I’ve never made out with anyone underneath mistletoe.

To be fair, if I’m at a friend’s home I’m not going to attack his wife because she happened to walk by the mistletoe plant on her way to the kitchen. Or sprig. Or whatever the hell mistletoe is. Nobody knows. What I do know is that it’s never helped me get over with the ladies. In the past I’ve even brought a tube of lip plumper to these parties, and taped it up next to the mistletoe so women can get their lips right for a kiss. I’m nothing if not thoughtful. But this column isn’t about me and my problems. It’s about yours. We got so many damn issues on this one topic, Allison Arnone and I are doing a part II next week. We started this advice column several months ago, and each time we do it we get more and more entries. It’s very much appreciated, and we respectfully bow to you. Now, go endure your family for the next week. It will be difficult, sure, but hey, your folks still load you up with some decent presents, and you’re thirty-seven years old. Just grin and bear it when mom starts in on your weight. Happy holidays!

I am broke as a joke. Possibly broker than a joke. How can I stay fabulous during the holiday season on a budget??? – Farishta

Allison – I feel you, girl.  The holidays are an INSANELY expensive time of year and I’ve decided that the person I should be buying lavish Christmas presents for is…well, me.  For every gift I bought a family member, I bought myself two.  I then decided I wanted to get outta Dodge for New Year’s Eve so I booked a trip to Miami with my girlfriends (spoiler alert: that wasn’t cheap).  I THEN BACKED INTO A LIGHT POLE IN A PARKING GARAGE AND HAD TO PAY $500 WORTH OF DAMAGES ON MY CAR.  This all happened this month, so, yeah.  I’m feeling very Kristen Wiig circa Bridesmaids/”Help Me I’m Poor” right now.  My suggestion?  MAKE everyone’s gifts this year.  You know, like arts and crafts stuff.  When I was in elementary school and made macaroni art my Grandmother seemed to really like it, so who’s to say she wouldn’t now?

D.J. – I’ve had a number of failed relationships over the years, but I’ve always been successful at gift giving. You could call me the Ted Williams of gift giving, except he hit .400 and I’m batting 1.000. So lace up your cleats and get ready to take the field. I’m your batting coach. Allison is right. The trick is to make something instead of shelling out the black AMEX for the tennis bracelet that never goes on sale at Tiffany. I’ve bought a million broads jewelry, but nothing is more exciting to them than saying, “I made this for you.” Even if it’s a huge piece of garbage. Head to JoAnn and buy some yarn. Watch a cross-stitch video on YouTube. 300 hours later you’ll have this objet d’art. Total cost – $.17.

My family and significant other don’t like each other, so we all aren’t getting together.  I feel guilty,  what do I do? – Chiaseeds

Allison – I first read this question as “My significant other and I don’t like each other” which is way worse, so at least you have that going for you?   Without knowing the circumstances it’s bit difficult to give my opinion or a thoughtful response, but I’ll try.  If your family and S.O. don’t get along and it’s to the degree that a fight is going to break out while you’re enjoying your pork loin or whatever, then don’t risk it.  The holidays are many things to many people, but they should NEVER be filled with tumultuous fighting, tension or aggression.  JESUS WOULD BE SO PISSED IF Y’ALL FOUGHT ON THIS BIRTHDAY.  On the other hand, if you guys can all suck it up and pretend to like each other for one day, maybe that’d be nice?  The holidays are all about togetherness and bonding, even if you’re all faking it.

D.J. – On my first day ever of therapy, I asked my shrink how to fix my problems. She said, “That’s not what therapy is for.” When I asked why I was spending $140 an hour, she revealed, “My job is to help teach you how to cope with tough feelings.” Because I’m like Jessie Owens when it comes to tough feelings – I run. I’ve dated some women with awful families too, but you know what? You show up for the holidays, anyway. And you cope with the craziness of your partner’s family. It’s a wonderful opportunity to stretch the muscles of acceptance. You just remember to set some boundaries along the way – e.g. “Honey, if your father throws another empty whiskey bottle through the sliding patio door, we’re leaving.”

My husband can’t seem to make a damned decision (23 years now!) On whether he wants a repeat of Thanksgiving Dinner for Christmas Dinner or if he wants ham. WTH?!? It’s meat! Pick one! So, this year I’m going to let YOU decide what we will have! Turkey or ham? And don’t forget the side dishes! Or the breads! Or the desserts! Thanks for taking this decision out of his hands (and brain) this year and planning our dinner for us.  – Chris

Allison – OH GOD THIS IS A LOT OF PRESSURE.  Of course I have to make this difficult and say: neither.  Doing Thanksgiving dinner AGAIN on Christmas — a mere ONE month later — is a bummer and a half.  Two back to back holidays with the same damn tryptophan-filled gobbling turkey meat is lame.  Know what else is lame?  HAM.  I mean, ham is FINE — it’s fine!  It’s just that I think you guys can do better.  I’m Italian so gluttonous binge-eating is super important, so I’ll share with you what Mama A is making this year: stuffed shells, filet mignon and a HUGE antipasto.   Now that’s a dinner.   Step ya game up, Chris.  

D.J. – This is such a great opportunity to blow everyone’s mind. This year you do halibut. Nothing but halibut. If someone says, “But I don’t eat fish!” point them to the shrimp tray sitting in the living room. If they have an allergy to shellfish, you hand them a plain bagel and some lox. Then, during dinner start reading from health journals about the importance of fatty acids in diet. Pause every few sentences until someone acknowledges your cooking as being consistent with recent heart studies. For side dishes, more halibut. We all know that grains are the devil, so you’ll serve no bread. For dessert, freeze some halibut into the plastic ice cube trays and call them “Fish Pops.” And here’s the best news of all – you and your husband will never again be asked to host a holiday meal!

I’m in a group secret santa and I got paired with someone that recently pissed me off.  Do I get a bad gift, not spend the minimum amount, or suck it up and be in the spirit? – Anonymous

Allison – Now, now — let’s not be petty here.  Just because this person wronged you doesn’t mean you have to get them a bad gift.  How about getting them a nice book?  Everyone likes books, right?  Here, I’ll even find one for you.  Ooh, perfect!

D.J. – The best revenge is a dish served cold – like gazpacho soup. But don’t actually buy gazpacho soup because it’s a terrible present. Here’s what to do. You’re going to spend the appropriate amount and get your person a decent gift. But then you’re going to fart all over it. Eat nothing but pinto beans and cooked cabbage for 48 hours. Each time you feel the need to destroy the air, grab the not-yet-wrapped gift and explode all over it. Wipe the front of your privates all over it too (if you have stinky privates). Then wrap it up with the nice paper and ribbons. For extra cruelty, a few days after the gift exchange casually ask the co-worker, “How’s my present? It’s the shit, no?” Then laugh and high-five yourself!

My biggest problem with the specific holidays of Christmas and New Years is everyone’s feigned interest in “wrapping things up for the year” at work which is just office speak for passing the buck and pretending that you are doing your job.  Truth is, if you did your job then the end of the year wouldn’t be a time a crunch to get everything done.  Bums. – Matt

Allison – Did you have a specific question, or…?  Listen, Matt, you sound like a real blast to be around (you’re probably a real bitchin time at parties, amirite?) but the truth is, most people are procrastinators.  Most people are cruising along on autopilot for 11 months out of the year and then realize on December 1st: OH SHIT, I HAVE TO HIT MY SALES NUMBER!  I have to make sure I met and exceeded all those goals my boss laid out for me in January!  Is it too late to start actually CARING about this job?!?!

Look, people tend to cram 12 months of work into 4 short weeks and that’s just the way it is.  We can’t all be overachievers like you.

D.J. – Hi Matt, it sounds like you’re in middle management. To which I say, you must continue to strive and edge out the competition until you rise the ranks to a board position within the company. Ever meet a board member? They only come into the office three times a year. They stay for an hour in a closed-door meeting and then eat an expensive meal on the company dime. Before dusk they jump into their private jet back to their home state of Colorado (board members love to ski). They’re never stressed, always smiling, and have their clothes custom made. And you know what they don’t complain about? Underlings. So there it is – you see your carrot. Run for it, Matt. Run fast.

I’ve been dating someone for almost a year now and we talked about spending Christmas together.  Great, except this means having to determine where to spend it since our families don’t live close.  I hate to miss Christmas with my family, and he feels the same way.  What do we do?  – Conflicted

Allison – I’ve been single for three years and one of the few perks of Singlehood is not worrying about ANYTHING like this anymore.  My parents know I’m a surefire guarantee to be at their house for every holiday, probably forever.  That said, I GET this question.  I love spending holidays with my fam and have this obnoxious view that no guy I meet could EVER have a family that tops mine, especially in the holiday department.  I ALSO have a codependent mother who is horrified at the thought of me not being at the kiddie table around on holidays.  For that reason, she always tells me to find and date a Jewish guy or an orphan.  AN “ORPHAN.”  Those were her exact words.  Now, since it sounds like ditching your dude for a nice Hanukkah-celebrating-gefilte-fish-eating gentleman isn’t an option, you gotta turn to the C-word I hate.  No, not that one.  The other one.

Compromise. (ick)

Maybe you’re with his family this year and then yours the next.  Maybe you play rock-paper-scissor to decide.  Either way it sucks being away from your people, so seriously…maybe consider dropping your guy and finding one that’s family-less?

Orphans make great boyfriends, according to my mother.

D.J. – To make this really simple, you choose the family with the better house. Having a lot of square footage is important because that means you can escape to another wing after you’ve had enough of in-law nonsense. Aside from determining who has the bigger home, it’s critical to check out bedsheet quality. Knowing the thread count and fabric will help you make an informed decision. The cable package of each family should also be researched. Lastly, does one family have an extra Italian sports car that you can take out and do parking-lot-donuts to blow off steam? Oh, and if one family puts a lock on the liquor cabinet, do NOT choose that house.

photo credit: Ocean Networks Canada Pacific Halibut via photopin (license)

This foolio has been living at the Rio in Las Vegas for the past three days. I haven’t sat down once at a table or slot machine.

I am surrounded by opportunity to play games and win some dough. So why aren’t I gambling?

A few reasons – first, I have an addictive personality. Moderation is difficult and I tend to drift toward the extremes. The past four years of therapy have taught me that learning to live in the middle, the grey, is a very important skill. A skill I don’t have.

When I sit down at the blackjack table I have a hard time leaving. If I win $20, I’m bummed I didn’t win $40. If I lose $20 I want to put in more money to win it back. Thankfully I’ve never been so heavy into gambling that I’ve blown more than $100.

Yeah, D.J. that’s how most everyone feels when they gamble!

Not everyone. My sister’s boyfriend expects to lose. He sets aside gambling money and views it as his entertainment for the evening. As such, he’s never disappointed when he blows it.

If I lose even $20 I’m devastated. I don’t expect to win every hand, but I hope to walk away with something in the black. This, of course, is not how gambling works. But addictions don’t pay much attention to rational thought. Addiction craves the high of winning.

Here’s the second reason.

I don’t have the stomach for large betting. I hit the $5 blackjack tables and never play more than $20 a hand. And when I do that I’m nervous and sweating.

Let’s say I’m really lucky and win $100. True, it’s adding to my overall net worth. But being $100 richer isn’t going to change my lifestyle. I can take my girlfriend out to one additional high-end dinner. If I lose the $100, I can still pay my bills. No real change.

And, as mentioned earlier, I haven’t the nerves for any high stakes.

Since my gut only allows me small bets, I’m never going to win enough to make a substantial difference in my finances. So, what’s the point?

The high of winning is not as intense as the sorrow of losing. I am more affected emotinally walking away down than up. I wish it were reversed, but it’s not how I’m wired. Since the games are tilted to the house’s favor, I have a bigger probability of feeling like poop.

I don’t know how to play most games. The electronic slot machines confuse the shit out of me. I feel like since I’m not Asian I shouldn’t attempt Pai Gow. I never learned Texas Hold ‘Em. Keno is for old people, and craps is way too fast. I don’t assume I’m lucky enough to pick Roulette winners.

Blackjack is the only table where I’ll sit down, and there are rules to maximize your odds. Because I’m such a risk-adverse person, I play the suggested ways. Which makes it boring after a while, even if I’m winning. I’m like a robot. A sweaty, nervous robot.

No, I’ll stick to the seafood buffet. I’m heading to the best one in town tonight. Can’t wait to sit by myself swallowing crab legs, lobster, shrimp, and halibut. I may do a few shots of drawn butter, but that’s only because I’m awesome.

photo credit: -RobW- via photopin cc

For most of my life I wouldn’t let caffeine into my system. I decided at eighteen that it was a terrible chemical to introduce to one’s system and never let it pass my lips. In that same year I became an evangelist against milk and swore off the white. I had read a book which said both were evil and would be the downfall of health. You have to remember that this was before the internet and anything I read in a book was gospel. I fell for pretty much every new-age fad including chakra healing, food combining, subliminal positive messages, and neuro-linguistic programming. I studied hypnosis and moved my furniture around so my bed was in alignment with the earth’s polarity. I bought a juicer and had nothing but freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast. Today we call that an unbalanced breakfast (and probably the onset of a candida fungus). Back then it was the healthiest thing you could do.

So, even though I would punish my system with heroic amounts of fast food I never touched a Diet Pepsi. Oh, and I couldn’t stand the taste of coffee, either. Weird, I know.

I was good with any of the three flavors of Fresca. Simple and clean.

Well, after a lifetime of avoiding caffeine, I took the plunge. I can’t remember exactly how it happened but, in a moment of weakness I tried a Monster energy drink and got gacked to the nines. Oh yeah, I don’t drink or do drugs, so it was pretty exciting.

Caffeine was a real rush. Pure pleasure shot up my spine and into every neural synapse. I could concentrate like never before and a sense of well-being emerged.

It took around a week before I was hooked.

Unfortunately, my body doesn’t understand moderation. As much as I’ve educated myself through exercise, diet, therapy and education, I’m just not wired up to have one drink of anything. I’ve tried coffee (which I hate) and I end up having like four cups in a row. It’s an insane rush and I must have more.

I even switched recently from caffeine drinks to caffeine pills (not the super unhealthy diet pills – just pure caffeine) to see if that would manage my intake better. It did not. I ended up drinking energy drinks plus  the pills.

In short – I was hooked. Correction – I am hooked.

Now, I know people think energy drinks are the devil and all that, but I’ve looked at the research and it’s not all that alarming. I’m not dealing with any health issues that I know of. Of course my adrenal glands are probably burning out, but, who knows?

I decided today to stop cold turkey.

Today is Day 1.

I had a few last energy drinks in my desk at work yesterday. I slammed them in a final hurrah of immaturity.

The reason why I’m giving up caffeine isn’t for a health concern or even that I’m abusing the substance. It’s because it’s yet another example of how I use an external object to take me out of the present. The present consists of my thoughts and feelings. I am so afraid of the tough feelings that I run from them at first sight. We all stray away from time to time, but I’ve remained jacked on the sauce for pretty much every waking hour of the day the past few months. Not ideal.

When I’m on caffeine and not present for my feelings I don’t write well (or at all), I’m not as active with my friends or relationships, and I just don’t get a lot of stuff done. I escape to a fantasy world. It’s a little crazy.

Most people just use a cup of coffee to wake up a bit. I drink 200 mg and start flying around the room.

So tomorrow it’s back to the old D.J. – all of me which includes  fear, sadness, anger, and guilt that that I’ve been avoiding for the past three months.

Oh, I know I’m going to have a massive headache for a few days so I will stay jacked up on ibuprofen. I’m okay with that.

Wish me luck.

I revert back into childhood and jokewriting becomes a way to see how many puns I can funnel into a benign conversation. Because puns elicit groans (most of the time) I work on my delivery to try to sneak them into regular chit chat. It’s a little game I play with myself.

Yesterday we went in 90 weather to the Booklyn Botanical Gardens. Within minutes I had entirely sweated through my shirt. It was truly disgusting. I’m not a stink-sweater though. I sweat clean. It’s still unsightly to see a relatively thin, in shape guy sweating like a bastard. But at thirty-seven I kind of don’t care how I look to the public.

The only way out of the heat discomfort for me is humor. If I stop to think about the sweat pouring down my body which I can feel, I get depressed. I start thinking of a thyroid condition I must surely have or thoughts like, “If this was a date, she’d run away screaming, clutching her handbag.”

Puns need to be delivered correctly for maximum effectiveness. You can’t just blurt them out. You have to reel someone in with a set-up, albeit short. If you drone on too long and then hit them with a pun, it’s just a let down.

I pulled my mother aside at the rose garden. I mentioned matter-of-fact the following:

Later on we walked by a white-poplar. I immediately grabbed my father, walked him back thirty-yards to the tree to deliver this gem.

Now, walking somebody back thirty yards in the direction you just passed is a real commitment to a joke. And, let’s face it, you’d be upset if you were my father. Disappointed in the joke and also that you had to burn a few calories to hear it.

The bottom line is I need massive attention. Each tweet got at least ten replies. And my followers are funny people. Some of them improved upon the pun, others shamed me, and some just LOLd. And I was comforted briefly in the hot weather. Your words are like a quick stand in front of an open refrigerator door.

When people ask me why I love Twitter so much it’s because I can write stupid jokes and somebody is going to laugh. I’m sure I lost a few followers as a result of those two tweets, also, but that’s okay. I leave my best writing for this blog, and my kid humor for Twitter.

I haven’t been put on anyone’s “Must follow this funny person” Twitter list yet, and who knows if that will happen. Since I crave validation it would pretty much be the greatest day of my life. Until then I have my only my family and you. Continue to tell me I rock until enough therapy kicks in where I can do it myself.

Right now I am reading a great book with an odd title. It is called,  My Baby Rides the Short Bus: The Unabashedly Human Experience of Raising Kids  with Disabilities  by Yantra Bertelli, Jennifer Silverman and Sarah Talbot .   It is a collection of memories by moms and dads who have done it. Lived the life as a parent of a special needs child.

In the book there is an offering called Glass Houses by Sarah Talbot. She tells of how instead of institutionalizing her son, they basically turned their home into an institution. The State they live in actually agreed that it was less expensive AND more healthy to raise their son at home and bring the services (including aides) to him. However Caleb is not their only child. So by turning their home into the institution they also (for lack of a better word) institutionalized the entire family.

Not only did the parents lose any hope of privacy, so did the other children.

It made me think back to when Boo had Early Intervention coming to the home 3-4 times a week. And how (especially in the beginning) I would “company clean” the house the hour before they arrived. You know what I mean, when you know your MIL is coming to visit so you make sure if she “unexpectedly” opens a closet nothing will fall on her head. You know the stuff that is generally on the floor/counter space? I can even recall telling my husband once not to use the bathroom! And forget the semi-annual evaluations when we not only had our regular EI Specialist but 3-4 more people coming to (in my mind) inspect us while they evaluated Boo.

The day after Boo’s last EI appointment was the last time my kitchen counter was spotless.

But reading Glass Houses brought the memories back and made me think of how under the spotlight we are. Even though EI is over (thank goodness!), we are still under the “view” of the various therapists, teachers and aides. I am sure parents of ‘normal’ children probably have moments of second-guessing themselves. However I bet it doesn’t happen everyday at therapy or when you talk to your child’s aide and realize that you forgot to give the child a bath that morning because you had both been up all night. Let’s face it, sometimes Boo is lucky to have on matching socks!

When we got drafted (since I know I signed up for the child who slept at night, not the one who wouldn’t for going on 4 years) into this life we never expected that on top of everything else we would be opening our lives to constant surveillance.

We have to worry that Boo will bite someone other than herself. We have to worry that when she goes to school, the doctor or a million therapy appointments they will not believe the bump on her head came from herself and not us. We worry about going to the ER that they will think we are a hypochondriac or worse. We worry about that woman in the parking lot who doesn’t understand that we are not hurting our child as we force them into the car seat.

When Boo was in the NICU I worried A LOT. Over the years I have worried more. But back in the NICU I never imagined that when Boo entered our life we would be opening our lives (and Allies) to life on display.

I better make sure Boo’s socks match.

Comic created @ www.bitstrips.com

I would first like to thank JD Bailey @  honestmom, Allison  @  motherhoodwtf  and Jill @scarymommy  for inspiring me with their amazing honesty which encouraged me to write this.

I’ve dealt with a lot in life and have survived a ton in 34 years. I have faced all sorts of things head on and held on, some times with my knuckles, until these things have worked themselves out in time. I like to think of myself as a strong person and I like to help other people to a fault and often give until the well is dry.

For some reason I suck at asking for help and accepting it on the off chance that I do. If I see you out and about I will reply with my standard “I’m well, and you?” mostly because I’m aware that most people say “How are you?” to be polite and aren’t  really  invested in the response. The other reason for the standard yada yada is that I am terrified to tell you the truth.

I will chat you up about the weather and about the latest story in the news or reality tv, but what I won’t tell you is that the weather hasn’t affected me much lately because I haven’t been out of the house a whole lot. I won’t tell you that watching the news some days is the most interaction I have with the world outside of dropping Nicholas off at preschool or picking Corinne up from practice. I will keep this to myself out of fear that you will judge, or even worse, try to help me.

I will tell you that I will call you and then I’ll shoot a text instead. I will send you to voicemail when you call me. If I do answer, it will be accidental, but I won’t tell you that. I will fake inflection in my voice or listen in hopes that you’ll have a problem we can talk about. I will not tell you that I’m suffocating over here and wishing that I wanted to talk to or see you. I won’t tell you that if it weren’t for a relationship with God and my amazing husband, I might be sitting in a rubber room somewhere, rocking back and forth, drooling.

I’ve done so much work on myself over the years, and I feel embarrassed that I am struggling like this with all of the tools I have at my feet. I feel pathetic. Don’t worry, I won’t tell you that. I’m much too vulnerable to risk it. Being hyper-vulnerable is awesome.

If we talk, I will joke with you about the “joys of motherhood” and the lack of sleep I’m getting due to nursing through Jordan’s growth spurts or teething. What I won’t tell you is that my postpartum depression is causing terrible insomnia and I’m having trouble sleeping through the night anyway. I won’t tell you this because I don’t want you to think I don’t have my shit together.

I will make plans with you and then act surprised when something suddenly comes up and I can’t show. What I won’t tell you that my postpartum depression has turned me into someone I wouldn’t want to be friends with if I was you. Bringing this chic along to our date is out of the question because she’s a mess and full of fear. This girl takes so long to get ready to leave the house that sometimes we decide it will be easier to just stay home; so I do.

Postpartum depression is a bitch and some days, most days, I feel trapped. I won’t tell you how often I choke down tears or bawl my eyes out on the floor of the shower. I won’t tell you how overwhelmed I feel every day by the most mondane and simple tasks like laundry, or God forbid, shopping. When I fail to do everything I feel like a terrible wife and mother and the guilt feeds the depression, which leads to more isolation etc, etc. Blah blah blah.

I am doing my best, I know that, and I know that you will understand. I know that if I called you right now and let it out that you would listen and I would feel better for a moment. I just won’t. For some reason I can’t bring myself to. I’m dragging myself to therapy every week and sometimes it helps. Other times I just feel worse and it makes the day after (Wednesdays) even more unbearable.

I’m blogging, which seems to help a lot. It allows me to reach out without actually having to, which is awesome. It makes me feel connected to you without fear of being immediately rejected, which is also awesome. Everything is process and I know that this is no different. I know that this too shall pass and that someday I will look back and feel grateful that I got through this too.

Until then…

Poo on postpartum depression.

P.S. One more thing I won’t tell you is how long it took me to work up the courage to actually post this.

About three years ago I even gave up caffeine. While never a coffee or soda drinker (we grew up saying “soft drinks” because “soda” was too low-class), I got hooked on energy drinks. I was engaged at the time and my fiance thought it was cute that I had this one vice. Harmless, right?

Well, not really. Back then, I responded pretty hard to caffeine. It would get me high. Now, not as bad as a crank abuser shooting ice between their toes. I wouldn’t hear colors or watch the wall breathe but I did get a wicked endorphin rush.

I also turned into a bit of a jerk.

Caffeine had two additional side effects – it removed all empathy I had for human beings and decreased the tiny bit of patience I  possessed. This is a deadly combination of jackass.

I would turn into a chatterbox and endlessly wax philosophic until my poor woman wanted to hang herself. She wasn’t as talkative and just wanted me to shut the fuck up. Since I had ginseng, B vitamins, and 1000mg of caffeine coursing through my pancreas, all I could do was express every thought as it arose. And it also gave me the false sense of brilliance. My girlfriend would grow tired of me and I would get furious that she didn’t want to stay up until midnight discussing whether we truly have free will about our feelings.

We would get into horrific fights and she’d blame it on the caffeine. She was right to do so.

So, I quit. I’ve lived off of Fresca and water for years now. No caffeine. Just me and sobriety. Peaceful.

Then, a few days back one of the Jewish fellows in the office brought in a two-liter of kosher Coke. It’s a different formula in that it contains real sugar as opposed to artificial sweeteners. In a moment of weakness I poured a cup. Ten minutes later the rush hit me. I was back, baby! Like a junkie I needed more.

I managed to hold off until this weekend and for fun decided to take a caffeine vacation. Whereas most people would take a break from caffeine I decided to hit it full throttle over the Easter break. Enjoy myself.

Something has changed in how it affects me, however. I don’t know if it’s the four years of therapy or if my body has changed or whether I’ve been healed by Shiva, but my body reacts totally differently to caffeine. Yes, I still get the endorphin rush and sense of well-being. But now, I can laser focus like you would not believe on work tasks. I had my most productive day this year today. I’m sort of a creative spaz – great at ideas, terrible at organization and details. Today I was all about prioritization. I managed to organize the next month of tasks and I only stopped to eat some ham and turkey. Gotta protein up, you know.

I did notice one downside – my creativity decreased to almost nil. Normally I come up with good jokes, tweets, and ribald boners throughout the day. Not today!

But, I wasn’t a jerk! Well, actually, this guy on the bus kept insisting that I was a celebrity and that he’d seen me on television. After a minute of not convincing him I just put my earbuds back in while he was in mid-sentence. Inside I was proud, however, to be mistaken for somebody famous. Ha.

Oh, and caffeine makes you pee a lot. Sort of forgot about that. Damn diuretic!

In fact, right now I’m stoned to the gills on energy drinks. I got a mighty buzz and the ability to see every pixel as I type. But no good jokes. It’s a creative killer.

Also, I’m afraid of getting addicted to this feeling. I don’t want to be a daily caffeine person. The withdrawals are brutal. Also, that means I will suck at work if Walgreens runs out of RockStar Zero Carb Blueberry Extra Intense Power Surge Nectar Explosion Juice.

So, my caffeine vacation will be coming to an end shortly. I need my creativity and I’ll just fight against my inability to concentrate. Or maybe I’ll have my doctor hook me up with some ADD meds. You get the same buzz, I hear. Then it’s not an addiction. It’s a prescription!

photo credit: International Man of Conundrums via photopin cc

I went into shock. My biggest fear had become realized. Even though she had not mentioned the word divorce any our past therapy sessions in hindsight there were signs she was planning an escape. I just didn’t think the prison break would come that particular Wednesday. It was cowardly to do without mentioning to me in advance, and I was angry. I was also terrified. I felt like a failure. I needed to do something fast.

For the first time ever I called my therapist and told her what happened. I thought that was probably the  right move. Next I called my business partner. Lastly I called my parents and a few friends. I needed support.

Every Wednesday for the past few years I had been going to a meeting called The Experiment. It’s a support group of sorts where we actually have processes for dealing with our shit. It’s hard emotional work, but it does produce results. Over those years those of us in the group have developed strong bonds and I have come to know these people as some of my closest confidants. I’ve seen them at their most vulnerable. That day they witnessed mine.

Four the past four years Wednesdays from 6:30-8:30 have been of the most important part of my week.

Then about six months back I just stopped going. I’m not exactly sure why. In group we would have processed my unwillingness to come and probably figured out it was some fear of change. In my conscious mind I had legitimate excuses. I was traveling one week. I had to do a radio interview. I was tired from a hard day of work. All true. All which kept me from the group. And then it got easier.

Occasionally I would attend. At the end of the meeting I always felt fulfilled and promised myself that I would not forget how healthy the group was for my well-being. I’d swear I’d be back the next week. But I wouldn’t.

Well apparently I wasn’t the only one. I received an email last week saying the group was going to disband because attendance had become spotty.

I was angry and sad. How dare they close this group that I had been skipping for months? Of course I realized I had become the problem, but I knew I needed to save it.

Last night I arrived at the meeting angry. Out of the six of us there were three members that were saying their final goodbyes. No matter what happened to the group, they were leaving. These three people I cared about deeply. It was like three girlfriends you’re head over heels with telling you it’s over at the same time.

There remaining three of us that wanted the group to continue.

I relayed the story of the day of my divorce call and how the group was there for me. I became emotional talking about how they supported me through my toughest years.

I told the story about how one of the members cried years ago because she didn’t think a man would want her. Then she met her boyfriend and she cried because she realized she was worthy of love. Then she cried because he asked her to marry her. The group attended her wedding this past summer. It was beyond special. This is what happens when you’re around people every week for years.

The three that wanted to leave had legitimate reasons and they were sad, too. My anger toward them  dissipated and I realized they really didn’t want to abandon the group. But they were ready to move on. I’m not.

So, we’re now down to three and basically starting over. I’m hopeful that we’ll be able to attract some new members, or at least keep the existing ones we have.

I need to remember one of the ways to subdue loneliness is to be in the presence of people who love me. Why I so easily forget this, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll work on that next week in group.

I did a bunch of research on blue lights to see if they do, in fact, help to alleviate depression. Now, I don’t actually have depression. Well, not in the clinical sense. Sure I cry each morning when I awake, but that’s because the weight of the world is squarely resting on my shoulders! You know, normal thoughts. The blue light was appealing as it could help me to feel better and isn’t a destructive high.

During my research I found that therapy lights are the number one prescribed remedy for seasonal affect at the Mayo Clinic. Well, I’m certainly not smarter than those eggheads. So, now I wake up every morning and while I’m eating my cereal I am bathed in blue light like I’m playing a sax solo set at a jazz bar.

Then I pack up the sonofabitch and take it to work. It’s only a little bit bigger than my fist.  I get to work about fifteen minutes before the other employees and turn it on again.  At home I usually fire it up once more before bed when I’m writing.

Does this thing really work? Who the hell knows? But I do believe there’s something about sunlight that is energizing. The blue light is supposed to do the same thing direct sunlight does through the skin.

When I’m on the subway platform, even in single digit weather, if possible, I stare directly into the sun. With my eyes closed. I’m not a sociopath. There’s something that feels so nourishing to me to get even a few minutes of sunlight. I probably look like a weirdo staring into the sun with my eyes closed when it’s winter. Also I have a dog on my back in a pack. It’s a strange sight.

Tonight I started to think about why I don’t do other things that are good for me like some regular cardiovascular exercise. How I can get up every morning and bike ten miles to work, but when it’s too cold I can’t get to the gym. I know we’re imperfect people but the science is clear if I do a bit of cardio each day I’d have some great stuff pumping through my body – you know, neurotransmitters. The real drugs. I wouldn’t probably need the damned blue light.

I know eating ice cream is pleasurable and quick and easy. But getting an hour workout in is so much better. I believe the quality of my life can be summed up in the ability to make decisions that provide me the biggest benefit. I know some people like to say it’s about giving, but screw those martyrs. Nobody likes a show-off.

So, the question isn’t, “How do I become perfect?” The question also isn’t, “How do I get myself to the gym?” The question actually is, “Why am I choosing not to give this gift to myself?” That’s where the magic is.

When I ask this question I’m overcome with sadness about how mean I am to myself. The feeling passes second later, but I am aware that often I don’t think I’m deserving of good feelings. That stops me from the gym. It’s all behind my consciousness, but I think that’s what is happening.

Getting conscious about what’s going on with me is my work in 2013. That and less farting.

Now, if you will excuse me there’s a little bit of Breyer’s Moose Tracks left in the carton and it’s calling my name. I’ll use my blue light to even it out.