The usually alarmist posting style of WebMD let me down when trying to diagnose The Mc at 3am Sunday morning.

What their timid article about our friend FP should really say is: “Those suffering from food poisoning will frequently clutch their stomachs, beg for death and run unexpectedly towards any object that might serve as a receptacle for their projectile vomiting.”

It should continue on to say that people in the throes of poisoning can be quoted as saying “oh God…oh God… oh God… oh God…honey, it hurts … oh God… oh God…”

That would have made it much easier to diagnose, which is key in treatment. I mean, I could treat him for something else, like lice, but I’m not sure the desired effect would have been reached.

With regards to treatment, the article should list the following:

Things you should *not* do:
- Allow the barfer to consume liquids within 30 minutes of last explosive episode
- Give the barfer Emotrol, Pepto or Immodium

Things you should do:
- Call your health insurance nurse line after the second “episode”. Do not wait until five hours later when the sickling is finally ready to accept defeat against the unseen
- Take copious notes so you can mock the ill when they’re – un-ill.

Nothing says “love” and “healing” quite like getting a laugh out of your PFL’s misery…then sharing it on teh interwebz.

Next Friday afternoon I’ll board a plane for Ireland and all I can think of – besides “omgwtf I haven’t even started packing” – is “omgwtf am I doing, I’m going to die. The Mc won’t even be with me and we’ll never get to build the cabin and I still haven’t gone swimming with turtles and who will give the boys mani-pedis and and…”

I blame him completely.

Apparently nearly 4 years of being with a man who gets hives at the mere mention of boarding a plane has turned me into a ragingly unstable, paranoid lunatic.

Never having thought of myself as an easily influenced person let alone a person easily influenced via the osmosis like transmission neurosis of her partner, I am disgusted. Disgusted, disheartened, confused, lost, disturbed, a little pale though reasonably well groomed, and oh, did I mention disgusted?

My mental bags are packed. The itinerary is set, passport and car rental and plane tickets all printed and waiting to be put into a yet to be determined piece of luggage. Am I avoiding packing because I’m inexplicably freaked out or because my tripod won’t fit in my wheely bag and I’m frustrated I’m going to have to go buy another one?

I’ve always adored travel! (see exhibits a b, c, etc.) Especially solo travel (though this trip won’t be solo it also won’t be with The Mc) and travel to far away beautiful places and omgwtf I’m bringing my camera with me this time and last time all I had was a half dozen shaksy disposables and it’s going to be awesome…so could someone please tell me what filthy bar toilet seat I picked these voices up from so I can go back and sue the cleaning service?

Did the plane landing on the Hudson and the chopper colliding with a small plane and countless others falling from the sky screw me up, or can I legitimately blame The Mc?

I ask because blaming him is easier to stomach than me just getting old and scared all by myself. I’m not capable of such heinousness.

So here I go, typing it all out hoping that talking about The Boogyman (capitalization is called for in a case such as his) will make him less real and keep my plane in the air.

Quick. Someone. Validate me!

I’ve been fascinated by horrible devastating events since I was able to check books out in the school library. I wanted, I suppose, to learn all about the tragic, violent things that could happen to me before they could happen. Nostradamus? OMG. In love at age 9.

So yeah. I’ve been watching. Waiting. Y2K came and went. *sigh* But now? 2012.

I am officially the bitch of the History channel. They call me once in a while to verify…

“Hello?”
“Hey Maigh, it’s The History Channel. Who’s my bitch?”
“I am! I am!”

So I get to thinking: wow. How interesting that so many friends are at a crossroads in their lives. So many of my friends are making families (via babies or friends), seeking a spiritual home, trying to live.

Is it symptomatic of our age? Is it symptomatic of what’s happening with the economy (and the societal breakdown we’re witnessing in Atlanta)? Is it symptomatic of what’s happening to the environment? Or are we all feeling something deep inside we don’t understand and can’t comprehend that compels us to change before we make ourselves extinct?

There are a good many books out there that say we’re on our way, you know. That if we don’t wake up and evolve (via whatever means it takes), we’re going to wind up imploding on ourselves.

If 2012 is the end, there are two approaches: mine and that of my friend HRH. Her attitude is along the lines of “if the world is going to end, I don’t have to worry about cancer or replacing the HVAC!” and mine is “if the world is going to end, I’m going to jam as much into it as I can”…not that it wasn’t already one of my moral imperatives.

I’m not sure I subscribe to the imploding theory, but I subscribe to this: we all need to change.

Why not? What can it hurt? We owe it to ourselves, the honor of our parents, our chillin’s (iffin’ we’re gonna pop some out) and society in general to step. it. up.

I don’t, and never really have, understood people who aren’t wired to give back. Maybe you do it financially instead of by volunteering at the Food Bank. That’s cool, you’re giving back. What I’m realizing though in this day of interwebs and tragedies and generally getting to know people better (because Melinda is a miracle worker, donchanow) is that they don’t. By and large, less than 90% of the people I know are actively involved in the community or any non-profit in a meaningful way.

Why is that?

Srsly. Step it up, folks…whether 2012 is the end of the world or not.

1grace
Pronunciation: \ˈgrās\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin gratia favor, charm, thanks, from gratus pleasing, grateful; akin to Sanskrit gṛṇāti he praises
Date: 12th century

1 a: unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification b: a virtue coming from God c: a state of sanctification enjoyed through divine grace
2 a: approval, favor barchaic : mercy, pardon c: a special favor : privilege d: disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency e: a temporary exemption : reprieve

You know that part in the movie Signs where the alien has the kid in his arms and Mel Gibson has the flashback to his wife, dying? She’s pinned between a car and a tree and she says “tell Merrill to swing away” and he thinks she’s out of her mind (dying, obviously) until that moment years later when it all hits him smack in the face in the living room with the trophy baseball bat?

If you didn’t remember, maybe you do now.

My mom used to call me two things that went beyond the expected variations on my nickname or even *gasp* my real, full name. All three of ‘em. Beyond Megret, McGarrett, Meggers and the like were these two: Clyde and Grace.

Clyde was because I’m a “heavy walker”, have been since I was a tater-tot dipped in ketchup and loaded with salt and pepper. I also had big feet for my age, calves that – in relation to my thighs – resembled a Clydesdale.

Grace was a slam she used on both my sister and I, one I can only imagine she picked up in the 50′s. “Way to go, Grace. I like the way you knocked that entire rack of Funyons over when you tried to be sly about grabbing one in the first place.”

“In youth we learn; in age we understand.” – — Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

I believe, my friends, I’m aging.

December 29th of 2004, I was in the bedroom of my apartment during my Christmas sabbatical. I’d read Blue Like Jazz and Lamb over the course of that week, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt Grace. It’s something I’ve been hesitant to tell others that I knew wouldn’t understand, or those that were outside of my immediate circle. There were a few I IM’ed or emailed about it because I knew they’d understand, I remember as clearly as I can feel this sub-dermal zit brewing on the bridge of my nose that Becky was one of them.

Nearly four years later with the onset of my existential crisis, I’ve been reading again. I’ve been seeking. Exploring. Groping in the dark for the light that will help me find my way. Everywhere I look, everything I read, every conversation or tweet loosely related to my journey brings me back here: to Grace.

I am admittedly a fuckup of epic proportions. I was a horrible student, have binged and purged when it comes to caring about my career, was more times than not a complete headache to both of my parents, and have failed at a million things without even including marriage. I struggle with depression, refusing to medicate for it, I have a hot temper at times and vacillate between a fiery, quick tongue and a jaw clamped shut when it shouldn’t be. I swear too much. I talk to other cars in traffic when I get frustrated.

Of all the things I’m not though, I am not a hypocrite. I know my flaws better than all of you combined and I beat myself up for them regularly.

How fitting; then, that Grace keeps coming…the reminder of what it is, and the peace it brings me and the want and drive and compulsion I have to be a better person every day. To speak from the heart when it hurts and the inherent (and problematic) want better in the lives of everyone I know. Learning to love freely, and accept love without question. To work and work and work to show compassion and to understand those it’s difficult to wrap my feeble little mind around.

A few months ago, Mary Jac and I reconnected after a year apart. I won’t go into details about that, but what’s important is that we each arrived back in each others lives at just the right time. We were in the same spiritual and psychological black holes, and together, we could pull ourselves out. We could lean on, lift up, fireman carry, counsel, coddle, and just flat out hug the stuffing out of each other while the bad man 30 feet up told us to put the lotion in the basket.

It happened over coffee before a cardboard box visit, one of us said “I want a new tattoo” and the other yelped with glee “me too” and when asked of what, the answer was “grace” followed by another “me too”.

So this last weekend when it was burned in us so hard and so fast that our eyes bled saline and we held each other in the dark (both physically and emotionally) I knew it was time. I knew I didn’t want to go a day for the rest of my life without thinking about it and feeling it.

I’m a transmitter. Sometimes I’m sending the signal, but more often, I’m receiving. And my mother? I like to think she was trying to tell me something then, even if she wasn’t. Because it stuck right where I needed it to, in the vulnerable places where I have no choice but to admit my flaws, and to try to do better.