To The Universal Notary

I understand it’s ridiculous to be angry at the contract I signed.  I know I have no right.  I raised a large breed dog who experienced large breed dog problems and passed in a large breed dog way. I saw the path ahead, read the entire thing cover to cover, including the ending, and signed.  Still, mercy is a mean card dealt to the one who administers it. We know it’s coming from the start, it’s written right there. But we forget about it for a decade or so until realizing, too late, that the warranty ran out. But them’s the brakes, right?

I fear I stuffed a hole in my heart and might not have been ready. I worry that I haven’t honored their memory and joy they brought before filling their home.  But it wasn’t a home for me without something to worry about. All the time in the world isn’t helpful if there’s nothing to do. I don’t think I can stand my own company, so I enlisted two others who would.  And, I know I just signed short-term lease that is possibly month to month. Maybe I think this will absolve me of the betrayal of the first two by caring for two others. But I don’t like to think about that too much. When I saw their picture I knew they were mine. So I went and got them.  And I hope that’s alright.

Dear White Claw

Dear White Claw email answer-er,

I wanted to take the time to write and not only let you know how tasty your carbonated alcoholic beverage is (you knew this already), but to also inform you that you are the official beverage of the LEADERship Ashtabula County class of 2020.  I'm sure you've heard of us, but just in case, here's a legit website:  https://www.leadershipac.org/

LAC is a class act of a non-profit, and my class of 2020 made it a hair less so on our retreat this past August.  30 local professionals, strangers to each other, came together for a weekend of trust falls and campfires at a boy scout camp, and emerged friends (or at least we knew who to talk to to get someone out of jail). During the retreat, a campfire of camaraderie was lit one evening and the local school district's athletic director emerged with a gleam in his eye, a few cases of White Claw in his cooler and a challenge for the group:  We were going to have to finish all the Claws the organizers bought for the entire weekend in one evening. All the professionals in the class of 2020, from doctors and nurses, to chemists and tourism specialists, were united under one cause (Claws?).  We nodded solemnly to each other in the glow of the fire. 

Needless to say, our seminar the next morning was a little rough.  And then the pandemic hit and our graduation has been put on hold indefinitely. But we are undeterred, for our bonds were forced in the white aluminum of your cans.  So thank you for gift of a magical beverage that will forever brand our class.

Save the whales,

Amanda

Graduate School Nod

Here's to a grad prof, Dr. Carr, who made us all call him Rob, who let me create art instead of research papers for his class.  Here is a rendition of someone from then current events made entirely out of plastic spiders and cockroaches.  Cheers, Rob.

On Depression

One of my high school English teachers said you can't be a writer unless there's something wrong with you. Maybe not quite like that, but basically, if you haven't been through some really weird shit or have some sort of mild mental illness, you won't have the depth to write truly interesting things.  I believe we were reading Shirley Jackson at the time, and my dude just loved the part in "The Lottery" where they give the little boy a stone at the end and encourage him to throw. Upon hearing his assessment, I was quite bummed out.  I had a pretty well-adjusted life with a loving family and no childhood trauma to spark the fires of creativity. UGH. How was I going to be a writer?

Fast forward to a year ago where I was un-uniquely diagnosed with clinical depression, concluding years of denial, and cyclical self-sabotage. On the plus side, I had found the voice of my writing this past decade and feel I've made improvements (or at the very least, I amuse myself).  I've been published a few times and writing today is a creative outlet and source of joy with the added bonus that I now have the accolades of mental illness to accompany my words. A writer with depression might be an overused trope, but here I am, standing in the proverbial river with the likes of my idol Virginia Woolf (don't worry, I'm not the one with rocks in my pocket!). Gallows humor is fun.

And fret not, I'm too much of a rule follower to ever do anything drastic. I would rather suffer for my entire life than inconvenience anyone or break the law of God and man.  I also prefer to self-harm in the socially acceptable ways of overworking and abusing food and alcohol, hence why the big D went generally undetected for a long time.

So why am I writing this?  I don't know.  I've shared, with the world, where I almost shit my pants and somehow felt *that* was a more acceptable confession....which is wild.  I also haven't annoyed anyone with a personal essay in a while, so here we are.

Perhaps someday I'll write the dirty details of the days I'd hide the fact I stayed in bed until noon, or where I'd be silently screaming at myself to do something, ANYTHING, when I was too tired to get off the couch at 6pm, the unrelenting exhaustion when all I did was sleep, where I'd lie in bed after work and set my alarm to get up 15 minutes before my husband would get home. Or conversely, the days, sometimes weeks, without sleep where I'd wander around the house at night startling my animals, or when I'd eat until I got sick or drank until I blacked out because feeling bad was better than feeling nothing. But with depression comes an assload of shame, and shame demands silence.  This is still a work in progress.

One struggle I have is with talking openly about this with my family, who are the "rub some dirt on it" sort. My father, for instance, severely cut his arm one day while erecting a windmill, or something else equally ridiculous and badass, and POURED GASOLINE ON THE OPEN WOUND. Perhaps not the best way to sterilize, but regardless, letting the likes of them know I've been feeling blue and taking a lot of naps lately seems lame, in comparison.

I started an antidepressant last year and I would like to start a petition that this be used to dose the country's water supply. It was such a drastic change within a few weeks, I dropped weight, had the energy to run again, was able to do my abnormally high level of productivity without being stressed, and even started planning a small business. Since this past December, however, I got the D again (and not the fun kind). It took over, slowly, I didn't even notice until I was in bed more than I wasn't. I know that sounds bullshit, like dude, how did you not know? But I feel it was a boiled frog situation. Suddenly, almost three months went by in zombie mode and I can't even tell you where the tipping point was. Anyhoos, the good ol' primary care upped my dosage and things have been falling back into place.  I'm cautiously optimistic, though, because I'm terrified of going back in the hole, to be so disconnected that I slip into misery again and not even know it. 

I guess that's all I have on that for now.
Take your meds.
Save the whales.

On Advance Directive

Hey still alive people,

It appears I have died or am in the process.  Bummer.  I hope I went out someway cool and not whilst being an idiot.  However, I know myself, and I was likely doing something dumb like trying to pet something I shouldn’t, choked on one too many pizza rolls in my pie hole, or some other mortally embarrassing thing that led to my untimely death. Herein is how I’d prefer you to wrap things up.

Health Care Power of Attorney
Page 5/12 of my living will thing, which asked if I need more space AND INDEED, I DO.
Additional Instructions or Limitations:  I may give additional instructions or impose additional limitations on the authority of my agent.  Below are my specific instructions or limitations.

Gino, if you’re reading this, you were the first pick in the draft for caring for my dying body or burying my already dead corpse.  Sorry bud, that’s in the whole “better or worse” line of them vows. So, I’ll do my best to make it easy for you:

• Don’t embalm me, ew.  I’ll have enough preservatives from my hair care and horrid eating habits that I won’t waste immediately away.  
• Don’t get an expensive casket (I’m sure you weren’t going to lol)
• But for real, I don’t want a traditional casket.  What a friggen waste of cash, I'm literally going to turn into a pile of goo in there.  I’ve rather grown fond of the idea of natural decomposition.  This will be a bit of a pain in the ass because, well, decomposition starts right out the get go, so we’re looking at 3-7 days before things get stinky around here so you can't procrastinate as you normally would.  If we’re still in Northeast Ohio at the time of my demise, here’s a place that looked rad (and conveniently located only 1.5 hours from us: Foxfield Preserve 9877 Alabama Ave SW, Wilmot, OH 44689 (330-359-5235).  All you need is a shroud or a wicker casket, dump me in the ground, throw some dirt on there and let nature do its thing.  If we’re not in Ohio, fire up the old Google machine and search for “big naturals” …I jest!  “natural burials XXwhateverstateweareinXX”.  
• ALTERNATIVELY, if you want to donate ½ my corporal form to a body farm or bits and pieces to a search and rescue team, that’d be dope as hell.  You don’t get remains back or get to visit, hence why I included the natural burial above, so there’s an HQ to my rotting essence should anyone want to come and sit with me for a spell.  You gotta call and ask ‘em, cuz they fill up and such, but if they could use a femur to watch decompose for the next 40 years, go nuts.  Example:  Forensic Anthropology Center at University of Tennessee (https://fac.utk.edu/)
• I would like some flowers spread around my angelic form and at my dirt mound, if that’s not too much to ask.  
• If, for some reason, I die abroad or in a real gross and inconvenient way (first of all, go me!) then you can cremate me for ease of travel, I guess. Please see "Amanda’s preferred hierarchy of ways to dispose of her body" (Figure A).
• Bury whatever pet ashes we have accumulated with me too, so I can have my thunder buddies with me when it’s lights out.

Diane or Patrick Briggs, if you’re reading this, Gino and I likely died at the same time, probably because he was texting and driving, or we choked simultaneously at AYCE sushi.  Please see above.

James Briggs, if you are reading this, fuck bud.  Life just took a giant shit on you because that means Mom, Dad and Gino are all dead along with me.  Try and get my animals somewhere safe, otherwise do whatever works, man. FERDA.

Living Will Declaration
Page 5/7 Additional instructions or limitations 

Alright, here’s the deal on the harvest of my sweet, sweet organs and eyeballs and how long I wanna be hooked up for:

• I am not listed officially as on organ donor but feel free, if I’m hanging on the brink and it’s not looking good, to make the decision to slice and dice.  I leave this decision with Gino and the folks.  I would like anything that can be used to go to use, I’m just not officially on the DMV paperwork because I read a conspiracy theory once and BOY OH BOY /adjusts tinfoil hat.
• I’m not wanting to be a vegetable and draining anyone’s finances.  If I’m a gonner, per what the medical professionals say and what your gut is telling you, pull that plug Steel Magnolias style. 
• I do not want a showing or a funeral, and ABSOLUTELY DO NOT HAVE AN OPEN CASKET, but if everything is going according to plan I will be in a hole somewhere being eaten by worms and not on display to the public.  If someone was important to me, they’ll get in touch with you. However, if a bunch of people want to show up to throw me in the ground and have a beer after, great. Just remember to pour one out for ya girl. No matter what, don’t let a funeral home take you to the cleaners over little ol me.  I’m not there, yo.
• Also, delete my Facebook page, that dumpster fire will not be my everlasting memorial.

Thank you for reading my aftercare instructions.  If for some reason you need to deviate from this plan, just do your best, I won’t really know the difference anyways ;p

See you suckers on the other side.

Fig. A Amanda's hierarchy of preferred body disposal methods

Boat for Sale.

I tried to sell our boat on craiglist.  It got flagged and taken down.

Don't adjust your polarized Oakleys - this boat is FOR REAL. Imagine you and your bros (or hauxs) on this Sea Ray of freakin' sunshine. Born in 1993, an excellent boat vintage year, by the way -  the color scheme is like a 90s dixie cup, and she drives like one too!

AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS with things like the radio, the steering wheel, and the table that turns into a super uncomfortable bed (ooooo ahhhh!).  Test your relationships as you scream at your boat guests to assist you with putting in, pulling out, and all the various other annoying tasks associated with boat ownership!  Can't wait to get on the lake?  WELL YOU'RE GONNA.

This baby comes with all accessories like the flamingo lights and the stick-on cup holders...actually we're keeping the lights, Wal-Mart just doesn't give those things away, you know.  We will leave you with the (faux) Little Trees Air Freshener and the boat hook (spoiler alert, it'll collapse on you just when you need it most and test how close your marriage is to divorce when you try and dock!)

We never changed the name because an old timey captain said it was bad luck, but in our hearts we named it "Hall and Boats" and the trailer goes by "Totes My Boats" - we'll need you to contractually agree to keep these names.

Bonus:  Sh*tter's never been used!  You can be the first to drop anchor on this bad boy!

Fear and Loathing

Gather 'round, children, and hear the account of my most humble moment on planet earth:  the time I almost shit my pants in the Las Vegas desert.

We've all been there, right?  On vaca, away from home for an extended period. Lotta rich foods, lotta drinking and ZERO regard for your own well-being. Fuck getting enough fiber and sleep. Add the time zone difference from East to West coast and you've got the favorable atmospheric conditions for some plumbing issues.

There I was, Las Vegas, circa 2009.  Me, honey-bro and another couple decided to hit Vegas for a week. In retrospect, I'd like to state that this decision was mistake #1. Allowing my delicate body, one that was only used to a temperate deciduous forest climate and bland foods, to suddenly be thrust into the alcohol soaked sand for more than 2.5 days was an act of hubris.

Mistake #2.  I was trying to "eat my money's worth" at every buffet in Vegas.  I am a human trash pile from blue collar upstate New York.  The fact that I was paying over $30 a whack at each meal was COM. PLETE. bullshit. Hell no, Mr. Casino.  I am tucking in.  The house was gonna lose on this girl.

(Oh, younger Amanda.  You were a purer soul then.)

Flash forward to day 5.  I wasn't ill, per se, but not feeling tip-top, that's for sure.  And there was a sense of foreboding...when you see a certain volume going in, and none coming back out for several days, it can leave one feeling a bit concerned.  But the trip was coming to a close, this was our final night out, and I figured worst case there'd be a few colorful days upon my return to Boston, but that I'd be no worse for wear.

With the clarity of hindsight, I can now see the series of unfortunate events that unfolded:

• For our final dinner out, we decided to go exploring, eventually winding up about a mile off The Strip from our hotel. 
• I remember ordering the veggie burger, you know, to be safe. With that false sense of security, I crammed that mf-er into my pie hole with abandon.  
• Since it was a beautiful night, we decided to walk the mile back rather than taking a cab.
• The route we took back was not populated.  We were walking in the middle of some area that was about to be developed. The bulldozers and bucket trucks were empty and left in the dirt, our only company on the trek back.

It started fine enough.  The desert air that night was refreshing.  I was amongst good friends and the love of my life.  I filled my lungs and...started sweating.  Like, a lot. Surely from the desert heat. We marched on.

"Guys...uh...how much farther do we have left?"

I felt a slight tug. I knew I'd have to make a deposit soon, but there'd be time to make it to our hotel and handle this discretely. 15 more minutes, max.  Nothing to worry about, just make sure to head right to the room when we got back.  No problem.

My pace slowed and I started to fall behind.  What didn't slow was my heart rate. The tug was becoming more of a kick. And it was kicking at 2-minute intervals and falling.  

"Heh...maybe we should uhm...*gasp* call a cab?"

"What?  We're over halfway there now we might as well finish and save some cash."

The kicks, now at 1-minute contractions, suddenly turned to stabs.  I doubled over.

"Woah...you ok?"

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFfffine... heh...just *burp* ..yikes...cramping for some reason..." I stood back up and mopped at my flop sweat with my sleeve.  

"You don't look good at all..."

The next wave of pain sent me almost to my knees.  "Just,...ah...just keep walking guys, I gotta like... figure this out..."

Of course, they didn't keep walking, but were now concerned and audience to quite a spectacle.  

"I need to find a place to stop" I finally admitted, putting away my pride.

"Stop? What do you mean stop...we're in the middle of a construction zone." complained my love.

"I. Need. A. Bathroom." I growled.

"Oh....but there's literally nothing out here..."  he offered helpfully.

"................"

When the pain eased, I limped forward for a while. It was here I began weighing my options. The reality was setting in, I could barely walk, and could clearly not make it back to the hotel with my deteriorating condition.  The group, at this point, was unaware of how serious my situation was.  The intestines were preparing for an emergency evacuation. I had thrown the dice at dinner, and they just turned up snake eyes.

Panicked, I whirled around, looking for something, ANYTHING, for privacy and shelter. An excavator creaked in the wind.

"I...uhm...might have to...go over there for a minute".  Another lie, for the coming tide would not be "over" in a "minute".  My love was now at the correct level of concern.

"Oh...ohmygod....no....no!  Let's keep walking...keep moving don't stop!"

What happened next is one of the few reasons I believe God hasn't abandoned us.  As if appearing from a mirage, a small casino came into vision.  In the middle of nowhere.  And in brightly lit gold letters, flashed "GOLD NUGGET CASINO".  Was this a fever dream?  A joke from the universe?  No matter.  The sight gave me the burst of energy I needed to finish my zombie walk to their door.  Once inside, we were met with the usual punch-in-the-face of light and noise from the slot machines.  Overwhelmed by sensations both internal and external, I bumped into a waitress as I whirled around, trying to orient myself.  My pupils were dilated. I was sweating out food smells.

"Ugh...bathrooms are back there" she said as she nodded her head towards the back and stepped away from me.  I lurched forward and entered the women's room.  It was ENORMOUS.  At least 20 stalls in a long, bowling alley type row, and it appeared no one was in here. I flew into a stall and got to work, hoping to be as efficient as possible and not humiliate myself anymore than I already had.  We had an early flight and everyone needed to get to bed.

Sigh.

As things initiated, my earlier prediction was realized. This would not be quick, nor efficient. The pain: overwhelming. The sweat: unyielding.  I got so sick, I TOOK OFF MY CLOTHES.  LIKE A TODDLER.  I was in the middle of Las Vegas, bare ass naked, sweating, shaking, and on the brink of unconsciousness.  Is this what Elvis felt like in the final moments?

I pressed on.  Quite literally.

My friend texted me at this point as we were pushing about 45 minutes into the ordeal.
Jenn: [Do you need me to come in there?]
Me: [MOST DEFINITELY DO NOT COME IN HERE]
Jenn: [OK but...are you OK?]
Me: [YES.  NO.  I NEED MORE TIME. DON'T COME FOR ME]

Things were still progressing at an alarming rate.  The volume, had I not been so scared for my life, would have impressed me.  I had to take a breather and reassess the surroundings.  Kicking my shorn clothes to the front of the stall, I turned to face my reality.  And the reality was, we needed to reset the playing field.  I gave the porcelain a flush.  It chugged.  It sputtered.  It went down then came right back up.

Wide-eyed in horror, I grabbed my clothes off the floor, opened the door, and ran across the aisle to another stall.  Reminder:  I'm still 200% naked. If there was someone else in the bathroom to behold the pitiful failure of a woman barrel rolling from one stall to another with an armful of her clothes while one toilet overflowed in her wake, I would not know.  Pain seized my body again, and I didn't have time to mourn the loss of humanity left behind.  The second half was about to start.

After an hour and a half, I emerged.  My clothes were soaked.  I was pale.  My hair was drenched and pulled to the top of my head in a matted bun, chunks falling out around my face.  I informed my group that we would be taking a cab and that I estimated I had about 15 minutes to get to the hotel.

The rest of the night was spent on a moist pile of week old towels in the bathroom, cramping, crying, praying.  There was nothing left to give, but my body tried anyways, for HOURS.  With the light of dawn, my love creaked open the door to my sick den.

"Hey.....so, um..we have a flight in a few hours?"
I looked up from my towel pile with the expression of a rabid raccoon.
"I NEED YOU TO GO FIND IMODIUM"
"Will that help, or...I mean you still need to pack..."
"I AM NOT FLYING IF I CAN'T STOP SHITTING."
"Right! OK...Imodium..."

I am happy to report we were able to catch our flight.  It was the scariest plane ride I've ever had to take, every bump of turbulence had me conducting a body scan.  I was popping Imodium like pez.

They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and proving that theory, QUITE a bit of me stayed.