What kind of music shall we listen to to keep us company on this boring blog?
Have confidence in yourself, Ruthie.
I do! I'm confident I'll be as boring as heck!
Okay, if you're sure then put on a little night music or nacht musick as we say in Germany.
A man strolls up my driveway this morning. He's smoking a cigarette and wearing a woolen cap. Before he gets a chance to knock I open the door - I'm wearing my navy-blue skivvies - and say, "My boyfriend will shovel later on today."
Then I shut the door fast so I won't freeze to death.
I worked on my Bipolar brochure all the livelong day: Part One which I gave the amazingly creative title "My Story" and Part Two which tops the dullard title list with "Keys to Recovery." Oh, Dear Reader, if only I could think of something different to call Part Two. Any ideas? Gimme a holler.
Then I get a call from my graphic designer, the man who's designing the cover of the brochure. Never, ever, Dear Reader, say to your graphic designer, "I know why your wife divorced you." I have ALWAYS fought with my graphic designers. This man, who's very talented, I mean, really super talented, starts talking about genius.
Well, I say, which genius are you talking about? Me or you?
Turns out he's talking about himself, darn!
So Marcy, among the lemon trees in California, is doing the great favor of reading my bipolar manuscript. Tirelessly. Marce, how many drafts have you read so far? Yeah, I thought so. Too many to count. She introduced me to a new website. What better place to comment on it than right here in front of all my readers, eternal show-off that I've become. Marce, it's very well-written but how many blogs can one mind tolerate? As you know, I just kicked the Facebook habit.
I sent an email to my Board of Directors. We had a meeting a few weeks ago. I thanked Freda for taking the photos and said, "Should I ever see my son again, I'll have him load them on our website." Well, guess what? I called my son today and he actually remembered me! He asked after the health of my cell phone he bought me. The phone, I believe, was born with a congenital heart defect. It's really sad. It just lies there looking beautiful but it doesn't work, even after I charge it. Dan's coming over tomorrow to take a look at it.
Just in! Click this YouTube video of a 6-year-old girl playing Mozart. Wouldn't be a riot if it were a fake. And then, if you really wanna get sick, read people's comments below. They're always second-guessing and making judgments. The Greek chorus. Hah! I think I'll go dental floss the chard from my teeth now.
You should be so lucky that I'm actually gonna shut up. No, I've got more to talk about.
Click on Dr. Dan Hartman's blog. He's a psychiatrist in the Philadelphia area who shares parts of his own life with his readers. His current blog talks about the death of his beloved father-in-law.
You know what my goal is tonite? To finish this blog and lie in bed and read. Before I forget, lemme share this story about Scott.
Scott's first house was on "F" Street in Philadelphia. Hmmm, wonder what the F stands for. I can think of a couple things Scott and I love doing that begin with the letter F. One of them is Food. The other is Friendship. Now, it was the year of the 30-inch blizzard. We were just talking about it tonite as we lay in bed watching the news. Usually we can't shut up and never really hear the news we're so busy talking.
We share our blizzard stories. Dyou wanna hear both of them?
Scott gets off the last train to go home from work. It's snowing in his face. He's wearing his steel-tipped boots, his high warm white socks and his skivvies, his Ford Motor Jacket. The snow is ten inches high and there is NO path. He lives a mile away from the train stop. One whole mile in the freezing cold snow which is crusty by now. He must lift each leg high up and then plop it down through the crusty snow.
He thinks he's gonna freeze to death. There is no one out but himself! But onward he marches, home to "F" Street. His dog Spike is waiting for him. He's a husky, who is begging to be let out and play in the snow.
Me, I'm coming home from the therapy agency where I worked. My car has fallen into a ditch on Terwood Road so I am walking up the long and winding road in my fucking dress shoes and stockings, for god's sakes. I'm not even walking on the road cuz I'm afraid a car will veer into me, so I'm walking on the lawns under pine trees. It's pitch dark. My biggest worry is that my toes will cramp up from the cold.
I try to hitch a ride but no one will pick me up. Clearly I look like a suspicious character. I'm so mad that my car is in a ditch. How will I get to work the following day?
But you know what? I'm walking home up Terwood Road, I'm freezing cold, my nose is running, but it is gloriously beautiful under the pines. I take some snow off a tree and taste it like when I was a little kid. The sky is bright from snowlight and I am in a wonderful mood. I also suffer from.... manic depression. What a glorious feeling of freedom I have, almost home, almost home.
