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 ...