Buckle up, y'all. I'm fixin to talk about Naomi Osaka.

In case you haven't checked the news in a day or two, the tennis champ pulled out of the French Open, citing depression and anxiety issues, specifically around being required to address the press. While a good deal of public opinion is on her side, she's also been demeaned, vilified, and ridiculed for making this decision, mostly because too many people still don't take depression and anxiety seriously as a health issue.

Friends, it is most definitely a health issue.

Listen. I spent all of my teenage years and early adulthood in a cycle of depression. I knew I didn't feel good but I didn't know why, and I thought "this is just the way things are," so I pushed myself through it, over and over and over again. I didn't ask for help because I didn't know I needed help. I mean, I would have a bad spell, and then I'd get better, so it must not be that serious, right? But every time I went back into the hole, it was deeper than before. 

I was 34 years old before I dug a hole I couldn't get out of anymore. Think about that for a minute. Thirty. Four. Years. Old. I pushed myself through this on again/off again cycle from adolescence until well into adulthood before I finally asked for help. And y'all, I didn't have to do that. 

You might well ask why I didn't get help before. I've already said I didn't think I needed it, so I never mentioned it to anyone. And here's the funny (and very cruel) thing about depression - you often don't know how sick you really were until you come out on the other side. I thought crying in the bathroom every day at work, and crying in the car every day on the way home, was an effective coping mechanism. (News flash: it wasn't.)

I went to counseling. I got medication. I felt way better - but even then, I still had another breakdown. You can think you're ready to take things on, so you take on more than you're really ready for, and you crash again. 

It looks to me like Naomi is trying to prevent that crash. What many people are decrying as the actions of a "spoiled diva" who "doesn't want to do her job" is a young woman protecting her health. If she were a man, I imagine the reactions would be more like "oh, isn't he so brave for taking care of himself." And let's not forget that WOC often have their health concerns dismissed like they don't matter.

Look. Naomi Osaka doesn't owe us anything. She doesn't owe the world a performance, and she doesn't owe the press an appearance, regardless of what sport officials say. "But that's part of her job!" Really? Why? Why is it necessary to require athletes to talk to the press? It has ZERO to do with athletics. ZE.RO. Some people just want to play their game and go rest. Let them do it. If others want to talk to the press, fine. But don't *make* them.

Moreover, she doesn't owe us an explanation of why she did what she did, but she opened herself up, and that's an incredibly brave thing to do. We should be living in a more enlightened age, but the stigma around depression and anxiety is relentless and continues in spite of the best efforts of many organizations to educate the public about mental health.

I wish I had said "enough" when I was 23, instead of continuing to roll that boulder uphill for another 11 years. I still push the boulder, but now I have the presence of mind to know when to rest, and when to ask for help. 

If you or someone you know needs help with depression or anxiety, please call Mental Health America at 800-969-6642, or visit their website at https://www.mhanational.org/. Don't push the boulder uphill when you don't have to.

 A long, long, time ago, I told Mister that if my hair got too gray to fuss with dyeing it, it was just gonna go gray, and that was that, and hey, doesn't Emmylou Harris look stunning with those silver locks? Well, that time has finally arrived. I really liked having red hair all those years, but I've given up the dye box. 

I found my first gray hair 3 weeks after my 29th birthday. I'm 53 now and working on a couple of really good white streaks. There's still a little strawberry blonde near the ends, but it's mostly a salty-peppery-dark-ash-blonde at this point. And I'm okay with that. 

I'm not really afraid of aging. Sure, the physical changes and the random aches and pains can be annoying, but this is the natural order of things. If we live long enough, we age. There's nothing wrong with it, and there's no shame in it. So why do we keep insisting that Eternal Youth is some sort of holy grail? I spent my entire youth in a state of untreated depression, and in retrospect, it wasn't so great.

Now, don't get me wrong. If you want to look 25 forever, that's your prerogative, and as a Mary Kay lady, I'd be happy to help you with that. But by the same token, it's also your prerogative to *not* look 25 forever. I'm 53 and content to look my age - eye wrinkles, belly fat, and all. Well, I mean, I would like to reduce the belly fat for health reasons, since I have a family history of diabetes, but I'm not kidding myself that I will ever be a size 4 again. That ship sailed about 10 years ago. I'm still plenty strong and flexible for a roundish middle-aged lady, though, so don't misunderestimate me. (Yes, I know that's not a real word, but I like to bandy it about once in awhile, along with "strategery." Just a little something I picked up from the Bush years.)

Anyhow, what I'm saying is, don't feel pressured to look young forever. Take time to revel in the glory of being older and (hopefully) wiser. And don't forget to tell those kids to get off your lawn.

 Welp. Probably a silly question, but how y'all doin?

I haven't blogged since 2016. Shit happened, and it kept on happening. That particular year was already a dumpster fire - several of my personal friends died, as well as a few beloved famous people (including my favorite fiddler of all time, Dave Swarbrick), and let's not forget the political circus that seemed to permeate every aspect of the universe. To top it all off, I was turning 49, and having a lot of anxiety about 50. 

I did eventually turn 50, and I was convinced my life was pretty much over. I mean, women over 50 don't generally have a lot of prime career opportunities, and I had already been passed over for a job IN MY OWN OFFICE in favor of someone literally half my age, so you can see why my outlook wasn't stellar. Plus, there was The Menopause, the weight gain, and the gray hair. Good times, indeed.

Then there came the decline of my mother's health, then my stepfather's, then my dog's, then my cat's . . . well. I was tired, y'all. I kept going like I always had, probably against my better judgment, seeing as how I don't bounce back quite as high as I once did. And then . . .

Well, and then there was 2019. We had car trouble with both cars *simultaneously* for an extended period of time (thanks Firestone; never giving you my money again), and then our dog, Luna, was diagnosed with immune-mediated hemolytic anemia, or IMHA for short. Basically what happened was that her immune system started attacking her red blood cells. The odds of survival weren't great, but we wanted to at least give her a chance. Thing is, treating IMHA is ruinously expensive, and we maxed out a couple of credit cards and took a hunk out of our savings (already dented because of the aforementioned car trouble). Lucky thing I got a raise at work that year, I suppose.

Anyhow, to speed things along: Luna died the day before Thanksgiving 2019. Holidays sucked. Mother continued to get worse and then decided not to pursue further treatment for what was essentially an untreatable condition anyway. She died in February 2020. Two weeks later, Nashville had a major tornado, and two weeks after that, the whole world shut down. I've been working at home for over a year now, and this past January, had to say goodbye to our elder cat, Buster, who had chronic kidney disease and just gave out. 

I never had to call and make an appointment for euthanasia before. I don't particularly recommend it, but I know it was the right thing to do. But as I'm sure most of you know, the right thing is often extremely difficult. I mean, if it were easy, everyone would do it, right?

So, it's April 2021. We have a new dog, Teddy Blue Roosevelt. He's a young Labrador who doesn't understand how large and clumsy he is. Working at home is great because I can take him outside during lunch for an extended playtime. (Playing with a dog in the middle of the workday is a great mood booster. I highly recommend it.) I've finally made friends with being in my 50s, and I've stopped coloring my hair, so don't anyone look shocked if you happen to see me with this graying mane. I did finally get a trim, so at least I don't look quite as unkempt as I did two weeks ago.

I have watched ALL the TV shows. I watched Schitt's Creek twice and I'm not ruling out a threepeat.

I guess the big question on everyone's mind now is, what's next? Will we return to pre-pandemonium Business as Usual, or will we modify the old ways using the lessons we've learned over the past year? But most importantly: will we get to continue working in our pajamas, with reruns of The Golden Girls in the background? Gawd, I hope so.

Y'all take care, now. 

Can you ever forgive me?

Dear Friends,

It is with a heavy heart and the utmost sadness that I confess to you my transgression. I have disgraced myself beyond all hope (well, most of it, anyway). 

I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Everything seemed like it was all in order. I had a solid plan. And when I went to execute the plan, it all went to hell, because I hadn't been paying close enough attention, and by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. I was sunk.

Yes, friends. I mixed navy blue with black because I thought the blue was black to begin with. It looked black in the house. And when I stepped into the daylight, I saw that it was indeed blue, but at that point it was too late to go back inside and change clothes. So all day today, I am reminded of my grievous error. Maybe no one will notice.

Can you ever forgive me?

Good night, Mrs. Calabash.

Well, Happy (sort of) New Year.

The old year went out with a bang, with the deaths of legends Lemmy Kilmister and Natalie Cole, and the new year came in with a roar, taking away David Bowie, Alan Rickman, and Glenn Frey. Now, I didn't personally know any of these people, but I was well aware of who they were, and Bowie and Frey in particular were a large part of the soundtrack of my youth. People who were Out There In the World as long as I could remember were suddenly Not There anymore. And even though I didn't know them, I feel that loss.

When I was about 8-9 years old, I had a babysitter named Christy, who was about 15. She turned on 1510 WLAC every Saturday night so we could listen to Wolfman Jack. Those of you who grew up in Nashville in the 70s will remember when WLAC was the AM radio powerhouse of the day, playing a delightful and eclectic mix of rock, pop, and soul, all jammed up in there together. You might hear Marshall Tucker followed by Kiss followed by Earth, Wind, & Fire. And you liked it. You loved it. It was glorious.

That was where I first heard David Bowie, the Eagles, and Bruce Springsteen, among others. (I will tell on myself here and admit that I was practically grown before I realized the Boss had written that Manfred Mann hit with the unintelligible lyrics. I definitely think the original is superior, but I digress.) But all that stuff in the mid to late 70s? That was ROLLER SKATING MUSIC, man. When you're 10-11 years old, all you care about is, does it have a good beat and you can skate to it?

I knew all the words to "Hotel California" and "New Kid in Town," as well as "Lyin' Eyes," and while all the grownup subject matter was lost on me at the time, I sang along every time they came on the radio. I did not have a particularly warm & fuzzy childhood, so music was a balm to my soul. And once I started taking piano lessons, you might have found me playing "Desperado" on that Kimball upright (which now lives at my house).

Fast forward a few years, and you might have seen Mister and me sitting in someone's back yard singing "Take It Easy" at a summer picnic. I want to say "Tequila Sunrise" probably worked its way in a time or two as well.

Yeah, I'm a little sentimental about the Eagles. Sue me. Those were some good songs I associate with good times. Forty years later, those songs have a completely different meaning for me, but I still love them just the same, and I don't reckon that's going to change anytime soon.

My all-time favorite Bowie song? "Changes," hands down. Again, still meaningful to me after so many years, because even at age 48, I still don't know what I was waiting for . . . my time was running wild, a million dead-end streets . . .

So, a toast to Lemmy, Natalie, David, Alan, and Glen, for bringing a little magic to this blue marble, albeit much too briefly, Until next time ---- turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes.

The return of Just Folking Around.

Good day, friends.

It's been awhile since I blogged. Like, over a year now. The big news is, we bought a house. We started looking around August/September of last year, and after a series of disappointments, finally found one we liked that the bank was willing to let us have. And then where was The Moving.

Oh, Lord, the moving. I hope I never have to do it again. You never know how much crap you have until you have to throw it away and/or move it, and in spite of sending 4 truckloads with the junk man, and several others to the recycling center, we still had 20+ years of stuff left. And when I say that we moved it uphill in the mud, I am not making that up. Thank God for rubber boots.

Now we're looking forward to celebrating our first Christmas in our very own house. We bought outdoor lights for the first time ever, and it just occurred to me, I haven't the faintest idea how to put up outdoor lights, even though I've watched Christmas Vacation forty-eleven times. I'm pretty sure nails aren't supposed to be involved, but what about duct tape? Chewing gum? Paper clips? I guess we'll figure it out. I did get my wreath up already, and it perfectly frames my skull-head door knocker. (Stop pretending you're surprised that I have a skull-head door knocker.)

The 20+ years of stuff is safely ensconced in a giant garage, which we hope to turn into a workshop/winery/brewery once we go through all the stuff - which, admittedly, could take awhile, but we're not planning on going anywhere again anytime soon. (There may be a big-ass yard sale in our future.) There's still painting and whatnot to be done, but I guess we've pretty much got all the time in the world for that.

In the meantime, I'm going to get all decorated for Christmas, and enjoy my little house. You're welcome to stop by anytime there's a light on. I may be in my pajamas, but knock anyway.

Till next time ----- have a joyous holiday season and a spectacular 2016.

Walking the Black Dog.

I've been wanting to write about this for awhile but stalled out. (Y'all writers know what I mean.) Now with the news of Robin Williams's apparent suicide at the forefront, I think it's important to talk about.

I have chronic depression. I've fought with it as long as I can remember. I finally got help when I was 35, after suffering at least all my adult life. It was just my normal. I'd feel like crap for awhile, and it would go away. Then it would come back and go away again. This went on for years until one day, it didn't go away anymore.

These days, I am mostly good, but having a chronic condition, I live in the shadow of knowing it could pop up at any time, and it does. Thanks to some great counselors, an understanding husband, sympathetic friends, and better living through chemistry, I know what to do to take care of myself, and I just power on through the best I can. Some days, though, the maintenance can be a real bitch. It gets tiring. I start feeling guilty because I want to retreat. I don't want to be "on," but I feel like I'm cheating people if I don't deliver the smiling, laughing, snarking Kim they all expect.

And that's just from an everyday person's point of view. I can't imagine the pressure of being a world-class comedian and actor in the public eye. People always want you to be funny. They want you to be "on." In the entertainment business, if you're not "on," you're not getting paid. Heaven forbid you have a bad day and decline to stop for a photo or an autograph.

The thing about depression is, it LIES. It tells you you're stupid and you'll never amount to anything. It tells you you're an impostor. It tells you you don't have any friends, that people are only being nice to you because they feel sorry for you. It tells you the world would be a better place without you mucking up everyone else's existence. On a good day, it's pretty easy to ignore the lies. On a bad day . . . well, shutting up those lies can be exhausting, and maybe you start to believe them, just a little bit.

Personally, I have never seriously wanted to take my own life. For one thing, it's way too much like work; for another, I know how I've felt when friends committed suicide, and I don't want to be responsible for making anyone feel that way, ever. (I'm still royally pissed off at a friend who killed himself years ago. If there is another side, and I see him, he and I are going to have some serious words.) But I understand all too well where those feelings come from. No, it isn't logical, but neither is depression, because - remember? - it LIES.

About one in five people will experience a mental illness at some point. If you, or someone you know, might be depressed, please get help. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200, just call somebody. Mental Health America is a nationwide resource network that can put you in touch with the services you need. If you're considering suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. There are people out there who will help you. You don't have to suffer.

Till next time, hug someone you love.