I’ve been so tired lately. My body has been tired, I mean – my brain is usually in go-go-go mode so I can’t sleep and make my body less tired. Blech. That’s partly why the blog content has been so weak – I have things in my head when I’m laying down and staring at the ceiling fan at 6pm, but my brain can’t seem to convince the rest of me to get up and wander over to the computer. It’s no wonder my pants don’t fit.

Cuddling something when I’m in bed tends to help me sleep better though. I still have my baby blanket that my great-grandma made and gave to me the day I was born. Now pushing twenty-eight, Blankie doesn’t look too snazzy. The original material has almost disintigrated, so just the backing and some patches are holding it together. But it’s mine and I love it, and it helps me sleep.

I’ve had trouble sleeping over at E’s house lately too, of course. The blanket does not travel with me everywhere I go (anymore, heh) so my arms are kind of antsy when I try to sleep in his bed. I suppose I could cuddle him, but I can’t sleep like that. And if I steal his pillow to hold, his head tips back and he snores.

Last week I hit on the idea of digging out a stuffed animal to keep at his house so I’d have something to snuggle and help me sleep. I took my old stuffed pig over to E’s place the other night and informed him that I had solved my sleeping problem.

“Who has a stuffed PIG?” he asked incredulously.

“I do.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me and picked up the pig from my lap, then bounced it experimentally on his leg. I laughed a little bit while he made the pig dance and do other dumb things like he was entertaining a two-year old. We’re both easily amused. E held the pig up to his face, snout to nose, and then waved at it.

“Hello, breakfast!”

“Hey!”

“What? Pigs are for breakfast!”

I snatched my toy back from him. “Shuddup, that’s my pig-friend.”

“That’s my pig-breakfast.”

“Pig hates you.”

He grabbed the pig back and stuck its ear in his mouth. “Nom nom nom!”

“You are attempting to eat a furry pig, you realize that, don’t you?”

“But it’s bacon.”

“FURRY. PIG.”

Sooo, that angry open letter to Chrysler Financial that I posted the other day? I sent it. Barring a few minor changes from the blog version I posted, I slapped the whole thing in an email and sent it. I’m a little surprised that I did that – I do my fair share of bitching to the intertubes but it’s pretty rare for me to bite the bullet and actually attack those evildoers.

But like I said in that post, the world needs righting.

There are a lot of people here in St. Louis that have vowed to boycott Anheuser-Busch products since the InBev buyout. They are protesting the layoffs, the end of the charitable contributions, and the end of the local economic supports that have always defined A-B’s presence in St. Louis. InBev does not love this city and really has no reason to be loyal to St. Louisans like the August Busch family did. None of these things matter to them, but they still matter to St. Louisans and we feel maligned by the company we have supported for four generations – hence the boycott.

“Does A-B know WHY you’re boycotting them?” I asked Tim the other day. I always thought he’d be cremated and his ashes kept in a Budweiser bottle, that’s how much the boy loves his Anheuser-Busch. He was drinking a Hefeweisen from Schlafly, our other hometown brewery.

“Same reason everyone is. The layoffs, the way they’re blowing off everything the company stands for, all that.”

“But if you boycott them, won’t they lose money and lay off more workers in St. Louis?”

“A valid point,” chimed in a friend between sips of Schlafly Pale Ale. “But we WANT their business to suffer because of what they’re doing… so what else can you do but stop giving them your money?”

“I just think maybe if InBev knew – formally, something official – why people are boycotting them, then they’d see what they have to change to get business back. They couldn’t just blame it on the economy or whatever, they’d have proof of an organized boycott against specific things. And not just the big ones by the unions and the bars who won’t serve their products anymore – they should know that even the regular St. Louis people are doing this.”

Tim nodded. “I guess. Maybe.”

“Write a letter,” I commanded.

I don’t know if he will. E and I are still drinking Bud Light – maybe we’re not so principled about the charitable contributions and stuff, but we do want to keep the jobs in St. Louis and InBev has already proven that they will cut jobs without mercy when they come up five dollars short on anything. But if it gets bad enough that I too choose to boycott them, the newly-empowered me will definitely write a letter. They should know why we’re mad. We can’t let them make up their own reasons and ignore the real ones that their consumers want fixed.

So I’m on a bit of a letter-writing kick. I did the one for Chrysler and one the other day about CPSIA, inspired by Jamie’s post on Oh! How Lovely! Shops. The CPSIA (Consumer Product Safety Inspection Act) is a well-intentioned but poorly-constructed bit of legislature that has the potential to destroy the market for handmade and secondhand goods for children, from Etsy shops to the Salvation Army. Click on the link above to read Jamie’s post and learn more. It took me only a few minutes to write a letter to my congressman.

Chrysler Financial emailed me a form letter in response to my customer service rant. Maybe they didn’t even read it; maybe they laughed, printed it, and hung it on the fridge in the employee lunchroom. Actually, I’d kind of like it if they did do that. It would mean that someone paid a small bit of attention, even if it was only long enough to scrawl “bitch” across it in red Sharpie.

I could have done that letter a bit more professionally and with a little less mimicry and sarcasm, I suppose. I was very polite in my CPSIA letter and will try not to write my letters in a fit of pique anymore. But I will write them.

Change will never come unless we let those in power know what we want and why.

My Living Will

Last night my sister and I were talking. I said to her “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids to keep me alive. That would be no quality of life at all. If that ever happens, just pull the plug, okay?”

So she got up, unplugged my computer, and threw out my wine.

She’s such a bitch.

From an email forward sent to me by my office mate yesterday… how does she know me so well?

In all seriousness, do talk about this important issue with your family. Living wills (also called advance directives) are documents that state your wishes to your family and healthcare providers in the event that you are not able to communicate for yourself. Many of us have heard stories of families torn apart emotionally and even ending up in court to fight over the care of a loved one who is not in a state to choose for him/herself. Someone is always saying “This is what so-and-so would want” or “S/he’d never want to live like this,” but who really knows?

You do. Tell your family. I prepared a living will before I went into the hospital for a minor surgery. Chances were pretty slim that I’d die or end up in a coma from a rare anesthesia reaction, but still… my family needs to know that in the event that I can’t make my own choices clear, I don’t mind having a feeding tube, and IV, or a blood transfusion. I’d like all efforts taken to resuscitate me if I go into cardiac or respiratory arrest. But if I’m in a coma for more than a few weeks and have sustained massive brain damage and will only be communicating through blinks if I do wake up, it’s on a legal document: unplug. That’s no life for me, and it’s no life to inflict on the people I love.

If you have a valid living will, your healthcare providers are obligated to follow it. That means that if you are a healthy 27-year old who goes into cardiac arrest but has a valid living will that says “do not resuscitate,” they HAVE to do what you have indicated – at least in Missouri we do. Think long and hard about the decisions you make when you make a living will. Talk about things with your doctor and make sure you know what everything on that form means. Understand what you’re doing… but do it. At least think about it. Some of us girls have already designated a friend to run to our houses and dispose of all the naughty toys if we die, just so our parents won’t see them. If you have the foresight to do that, why not this?

You can learn more about living wills and their legal implications (both in general and state by state in the US), as well as download a simple living will form here.

That was more serious than most of my posts. I’m exhausted. Wine, please.

It’s been a one-month hiatus and I think that’s long enough. I mentioned in a post before that I really hate writing in the blog when I’m depressed, because it just becomes a series of depressing posts and who wants to read that? I’ve had no motivation to do anything – work, eat, clean – even taking a shower required supreme effort on some days. You (and the people around me) will be happy to know that I did manage that last one.

But life has been plodding along. I’ve been spending a lot of time with E and friends, and that’s been the only thing that’s really kept me feeling like I might still be alive. I love my blog and blosse but for some reason I’ve needed the face to face company lately, like I need to reassure myself that there’s a real world around me and not just the one in which I imagine that I am popular and pretty and a brilliant writer.

But enough of that. I’m sure you are on the edge of your spinny desk chair, drooling as you anticipate the recap of my month.

Jeep

The big news is that the recession got me in the middle of my depression, and I had to get rid of the Jeep. Gas prices, insurance prices, payments – KILLING me. My medication costs have gone up significantly and I just can’t afford it anymore. Seriously, meds these days? If you’re not depressed already, the cost of anti-depressants will MAKE you depressed. But I got a cute little Pontiac Vibe the other day and I have to confess, it’s so fun and zippy! I feel like a traitor saying that, but dammit, Jeep – you let me down! 15 mpg in the city? Hybridize yourself! Take some initiative! You make my bank account weep!

Boys

In slightly smaller but still not awesome news, I met a friend’s new boyfriend the other day and I have to say, I was a tiny bit underwhelmed after her glowing raves about this fellow. Guys, aren’t you supposed to make an effort to woo the friends with charm on the first meeting? Aren’t you supposed to keep your mouth shut about divisive topics like religion and politics and not try to evangelize your Republican views like Pat Robertson on crack? Now I have no problem with Republicans. Or Democrats or Libertarians or Greens or whatever else. Be what you want and so will I. But really? Save yourself the strain of stepping up on the soapbox because it just makes me want to shoot you while you’re up there making yourself an easy target.

I honestly don’t think that my failure to be swept off my feet by this fellow has anything to do with my friendship with my girlfriend’s ex. I’ve thought about this at length because there is obviously a huge potential for prejudice here. I just fail to see the attraction. I like boys to be charming and handsome and sweet because she deserves all of those things… she’s in her twenties, beautiful and brilliant and could probably have any guy she wanted. Why this one?

Perhaps I’ll grow to like him. You know, if he doesn’t talk around me.

Fun!

My anal-retentive apostrophe habits have made me famous-ish!

Boo.

I got invited to sub on E’s volleyball team on Monday when one of the other girls had to get a cyst removed from her hand. So in the spirit of team solidarity, I managed to break my left thumb during my first game. I was the lucky one though – my friend Jill took a tumble and tore ligaments in her right ankle and is basically immobile for six weeks. Ow ow ow!!!

The irony here is that Jill and I were the only ones playing sober. So here’s the plan: I’ll drink a whole pitcher of beer before the next game, and then my thumb won’t hurt and I will be able to play and not get injured.

That’ll work, right?

Snow!

We got our first stuck-to-the-ground snow of the season last night in St. Louis. It was such a beautiful ending to a crazy month – here’s hoping that December is much more chilled-out. Rimshot!

I just barely finished NaNoWriMo yesterday. My new medication was making me soooo sleeeepy that I’ve been napping every day after work and sleeping all through the night as well. I could not write at home, I had to go somewhere away from my bed and couch and sit up straight and eat something in order to work. To that end, I fell in love with The Gelateria on South Grand. Gelato, hot tea, coffee drinks, pastry, panini… and their lack of WiFi made me super productive since I wasn’t distracted by LOLz.

The meds have kicked in now though, and my body and brain are adjusting nicely. No more panic attacks, no more hiding under the covers because I don’t want to face the world.

I know that there are a lot of people who don’t believe in using drugs for depression, and a lot of people who don’t even believe that depression is a real disease that can require medical treatment.* My depression is a subset of Type II Bipolar Disorder. My doctor compares this to diabetes. It won’t kill me, but it requires a certain lifestyle in order to be healthy. I may be on medication for the rest of my life, she says – both mood stabilizers and antidepressants. And you wouldn’t deny a diabetic her insulin, would you? I don’t care if my meds are artificial or synthesized or if they come from a Bolivian coke farm. Gimme. I’m chemically unbalanced and actually meet the requirements to be considered disabled by the ADA.

Anyway.

When I wasn’t writing that 180-page brain barf of mine, I was spending a lot of time with E and our friends.  He really is racking up the points by taking such good care of me. I don’t know WHAT came over me one night, but I started ordering shots (we did one called “Your Mom”) and got pretty messed up last weekend. E woke up and saw me literally banging my head against the wall because I was in such pain. I was crying and pulling my own hair… it was like every hangover I’d ever had converged on me all at once. Worst. Pain. Ever. I think I’d rather have been in labor.

It really freaked him out, so he got up and walked down to the gas station in the cold to get me some Excedrin. He said that when he walked back in the house I was out of the bed, laying on the hardwood floor and didn’t respond the first time he shook me.  Eek. I don’t remember that part. Nor do I remember the fact that I had the dry heaves for an hour after we got home and that he laid down in the tub so he could stay with me in the bathroom while I slept on the floor for awhile before I could crawl into the bed. He said he was a bit drunk too and was afraid he’d drop me if he tried to carry me back to bed.

I got completely gorked on the Excedrin and my head only stopped hurting when it was pretty much numbed from the inside-out. E made me an ice pack with a Walgreens bag and ice cubes. I love that boy.

Maybe that night wasn’t such a good idea. Okay, it REALLY wasn’t a good idea and I am a moron. Healthy lifestyle, not so much. But some diabetics have a slice of cake now and then. I was doing so well at avoiding hard liquor! I guess this was just reinforcing the fact that I still can’t handle it. Back to beer for me.

And back to blog )

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* And if this is you, I bite my thumb at thee. Now shove off.