treefroggirl

posted by Thomas on Dec 16

I have a screw loose about how I see the world. Sometimes there is a bit of a Fellini movie running in my head. I’m like a fat Ally McBeal.

For example, a few years ago I was walking past Buckingham Palace and saw the guards with the guns and I thought, “There’s a way to commit suicide.” That thought led to an a scene in Stealing Gnomes that let me tick a few boxes for things I was trying to set up in the first ten pages.

SARAH: What did you get up to today?

ANDREW: Composed my suicide note.

SARAH: Proactive of you. Decided how you might do it?

ANDREW: Have a couple of ideas in the pipeline. The Anna Karenina.

SARAH: Horrible to do that to the train driver.

ANDREW: Thought the same thing. Plan B is the Virginia Woolf.

SARAH: Where are you going to get stones heavy enough?

ANDREW: Figured I would go to a garden centre.

SARAH: People who drown look dreadful after.

ANDREW: True. I’d hate to be an ugly corpse. All blue and bloated.

SARAH: Quite unseemly. I wouldn’t appreciate looking at that when I come to identify the body.

ANDREW: You’re right. I should consider your feelings. Besides, they’re both derivative. What I need is a whole brand new way of offing myself.

SARAH: I completely agree.

ANDREW: So I decided on Buckingham Palace.

SARAH: Sorry?

ANDREW: I’ll wait until she’s home. Standard flying. Put on a big fake beard and a rucksack with wires and flour spilling out of it. Rush the semi-automatic packing guards while screaming, ‘Down with the infidels!’

SARAH: It’s certainly unique. You’ll get into The Metro for sure.

ANDREW: But then I thought. . . What if they don’t kill me? They’d deport me back home. The U.S. wouldn’t get the satire. They’d think I really was a terrorist. They’d waterboard me. Strap electrodes to my genitals and make me listen to the Barney theme song.

SARAH: I’m shocked. Shocked. I can’t believe the Americans would ever torture anyone let alone their own citizens.

ANDREW: Easy tiger. So I decided rather than killing myself quickly, I would join Max and drink myself to death! . . .Sorry. . .

I am lucky that the darkness I carry around inside me is something I (usually) can turn around and use.

A year ago or so things were rather dim for me. Job wasn’t in a good place, marriage wasn’t in a good place, finances weren’t in a good place.  Of course things got better. They always do. And then. . . they got worse.

I was made redundant, marriage finally had its death rattle, I had to babysit small children. . . Then it got better.  It always does. I got a job back at Microsoft. The break-up has been very civilised, I’m going to be doing a blog on the MSN health and beauty page starting in January. . .

I know there is going to be another down slope again. I actually look forward to it. Well, that’s not strictly true. But I do try to remind myself that the fun part of the roller coaster is when you go down, not up.

Why am I talking about this?

A year ago, a friend of mine forgot that things always get better.

If you are someone considering crawling under the floorboards, please, pick up the phone, call a mate, call a hotline, reach out. . .

I’m not a religious person, but I’m lighting a candle for you tonight Barb, and a candle for all of us shuffling along in the dark.

posted by Thomas on Sep 6

It’s a funny thing when you are out of work. People ask you how the job search is going. They usually lean toward you, nod and look serious when they are doing this. They know that you don’t have a job because you did, you would have jazz-handed into the room, “HEY! I HAVE A JOB!” And yet they feel compelled to ask because it is the polite thing to do. They have lines that they need to play. You have lines as well.

FRIEND: How’s the job search going?” (FRIEND nods, and frown half smile grimaces in a, “sorry to hear you got fucked in the ass when you weren’t expecting it, but I’m sure once you get over the initial shock it must not be that bad” sort of way.)

ME: Yeah, you know. It goes. Just trying to get out there.

FRIEND: That’s all you can do.

ME: Yep. Yep, yep. Something will turn up.

FRIEND: Yes! (They say this with relief and a smile and hope the conversation will turn to something cheery like the Holocaust.) And you know, everything happens for a reason.

ME: Yes. Yes it does. Sometimes it’s a bad reason, but yes. It is a reason.

FRIEND: Ah, you! Aren’t you funny! Ha! And you should be so happy you’re not at X because of Y. We all are jealous actually! We wish we were made redundant!

ME: Ah, you!

(We laugh with just the slightest edge of hysteria. Me because I am out of work and my friend because they are very serious when they say they wish they had been made redundant.)

What’s interesting about this is that they are right. I am happy to not be at X because of Y but it is so incredibly exhausting – the looking for a job thing. The not knowing how cold February will be.

Because I am a pragmatist, I have taken a part-time temporary gig at a big department store which will help my remaining savings stretch that much further. I start Tuesday. It’s a great company and I’m really pleased that I have gotten the gig as in the past my pragmatism has meant I do telemarketing.

I also have an interview Friday that I am incredibly excited about and I am hoping that my excitement does not jinx it. From what I can see thus far, if I were to be asked, “what is the sort of corporate job that would excite you?” This is it.

I’ve jinxed it haven’t I?

Job hunting. The job hunt. The hunting for a job. Perhaps I will get a big stick and start beating people.

That is a joke of course, if you are a prospective employer concerned about my mental health. . .

posted by Thomas on Dec 20

Ralph, a friend in Vegas wrote a lovely post about Barb.

posted by Thomas on Dec 18

I logged on to Facebook this morning and there were four e-mails from Vegas friends.

First said, “Have you heard about Barb?”

I replied, “No. Is she okay?”

I read the next e-mail.

Barb isn’t okay.

She hung herself.

She and I weren’t terribly close because of distance but I wish I could have known she was in this place. Wish I could have tried to help.

posted by Thomas on Sep 10

I had told Kelli about 37 days, a blog I love and knew she would dig it too. The author Patti Digh has written a book called “Life is a Verb” and through one of the rare times the stars are alligned is doing a reading in the U District in Seattle tonight. I say the stars are alligned because I will be in Seattle tonight.

Going to be lagged as all hell, but I don’t care. Chance to hang out with Kelli and to go to a book reading of an inspiring writer, speaker and coach.

posted by Thomas on May 31

Thursday night I wasn’t in the mood to go straight home, so I roped Al into going for just one. We left the pub at nine. All very civilized. I remember having three glasses of red. Al however said that there were four. Given what transpired next, I am inclined to believe him.

Three or four- That’s a lot of vino, but I can usually handle that. Not saying it’s a good idea- just that I can handle it. I usually however pace myself – especially when drinking wine. I will drink water between the glasses. Spread it out over six-eight hours. I also usually have food in my stomach.

But not Thursday. I drank four (large) glasses of red- basically a bottle if not more on maybe 350-500 calories. In three hours.

I woke up at 6 in the morning in bed. Naked. Luckily it was my bed and Stuart was lying next to me. I flipped the events of the evening Rolodex in my head.

Left the pub. Okay. Laying here in bed. Okay.

Left the pub. Bed.

Pub. Bed.

I was missing everything in between. This has never happened to me before.

Stuart had put a large glass of water and ibuprophen on the dresser for me so I took a couple even though I felt okay and drank half the water.

Stuart stirred and peeked his head over the duvet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You were lashed.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember anything after leaving the pub.”

“You came home at 9:30 singing the French national anthem.”

“I was singing The Marseillaise?”

“See. I didn’t even know it was called that.”

“But I don’t know the words to The Marseillaise.”

“Well, they’re in your head somewhere.”

“I think I’ve watched Casablanca a few too many times.”

“I tried to make you go to bed but you refused. I tricked you by saying you would be more comfortable in your dressing gown.”

Something was coming back. “You undressed me?”

“Yes. And you weren’t very accommodating. You kept rolling around. Then you screamed, ‘Stop hitting me!’ Then you giggled.

“That’s funny.”

“I’m sure our neighbours thought so. Do you remember talking to your mum?”

“I talked to my mom?”

“Yeah, something happened with you sister. She had to have a second surgery. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. She’d called and left a message and you called back.”

“I called back?”

“At 12:30. You were sitting up talking really loudly and woke me up and I had to send you out of the room. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

I can’t believe I can’t remember either. It’s rather scary. I did some quick research on the topic this morning and I found a really great article by Aaron White, PhD. Basically alcohol messes with your brain hitting the record button.

Alcohol primarily disrupts the ability to form new long-term memories; it causes less disruption of recall of previously established long-term memories or of the ability to keep new information active in short-term memory for a few seconds or more. At low doses, the impairments produced by alcohol are often subtle, though they are detectable in controlled conditions. As the amount of alcohol consumed increases, so does the magnitude of the memory impairments. Large quantities of alcohol, particularly if consumed rapidly, can produce a blackout, an interval of time for which the intoxicated person cannot recall key details of events, or even entire events. En bloc blackouts are stretches of time for which the person has no memory whatsoever. Fragmentary blackouts are episodes for which the drinker’s memory is spotty, with “islands” of memory providing some insight into what transpired, and for which more recall is usually possible if the drinker is cued by others. Blackouts are much more common among social drinkers than previously assumed and should be viewed as a potential consequence of acute intoxication regardless of age or whether one is clinically dependent upon alcohol.

There is one benefit of me not eating enough and going to bed without dinner. I was a pound and half lighter Thursday morning than I was on Wednesday. Maybe there is something with the whole starvation thing. (of course I am kidding. And anyone that knows me knows that would not be possible for me to ever do)

I told Al that I had a black-out.

He was surprised. “You must have been drunk!”

That made me feel mildly better that while my record button had been taped over, at least I was functional. . . to someone who had had four pints.

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. Great. I’m hungry because I haven’ had breakfast, but other than that fine. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Are you kidding? That’s great. They should take your blood and study it. Do tests on you to find the secret to no more hangovers.”

While I don’t generally get hangovers, I really don’t fancy another memory gap.

Although, it would be rather fabulous, if deep inside me, are the words to The Marseillaise.

posted by Thomas on May 3

5:30 PM
Pub with Al. I had been good not drinking all week other than the Monday marathon. Wasn’t in the mood to hang out with the work masses, as at the moment there are a few I could happily roast on a spit. Al felt the same way.

Round one. Guinness.

6:19 PM
Round two. Switch to Deuchars (which is a lovely ale)

7:30 PM
This is where we said we were going to stop. Cut to:
Round three and four (and I can’t remember but there may have been a five.)

10:30 PM
Hungry, we call to try and get a table at Bodean’s in Soho. No go so we call the one in Clapham but they’re closed for renovation. We decide on a curry. We also have a pint of cobra with our meal.

11:47 PM
Time to go home. I get on a train to Balham.

12:45 AM
I wake up in East Croydon. Fucken’ hell.

12:50 AM
Get on a train going to Clapham Junction.

1:08 AM

Arrive in Clapham Junction but there are no more trains to Balham. Consider getting a bus but not sure which bus to take.

Decide to walk home.

While annoyed at myself am slightly amused at watching the packs of drunken girls wearing the exact same outfit stumble down the street. There is an interesting energy on Northcote Road and I feel safe which in retrospect is incredibly dangerous.

1:47 AM
I’m home.

posted by Thomas on Apr 23

Week one of my marathon training. Walked home Monday- 4.4 miles. Was supposed to do it again last night but let’s just say that didn’t happen and was a lazy thing this morning even though I woke up at 6. It was just much nicer to stay snuggled to Stuart and listen to him snore.Can’t walk tonight or at lunch so need to be good the rest of the week.And the week after.And the week after. . . 

posted by Thomas on Apr 15

Because Scott asked for photos, I give you photos. Click here for Saturday night silliness.

Is rather pathetic. . . I only lasted about an hour and a half in my high heels. The transvestites you can see in the picture behind me lasted in their Manolo’s until three. They also had better legs than me. But that can’t be helped. Most men that are willing to put on a dress look better in it than the average woman will.

posted by Thomas on Apr 13

I glance at that cloud, it looks like a piano. I think to myself—mention it in some story that a cloud floated by looking like a piano. There’s a scent of heliotrope. I rush to make a mental note: cloying smell, widow’s flower, use it in describing a summer’s evening. I catch my every sentence, every word—yours too—and rush to lock them up in my literary storehouse—maybe they’ll come in handy! . . . I can’t escape myself. I feel like I’m a parasite feeding on my own life. –Trigorin in The Seagull 

I pulled out my moleskine and wrote down a blurb that Jesse had just said that was amusing, “Of course I’m miserable! If I wasn’t miserable I would be unhappy.”

“I always do this. People around me are much more interesting than I am,” I apologised as I wrote.

“Do you know The Seagull?”

“Yeah, but it’s been years.”

“Act Two Nina and Trigorin. He’s talks about writing stuff in his notebooks. The same disease that you have.”

I laughed. “It is a disease. And sometimes, I look at the note and I don’t understand what it means. Why it was so important. Like this. . .” I flipped to a page and read, ‘And I let him speak because he hadn’t spoken in years!’ I have no idea what that is about. Other stuff is good though.”

“Spill it.”

I flipped back a few pages. “Ah. I was walking down 6th and a couple was walking the other way and the man said, ‘Macy’s? Like why?’ and she said, ‘Why? It’s like, an ENTIRE city block. .”

“It is. Have you gone?”

“I’m avoiding it. Nothing good could come of my going inside. Or this. . . this is something that I said but I wrote it down. My friend was teasing me about something. ‘First off. Fuck you. . . Second. What did you say?’ Or this is from Stuart, ‘I never drink at weddings. Only wedding I’ve drunk at was ours.”

Jesse laughed. I flipped back a page. “Or this one is good. I was on the Eurostar coming back to London and there were these two American girls. Couldn’t have been older than twenty. They were going through a Paris Vogue like they were in an art museum and they were talking about London and people they might see and one said with an uptalk accent, ‘I would be more excited to see JK Rowling than the Prince.’”

“Funny. You’ll need to use them. I’m still waiting for a novel or a play or something.”

“I know. I know. . .”

“What was the one line from your play I liked. . . Was this you. . . ? ‘Who will hold me if I’m holding you?’”

I had a strange experience of hearing something familiar yet new. Like when you see a photograph of yourself that you know is you, but you have no memory of it being taken.

“I think it was me. But I don’t remember. Probably from one of those one-acts sitting in a drawer.”

“It’s a good line.”

“It is. I’ll write it down.”