We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties: Please Be Patient

I know, I know, the site looks different every 15 minutes. New Blogger layout? Wordpress? GASP, TYPEPAD? Typepad makes me feel dumb. I find myself yelling at the screen a lot. And having the urge to suck my thumb. Which always helps. Blogger is like the kindergarten of the blogging world. Put the little blocks in order, press the little pictures, all done, yay! You may go outside and play now.

This is what paralyzing boredom does to a person.

Things That I Have Given Way Too Much Thought To Lately:

• What on earth did that bloody cat eat that could result in so much horror on my carpet?
• My parents are returning from Europe - What will be the prezzie situation, and will it include a sexy European man folded neatly in a garment bag? (Ventilated, people! I'm not heartless!)
• Speaking of sexy, will my confession of The Pink Shoes of Shame mean I will be forced into celibacy for eternity?
  
• "America's Got Talent?" Perhaps. "America's Got The Dangerously Insane?" For certain.
• Watching Intervention: Totally counts as a meeting, if I drink coffee and talk back at the screen, right? Plus, I can do it in my jammies.
• I'm serious, WHAT did that cat EAT? I need stock in carpet cleaner.
• HTML: Will I ever learn it? More accurately, will I ever stop pretending I WANT to learn it?
• Living across from Friendly's, which is the crack den of ice cream: Morbid obesity imminent?
• Facebook status updates: Why am I obsessed?
• Making lists on blog: Please stop, implores internet.

Scenes from Insomnia

As I have been talking about incessantly lately to anyone who will stay still for three milliseconds, I've been suffering (SUFFERING!) from insomnia. It's a side effect of my (lovely and amazing) brain pills, and I've been soldiering through, since I'd rather be awake and sane than sleepy and bonkers. However, when one hits around 72 hours straight of wakefulness, sanity becomes a distant memory. I offer this entry as a deep and heartfelt apology to all and any of my friends, who really must be deleting my screen name from their IM clients as we speak. As well they should.

Things that seem like a super idea at 4 AM, which are in actuality never a super idea, not even a little:

1. Walking into town in overalls, a sports bra, and a studded collar.
2. Knitting five bags, three hats, and a set of fingerless gloves
3. Which is appropriate, since my hands are falling off from the incessant knitting
4. Taking pictures of self looking like Trainspotting 2: Even More Attractive
   
5. Making a pot of coffee, because why the hell not?
6. Or two pots.
   
7. Writing what seem to be utterly brilliant blog entries and MamaPop articles, only to realize they are more like "manifestos" and "not spelled correctly, even a little bit"
8. Listening to Joy Division
9. Hysterically crying
10. IMing with unsuspecting friends:

missbanshee: I'm walking into town!
friend of banshee: That is a spectacularly bad idea.
missbanshee: I can't stay still! I'm out of yarn! Gotta walk!
FOB: No walking. Shut the door and get in the bed.
missbanshee: The bed has shunned me. Like the Amish. I shall never lie in the bed again!
FOB: Well fine. The couch then. Shut the door, LOCK THE DOOR, and sit on the couch.
missbanshee: Is that a direct order?
FOB: YES. Yes, that is a direct order. Uh...obey me!
missbanshee: That is so sexy.

Of course, there are other things that happen to one's brain on no sleep. Things become very black and white. (And pretty colors, after the 48 hour mark, but that's neither here nor there.) Situations, people and things are reduced to being paralyzingly funny or horrifically awful. Non-sequitors abound. Y'all? No one is ever going to talk to me ever again.

4:23 AM

FOB: I really need to go to sleep, dude. It's past 1 AM.
missbanshee: WHAT? You're three hours behind me! Suck it up, California person! Let's vacuum under my bed.
FOB: What? Let's NOT. You have neighbors, remember? Neighbors who will kill you if you start running the vacuum at 4 in the damn morning.
missbanshee: *lower lip quivering* My bedroom is so dusty. You know why? Because it's LONELY. My bed has never had anyone in it but ME. No one loves me! I'm going to die alone and no one will know until the STENCH from my DECOMPOSING CORPSE permeates my WHOLE BUILDING. *sobs*
FOB: Oh jeez. Um...uh...Hey, would vacuuming make you feel better? Why don't you vacuum. That's a great idea.
missbanshee: No, that's stupid. It's 4 AM! I'm going to scrub the kitchen floor.
FOB: Perfect.

So yeah. I've been a delight to be around. Now that I'm on the equivalent of a horse tranquilizer (thanks, doc!) and getting some sleep, I see what I've been doing, and, to everyone I have tormented within an inch of their unsuspecting lives as of late? I'm really, really sorry. Please forgive me. I've knitted you a pantsuit in gratitude!

Now if you'll excuse me, the contents of my freezer aren't going to alphabetize themselves, you know.

eHarmony Can eBite Me

I am a single woman. Free as a bird. No strings attached. Woo, feminism and hear me roar and let me burn that bra. No man for me! My bathroom is so clean!

It sucks.

It sucks, and I don't care if all the militants are getting the vapors, I am being honest. I am lonely as hell, and after over two years (YEARS) of being single, I have had just about enough of it. I'm not the random hookup kind of gal, (not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not my bag, man) and since I don't have any friends in the area, I don't so much...leave my apartment. Ever. I have awesome, tremendous, fiercely loved friends, don't get me wrong, and I'd waltz through blazing fires for any of them, but there's not a one of them who could just randomly come over for a cup of coffee and a bad movie. Not an option. Yeah. Suck.

"So go out!" my friends wail. "Meet people! Do things! Stop spending eleventy million hours on the internet every day and go interact with actual people!" Well, this is easier said than done. For one, where the hell do I go? My whole adult life, the only social venues I have utilized are friends' houses and bars. And I am not allowed to go to bars anymore, in case you haven't heard. I have crippling social anxiety, and the concept of New People terrifies me. No new people! Only people who have read the dossier regarding Mah Crazy: Let Me Show You It! For I am vair, vair uninterested in having to carefully reveal the dramz to anyone new. I have a feeling it would end with "and then he ran away like his dick was on fire."

And to be honest, I was really destroyed by my last breakup. I'm not going to trust a new person for a really long time. There are also other factors of acursed circumstance that the internet doesn't get to hear, but yeah, going out and finding a local cat to start the awkward beginning-dating thing? Eeesh. Not really interested, thanks.

I can just picture my personal ad now:

"SWF seeks SM for possible LTR. Enjoys tv, playing on the internet, yarn, and coffee. SM must be open to mental illness, addiction recovery, arts and crafts addiction, pop-culture obsession, random goofiness, clumsiness, and cleaning up after barfy cats. Please have a job, your own apartment, a wicked sense of humor, and a bank account of your very own. No man-children, meanies, or frattys, please. Email only, the phone gives me anxiety attacks."

Woo, buddy, they'd be knocking down the door! Not that I'd ever place a personal ad. I have been on one (1) personal-ad date in my life, about five years ago. It was awful. But not in the way you probably guess. Nope, he was gorgeous, talented, funny, smart, (did I mention gorgeous?) and, drum roll...HE DIDN'T LIKE ME. Oh, that's just GRAND. So no. No personal ads.

(At this point, my friend cuparfyfe is eating his own face and screaming at the computer screen about how all I do is self-sabotage and dig my own grave re: relationships. He is...not wrong.)

So what the hell is my point, for the love of God's argyle socks? What was the reasoning for this blithering rant, when clearly I am not actually going to DO anything about this situation other than point at myself and howl "UNLOVABLE!!! MENTALLY DISEASED!!! RUN AWAY!!!"

My point is that fucking eHarmony dot com should not use a dude who resembles Zippy the Pinhead in their commercials to motivate me to "find my match." Do NOT call me, Zippy. And tell JoJo the Dogface Boy he doesn't have to bother either. I'll just play some Facebook Scrabble with my beloved, if not geographically convienient friends and knit more hats for the cats.

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

Things that have been greatly alarming in the past week:

My neighbors having passionate fights in their underpants.

The talking heads on Fox News.

Blogger vs. Troll Wars.

It's been quite a week. Thanks a trillion to all you lovely people who contacted me about my last post. I promise, I'm doing much better, and we can now return to our regularly scheduled silliness. Y'all are rock stars, and I love ya more than my luggage.

You Can Knock Me Down, But You Can't Keep Me Down

One of the most difficult things about dealing with mental illness is feeling better. When you've become so used to chaos reigning in your mind, having a quiet in the storm is disconcerting to say the least. I've been lucky enough to have found a medication cocktail that has made my borderline personality disorder and bipolar II (different from bipolar I in that I don't get manic episodes or completely lose touch with reality - it's also known as "the good kind") much, much easier to deal with. It's taken an incredibly long time, but I'm finally feeling like I'm going to be able to not only live with this, but thrive and actually, shockingly, be happy. It's an amazing feeling.

It's also scary as hell.

A major issue that I have had throughout my life is an inability to allow myself to hope. I haven't ever let it in because of a terrible, all consuming fear that hope is an invitation for pain. As if the universe would look at my optimism, laugh its balls off, and drop an anvil on my head, Acme style, for having the audacity to look for a brighter future. It's a survival technique that I have held onto my whole life. Of course, it's also a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I don't allow myself to hope without being convinced it will lead to pain, I'm going to find pain anyway, even if it is just to prove myself right. I know this, logically. Hell, I have an extremely expensive graduate degree in helping other people with problems just like these. Ones who cannot help themselves help everyone else, etc. etc. etc.

So in the past four weeks or so, I have been able to allow myself the tiniest amount of hope. I came to the realization that I'm here for some sort of reason (I got out of the hospital when no one thought I would, so there has to be SOME reason, I concluded) and even though I'm still not sure what the hell that reason is, I'm sticking around to find out. I love a good mystery. I'm working my ass off trying to get my brain in order, and it's really been paying off.

This weekend, the bubble burst. It was bound to, as emotion is an ebb and flow, and the high of coming out of the fog was going to taper off. I've been in a fairly wretched mood, with lows that come fast and hard. I'm riding the rapids right now, but this time, unlike all the other times this has happened, is different. I still have hope.

I'm not blowing sunshine and glitter up anyone's ass here. I'm just saying that the universe and the misfired synapses in my brain are giving me a hell of a ride right now, but I know I'm going to get through it. I can flip off the darkness and yell into the storm that I've beaten a hell of a lot worse than this, that circumstance and my own betraying mind have tried to break me again and again, and they haven't gotten the job done. I've made it this far, and I have no intention of stopping any time soon. So I give a hearty "fuck you" to the maelstrom in my mind today. You can kick me all you want, but you can't keep me down. I'm stronger than that. I always have been. I'm just grateful that I finally know it now. And that I will continue to hope, despite it all.

Strong in the broken places. That's damn right.

Unbreakable With Armor

And Unbreakable Without.

Obsession.

It all started so innocently. A birthday present! From my dear friends Steve and Meaghan! How lovely! And this is what it looked like, and I had no idea what I was getting myself into.


Innocuous, right? Innocent. Adorable, even. So I get this book, and come up with the idea to make one, as a super seekrit special project for a specific super person. And I did, and it was awesome.


But, you see, I don't have a job right now. I'm on a "sabbatical." Or a "medical leave." Or, "batshit crazy timez." So I have a lot of free time. A LOT of free time. So I thought well, I'll try another one of the patterns. I have plenty of socks, as they are only a dollar at Walmart, so...Why not? And I did, and it was good.

So what's the problem that is now destroying my life? I'll tell you. Behold!


The first step is admitting you have a problem, and that you are powerless over your addiction. So...Hi. My name is Miss Banshee, and I am addicted to making sock monsters. My house is full of 'em. My couch is covered in sock bits and thread. The cats scurry off with mouthfuls of yarn and stuffing. It's an arts and crafts crack house. And I can't stop. Is there a 12 step program for this? A Big Book for sewing addiction? Because I clearly need help.


So...anyone want a sock monster? They're looking for good homes, and if I don't get them out of my house, they're just going to keep harassing me to make them new friends. Halp.

No Sleep Till...

I have insomnia. It's been two weeks. It's really starting to take a toll. I vacillate between this:

Woe.

Aaaaaaaaand this.

Give us kisses!!!! Everything is funny!!!! Let's paint the apartment!
PURPLE GLITTER!!!!

When all I want to do is this:

Sigh.

It's almost definitely due to a new medication I'm on, but not taking it is not an option, for I'd really prefer being tired to being batshit insane, which is what the med prevents me from being. It's a sucky tradeoff, but a sacrifice I'm willing to make. So, Mr. Sandman, please send me a dream. It can be about arranging matchsticks for all I care. Just let me sleep. Because everyone I know is sick of me talking about it, and so am I.

Hey! Are you following A Year in the Mirror? Because there are some RILLY attractive pictures of sleep deprivation there, boy. Like this one!:

Can I carry your groceries? I've got two eye bags that would do nicely.

Kisses, my little monkeys. Please send very very sleepy thoughts. Or narcotics. That would work too.

Today's Actual Conversation: Insane and In Motion!

My poor common sense, guys. She is SO patient and SO abused. Like, Valerie Bertanelli in a Lifetime movie abused. Here's a conversation I had with Common Sense today. Tragic.

Scene: Driving home. Music blaring, windows open, our heroine is bopping along to Boston punk rawk and waving a cigarette around in time with the music, swigging her eleventieth cup of coffee, and careening through lunchtime traffic. Common Sense rides shotgun, seatbelt securely fastened, helmet with mouth guard in place, wearing hockey pads, with rosary beads clutched in one hand, her last will and testament in the other.

Me: *slamming steering wheel repeatedly* The goddamn horn is broken! *slam slam slam* How am I to express my displeasure at these knobs' driving skills without the *slam* horn? *slam*

Common Sense: Okay, I understand you've only had this car for a year and a half...

Me: *SLAM SLAM WHACK* What? Can you believe this idiot? Green means GO, jackass! Put up a Post-It or something!

CS: Like I said, I realize you've only had the Kia for less than two years, but-

Me: Her name is BLOODREIGNE. We've talked about this before. She's a 2002 Kia for chrissakes. I have to emphasize her badassery if I'm ever going to hear the end of The Mocking.

CS: Well, it does-

Me: She.

CS: *sigh* She does get very good gas mileage. Your friends certainly can't mock that, with fuel prices being what they are in these trying times.

Me: Bloodreigne is to be FEARED. Mere humans should gaze upon her in AWE. She doesn't NEED expensive gas! She runs on the souls of the non-believers! Muahahahahaa! OH. Really? We're gonna go 7 miles under the speed limit, dude-in-a-Mercedes? Really?! *whacks steering wheel again* See?? It's BROKEN! I hear NO BEEPING!

CS: What I was trying to say is that I know change is hard for you, and that's something we're working on, and getting a new car after having the Chevy for so long-

Me: BLUE LIGHTNING!!! *begins weeping*

CS: Oh dear. I'm sorry. You have to remember that Blue was very very old, and she never could have made it all the way to Georgia back when we moved there. She went to a good home! A farm in the country! Where she could play with all the other Chevys!

Me: *sniffles* I loved Blue, you know. She was my constant companion. My bosom friend. HER horn worked, sorta! *weeps noisily*

CS: Now I really must insist that you stop crying and pay attention to - Please stop fiddling with the iPod and drive properly!

Me: You got me upset. I don't like talking about Blue Lightning. The wound is too fresh. I need to find a song that accurately expresses my pain at the loss. What the hell were you babbling about again? OH. JUST PULL OUT IN FRONT OF ME. LOVELY. I HOPE YOU GET EBOLA. *slam slam slam* DAMMIT! Why isn't this horn working?

CS: *takes deep breath* Do you see the two small buttons on either side of the steering wheel?

Me: Oh, yeah, they're right here. Hey, they've got little horns on them-

CS: WATCH THE ROAD.

Me: Well, you told me to look!

CS: Yes. Two buttons with little horns on them. Coincidentally enough, they represent the horn, which will sound if you press the horn-labeled buttons. Which you could easily reach if your hands were at 10 and 2 where the driver's manual says they should be, instead of holding a filthy cigarette in one and the iPod in the other, and you were not actually driving with your knee.

Me: Oh. So what have I been doing all this time when I was trying to beep the horn?

CS: You've been repeatedly and viciously punching the air bag.

Me: Ahhhhh. Probably shouldn't do that, huh?

CS: *adjusts chin-strap on helmet, tightens seat belt.* Well, dear, we take things one step at a time. At least now you know.

Me: And knowing is half the battle!

CS: And tomorrow you're on your own. I'm taking the bus.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Silliness

To talk about a serious subject. In honor of the return of "Project Runway" this Wednesday, we need to discuss my pants. More specifically, my addiction to buying new pants. And you know what that means! Another poll! Y'all helped so much with the haircut decision (I'm keeping it shaggy for now, but if the humidity gets above eleventy billion, no promises) so tell me which pants were the best purchase. I'll take your answers to heart, reflect, and...probably buy more pants. So sad. I need a meeting.

And forgive me, please, for the quality of these pics. I'm still learning the camera thing.

Exhibit A:


The black skinny jeans. "Slave to trends!" you howl. You are right. These will probably be out of fashion by the time I post this blog. But I love them! So comfy!


Exhibit B: The standard issue blue jeans. Flared bottom. Too long, but if I wear a heel, they don't drag on the ground. I like these plenty, but the whole trend of the faded starburst-like crease pattern right over the crotch? I do not need extra attention pointed towards my ladyflower, thanks.



Exhibit C: Capris! I love capris. I especially love wearing these capris with huge heels so as to be the obnoxious woman who wears the shoes that make her 6 feet tall.

SO! Were these good purchases? Which should be the go-to pair? Do I need to go buy MORE pants? What kind? What cut? What color? Speak, oracles! Clicky on the poll!

Sigh. I love pants.

"Filled With Shame" Doesn't Begin To Cut It.

The dvd player is fixed. I am so embarrassed I cannot even form words. I cannot even share what the problem was, people. It's THAT humiliating. Let's just say this brief exchange occurred.

Me: Still broken! Wah! Window! Out it! *click click click* The remote does nothing!

BrotherBanshee: That's because THAT remote is for the TV you had in HIGH SCHOOL.

Me: Nooooooooooooo.

BrotherBanshee: Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeees. Idiot.

Me: Oh. You know, this situation is not entirely unexpected.

Things That Have Not Improved With Sobriety

And I had such high hopes...

1. Ability to spill or drop everything I pick up
2. Ability to walk into every door frame I attempt to pass through
3. Forgetfulness, including but not exclusive to forgetting to A) put coffee in the filter, B) Turn on coffeepot, and C) Plug in coffeepot.
4. Falling, falling, falling all the time, all over the land, even when standing still.
5. Tripping over cats, coffee table, own feet, air.
6. Breaking/forgetting how to operate every electronic device I own.
7. Forgetting things like my own phone number, address, and spelling of own name.
8. Where the hell is my cellphone? What did I do with my coffee cup? What was I talking about again?
9. Stabbing of self in eye when attempting to apply eyeliner.
10. Bruises of unknown origin.
11. A bunch of other stuff that I can't think of right now, because my attention span is also shot, and I'm now thinking about monkeys. I love monkeys.

Basically, I still appear to be intoxicated mostly all the time, even at almost 5 months sober. I really need to be in a padded room with protective headgear so as not to be a menace to myself and others. I'm really just thinking of the greater good. And monkeys.

A Love Letter to My Wireless Tech Support Dude

My Dearest Amir:

Ah, Amir. I am so grateful to have you in my life. Why, Amir? Because you, Amir, are absolutely delightful in every way. When I realized that my CD/DVD player was not working, I was despondent. "Wah!" I cried, flinging myself onto my imaginary fainting couch. "I will never be able to install my wireless router without the install DVD! Life is not worth living any longer!" Oh, the bitter, bitter tears I wept, Amir. I dreaded calling tech support, not knowing I would soon meet the most wonderful man in the world. I am, of course, talking about you, Amir. You see, Amir, I do not have much luck when it comes to calling for information over the phone. I hate the phone, Amir. I especially hate the evil, sociopathic, sadistic douchebags at Sallie Mae, who make me cry every time I call them regarding my student loans. Oh, my student loans, Amir! The mere thought makes me shake with anguish.

But I am going on a tangent, my dear Amir. For this love letter is for you, and the fantastic support of the technical sort that you so generously gave me this evening. You were personable and warm, asking me if you could refer to me by my first name, and if I was calling from the United States or Canada. Oh Amir, of COURSE you may call me by my first name! Such a chivalrous gentleman you are, my sweet Amir. You then took me gently by the hand and said that you would be happy to walk me through my installation, as if we were strolling through a field of wildflowers. You had me at "hello," Amir.

What is it that makes me love you so, Amir? Let me count the ways! Is it your lilting accent? (I hear Bombay is lovely, Amir. Perhaps someday I shall visit you!) Is it the way you gave me intimidating strings of numbers to apply to the installation program, the way you oh so patiently waited for me to stupidly repeat and confirm said numbers over and over again? I'm not very good at math, Amir. Please don't hold that against me. Or is it your wicked sense of humor, which you displayed when you kindly asked if I had bothered to plug the router into the electrical outlet? I hadn't, Amir! Oh, Amir, how we laughed! What is your sign, Amir? I'm a Cancer.

Amir, you are a king amongst men when it comes to technical support. I will never be able to thank you properly. Mere words cannot contain my gratitude, and dare I say, Amir, love? I am writing this from my bedroom, Amir. I can now do this because of your genius work in guiding me ever so lovingly through my installation. Do you mind if I call you, Amir, on those cold, lonely nights? You did give me your direct line, Amir, you naughty, saucy thing. Amir, would you think less of me if I "accidentally" poured a cup of coffee into my router so that we might speak again?

Amir, you need a raise. And a lovely office, with a door and a nameplate. Would you like a nice cup of tea, Amir? I will get it for you. Because it is thanks to you, Amir, that my faith in calling technical support has been restored. If you're ever in New Jersey, Amir, I'd love to take you to dinner. Email me, Amir. I could even read it from the bathtub now. And it's all because of you.

Love and kisses forever, my sweet Amir. I will never be able to gaze upon the festive blinky lights on my wireless router without thinking fondly of you.

XOXOXOXOXO,

Miss Banshee

Yet another clue as to my dorkiness (as if you needed one)

Me: Well, I've given it a lot of thought, and I'm leaning towards a diagnosis of histrionic personality disorder and/or bipolar I with psychotic features, with a possible dual diagnosis of substance abuse that is exacerbated by post-partum depression and/or psychosis. I don't have the exact DSM-IV codes as of yet, but I'd be happy to get them for you if it is necessary for charts and such.

The World: Dude. It's Britney Spears. Is that fancy talk for "batshit crazy?"

Me: *sigh* Yes. Yes it is. You know, I spent a LOT of money to go to grad school and learn those fancy words, dammit.

The World: You need a hobby, girl.

Me: So...you're saying you don't need those codes?