After eight years with six doctors, four therapists, two hospital stints, and a few hundred AA meetings, I can honestly say that yesterday was the first time a doctor’s honest diagnosis/prognosis made me really, genuinely scared [despite her optimism and proactive attitude.]

Shit. I’m sick.

::inhales::

We’re going to work on it. I’m not giving up. If I have to ramp up my medication and never touch caffeine or cigarettes or processed wheat or anything delicious ever again, I’ll do it.

But first I’m going to take a minute to let it absorb. And to feel really, really scared.

Dear McDonald’s Marketing Team:

Stop it. You’re making total asses of yourself. Seriously.

No, hear me out. Apparently, in order to try to market to the younger crowd, you’ve started using the ridiculous phrase “Nuggnuts” to denote someone who’s obsessed with your small chunks of processed chicken parts. This would ordinarily be cute and effective if not for the glaring fact that 90% of the people watching these ads are giggling with the knowledge that you, as a team, have no idea what a “nug” actually is in everyday American vernacular.

Because you weren’t smart enough to check UrbanDictionary.com or ask one of your college-aged nephews or nieces before you launched a campaign with a new phrase to check for secondary meanings of the term “nug”, allow me to cut your search in half.

—–
Nug n.

1. A high quality bud of marijuana.
2. The Dank.
3. See: ganja.

Gayle packed her last nug into the bowl and smoked it on the way to work.
—–

So, yeah… and then with the image of those as nuts… (look up “nuts” on your own, friends. I’m trying to keep some standards in my public writing…) Needless to say, it’s easy to see why literally millions of American consumers are laughing at you every time your ignorantly hilarious commercials air.

There’s a way you can save this, you know. You can act like you meant for all of this to be a big play on words and have a bunch of nug-confusion ads in response to this campaign so you don’t look completely idiotic. I don’t know, maybe a girl proposing a Nugg wedding cake (as per one of your ads) and her groom imagining a giant cake made of what appears to be made of um… superfresh, bundled oregano, until she corrects him by asking whether the icing should be barbecue or honey mustard.

Look, I’m not in advertising, I just know from experience you should ask around before you try out a “new” catchphrase. Just ask the guys who make Bone Suckin’ Barbecue Sauce.

Best,
Castallare

Dear Kathleen, Haylee, Vee, Grim, Shannon, Hayley, Caroline, Brody, Debra, Abby, Becky B., CV/Mary, Blair, Martha, Rob, Daisy and, of course, Allison and Greg,

I know this may seem a bit random, but sometime in my life you, in some form, sent me a piece of encouragement and love that not only resonated with me, but stuck with me until now. Perhaps it was something specific that you said or wrote to me, or maybe it was a small gift or something else tangible, but whatever the case, this tiny token of love was saved in a small box that I keep in my home.

Recently, I’ve been having more than a little trouble with my head and the medications I’ve been prescribed to try to fix whatever’s been going on up there. Late at night, when I’m feeling hollow and scared and lonely, I’ve been retreating to this box to reread your words of encouragement, listen to your mix tapes, laugh over our shared jokes, look at pictures of your art, and experience your ever-present support and kindness. This has become a once-or-twice-weekly ritual and it has settled my racing heart and been an ideal remedy to help me get to sleep on these seemingly chaotic nights. Additionally, it has, actually, been the most effective method I’ve ever found at calming myself down, streamlining my scattered focus, and getting back to my normal self. No matter what despairing, hopeless hole my subconscious tries to bury my consciousness in, I am always able to pull myself out with the love and encouraging sentiments I’ve collected over the years.

Thank you sincerely. I do so hope to have the opportunity to repay this tremendous gift to each of you sometime in my life.

Castallare

I’m effing exhausted from soaring emotionally upward and then crashing down so often in the course of a week, all because of the new drugs I’ve been trying for the last couple months. I’ve never had bipolar tendencies in that when I get depressed, it lasts a longlong time and then I come out of it and return to my normal self for a while. I’ve never been manic except in short half-hour bursts and only if/when caffeine/other substances are involved, so that’s been ruled out of my diagnosis as well. However, with this new medicine, I’m very up and cheery and perky and uberproductive and optimistic and creative and perfect during the day until that inevitable instance once or twice a week when I plummet back to rock bottom. (And if I’ve had caffeine at all during the day my meds decide to pull the rug out from under me, the depression is even more exacerbated and hopeless.) This constant up-and-down has never happened to me before [yes, even when I was drinking] and, I have to say, I’m not fond of it. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE how I feel when the medication is in full swing and I’m bright and perky and everything seems beautiful and wonderful, but the comedown seems hardly worth it if it’s risking my sanity every few days. That’s not really a decent trade-off in my book. I want to be leveled-out, even if that means not feeling blissful on a daily basis. Euphoria’s fun and all, but the nature of a balanced universe insists that I have to come back to reality and, frankly, I’d rather just live in real emotion with natural peaks and valleys than these drug-motivated ones.

So, even though I received some really very cool, really very hopeful, really very dream-fulfilling news about my professional life last night and had a genuinely great evening, I still sat in the darkness of my house feeling empty and scared and alone until 2 a.m. when I finally meditated myself into a restless sleep. And it wasn’t based in anything at all, [not even those ridiculous self-loathing mantras my sick brain likes to repeat to itself during my bouts... I think they were taking the night off] which is more evidence that these deep crevices are purely from the drugs. That ain’t right.

Auuughh.. I’d like to be fixed now.

You ever have one of those songs that just turns you on no matter how many times you play it? I have a number of them on respective mix CD’s for when I need to conjure certain powers, like my “Going Out” Mix or my “Pissed and Meaning It” Mix or my “Sad Because it’s not the 90’s Anymore” Mix or my “Drag Queen” Mix or my “Going Onstage” Mix (that one’s old).

However, (and I’ve said it before about this song) I don’t know exactly what mix CD to put this one particular song on, and I don’t even freaking like the band, so I don’t want to run out and buy any of their stuff (and I’ve even seen them live), but every time I hear Death Cab for Cutie’s “I Will Posess Your Heart”, I sort of lose my mind.

I don’t necessarily like the lyrics, but the music is amazing. The wandering, chaotically melodic piano crashes, the strong-yet-lackadaisical bass that cockily seduces my erongenous areas with boyish playfulness, the glistening guitar notes that remind me of hungover stars on New Years Night… damn, it gets me every time.

… I listen to it on repeat and imagine myself walking through the streets of Chicago in slow motion, my hair blown back by the pounding, freezing gusts that come off the Wabash and sewer grates leaking steam that frames and absorbs my silhouette. I pull my collar around my neck as I walk past a quartet sharing a jazz cigarette and make eyes at the slightly younger bass player, who happens to wear suspenders without a hint of irony.

… I imagine myself primping for my lover in an elegant Parisian boudoir, powder billowing off the puff I use to dab at my chest and floating vicariously out the window into the French evening. I am wearing satin lingerie trimmed with hand-stitched lace that I have put on with care under a vintage silk robe that hangs over the seat of my vanity’s tiny stool. My kitten heels seduce the floor as I walk over to the chaise to gaze out over the city and sip champagne just before he breezes through the door and takes me, my glass shattering as it smashes on the floor.

… I imagine I am riding through the fiery autmnal leaves of the New England countryside in my own classic roadster, wearing only large sunglasses, a blazing red satin cocktail dress that hugs my curves as tightly as I’m hugging the road’s, and diamond-encrusted stilettos that are both elegant and forceful as they alternate pumping the clutch and the gas. My pelvis tightens as I breeze through the winding turns, careful not to careen too far and laughing wickedly as I balance the eternal rush between thrill and danger.

… I imagine I’m a painter working in a studio atop a city skyscraper, painting on canvases the curves of beautiful women who are lounging around the loft while smoking and eating tropical fruit amidst swirls of incense. I am covered in splotches of paint, despite wearing an apron over my grey t-shirt and jeans and my hair and hygiene are a disaster from hours of relentless work. Still, I splash paint across my easel as the bassline pulses around me, driving me forward and the gals giggle and chatter amongst themselves, imploring me to come and discuss literature and art and sex and life with them. Instead, I smile and drag an exhausted forearm across my forehead, while patiently instructing them into their next poses and giggling at the pieces of pineapple they jokingly fling in my direction.

I could go on, but I really should get back to my life here. Looks like it’s back to late-90’s chick rock for me for a while…

le sigh..

In the last year, I’ve turned into one of those obnoxious women who misses her husband while he’s at work. Even though we spend all our spare time together, my days are better when Greg and I get a quick lunch together or when I stop by his office to say “hello” to his coworkers who constantly inquire about our child. When we get to see each other in the middle of the day we act as though it’s been months since we’ve last seen each other, fawning over each other like lovers who have been separated by war. It’s gross, but also kinda nice.

I’m still kind of in awe with the love I’ve stumbled on in him, to be honest. First, there was this pregnancy that had him doting on an ever-expanding, leaky girlfriend who couldn’t stand to be embraced lest she gagged and puked for a solid hour. Then, there was the exhausted blob of a woman that lolled around the apartment in a robe, constantly freaking out about her insecurity at being a new mother. Then, there was a to-be-bride freaking out about the prospect of marriage and whether or not she was suited for such an unnatural-seeming institution when she had so many hangups she enjoyed dredging up. And finally, there was a new bride who couldn’t peel herself out of bed for two seconds and even pretend to act happy for any discernable length of time because of a mental illness she may suffer from forever. And, through all that, he’s remained patient, caring, encouraging and loving. He’s never put me down, but hasn’t enabled any destruction I tend to resort to. He’s never abandoned me but won’t allow me to wallow and hide away from the world like I so enjoy doing at my lowest points. When I show the slightest inkling of a productive idea, he is my biggest, loudest cheerleader, no matter how absurd my interest du jour may seem. Ordinarily, I’d think that a man who was so eager to show patience and gentle nurturing was a desperate, whipped pushover, but I’ve seen him choose his battles with me and stick to his personal beliefs enough to know he has a spine. His humble, patient strength is something I’ve always needed, but was too proud to admit and too terrified to ask for before I met him. It was one of the things that drew me to him, and his love is what kept me with him when things quickly became difficult. It’s nice to be reminded why I still have so much faith in us.

And, God, I’m so glad I’m finally starting to feel functional enough to fully enjoy who he is and reciprocating that love more completely, as opposed to feeling oppressed in my guilt and shame for not measuring up to him as a perfect spouse/wonderful person. Despite all the loathing I feel with having to be on medications, if it allows me to show my husband the love he deserves, I’ll stay on these drugs forever.

Do a load of laundry. Mail Christmas cards. Throw dinner into the Crock-Pot. Scrub the kitchen floor. Run out to purchase essential oils, packing tape, padded envelopes, ribbon, stamps, tuna sandwich. Put the clean dishes away. Update Weekend To-Do List. Purchase wedding gift for friends. Check email. Write to news contacts. Update events page and then invoice for freelance project. Stuff envelopes for other freelance project. Design a web banner for new product. Change laundry over to dryer. Call Animal Hospital about cat’s test results. Scrub leftover label-goo from baby food jars to reuse for sending out product samples. Call Hawaii about missing marriage license for name change purposes. Call doctor about my misplacing her receipts for insurance purposes. Stir Crock-Pot so sweet-and-sour pork doesn’t settle.

I accidentally woke Chloe up when I went in to check on her during her afternoon nap. I sat in the rocking chair and let her rest her head on my shoulder while I rocked and sang softly to help send her back to sleep. Instead, she began to flutter her lashes, tickling the soft spot on my neck just below my earlobe. When I giggled, she flung her head up and giggled back at me, touched her forehead to mine and softly cooed, “Maamaa…”

Fold the laundry. Write a food review. Sort portfolio. Make more scrub for new purchases. Design sample bottle labels. Read new information pertaining to learning how to sell stuff. Call sister about helping her retrieve her boyfriend’s Christmas present tomorrow (it’s large.) Write another batch of Christmas cards for various friends and family. Pack gift for next week’s Secret Santa installment for the Glick family. Put clean clothes away. Wash dishes from sugar scrub preparation. Affix new labels to jars and prepare orders to be shipped tomorrow. Vacuum week’s worth of stale Cheerios scattered in and around sofa. Plan something for dinner tomorrow night. Respond to halfway-read emails. Check bank account. Bathe squirmy, splashy baby and then squirmy, miserable cat.

It was a perfectly blissful day.

YYYYYYYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

I made a sale! Already! Woo-hoo!

That is all.

More Shameless Plugging of My New Product

This is me peddling more wares, although this time it was a bit accidental. I’d been making this divine sugar scrub for friends and family for Christmas gifts when I received a random order for five more jars and started thinking “Hunh… that’s interesting… Wonder if anyone else would be willing to buy this stuff?”

So, I opened an etsy shop and I’m giving it a whirl. I don’t think I’ll sell even 10 in a month, (especially after the holidays die down) but I’d like to see how the general public responds to it and if it’s worth getting a business license and trying my hand at selling a few in little schwanky boutiques in the area. At the moment it’s at a pretty reserved price considering Bath and Body Works sells the same stuff for $15, but I may be making adjustments to play with my market a little. May be worth a shot.

Anyway, the site is HERE and features some tragically makeshift photography of mine that shows off the new creation. Greg helped me with the label design and really, I think the product is both adorable and effective.

See?

Yet another creative venture.

If you’re interested in a free sample of Yum in the Tub! Scrub, please let me know via email what essential oil flavor you’d like (Choose between Ylang Ylang, Rosewood, Lavender, Eucalyptus or a combo of any of those mentioned for right now. Send requests to liz.ps@live.com) and I’ll hook you up with a tiny little bit for no charge. Because I love having readers who give a crap about what craziness I’m getting into as of late.

Thaaanks!

Welcome to a Stream of Consciousness. Please keep your seats in an upright and locked position and please do not stand until the ride is the speed of the ground.

Church staircases that wrap around and come to a point on the corners always made me nervous. Champagne reminded me of celebrations, which is why I enjoyed drinking it the most, even at 8 am. I can’t believe more people haven’t said it, but Luke Wilson is the talented brother; why isn’t that more publicly acknowledged? Sometimes I miss escaping; not that I want to, but sometimes I miss the option of being able to. I’m starting a very small company; it started about a week ago when I was making Christmas gifts and my boss at MBRN.com offered to pay me for more of the product and I thought “What if I started selling this to little boutiques in the area?”. Greg’s excited for me and I love him so so very much for that. (I’ll be sure to keep you guys posted.) The thing is, I worry about myself when I’m like this because I have a million and one ideas coming out of me and I’m terrified that I won’t get any of them done. I already have a million projects started and pushed away into my closets. I want a Victoria’s Secret boucle sweater for Christmas, but I forgot to ask for one, so now I’ll have to buy it myself. Isn’t it funny how we hang on to ideals from our adolescence; I still want to be just like Claire Danes and I’m still in love with Jared Leto even though he’s pretty tool-y these days. My wardrobe looks like it belongs to twenty different people and I kinda like that I get to be someone else every day. Sometimes, when Chloe’s napping, I slather my face in makeup and take pictures of myself in different personas that I never show to anyone. I just found a CD full of pictures I took from a scene I was in in 2005 and I find myself getting pissed for wasting my early-twenties being overweight and awkward, still. Dammit; would it have killed me to be gorgeous in my youth for even five minutes?! I loved acting so very much, but I hate that when I got back and watch my performances I can scribble a thousand notes to improve my performance and I’m convinced that I never did a role justice, even though I was handed a couple exquisite roles. I love jukeboxes. Old ones. Not to be superficial, but I think all the Victoria’s Secret models are gradually getting less gorgeous. I want more Marisa Miller! I want More Adriana Lima! No more of that Blake-Lively-drunkfaced woman! No more average-blaverage women! Goddesses! Idols! Bring them on! I miss hearing my Gran say “Hold the phone.” when she means “Wait a second.” My nails are all naturally longer than they’ve ever been in my whole life because of all the compulsions I’ve been having on this new medication, I haven’t been biting my nails. For the first time in my life. Weird.
Sometimes, I Google images of things that I physically really really want someday… material possessions I imagine will make me happy. Like big old houses in New England and clear kayaks I can take around the coast of Greece and beautiful backyards overlooking the Mediterranean. I never ever dream about clothes or cars or jewels or shoes or purses or stupid electronic devices that will be worthless and unwanted in two years… I always fantasize about big, sprawling houses in exotic, beautiful locales. And libraries full of books and DVD’s. And garages big enough to house all of Greg’s dreams. And a massive backyard where my children and grandchildren can camp and run and play and build forts and laugh.
When I dream of little possessions, I dream of old antique typewriters to write love letters to my family on. I dream of Ocean Kayaks to take Greg and Chloe out to sea on. I dream of expensive underwear to show off only to my spouse. I dream of boucle sweaters to curl up with a book in. I dream of a fantastic camera that I can take pictures of my daughter with. I dream of an electric guitar so I can play “Johnny Be Good” with my husband. I dream of a home with a fireplace. I know no possession or product of money will make me internally happy, but sometimes it’s nice to pretend.

Last night I had a nightmare that Greg and I wanted a weekend getaway and so we rented the cheapest room in a hotel at the beach. We were put in a room between the pool and the gift shop and there were windows on all of our walls. Then, I went to dinner with my dad and my siblings at the hotel and this waitress kept trying to seat herself at the table and finally I screamed “HE’S MARRIED, YOU MORON! LEAVE US ALONE!” at her and she went outside and cried. And then this whooshing, powerful snowstorm came in from the ocean and started cracking the windows and ceiling around us. And I ran without thinking of anyone else.