Oh, for the love of God.

I live in a quiet neighborhood in a small town. Nothing much seems to happen here, but when it does, it's quite a production.

A new family moved in a few months ago, in the house across the street from ours. I finally got to meet them at the neighborhood shindig we had yesterday. The man o' the house is one of Seymour's finest. He regaled us with a story of something that happened last week that I didn't know about. That is, I heard/saw it, but I didn't get the story.

J, the officer, woke to the sound of cars zooming up and down the road. He called one of his colleagues, asked said colleague to come out, keep an eye on things, maybe catch a speeder. There's a family (at least, I think they're a family) at the end of the street. They always have people in and out of their house, people zipping out of their driveway, people parking the wrong way on that side of the street.

The patrolling officer saw a car parked the wrong way, and went to talk to the guy about it. The driver reeked of pot, and was subjected to a probable cause search. Small amount of weed. Guy won't take his hands out of his pockets.

This is because the dude is carrying 19 grams of crack cocaine.

Yeah.

A month or two prior, at the same house, I saw two squad cars park in the middle of the street, while an officer ran up and kicked the door in. I mean, he sprinted. I still don't know about that one, and I choose to remain under the security blanket of ignorance.

I guess my point is this: Is there anyplace actually safe anymore?

Kiss My Grits.

I'm enjoying two packets of Quaker Instant Grits, Country Bacon flavor, and I can't believe how anyone ever thought this could possibly be a food product.

No, no, I love grits. I even love the instant, artificially flavored crap in a packet. What I'm saying is that the process involved does not sound like anything I'd want to consider for something I'd put in my mouth. It's a process thousands of years old, though, so I hope they know what they're doing.

The Country Bacon flavor is vegetarian, incidentally (the bacon bits consisting of soy protein and smoke flavor), and might even be vegan. I am not the expert, though.

My personal favorite of the grits world is plain old no-flavor grits, with a pat of butter, a little salt, and a good amount of black pepper. If I have gravy, I'll throw a little of that in there. I discussed this with my husband a while back. His family likes grits as well, but with sugar, jam or syrup. I suppressed my gag reflex and changed the subject.

The Invisible Illness.

There has been a lot of talk about mental illness and the awareness of it, but unfortunately, not enough talk about the people who are affected. It is still stigmatized by some people, people who should know better. My father-in-law, for example, sees it as a weakness of the spirit, and the only prescription that will help is hard work and Jesus.

I can't disagree with the Jesus part (no, wait, I can), but hard work is even harder when you can't get out of bed in the morning. Or afternoon. Or evening. It's dangerous to swing a hammer when you can't see through your tears.

The illness is tricky. See, it doesn't cause you to limp. It doesn't burn a scarlet 'D' into your forehead. Your neighbor may have it. Your mailman may have it. Your mom, dad, brother, sister, wife, husband, children may have it. YOU may have it.

There are signs to look for, of course. Appetite changes, suicidal thoughts, loss of interest in once-loved activities. Sleeping too much, not sleeping enough.

The symptoms most often overlooked: Irritability or loss of patience with family and friends. Feeling tired after a full night's sleep. Irrational anger.

Why I sought help after thirty years of "living" with depression: I lived as well as I could, hanging on by a thread. Little things set me off. A month ago, I had a major depressive episode, consisting of crying, crying and crying. I couldn't move the five feet to pick up a notebook and pen (writing is my primary therapy). My kids were freaked out and checking on me every hour.

Last week, another one. At this point, I knew I'd have one of these every so often, and each one might be the one that killed me. So after much trouble and way too many hoops for a crazy person to jump through, I finally got what I needed. Which was Zoloft. YMMV.

Side effects include nausea, dizziness, bruxism, insomnia, smiling so much my face hurts, and loving everyone and everything.

If you know anyone that's going through this (especially if it's you), get some help. If you have trouble getting the help, find a friend who knows what to do. It saved my life.

Whatever Happened to Interrobang?!

So I was reading The Comics Curmudgeon a few days ago, going back through the archive. This B.C. comic jogged my memory (God help me, and also Rest in Peace, Johnny Hart), taking me back to a time when I was still young and foolish, and inclined to believe what my teachers told me.

I can recall being told about the Interrobang in third grade or so, apparently long after it had gone out of vogue. Why, Miss L, why did you bring up such a thing?! I had been happy and secure in my knowledge of both the Question Mark (the Interro) and the Exclamation Point (the Bang). Why present me with the cryptozoological typographical symbol that died shortly after its inception, if it had ever lived at all?!

I have been haunted by this nonsense ever since, and I fully blame everyone involved.

Note to self: !?