Fly Away. [On my Zephyr.]

10 Jun

Summer has started in earnest. The girlies have been off in their various locales this week whoopin it up in swimsuits all day. They come home looking like limp noodles and acting like they each have an ax to grind. The bean does the flop-around and declares to us that she “CAN’T DO [insert action]!” Which means absolutely nothing for herself. (Her kindergarten teacher next year will be thrilled no doubt.)

Miss-miss was sulking and grouchy too, so I shipped her off to co-op camp as a late joiner with a group of fellow parents switching off hosting kid duties. So far they’ve been at pools and water parks and having picnics and eating lots of shit food. Which is PRECISELY how summer when you’re 10 should be in my book.

But neither of them can do a single solitary thing that doesn’t bug the SHIT out of me. Be it miss-miss with her staring contests while she ‘waits’ for me to sunscreen her (did I mention that she’s 10?) or the bean calling for me the precise minute I decide to run down to brush my teeth. It irks me to no end. Here’s why:

After far too many liver tests coming back bad and near fainting spells, I finally decided to jump off the Lexapro wagon and hitch my ride to a star instead. And it has been working so freaking well that I am now officially a raving lunatic bitch (no comments please) with vertigo. Summer o’fun has begun.

If you’ve ever done a major house remodel, please raise your hand. If you’ve ever had to completely move out of said house to conduct said remodel, please keep it raised. If you’ve ever tried to sell multiple pieces of furniture and offload tons of kid accumulations, hand up. If you’ve had your kids at home during this debacle, raise the other one. (higher please, this needs to hurt.) If you’ve ever gone on an extended vacation, please keep both hands raised high. And if you’ve ever gone off of an antidepressant, please raise your hands and stand up. NOW.

If you’ve ever done all of these things simultaneously, please tie both hands behind your back and then reach down and hog-tie your legs (oh come on, don’t be a wuss), hang a large boulder around your neck, put on a blindfold and roll around on the floor. It will be more productive. Promise. (But you already knew that because you’ve DONE it BEFORE. Or you wouldn’t have had your hands raised for the last 10 minutes. Geesh.)

And now that I have officially claimed my spot in martyrdom land (and as if that hadn’t already happened 100 times over), I’m technically thrilled.

Thrilled that our over 10 years of waiting to re-do the kitchen has finally arrived. Thrilled that I can now see light from front to back of our tiny SoBo cottage (work with me, it makes it sound much more quaint). Thrilled that our floors are being refinished (and stained darker) after 12 too many years. Thrilled that the painters will have a clean slate to work with (but mostly that said painters are not MOI). Thrilled that we are cleaning out the rest of the accumulated shit that so, so needed to GO (though miss-miss had a meltdown when she discovered yesterday that I’d ridded her of 7 of the 12 lip balms she’s been hoarding. “They were SPECIAL TO ME, MOM!!! You so don’t get it!” [insert door slam.] Uh. Yes, you are correct there).Thrilled that we are finally doing the multi-week, multi-family, mostly beach trip back to SC (with a weeklong stop in Avon on Cape Hatteras) that we’ve talked about ad nauseam for YEARS.

What makes this all less-than-joyful would be the last, most crucial item. I’ll call it the WHOOSH-WHOOSHes. Lovely Lexapro saved my bacon when beloved people, pets and trees were dying all around me. And it kept me from curling up in the corner and rocking to-and-fro while softly humming Mockingbird when the stupid cancer hit. It actually kept me alive and relatively functioning (give or take some massive, wine-fueled crying jags once a month or so) so that miss-miss and bean could have some semblance of normalcy during the shit show of our lives that was the last 12 months.


I started losing my vision. (That sounds like a REM song.) And those liver enzymes went sky high. And my vitamin D counts dropped way low. And my colon decided it wasn’t such a big fan of the gluten. And I gained 35 pounds. And I suddenly couldn’t have two glasses of wine without slurring my words.


I went to that psychiatrist and had that conference table meeting. And heard those hateful words — including that Lexapro was NOT the drug for me. As a result, I’ve been weening ever since with the final dose taken a week ago. And it SUCKS.

I am suddenly so pissed and annoyed at DAMN NEAR EVERYTHING that I had to walk around the block yesterday so I wouldn’t punch the hubby square in the MOUTH. His crime? He refused to try on a pair of shoes that I thought would be perfect for the beach. (Some nerve. Humphf.)

It’s a moment-by-moment struggle that makes every single solitary thing around me glow like there is a spotlight on it. Begging me to dropkick it and/or go postal on its ass. But instead, I try to breathe deeply and walk around the block like some fruitcake — carrying my cup of water and trying not to cry.

The best part is the WHOOSH-WHOOSHes. Like I’m stuck on one of those old timey playground merry-go-rounds. The really fun ones that you and all of your friends could be on at once while one of you ran and pushed and jumped on to enjoy the ride at the very last second. When playground equipment was still FUN and not overly sanitized by liability and lawsuits…but I digress. It’s also much like the time I was in the Hôtel Des Invalides gazing up at the beautiful, intricately painted ceiling and almost fell over backwards. Would’ve if my Papa hadn’t been directly behind me doing the same thing.

I’m on a permanent merry-go-round ride/extremely high art viewing adventure. And you try packing up an entire house while making sure the crucial vaca items are still locatable when you can’t even stand up straight without the WHOOSH-WHOOSH train bearing down on your ass. Go ahead. Do it.

In desperation, I went on a Leaving the LEX forum to see what the other wild ones were up to. Turns out one girl started kicking strangers’ cars in the parking lot if they parked too close. Another screamed SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP at any given moment. And yet another feels like she’s moving through aspic and has a 1 second lag time for everything she does.

Two things about it strike me as ironic. (Besides the fact that only one guy had weighed in and his only goal appeared to be to criticize everyone.) First is that your anger reflexes are hyper-sensitized and lightning fast. And second is that your physical reactions are tortoise slow. Odd.

So you want to BITCH SLAP somebody and FAST. If only you could get your arm to lift up and make your brain stop WHOOSH-WHOOSHing long enough to stand up straight. Ah yes. Psycho Pharma and its many Charma-ramas.

And now that THAT is off my chest, we are back to THRILLED BEYOND BELIEF that we’ll be on a plane drinking bloodys on the one-year cancer anniversary vs. sitting around crying and panicking that our oh-so-good life was coming to an end. See? There is ALWAYS something to be thankful for. (That one was for YOU, Mima.)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Daughter. Loudon Wainwright III. That’s my daughter in the water, I lost every time I fought her. Yea, I lost every time.


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