Back of the House

All we wish for is peace on earth and good will toward all people. And a decent bagel. As many of you know, I am Catholic. As many of you also know, C., my best friend, who also lives with my husband, daughter, and me, is Jewish. And we're not talking secular Jew. Oh hell, no. This woman read from the Torah in Hebrew for her bat mitzvah. She knows when Tu Bishvat, AKA Jewish Arbor Day, is. C. knows that Maimonides is more than a hospital in Brooklyn. Maidel is hard-core, yo. This (and so, so many other things) have led us to many sit-com-like situations. Like the time my father was the head of the RCIA  at his and my mother's church, and, since the Last Supper was a Passover meal, wanted to have a kind of Passover for Goyim Dummies thing for his class. So of course, he hands this off to my mother. My mother, for those of you who don't know her, is an angel and a saint (shut up, she might read this), but this sort of thing was not really up her alley. So Mom calls m...

This post is in response to an essay I read earlier today by an internet acquaintance and very popular author and blogger Ferrett Steinmetz , entitled, " How to Be a Good Depressive Citizen ." In his essay, Ferrett makes a very good point about the unwritten yet strangely compulsory stoicism required of writers who grapple with depression. We hold ourselves to this impossible standard we would never require of anyone else. At least I hope to G-d we would never require of anyone else--that would be monstrous. But, for me, what he says boils down to this: You do not discuss your depression until you can be an inspiration, or you are just fucking crazy.  Nobody  likes crazy. Hi. My name is Lyn, and I am fucking crazy. Really. Mentally ill, as they say. Liking me is optional, but, I'm told, entertaining as all hell. Case in point: I'm kind of done with being publicly stoic about how big a mess my life is at the moment, and feel like flinging my crazy around like pa...

So, I've technically missed a day on my mission to write a blog post every day for 40 days, but I got back up to write this, so it counts for something. I think I had a really good reason for missing out, though. A new and exciting side effect of depression for me these days is insomnia and the general screwing-up of my diurnal cycle, i.e., I don't have one. That isn't helped by the fact that the last part of Herself's bedtime routine is mommy or daddy staying to cuddle for the first story on her If You Give A Mouse A Cookie  CD. My problem is that I get so warm, content, and comfy that I fall asleep, sometimes for a few hours. This, as you can guess, helps my own sleeping situation not at all. So I promised The Therapist and The Shrink that I would work harder to stay for just the first story, and then leave and go to bed at a decent hour for me (ideally, 2200 - 2300). 1 Our house has been in some emotional upheaval the past week or so. We got some scary news about...

I have always been a fan of doing something for Lent, as opposed to giving something up. I don't drink that much, I don't smoke, and, trust me, no one wants me giving up chocolate or caffeine. To that end, this year, I'm going to be writing every day and posting it. Some of it will be good, some of it will be crap, but it will be done and it will be here. Aren't you thrilled? Seriously. There are days that this and my escitalopram are all that keep me from running down the block in my bathrobe, screaming. Now, Lenten promises are usually more spiritual than that, but if some of the writing looks at things theological and spiritual, the exercise should manage to fit the bill. I would like to cordially invite anyone moved to point out to me that this isn't what Lenten sacrifice is "supposed" to be to have a piping hot cup of Shut the Hell Up. Do not  piss the priest's kid off on this one. Writing prompts and constructive criticism are welcome, u...

...and I still do, to a certain extent. Probably more than is good for me. But the judging I'm referring to is parents with little kids. My particular pet peeve used to be little kids in church. I used to give the kids quelling looks, and my posture would get straighter and tighter and straighter and tighter until I was practically bent backwards. I would be so angry--nay, incensed --that these children and the parents who refused to discipline them had ruined my spiritual experience! Quickly! Someone get me some pearls to clutch! Wow, if I could beat my past self about the head and neck region with a large and heavy two-by-four, I wouldn't have the motor functionality to write this post. (Which is rather existential, when you think about it, but that'll have to wait for another day.) I was selling the toughness of parenthood and the requirements for a spiritual experience so very short. Also, I was apparently meant to be a karmic object lesson: I now have a little kid ...

So, besides the fact that this song's lyrics are hitting way  too close to home right now, I'm looking for help setting up 1.) more of a web presence than I currently have, and b.) a more impressive web presence than I currently have. I've already put two library books on WordPress on hold. Anyone have tutorial or book suggestions? Thanks!

The bad news is that I got laid off. Which means I'll be writing more here? Yay? It was about three o'clock or three-thirty. The admin dean and the admin director took me into an office and ripped off the band aid right away, which I appreciated. The school budget is just a wreck, and given that I was still technically on my probation, and I had the least seniority, I was the one elected Judas goat to be sacrificed upon the altar of academic finance (or lack thereof). Baa. To be fair, they gave me names and numbers, urged me to speak to campus HR, and promised glowing recommendations. However, I'm finding I'm getting pretty damn tired of my income hinging on the whims of others, not to mention the winds of fate. So, yeah. Maybe this is what I need to get my tuchus in gear. Silver lining, anyone?

Things are actually happening over at my theological/religious/spiritual blog .

I am in a public workplace which happens to be an academic environment where the faculty is half women, dressed as I wish, and I have barn-door-wide-open discourse on an uncensored Internet. They haven't won. It's good enough for me.

Because I am weak, I bought the audiobook of  Carry On, Warrior . Yes, I already own the Kindle and hardcover editions, but sometimes a girl needs to hear about child labor and fake-vacuuming with a doll stroller on the way into work. This weekend, I listened to a chapter of the book where Glennon talks about a rough patch in her marriage. Actually, the term "rough patch" does not begin to convey the situation. Here, read: Craig and I have two recurring problems in our marriage. I feel sad when I don't get listened to, and Craig feels sad when he doesn't get made out with. I am starting to understand that these two problems are related. They're both about intimacy. Craig and I lack intimacy. When we talk, we seem to miss each other; it's like we're communicating on different planes. I'm high and low, and he's in the middle. We don't connect. And when we have sex, we don't really connect either. And that's not even the baldest th...

How am I, Really? Better than I thought I’d be. My daughter is an only child. I did not WANT my daughter to be an only child, but here I am. I cried a lot of the run up to the first day of kindergarten because that meant the world would get a slightly bigger share of my baby than it had had before, and I have no other babies to have for myself. Ultimately, it's a pretty selfish attitude, but what can you do? The heart wants what it wants and WHAT I WANT IS TO KEEP MY BABY GIRL SAFE FOREVER, THANKYOUSOVERYMUCH. But the first day came, and she was so brave, and so smart, and so awesome, the pride just shoved the grief out of the way and hollered, OUTTA THE WAY! INCREDIBLE GIRL COMING THROUGH! And that's how I am, Really. How are you, Really?

So, slowly but surely, 40 is creeping up. I was 39 and a half two Fridays ago. This is not news, because my knees and shoulders have been slowly but surely telling me for quite some time now. Hey, are those stairs? *crunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch* Is that an unreasonably heavy door in the workplace? *stabbypainstabbypain* Congratulations! You're nearly 40! Right, then. So, a few of my friends have preceded me into fortyhood, or will, in a matter of weeks and months. The ones who seem to be smuggling the least amount of Rice Krispies in their joints seem to do some sort of physical Thing. A friendly acquaintance from college runs quite seriously. Another friend from college is into Tae Kwon Do. People I work with go to the gym and do the circuit, do pilates or play softball or somesuch. I don't have a Thing. I used to. It used to be martial arts, but I don't know about that anymore. It's not cheap, and because it's not cheap, it requires a commi...

So I just finished this book, Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed  by Glennon Doyle Melton . Holy crap. Holy  crap. Holy crap. I'm going to be responding to various specific essays and themes in the days and weeks to come, on and off, but, yeah. This one is dead on, even if you don't struggle with bulimia and alcoholism, even if you don't tangle with mental illness, even if you don't have kids. Glennon gets it. Whatever it  is, she gets it. And then she shares it. So, yeah. Watch this space.

Well, I've done it. I've admitted I need help. I can't do this alone, and it's not fair to burden Tor or Cheryl with it. I can't make Herself live in such chaos anymore. I've contacted a professional organizer. With G-d as my witness, I will never trip over my carpet cleaner again. What did you think I was going to say? You'd think I had a history of dramatic announcements involving my mental health or something...

Okay, so it turns out that not all  the girls I went to middle schools turned out to be total wastes of space. I've  wound up friending several of them on Facebook, and aside from occasional epic differences in politics (southern Maryland is The South, y'all, and don't you forget it). One in particular I've rebonded with is  Erin Gross . Erin is a totally fun blogger and a wicked writer. She's fun, and funny, and made a hell of an Ebeneezer Scrooge when we put him on trial for a book report project in the eighth grade. She is also, emphatically, an extrovert . Her son, it turns out, is an introvert . She has been completely, and sometimes painfully, honest about her quandaries about how to raise a person with such different needs from herself. This is where I come in. I am an introvert. Wow am I an introvert. I need a day off to recover from family dinners involving more people than my immediate family. So, when Erin would make a blog post about ...

Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani.

So I finished Murder Comes to Pemberly  the other night. It was... odd. You see, it's not a mystery, as most mystery readers and enthusiasts think of the term. It's not a procedural. P. D. James walks us through a situation. She provides the reader with all the clues he or she would need to figure out the solution, but the characters, from the master of Pemberly Mr. Darcy himself to his retired coachman have really no interest in investigating the crime. The reader is a silent voyeur peeking over various shoulders, seeing reactions, but the pace is slow and the book seems somewhat aimless without a character for whom it is imperative that the mystery be solved. To be sure, we're pretty much sitting with the Darcys and their friends and families waiting for the whole dreadful business to be over. So, if you're interested in a return to the world of Derbyshire, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, the Wickhams, and Lady Catherine, this is a pretty good read. But if you're expe...

I wrote about Evangelical bloggers on the religion blog. Go look!

About four years ago, he contacted me out of the blue. I am still friends with several people I dated before I got married, but only one is, well, not. We are not friends. I called to check on him in the aftermath of September 11, and I ran into him about a week later, because we lived in neighboring buildings. But aside from that we've had no contact since. So, four years ago I get a phone call in the middle of the day from the woman who was my best friend in college, and who is still a very good friend today. Now, at the time, I was a stay-at-home-mom with a sideline in adjunct and online teaching, but I did remember that it's odd to get personal phone calls in the middle of the day from people with office jobs. "Who's dead?" No one, she assured me. But she had a Facebook message from Jeff 1 . Jeff? Jeff Who? Bridges? Goldblum? The guy with the puppets? Who? Nope. Jeff. She paused to let it sink in. Jeff Jeff. Ohhhh.  Jeff.  Crap. He had asked her fo...

Those of you who know me pretty well know that I am an inveterate Jane Austen fan. I can recite whole swathes of the books, I'm a complete pain the backside to see a film adaptation with (unless you've got the 1995 BBC Pride & Prejudice  miniseries on DVD or the 1999 Mansfield Park  with Frances O'Connor), and I am a horrendous pedant when writing about her work. I wince to call the woman "Austen." She should be Miss Jane Austen, and never just Miss Austen, as her older sister Cassandra never married, and thus never relinquished the title. I have read sequels. Some are all right, some are horrendous; Mansfield Park  sequels seem to go better than Pride and Prejudice  or Emma  sequels for some reason. Perhaps it's because everything in those two books wrapped up just so perfectly. There are no loose ends for a sequel to attach itself to. That being said, I am currently about a third of the way through P. D. James's Death Comes to Pemberly . I'm fi...