Bad Hippie, No Patchouli!

Now that soccer season is over, I decided to turn my attention to another (and even shorter) season -- strawberry season. Yeah, you heard me -- strawberry season. If I ever end up stranded on a desert island with a minimal food supply, I would hope it could include strawberries. And cheese. But cheese has nothing to do with this entry. This is about my love for strawberries. Real strawberries...from a local farm. Not strawberries trucked across the country from the Sunshine State.

Last Saturday, I decided (now that I have a bunch of free time on my hands) to go out to the local strawberry farm and pick strawberries. I haven't been berry picking since The Beavis was 10 and I convinced him and his friend to be my strawberry picking slaves for the day.(Ah, good times, good times.) But last weekend, it was all me. Me and a giant patch of strawberries. And I was determined to pick a bunch of those little suckers...enough to eat in cereal and yogurt and fruit salads for the entire week, with plenty left over to freeze for the winter.

Now, I don't know if you've ever frozen strawberries for consumption during the off season, but it takes A LOT of strawberries to get anything worth freezing. A lot of strawberries. Maybe two or three hours worth of bending over rows and rows of strawberries, hoping that the end of the strawberry season doesn't mean piddly little strawberries with no flavor. And maybe, just maybe, because you are picking the strawberries alone, you'll choose to leave the already full buckets of strawberries at the bottom of the row you just picked, so that you don't have to drag them along as you fill up a new bucket. And maybe, just MAYBE, the folks picking strawberries along with you will leave the patch before you, taking YOUR already filled buckets of strawberries (lovingly left at the bottom of the rows you already picked) with them when they leave.

Seriously, folks. Who the hell takes another person's buckets of strawberries with them when they leave the U-Pick patch? Huh? Tell me!

When that happens, there's not much you can do (if you still want strawberries) except to suck it up, grab another bucket, and keep picking. For another hour. Until the thunderstorms roll in and chase you out of the patch with your carefully guarded remaining buckets of red berries.

And, after a long afternoon picking berries (followed by an even longer evening washing and cutting the damn things), you'll end up with...four one-quart freezer bags filled with berries. Four quarts. FOUR. QUARTS. And you'll curse that damn family with their four kids and their minivan and their Michigan State bumper sticker, and you'll think about how they are enjoying your berries right now -- while all you have for the coming non-strawberry season if four stinking quarts of berries.

And then, because soccer season is over, you'll consider going back to the U-Pick patch next weekend to try to get some more berries. But, you'll vow never to leave your berry buckets unattended at the bottom of ANY row, not even if you are alone in the strawberry patch -- not ever again.

The first week of June marked a lot of changes for everyone in the Hippie Househould, the big one (for me) being that The Beavis finished up eighth grade and got his pass to move on...to high school. I don't know about you, but I'm not ready for The Beavis to enter high school. Hell, I STILL vividly remember my first day of high school and the ultra-miserable hormonal mess that followed for the next four years. Granted, The Beavis has been in the same school district for his entire life, and has a circle of friends that will most likely stick together through high school -- just like they did all through elementary and middle school. Still, my BABY is in high school. And he and his buddies are already planning their outfits for HOMECOMING.

That's just not possible.

But overall, I think The Beavis has got his shit together and will get through the next four years. I even have a back-up plan. If he can't make the grade, I'm calling in his old math teacher to give him a little lecture about the importance of his studies:

What? It takes a village to raise a child, you know. And sometimes some members of that so-called village have to be a little tough on the more obnoxious inhabitants.

Shortly following the last day of junior high, The Beavis' U14 recreational soccer team played their last game together. Most of the kids have been together since they were seven years old, and -- when they are not screwing around or threatening to beat each other up during practice -- they can play some good soccer. The team made it to tournaments this year, which is always fun, and -- although the coaches had some doubts as to their ability to take home the first place trophy -- the kids pulled two consecutive wins out of their collective backsides, while playing the most cohesive and well-executed games of their last two seasons together. Go figure.

Of course, this means the end of my rather inglorious "coaching" career. The kids are all getting ready to try out for their respective high school teams, and will be going on to bigger and better soccer fields. Me? Well, I'll miss 'em. They may have been a difficult crew, but I enjoyed the fact that they got me outdoors three times a week and forced me to really commit my lazy self to their cause. And during the period immediately following my lay off, going to soccer practice on a regular basis and focusing on the kids was a lifesaver. So, while saying goodbye to Saturday morning 8 a.m. soccer runs, a stinky equipment bag, and way too many games spent standing in the rain doesn't SOUND all that bad, I'm pretty much bereft at the loss. Clearly, the accupuncture isn't working all that well.

The Bad News Bears strike again, ending a winning season on a high note.

Of course, what's a winning season without gatorade? Especially when you dump it over your MOM.

Thanks a lot, Beavis. Now, come here so I can strangle you. Note: Thanks to HWSRN for taking the tournament picts. Especially the ones of me. With Gatorade on my head. No, I'm not mad. Seriously. You shouldn't worry about me seeking any kind of revenge at all.

Of course, our "adult" recreational league sort of disbanded for the summer, too -- leaving me with quite a bit of free time. Crazy! I guess I may get some knitting and/or home improvements done after all. It's amazing how much time a little thing like soccer can take up...once you get into it. Just amazing.

Yeah, I'm maudlin. I don't like things to end. For me, the end of The Beavis' middle school years and his aging out of the soccer rec league system is a reflection of the passing of time...for ME. When The Beavis entered middle school, I was 30. When he started playing soccer (to keep up with his cool friends from school,) I was 27. Now, I'm staring at ANOTHER birthday in just two weeks, and feeling a bit...I don't know...nervous about it. Maybe even a little bit OLD.

Of course, there's only one way to cure that feeling. Join the high school Athletic Booster Club! Get involved in high school soccer! Play more with your adult league! Maybe even...coach another team?

I know. I really should just stick with the knitting, shouldn't I?

The Kinks sang about depression long before it was trendy to be depressed, as evidenced by the title of this post — and, yes…one of my all-time favorite tunes. It’s deceptively peppy for a song about mental disease, but such is the genius of Ray Davies. He earned his bread and butter off of fairly nostalgic tunes about Britain’s past glories, and had a knack for turning a depressing topic into something deceptively light-hearted enough to top “Top of the Pops” time and time again.

Heck, if you don’t believe me, try listening to “Dead End Street.” If you can get past the feedback from brother Dave’s guitar, you’ll find a very grim song. Shoot – if you’re really intrepid, you could probably find the video on You Tube. It’s dark stuff. With a great pop hook. Go figure.

Anyhow, I love that song. Not because I’m a schizophrenic. And no, I’m not even paranoid, except on occasion – for example, when I have an “off” day on the soccer field and think my teammates are IM-ing each other about my inadequacies. But blue…now, that’s another story. I am blue a lot of the time. And I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember.

I was always a moody kid, I think. It’s hard to go back and remember how you were, especially as you age. But I have it on good authority from my aunt that I was a shy kid, often hiding behind a book at family reunions and sitting out the games or sports events that everyone else so enthusiastically participated in. No, I wasn’t a loner – I had a core group of three friends, and we were very close. I also had a fairly wide circle of acquaintances at school. But I was shy…my nose stayed in a book most of the time and I generally walked with my eyes on the ground.

I guess I thought if I couldn’t see other people, they couldn’t see me.

My folks liked to explain this away to other people as me having an “artistic” temperament. I wanted to be a writer from the moment I knew what a writer was, and I was forever sketching plots or writing poems and narratives that I would immediately destroy for fear they would be found. I think I suffered Van Gogh’s angst and Hemingway’s writer’s block long before I knew anything about the artists themselves. It made me quite moody and emotional as a kid. But I guess that’s what writers and other artistic types do. They cultivate moody until it is a high art form.

My so-called mood swings got worse once puberty hit. By college, I was probably not very stable. A combination of life changes…my family’s third move in five years, me going away to college, the loss of close friendships…sent me over the edge in college, where (although not diagnosed) I’m pretty sure I had a breakdown. So, I dropped out. From a college where I had a great scholarship and was making the dean’s list with ease. At that point, however, I could have given a shit less. It was the first time I experienced the “crawl-into-bed-and-stare- at-the-ceiling” kind of depression I would eventually come to know all too well.

Oddly enough, being pregnant alleviated my depression. I was a good pregnant person…no morning sickness, no crazy cravings, the picture of health. High-risk, to be sure (I was still a teenager), but my doctors were pretty happy with me. The pregnancy hormones elevated my mood and kept me on an even keel…I worked 60 hours a week at a labor-intensive job, and was going to school at the local community college.

Hell, I don’t even have that type of energy NOW. I really can’t tell you how I pulled it off then, with a parasitic Beavis protesting his 9-month confinement vigorously on the best of days.

I don’t recall if post-partum depression was an issue for me. There was a lot to contend with – I didn’t expect the labor to be as difficult as it was (neither did the doctors), and recovering was hard. I was living at home with my parents, and incorporating a baby into the routine was dicey. Working, finding day care, signing up for state benefits to support him, dealing with separation anxiety when I left him for the first time…I didn’t have time to wallow. I simply had to DO. I doubt I even had time to think at all during his first year of life. To be honest, I don’t even remember much of it.

The “post-partum” stuff came much later. I had managed to get myself into a four-year college, and was determined to get a degree so I could support The Beavis and stop relying on the state to do it for me. But part way through my first year of college, I made the executive decision to leave The Beavis’ dad. This decision has caused lasting repercussions, including three separate custody suits against me, and a huge loss of time and income while I was fiddling away my time and energy in court. It was at this time that I also made the unwise decision to get married (obviously, not to The Beavis’ dad) – another bad decision that cost me too much angst and emotional energy before I had the good sense to ask my now ex-husband for a divorce.

Somewhere around The Beavis’ second birthday, I sought treatment for my depression. I had the definite feeling that I was not all there, and my concern was NOT that I would hurt myself or him, but that I couldn’t be a present mother, a good mother to him in my “condition.” So began a long trial-and-error of many drugs…Prozac, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Buspar, etc…until I found Effexor and discovered my miracle cure. I was reborn.

Effexor made me “me” again…without the nagging doubts and fears always crowding out my thoughts and causing me to second-guess myself. I had energy, I had confidence, I had stick-to-it-ness, hell – I even felt flirty and sexy. But the one thing it also had, over time, was a pretty crappy effect (all puns intended) on my stomach. The result? A GI specialist recommending the drug’s cessation. And, granted, I am happy that my stomach is better, but God almighty – there are days when I wonder if I rival Van Gogh as cuckoo.

What’s the solution? I don’t know. I have done the yoga. I do the regular exercise. I take the B12 supplements. I am rigorous in my diet. I try to meditate. I try to knit. I garden. I use soccer as a crutch to spike my adrenaline level and get me through a day or two before I crash again. I write about it, sometimes. I did try Lexapro a few weeks ago, but I couldn’t take the side effects and the return of all my stomach pain.

My current doc’s recommendation? Take the Lexapro, and double, triple, quadruple if I have to, my daily dosage of fiber and Miralax. Excuse me, Western Medicine, but that doesn’t seem like an acceptable answer to me. Hell, I don’t think I could drink enough liquid in one day to get all of that stuff down. And even with that regimen, there’s no guarantee that my stomach will be happy. Sure, I may be happy…but my stomach? Probably not so much.

So, in a fit of absolute despair, I caved. I went absolutely nuts. I went…to an acupuncturist. My parents are convinced I’ve lost my mind. HWSRN doesn’t have much faith in it, either. The Beavis, well – he just wants to watch them stick the needles in my ear. As for myself...well, the verdict was out until the treatment worked.

I had heard, from someone else who had recently been to the same acupuncturist, that he experienced complete and utter relaxation during the treatment, even falling asleep on the table. But when the acupuncturist was poking away at my “meridians,” trying to determine the root cause of my stress and depression, she perhaps figured out what no one else has ever thought to suggest – that I am a deeply angry individual.

It turns out that the pressure points on your feet are hooked up to your liver, which is the organ that is equated with anger. And when the points on my feet were manipulated just right, I felt it – and I screamed. After that, it was determined that she would treat my stomach and my depression…by releasing my anger. Weird, huh?

So, in went the needles…two in each ear, two in each hand, one in the middle of my forehead, one in my skull, six straight across my stomach, three on each knee, and I don’t know how many on my feet. What I do know is that once the needles were in, I started shaking. And sweating. And crying. I don’t know how to explain it, except to say that I felt this huge upswelling of emotion, like water gushing over a damn, and it just wouldn’t stop. It was like wave upon wave of something, rushing up and crashing over me. I couldn’t will it to stop…it was absolutely involuntary.

I shook until the last needle came out, and was utterly drained when it was over. Drained, but refreshed. The acupuncturist said the reaction made sense for someone who experienced (and bottled) a lot of anger. She also said that the skin around the needles in my stomach turned bright red, like bulls-eyes. Weird as it sounds, something good happened in that room. Something healing.

I know that acupuncture isn’t a magic bullet. I have to go multiple times before I will begin to “self-heal,” or so says the hippie literature on the subject. And, I have to admit that I am not as calm or relaxed today as I was last week. But for three or four days, I was mellow. And happy. And positive. AND…pain free. It was amazing. More amazing than any anti-depressant that I have ever experienced.

So, is it the answer? I don’t know. I really don’t. But it’s a start…and, along with the mandate to do yoga at home and drink more water, maybe it will work. At least I hope it does. I’m not really looking forward to the alternatives if it doesn’t.

I have always been a believer in symbols, and an even greater believer in talismans. Whether for protection, luck, or some other esoteric reason, I like to have my talismans around. And in truth, I prefer to wear them.

When I was eight years old, my grandmother gave me a locket that used to belong to her sister. It was pretty enough as jewelry goes, I guess -- shaped like a heart, with a etched flower design. The minute I put that locket on, I vowed never to take it off. And I didn't take it off -- I wore that necklace through junior high, through high school, and even to my senior prom. After a while, the locket was more of a habit than a piece of jewelry...I fiddled with it whenever I was bored or nervous, particularly in math class and often around boys. I'm not sure if I thought it rendered me invisible or beautiful, but it was definitely magical to me. I didn't take it off, not until long after The Beavis was born and I lost it.

Once the locket was gone, I went on a quest to find a new talisman. My first communion cross didn't feel right. Bracelets didn't work, either. Rings irritated me. That's when I hit on the idea of a tattoo. A permanent talisman! I wouldn't have to worry about losing it, and it wouldn't get in my way or yanked on by a curious toddler.

Alright, I admit it. The tattoo was also an act of defiance. I knew it would "freak" most everyone I knew out. I'm not exactly a tattoo-looking kind of person, I guess. More of a librarian/school teacher type. So the tattoo would serve a dual purpose -- it would protect me, and it would drive my dad nuts.

I went ahead and got my tattoo...a half moon, with clouds and stars, that hovers over my left breast. Defiant, yes, but also symbolic. My birthday is in July, which makes me a Cancer. Cancers are ruled by the moon, which is ruled by water and the tides. The tattoo became a symbol of my innermost self and a talisman to protect and define me.

The added bonus was that my grandmother thought it was hysterical. And kind of pretty. Score!

For a while, the moon was enough. But then I went through a divorce, and I was left feeling vulnerable and alone. Not very strong. In need of a little help, I guess. Since I had spent four years studying ancient religions in college and was still in the middle of my heathen phase, I went straight for the source...Barbara Walker's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets. Lo and behold, there it was -- my new talisman, and my second tattoo. A Bridget's Knot, which is also known as a "knot of protection." Bridget is a mother goddess -- a co-opted symbol of ancient Celtic religion and Christianity -- and a protectress to her children. The symbolism (and timing) was perfect.

The Bridget's knot is inked in above my right ankle, boldy purple and green and yellow and blue, hanging out for all the world to see. I suppose some folks might think it's a little bit trashy (especially when I bust out the silver anklet in the summertime), but I love my tattoo. I know what it means. And what it has meant to me to have a physical reminder of magic in my life, even at the darkest times.

Unfortunately, tattoos are addictive. As is my need for a new talisman to represent the changes in my life. I'm turning 34 in a month, but I think I can wait until I'm 35 to add something new to my collection. I'm jonesing for a small pair of angel wings on my right shoulder, with the Japanese symbols for "grace" in the center. Not "grace" as in "Grace," but "grace" as in the ability to live well under pressure, without giving up or losing your shit. I think that pretty much would sum up the first part of my 30s, and serve as a reminder to me to keep on keepin' on, with grace, humor, and compassion toward others.

I'm not much interested in adding a ton of body art like some folks like to do; instead, I like to pick my pieces and add them as I can, so that they have value to me. Sort of like saving up for a good piece of jewelry from Tiffany's rather than buying a cheap knock-off from QVC. Plus, that moon is going to look pretty damn ridiculous in another 40 years, when my boobs are hanging down around my knees. I don't need to add anything else that will morph (too much) with time and turn into a caricature of its former self.

In approximately seven hours, The Beavis and his friends will run through the doors of their middle school for the last time -- heading off not only on their summer adventures, but to high school.

Yeah, high school. I am the parent of a high school student. That does not seem possible. It seems like it was only yesterday that I was signing him up for kindergarten and sending him off to school with a ginormous backpack full of crayons and kleenex and glue sticks. Now, if he bops out the door with his lunch, it's a good day. Never mind the backpack and supplies...a math assignment sheet folds up nicely to fit in your back pocket.

When we went to parent orientation at the high school, I got some strange looks from the folks who weren't use to seeing me around. And the teacher running the show, well -- she took one look at me and asked: "May I help you?" I don't think she quite believed the explanation that I was to there about my son's forthcoming educational experiences. I may be closing in on 34, but have been told I can still pass for someone much younger. Someone who DOES NOT put up with a teenager on a regular basis, I guess. Showing up in your soccer gear doesn't win bonus points with authority figures, either. (Hey, in my defense -- I was coming from soccer practice. For the kids. You know...where I am an "authority" figure?)

Anyhow, this strange new world of high school seems...impossible. How can The Beavis be old enough for THAT? It's hard to imagine that we've lived through everything prior to this milestone...the horrible first year of school (with the mean, mean boy-hating kindergarten teacher), the difficult transition to first grade, moving buildings in the third and sixth grade, navigating locker combinations and classroom switches, and dealing with all of that funky adolescent crap just as the school district makes a bunch of changes and starts bringing in more stringent academic standards.And let's not forget the year I subbed in his middle school -- good, bad, or ugly? The jury's still out on that one, or so I've heard.

Oh, there's been good stuff, too. The Beavis' second grade teacher, Mrs. Lee, was amazing. She understood him perfectly, and had no beef with wiggly little boys who wanted to stand next to their desk to do their work -- as long as they truly did their work. And his fourth grade teacher, now our neighbor, was fabulous...she had just graduated from college with her teaching degree, after raising four babies and working hard to earn her chops. She brought so much energy and youth to the classroom that year. (Hell, she's still bringing it. She's amazing!) And seventh grade, well -- The Beavis met his new math teacher, a former noncom in Iraq, and became an instant disciple. Sure, he got busted immediately on the first day of school, but it set the tone for a respectful relationship -- one that I hope continues even as he moves through the high school years. And, of course, there's his orchestra teacher. But I can't get maudlin about her...she runs the orchestra program in the high school, too. The Beavis won't be escaping her steely, vice-like grip just yet.

I guess part of wondering where the time has gone for The Beavis involves wondering where the time has gone for ME. Once upon a time, I brought home a tiny bundle of Beavis from the hospital, never imagining that he'd turn into a 5'6" teenager that weighed (at last count) 145 pounds and enjoyed benchpressing sixth graders for fun. If you peruse my flickr photos, you'll see that a huge sea change has taken place from seventh to eighth grade. Gone is the last trace of any kind of baby fat or softness, and in its place is some weird man-child with a deep voice who is by turns grouchy and sort of sulky, and then pleasant and fun to know. In short, a teenager.

So, today I guess we're celebrating The Beavis moving on to a new adventure in life, as well as me moving on to a new adventure in life. No more parent-teacher conferences and cute book reports; instead, we have Booster Club and sports recruiters and graduation tests and SATs and colleges to consider. Weird. Very, very weird.

Off I go...to volunteer for the last time at the middle school, and to send the Beavis of to high school in style. With lots of picture-taking and embarrassment, naturally.

What? You thought I was going to the academic awards ceremony to be weepy? Hell, no! I'm going to be a complete and total pain-in-the-ass to my sensitive, and mostly embarrased-by-his-mother teenager!