few calming breaths, I was able to go about my day. I wasn't aglow with joy, but I wasn't sobbing, either. I just.... was.
I woke up this morning feeling my normal, optimistic self. In a little while I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air. I'm going to throw on a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes. And just as a precaution, I'm going to tie the laces tight... and knot 'em for good measure.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Fascists Killed This Machine
Check out Guitar George
He knows all the chords
Mind he's strictly rhythm
He doesn't want to make it cry or sing
Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits
I bought a guitar today! And like Guitar George, I do not want to make it cry or sing. Nor do I want to make my audience cry, although to hear me play right now that could happen, and it would have nothing to do with the emotional aspect of my songwriting. Right now I make dogs cry. Yeah, I'm seriously out of practice.
Okay, let's be honest. At best, I've always been a poor guitar player. That's why I surround myself with good musicians! But if I'm going to do the duo or even occasional solo thing, I'm going to have to rely on more than a handful of a capella numbers and my stunning good looks. I'm going to have to practice. Gulp.
This afternoon I reclined in my chair and let fly my first-in-a-long-time G/Em/C/D chord progression. Immediately I had blisters on my fingers and a lump in my throat. What was that sound??? It was not good. It was bad. It was very, very bad. It was... me.
Oh my.
Woody Guthrie was famed for the sticker on his guitar which proclaimed "This Machine Kills Fascists". After ten minutes of torturing the strings of my guitar in an effort to produce something that sounded at least a little bit like music, I shook my head sadly and told my husband "Fascists Killed This Machine".
Thank god I look good in black and have a closet full of boots.
He knows all the chords
Mind he's strictly rhythm
He doesn't want to make it cry or sing
Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits
I bought a guitar today! And like Guitar George, I do not want to make it cry or sing. Nor do I want to make my audience cry, although to hear me play right now that could happen, and it would have nothing to do with the emotional aspect of my songwriting. Right now I make dogs cry. Yeah, I'm seriously out of practice.
Okay, let's be honest. At best, I've always been a poor guitar player. That's why I surround myself with good musicians! But if I'm going to do the duo or even occasional solo thing, I'm going to have to rely on more than a handful of a capella numbers and my stunning good looks. I'm going to have to practice. Gulp.
This afternoon I reclined in my chair and let fly my first-in-a-long-time G/Em/C/D chord progression. Immediately I had blisters on my fingers and a lump in my throat. What was that sound??? It was not good. It was bad. It was very, very bad. It was... me.
Oh my.
Woody Guthrie was famed for the sticker on his guitar which proclaimed "This Machine Kills Fascists". After ten minutes of torturing the strings of my guitar in an effort to produce something that sounded at least a little bit like music, I shook my head sadly and told my husband "Fascists Killed This Machine".
Thank god I look good in black and have a closet full of boots.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
In Your Face (not Enya face!)
You... you... talk about just every band
But the names you drop are second-hand
I've heard it all before
Fox on the Run - Sweet
Big, big step today on the musical career front. I designed my "Guitarist Needed" poster and printed out several copies. Tomorrow I hit the music shops and hang 'em up - woohoo! I feel like Jack Black in Hi Fidelity.
Here's the text from the ad:
Me: 10+ years performing experience with Boston-based Celtic rock band. Extensive touring, festival headliner (Fort Lauderdale, East Durham, etc.) Looking to play locally, some touring possible. Songwriter with sense of humor, who prefers Johnny Cash and Bonnie Raitt over whiners like Sarah "Who needs joy when you can cry for 50 minutes per album" McLaughlin. If you like Enya - read no further. Seriously, step away from this flyer.
You: Decent rhythm/lead guitarist. Vocals, multi-instrument & arranging a definite plus. Sense of humor and comfort with pub & festival scene absolutely required. Fondness for Guinness appreciated. Not afraid of "chick singers", especially one who is used to hauling her own gear out of a club at 3 am.
Music: Original, some Irish trad, and a smattering of good cover tunes. Lawyers, Guns and Money? Hell yeah! Anything from "American Idol"? Uh, no thanks.
Other: May look at expanding into full-fledged band mode at some point (fiddle/mandolin, drums, etc). Please note: in over a decade of performing, I have never missed/cancelled a single show. I believe in having a LOT of fun with music, but I don't take my commitments lightly. If you're not dedicated, please call. Someone else, I mean :-)
Wow, so there it is - it looks like I'm really ready to get back into the fray! I've already got a line on some equipment (small pa system, monitors & mains) and I'm even guitar & mandolin shopping. (I have a guitar at the moment, but it's both borrowed and ungodly hard to play. The action has been adjusted, but to no avail.)
The timing seems a little weird in some ways, but it makes sense. Yeah, I'm 6 months pregnant. But it's going to take several months of serious practicing before anything I put together would be good enough to play out. (I've had experience with rushing into these things, and I don't recommend it!) So I'm thinking that by the time I (a) find someone, and (b) rehearse, it'll be early fall and I will no longer be preggo. And since I've got great babysitters (ie, nana & papa), I'll be good to go. Wow. First time I've had to take THAT into consideration!
Speaking of taking children into consideration, my four year old is bouncing off her bedroom walls. She's such a night owl... I wonder if I can work her xylophone skills into the act?
But the names you drop are second-hand
I've heard it all before
Fox on the Run - Sweet
Big, big step today on the musical career front. I designed my "Guitarist Needed" poster and printed out several copies. Tomorrow I hit the music shops and hang 'em up - woohoo! I feel like Jack Black in Hi Fidelity.
Here's the text from the ad:
Me: 10+ years performing experience with Boston-based Celtic rock band. Extensive touring, festival headliner (Fort Lauderdale, East Durham, etc.) Looking to play locally, some touring possible. Songwriter with sense of humor, who prefers Johnny Cash and Bonnie Raitt over whiners like Sarah "Who needs joy when you can cry for 50 minutes per album" McLaughlin. If you like Enya - read no further. Seriously, step away from this flyer.
You: Decent rhythm/lead guitarist. Vocals, multi-instrument & arranging a definite plus. Sense of humor and comfort with pub & festival scene absolutely required. Fondness for Guinness appreciated. Not afraid of "chick singers", especially one who is used to hauling her own gear out of a club at 3 am.
Music: Original, some Irish trad, and a smattering of good cover tunes. Lawyers, Guns and Money? Hell yeah! Anything from "American Idol"? Uh, no thanks.
Other: May look at expanding into full-fledged band mode at some point (fiddle/mandolin, drums, etc). Please note: in over a decade of performing, I have never missed/cancelled a single show. I believe in having a LOT of fun with music, but I don't take my commitments lightly. If you're not dedicated, please call. Someone else, I mean :-)
**********************
Wow, so there it is - it looks like I'm really ready to get back into the fray! I've already got a line on some equipment (small pa system, monitors & mains) and I'm even guitar & mandolin shopping. (I have a guitar at the moment, but it's both borrowed and ungodly hard to play. The action has been adjusted, but to no avail.)
The timing seems a little weird in some ways, but it makes sense. Yeah, I'm 6 months pregnant. But it's going to take several months of serious practicing before anything I put together would be good enough to play out. (I've had experience with rushing into these things, and I don't recommend it!) So I'm thinking that by the time I (a) find someone, and (b) rehearse, it'll be early fall and I will no longer be preggo. And since I've got great babysitters (ie, nana & papa), I'll be good to go. Wow. First time I've had to take THAT into consideration!
Speaking of taking children into consideration, my four year old is bouncing off her bedroom walls. She's such a night owl... I wonder if I can work her xylophone skills into the act?
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Jonesing: Howard and Tom!
Don't crack up
Bend your brain
See both sides
Throw off your mental chain
New Song - Howard Jones
I have a confession to make. I am an addict. I am out of control. I have fallen victim to that most insidious of vices.... music downloads!!!!
It started innocently enough. I wanted to make a CD of fun, upbeat zydeco dance tunes for my daughter's upcoming birthday party (we're doing a cajun theme this year). A friend innocently suggested I go online and buy a few 99 cent tunes rather than schlep on out to a store and buy a bunch of $15 CD's I might not like.
So I did it. Call it desperation, call it peer pressure, but there I was, shamelessly and publicly googling Beau Jocque and Buckwheat Zydeco. Before I knew it I was face down in Rhapsody, downloading Clfton Chenier and Boozoo Chavis. Hit after hit, I couldn't stop myself!
Well you know how it goes. First you start downloading for a particular reason. Next thing you know, you're hanging out in your pj's, bored, and you think "maybe I'll try a few 80's tunes, see if they brighten my mood a little." In no time at all you're mainlining Guns 'n Roses and desperately trying to remember what hair band had a hit with "I'm The One Who Wants to Be With You". (Answer: Mr. Big)
I am sick. I am out of control. I am $43 dollars poorer than I was 2 days ago, and I'm furiously checking my account balance to see if I can afford Howard Jones Greatest Hits.
For the love of all that is holy, somebody break my internet connection before I end up with an ipod full of Tom Jones and no memory of how it got there!!!!!
Note: I wrote this earlier today as a post to an online pregnancy support group I belong to. When I re-read it I was amused enough to share it here. -- B.
Bend your brain
See both sides
Throw off your mental chain
New Song - Howard Jones
I have a confession to make. I am an addict. I am out of control. I have fallen victim to that most insidious of vices.... music downloads!!!!
It started innocently enough. I wanted to make a CD of fun, upbeat zydeco dance tunes for my daughter's upcoming birthday party (we're doing a cajun theme this year). A friend innocently suggested I go online and buy a few 99 cent tunes rather than schlep on out to a store and buy a bunch of $15 CD's I might not like.
So I did it. Call it desperation, call it peer pressure, but there I was, shamelessly and publicly googling Beau Jocque and Buckwheat Zydeco. Before I knew it I was face down in Rhapsody, downloading Clfton Chenier and Boozoo Chavis. Hit after hit, I couldn't stop myself!
Well you know how it goes. First you start downloading for a particular reason. Next thing you know, you're hanging out in your pj's, bored, and you think "maybe I'll try a few 80's tunes, see if they brighten my mood a little." In no time at all you're mainlining Guns 'n Roses and desperately trying to remember what hair band had a hit with "I'm The One Who Wants to Be With You". (Answer: Mr. Big)
I am sick. I am out of control. I am $43 dollars poorer than I was 2 days ago, and I'm furiously checking my account balance to see if I can afford Howard Jones Greatest Hits.
For the love of all that is holy, somebody break my internet connection before I end up with an ipod full of Tom Jones and no memory of how it got there!!!!!
Note: I wrote this earlier today as a post to an online pregnancy support group I belong to. When I re-read it I was amused enough to share it here. -- B.
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