Speaking of screeches - OH BOY DID I HEAR IT when I titled the prior entry “I caught feelings”. Apparently, titling a post about Lewis Capaldi lyrics with that was a ‘bait-and-switch’. Oh, Not-THE-Bestie Bestie, sweetie, dear heart, cinnamon roll, light of my life, Bless. Your. Heart. I absolutely love and adore THE Bestie, but dude. I’m not doing long distance, been there done that twice, and Bestie has kids. Plus, I’m pretty sure his mom still hates me. I don’t know why she would hold a grudge because I am pretty lovable.
Sorry. I couldn’t even type that with a straight face.
Anyhoo. Let’s get to the reason that I was screeching.
I received an ARC of Cash Hooper Saves a Life. There is nothing in the world like being one of the first in the world to read something by your favourite author(s).
But.
The trade off for getting the ARC is having to write a book review.
FUUUUUUUCK. I hate book reviews.
It’s like being back in school, writing book reports. Like, what can you say that doesn’t give the plot away? It’s not like I could go on Amazon and talk about how this story is so amazing that it deserves the really, really, really good lube. The best lube.Überlube.
(Why yes, yes, I did just research lube specifically for one joke. What?)
Oddly enough, I dialed back my review because it was too deep. Too personal. And not once did I mention dicks OR lube.
What? I can’t grow as a person?
You! In the back! Yes, you. Shut it.
(Completely random side note, I’m watching a vocal coach react to Tesla’s Love Song and I am currently reliving sitting in a van headed down to the Cape and singing along to it with Ken, who appreciated having another rocker on the trip. We miss Ken. He was good people. And now I’m blanking on the lead singer’s name. Hold, please.)
(His name is Jeff Keith. It was obviously very important that I knew it right this very second, but I’m back now.)
(Hello, mania, my old friend. I’m writing with parentheses again.)
Where was I?
Oh, yeah, lube.
No.
Not lube.
Unhinged book reviews.
So… lube.
(Apparently my new anti-anxiety meds make me really fucking manic. Good fucking times. At least I can’t taste colours this time.)
Let’s try this again, shall we?
Cash Hooper is the fourth book in the Goose Run series and my second favourte BunnyWinter book. Number 1 is The Amazing Alpha Tau Self-Improvement Project and the reason my little Aussie pup is named Marty… and yes, he is still due a blog entry of his very own.
But that’s not the point.
God, this post is all over the place and terrorizing me like it was a goose named Lucille. (Who is most definintely a killer, albino, cobra chicken. I refuse to believe otherwise.)
(Fuck, these meds are really messing with my head.)
Ah, bipolar. You cvertainly make my fucking life interesting.
*cracks knuckles*
*clears throat*
So.
Cash Hooper is the main character in the fourth book of the Goose Run series by BunnyWinter. We get to know him throughout the first three books in the series through his interactions with his twin brother, Chase. The Hooper Boys have been through it and Chase has built walls around him that make mine look like chalk lines on asphalt. He’s loud, obnoxius, and the biggest fictional asshole I have ever come across. Cash, on the other hand, is pretty much mute, He doesn’t speak to anyone except his brother, keeps to himself, and doesn’t really interact with anyone. The only person he repeatedly engages with - outside of his brother - is a retiree named Mr. Conrad… until he finds a dog that is need of emergency veterinary care.
The next thing you know, Cash speaks! He has a personality! He’s not his brother’s shadow! He is a whole fucking person - who is (wisely) afraid of albino cobra chickens.
Now, the thing about watching Cash go from selective mutism to whole fucking person is that it just reminds me so much of me.
Horrifically abused, prefers to melt into the background, silent, introverted, loves to read? That’s me.
I have a scar between my eyebrows from when my mother decided to use my forehead as an ashtray. I still don’t know how she didn’t break a rib when she kicked me that night. I still don’t know how I survived being shoved down the basement stairs, or how I never got hypothermia from sleeping in the garage because I was afraid to be alone in the house with her… Alcoholics are about as much fun as bipolar, but bipolar makes me weird(er), not violent. Silence meant survival, unless The Ballad of the Green Berets was on the record player. Those were the nights nothing short of actually leaving the property was safe. I am introverted and shy, but here we are thirty four years after shoving her into a hole in a ground, and I find myself wondering if that is nature or nurture. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, I guess.
Books have always been - and will always be - my safe place. It doesn’t really matter what they’re about… let’s just say that I discovered kinks that I didn’t even know EXISTED until I started reading more as an adult with access to the internet. (Fan fic really opened my eyes to all kinds of fun things. Dead doves, mostly. What is it the kids say, #iykyk?)
Like a perfect storm, this book, the song “Almost Who I Am” (by David Wimbish and the Collection), AND the memory of seeing Instrument at the Warehouse all hit me simultaneously.
That Warehouse show was a hoot - some guy was trying to get me drunk by buying me shots (of water) all night. “We’re not groupies! We’re in Marketing!” Fuck, we were so young and so stupid… but that’s not the point. The point is that I was myself that night. 100% unfettered, totally free, and totally fucking ‘faced. *snickers*
Now, remember, I’m introverted / shy and prefer hiding in the background. This girl, B, made the very loud comment about how she couldn’t believe how funny I was and why was I so quiet in college, blah blah blah.
I only ever open up when I feel safe. When I find my people. When I have something to say. Much like Cash… but he was a little slower at it. In college, I got dragged kicking and screaming out of silence by the most obnoxious, extroverted person I have ever been friends with. (Hi, V!) But I wasn’t dragged out far enough, obviously, because B didn’t know me like that.
Which then brings me to my new theme song - which I will happily share with Cash: So if you used to know me, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life. Don’t worry; you’re not crazy. I’m almost who I am but never quite.
This book rocked my world like nothing I’ve read in a very long time. I felt every single step of Cash’s journey because I lived it.
The bad news is that I’ve been living in a never ending panic attack. (Hollander, you are having panic attack.)
My shrinky dink can’t prescribe me the good drugs because she’s not licensed in Maine. She did prescribe me something that would - supposedly - calm me down.
My brain looked at it and said, “What’s the maximum dose? Three? Oh, honey, you’re going to need to at least triple that shit if you want them to work.”
My brain? It’s an asshole.
I’m mentally ill - of course my brain is an asshole. It’s just a bigger one than usual.
Fuck.
At any rate, let’s discuss why I’m actually here.
We’re trying something new today! Trauma dumping!
Wait. That’s not new. You must be new here.
Warning: this entire blog is nothing but a trauma dumping ground.
Well, that’s not totally true…
I’ve been gushing (ha!) over gay hockey players. I bitch about writing. I try to be humorous.
I write.
It’s what I do.
(We’ll get to the puppy later; that’s a whole fucking thing that I don’t have the energy for.)
On April 30, 2001, I went to my father’s apartment at lunch. He wasn’t answering my calls and that was unlike him. He was supposed to be home, waiting for a furniture delivery. I had to have the complex manager let me in… Once she clocked what had happened, she fucking vanished. *poof*
I was not so lucky.
In my nightmares, I relive that moment. The door opening. Him napping on the couch. Walking over there to wake him up. Realising he wasn’t going to.
Everything after that is a blur.
I had just turned 26.
I was an orphan and, very literally, all alone in the world.
No family left.
A boyfriend, a few friends scattered here and there, a coworker who welcomed me as a full member in good standing of the Dead Parents Club, Toledo Chapter. (God, do I love the people in my life who understand my sense of humor.)
May 3, 2001 would have been my mother’s 55th birthday, if she hadn’t died nine years earlier.
May 10, 2001 would have been their 32nd wedding anniversary, had they not gotten divorced in March of 1992.
May 13, 2001 was Mother’s Day.
If my brain is an asshole, the calendar certainly gave it a run for the money.
I honestly don’t remember much about the aftermath, either. I do remember an epic melt-down at work, four therapists, a shrinky dink, a diagnosis, clarity, and walking out of a pharmacy with a little orange bottle that would, also quite literally, change my life.
The contents of that bottle has changed over the years, as has the number of the bottles, but without them? I might not have survived the darkest chapter of my life. I’ll never identify as suicidal, because I can’t do it. The unaliving, I mean. I don’t want to do that to my friends. Not the ones that hung around and supported me when I didn’t even know I needed it.
But.
I came really fucking close.
Depression lies and my brain is an asshole.
And both of them were whispering in my ear about how everything would just… go away.
How I would see my father again. Make peace with my mother. How my friends would go on with their lives and I’d just be a faded memory. How it wouldn’t hurt them and how it would fix everything.
I looked at the pill bottle.
I looked at the side effects.
I calculated the risks.
I looked at the clock to see how much time I had before the boyfriend would come home.
And I put the bottle back where it belonged.
Thursday is the 25th anniversary of the day I found his lifeless body on a couch in some shitty Toledo apartment.
I am not doing well.
Not even close.
Someone asked me if this year was especially bad because April 30th is also the day we went in front of a judge and finalised our divorce.
Also? May 3rd? The day he told me he wanted a divorce. Granted, I’d been thinking about it for a while, but to finally pull the band-aid off? That was a weird night on so many different levels.
The calendar?
An absolute motherfucker.
- - - - - - - - - -
[Verse 1]
How long till it feels
Like the wound’s finally starting to heal?
How long till it feels
Like I’m more than a spoke in a wheel?
[Pre-Chorus]
Most nights, I fear
That I’m not enough
I’ve had my share of Monday mornings when I can’t get up
But, when hope is lost
And I come undone
[Chorus]
I swear to God, I’ll survive
If it kills me to
I’m gonna get up and try
If it’s the last thing I do
I’ve still got something to give
Though it hurts sometimes
I’m gonna get up and live
Until the day that I die
I swear to God, I’ll survive
[Verse 2]
How long till you know
That, in truth, you know nothing at all?
How far will you go
To get back to the place you belong?
[Pre-Chorus]
Most nights, I fear
That I’m not enough
But I refuse to spend my best years rotting in the sun
So, when hope is lost
And I come undone
[Chorus]
I swear to God, I’ll survive
If it kills me to
I’m gonna get up and try
If it’s the last thing I do
I’ve still got something to give
Though it hurts sometimes
I’m gonna get up and live
Until the day that I die
I swear to God, I’ll survive
I swear to God, I’ll survive
[Chorus]
I swear to God, I’ll survive
If it kills me to
I’m gonna get up and try
If it’s the last thing I do
I’ve still got something to give
Though it hurts sometimes
I’m gonna get up and live
Until the day that I die
I swear to God, I’ll survive
- Survive, Lewis Capaldi
So, let’s talk Heated Rivalry because I cannot get it out of my head.
I have been so good about not watching the show on repeat because whenever I have watched it, it gets my full attention. Kind of hard to put it on in the background and do stuff… I’m also kind of annoyed with it. I found my original Drarry plot / sketch notebook and it’s like Tierney and Reid went through it page by page. There are just too many hockey tropes that writers - me included - lean on, but they did it better. Yeah. I’ve been fighting with the Drarry hockey disaster for years so now I’m on draft three. I’m trying to get away from the tropes, yet still fit in the framework that people find familiar.
Honestly, as annoying as it is to start fresh, the writing is better this time around. Or, at least, I like it better.
I finished all the books and I’m also very annoyed at the people on Facebook who are asking stupid questions about things that happen in the books, but say that they refuse to read them. OR they only read the two books that center on Hollanov, and miss the subtle things woven throughout the six books. Like Ilya colllecting gay people… It’s this whole thing that you don’t really catch on to, but it’s there. REALLY subtle and nicely done.
I’m also annoyed by the Skip haters who, well, skip their episode because they ‘don’t like it’. My siblings in Christ, if it wasn’t for Skip, WE WOULD NEVER GO TO THE COTTAGE. I think the show did the book dirty because the relationship was weird and angsty and kind of beautiful in it’s own way. I have to say that during every reheat I yell “SKIPPY” every time I see them on screen, I like them that much.
The cats are starting to worry about my mental health.
They don’t even know the amount of crazy I can bring to the party.
I could go on, but let’s talk about the title of this entry. Which, oddly enough, has nothing to do with the two hockey players.
I’ve been in a weird place lately. Not quite depressed, not quite manic, but definitely not normal. I’d say I’m cycling but it doesn’t feel like that, either. I’m stuck in this weird off-center bipolar limbo. Even my shrink picked up on it when we met this week. I don’t know. It is what it is and nothing is fixing it. I’m just going to ride it out and hope I come out the other side soon. I thought I’ve experienced everything the bipolar could possibly throw at me, but this is new. And I don’t like it.
This weird little place my brain is residing in led to me to texting Mr. First Guy and telling him I wish we were watching the BOS-MTL game together. We’re both huge Bruins fans and our favourite player is Andy Moog, a goalie. He shares a birthday with Moog and I share a birthday with Bobby Orr, so it’s like we were meant to be. We have, however, in the years since high school become friends. Good friends. Besties. It’s not outside the realm of possibility for us to go to a game together, or even watch a game on TV. More importantly, it’s a completely valid emotional response to watching the biggest rivalry in hockey. (Which, OK. Fine. The rivalry in Heated Rivalry is also BOS-MTL, which lead a bunch of fangirls to watch that game. Whatever. It’s weird, but, you do you, boo.)
During this conversation, I brought up Mr. FNFTF and said how the two of them have really helped me survive through the years. Like they filled two holes in me. Which, thankfully, didn’t go anywhere further than ‘shared trauma’ being the glue keeping them in my life. They were both around when my mother died and they were there when my dad died, too. I know my dad’s death affected Mr. FNFTF because they used to hang out without me. Which is weird, but gives me the warm fuzzies. I’m just fortunate that I still have people around from that time period because I don’t have a lot of people left who were there. A lot of people only saw the fallout from my mother’s death or they saw me hit rock bottom after my dad died. The people that came in and out of my life in the 10 years between just don’t get me. Neither do the ones that came in after my dad. I don’t know how to describe it. I mean, those are life changing events and they really form the basis of who I am. To not see the whole picture…
When Mr. First Time told me he loved me in that text conversation, I broke down and bawled. Ugly cried. It was so good to hear it - unprovoked and knowing exactly where it was coming from. I didn’t realise how alone I’d been feeling until he reminded me that I still have some worth to people. (Depression lies. Period.)
Everybody is fascinated by how easily I walked away from a relationship of 30 years, married for 26, but after all those years of riding the bipolar roller coaster with me, he still didn’t understand what I needed. And I wanted to move back to New England. Neither was something we could compromise on and I’d go so far as to state that keeping that relationship going was a compromise, but I wasn’t willing to continue doing it any more. We haven’t spoken in any way, shape, or form since his text asking how the drive to Maine was. I certainly didn’t go out of my way to text him on his birthday - I didn’t feel the need to. Unlike the other two, I don’t need him in my life and more importantly, I don’t want him there, either.
So. Yeah. It’s nice to be understood. It’s nice to be wanted. It’s nice to have, um, holes filled.
And on a completely random note, the breeder we got G-Man from has a new litter of puppies. I’ve wanted a dog, but I’ve been flip flopping over what breed to get. For $3,800 I can get an amazing German Shepherd. Good temperament, breed to be gorgeous, and smart as fuck. BUT that is a lot of cash I don’t really have unless I dig into my savings and my house really needs to have the vinyl siding replaced. Decisions, decisions. I think I’d rather spend the money on a dog, tbh. Not sure the cats will agree, though. The breeder hasn’t asked for a deposit, so I’m just going to wait and see if I make it to the reservation list or the wait list. I haven’t heard back.
Even more random, Fandom Running Club is doing it’s first Rumble of the year. I’m on a team (Razoom’s Back!) that’s fundraising for Razom for Ukraine. The race has three different groups with different caps (5K, 10K, 10 miles) to make it more competitive. My dumb ass has consistently been doing 10 miles since we started 16 days ago. I could drop to a lower level. I want to drop to a lower level, but I also want to win and doing 10 a day will keep us competitive. I mean, I can’t bitch about my teammates. We all have things going on and it’s easier to do lower miles. I’m not that busy. I can spend 4 hours on a treadmill, no problem. My feet don’t want me to - I have blisters EVERYWHERE. My toes are killing me and since 10 different blisters in that area wasn’t enough, they’ve moved onto my heel. I don’t care. I can live with the pain. Ukrainians are dealing with a lot worse than blistered feet.
Even even more random, I have FINALLY moved into the kitchen. I ended up ripping out one of the lazy susans and finding some pull out drawers on clearance at Home Depot. The cabinets are much more functional now. Every thing I can’t fit is in the dining room. That was on my agenda to clean this weekend, but I tore the living room apart instead. I needed more light and I needed more space between the couch, pellet stove, and treadmill. The good news is that the living room is spotless and the kitchen is finally livable. I’ll get to the dining room soon. I do need the house as clean as possible ASAP. I’m tired of living like this. It just sucks that my time is so limited. (Also, the puppies will be ready to go home in March, so I have extra motivation.)
Speaking of things to do… I should probably get to my to-do list. I’m hopping on the treadmill for the Stupid Bowl if only because I want to see how Green Day and Bad Bunny comment on the current state of the union…. which only leaves me 5 hours to try to do eleventy gazillion things.
My way cool, super sexy Logitech keyboard has a loose key and it is driving me nuts. Like seriously. It’s the comma key. Used for… commas and playing the Sims. Do you know how much I write?!? To have a comma key that bounces all over the place makes me want to hulk smash the damn thing.
Logitech also doesn’t sell spare parts (supposedly. I haven’t looked too hard), so if I can’t find what I need, I’m buying a new keyboard… this pisses me off so badly, you have no idea. I have a much, much, much older Logitech keyboard that I absolutely love. Love it so much that I had one purchased for me at the day job. This new one felt more Mac-like and since I live in two worlds - I go both ways - this was a perfect bridge. That bridge is falling down.
Let’s see… what else is new?
My buttermilk pancakes are AMAZING. I used to buy pints of buttermilk, but I wasn’t using it up before it went bad. (And do you know hard it is to find a pint of buttermilk? Cooking for one sucks!) I ended up searching the web and ended up buying some buttermilk powder that was recommended by America’s Test Kitchen.
OK. Enough stalling.
We have an employee who is disabled per the ADA guidelines. This employee is replacing one that is retiring (retired now). We were planning on terminating their employment because they were doing so poorly during training, but their disability made itself known at work and we weren’t sure what to do. It’s not a potion where we could work around any attendance issues caused by this disability - it’s a department of one and usually very busy. The company I work for is deadline driven, so if there isn’t someone at that position, everyone else has to chip in to cover and it leads to a host of problems.
Lucky for them, I am both HR and an expert on the ADA. That’s what happens when you get fired in direct response for asking for a reasonable accommodation. And it was reasonable. The fact that they then decided to throw all kinds of performance issues at me - without a single discussion - and send me to their shrink… yeah. I had a very good case against them and still decided it wasn’t worth trying to sue.
Anyhoo. We’re not big enough to have to abide by the ADA, FL is an at-will state, and we have documented meetings where we actually have pointed out the performance issues and the continued absences. So termination it was, but we gave them two more weeks to prove themselves. They spent one of those weeks in the hospital, as a no-call, no show so we had another justifiable reason to term.
When they got back from the hospital, the owner pulled them in and had a chat. Then I got pulled in for the update… somehow during that discussion, I talked about the Cats and how I got fired. How I job hop because I either get fired for being bipolar or I quit when I can’t keep it under control. (I also find really shitty jobs and / or bosses which help trigger a manic cycle…) He point blank told me that he thought for sure I was going to tell him I was leaving when I told him about the divorce.
My dumb ass said yes, I am moving, but I don’t have a timeline yet. (Liar, liar, pants on fire…)
Dude, the look on his face - we’ve had someone retire, we’re probably going to fire their replacement, and someone else wants to go to part-time. There’s a rumor that someone is moving to Puerto Rico to live near family because they don’t feel safe in the States anymore. We’re twelve people - that’s a lot of loss in two months. For a place that never had any turnover. Of course, people age out and nobody really thought that Trump would win a second term…
I told him I wanted to stay on, remotely, and he looked so relieved. He offered to hire someone that could support me if I needed someone in Florida. I then continued to blab on and on about how he’s the best boss I’ve ever had and how hard it is to want to move home when I just found my forever job… but I need to move home. I can’t continue to live in FL.
So, then we had the retirement party.
Jesus motherfucking crispy Christ on a fucking cracker.
All my emotions came pouring out - we really are such a tightly knit family and it really sucks to leave that behind (even if I work remotely, I won’t be physically based in FL). I know I don’t belong here, but I belong there. Some of my friends think that I should leave now and not look back and the other half think that because I’m agonizing over this decision that I’m not ready to move home. That second half is wrong. SO. VERY. WRONG. I just can’t figure out the timing yet. I just can’t walk away from the best boss I’ve ever had.
I’m spending today working on the layout of my business website. I’ve been looking at some books I bought on WordPress, and the more I read the more I hate the idea of using it. I just can’t wrap my head around how it works. ExpressionEngine is so much easier and now that it’s on version 7, a little better on the back end, too.
OK… I should probably get going. That code’s not going to write itself. *sigh*
I don’t have to buy two of everything any more!!!!
Want to see Matt Nathanson? Want to fly home and go to a Bruins game? Want to sit FIRST FUCKING CLASS?
When you are budgeting-obsessed and you realise that your budget is still built for two, and a mortgage, and a car loan… holy shit.
Once I revamped my budget to truly express my financial situation… wow.
For example, I’m going to Detroit to run the Freep International Half Marathon (traveling alone because someone didn’t want to go to Detroit.*ahem*). The airline offered me an upgrade to first class. It was just expensive enough that if I had to pay for two seat upgrades, there’d be no way. HOWEVER, since I only needed to purchase one? (Garçon, fetch me my Grey Poupon!)
Or, how about my trip home? I decided to take a little bit of my fuck you money and go home for my birthday. I have a very broad definition of home, so I’m flying in and out of Boston, going to Albany for two days, headed to Maine for two days, and watching a Bruins game. (We’ll talk about the B’s game in a moment.) When I decided I was going to get my live hockey on, I scoured the nosebleed seats trying to find a decent view at a price I was willing to pay - for two tickets. I only need to buy one, so I dropped what I would have spent on two completely shitty seats on one really nice one.
Or, I love Matt Nathanson, right? I would have had to buy two VIP packages to at least one show. (He’s playing in Fort Lauderdale and Orlando.) I bought two VIP packages any way - one for FTL and one for Orlando.
I FUCKING LOVE BEING COMPLETELY SELFISH.
Or, am I just enjoying the single life? I’ve spent so long trying to afford to keep us both happy with material possessions and experiences… I mean, I got a new car, he had to get a new car. Matching Mini Coopers, matching Jettas, matching Subarus (twice). It gets old. Vacations - needing to buy two plane tickets, having to plan a trip that makes sense and doesn’t have us ping-ponging all over New England for five days. (What? I can do what I want. He’s not the boss of me anymore.)
I’m really loving the freedom of it all.
That’s all.
So. About that Bruins game.
I’ve been avoiding the things that make me homesick for seven years. I’ve been avoiding all things hockey for six (to the best of my ability, of course).
Now that I know I’m heading home?
I’m embracing everything again.
Having an exit strategy is so freeing.
Where was I?
Boston. Hockey.
Focus.
I have decided that this is the year I go full-bore back into my hockey obsession.
Bruins? Of course.
College hockey? Oh, definitely.
UMaine season tickets are something I’m considering now that I’ve kind of zeroed in on a geographical area, and of course, I can’t forget my Huskies. UConn, not Northeastern.
Going to a hockey game is vastly different from watching one on TV. Duh.
And it is a pleasure that has been in lock-step with the worst pain of my life for so long.
Well, I’m ripping off the fucking band-aid.
I don’t have cable anymore, so I can watch whatever I want whenever I want and I don’t have to worry about stumbling on the Cats games / coverage / etc.
God bless ESPN+.
Now, if only those greedy fuckers at NESN would un-geo-lock their programming.
I will pay you fuckers for a year of Boston sports coverage.
Gladly.
Um… hi!
Tell me you’re in a manic cycle without telling me you’re in a manic cycle?
Yeah… it might be time to step away from the computer.
