Complete meltdown. Completed.

So I had this strange little meltdown over the weekend in which all my various and sundry psychological problems and not-problems-that-I-make-problems collided with some innocent comments about nurturing, loving, supportive people and my personal "strength" and turned into some really fucked up massive head trip that made me cry. A lot. Like a big baby. In front of two different friends, nonetheless.

I *hate* things like that.

But you know, if you can't find something funny in tragedy and stress, then you're just not looking hard enough.

So what did I find?

Turns out, you, too, can be invited to my Surprise Re-Birthing Party.

Don't even ask what the hell that is, because I can't tell you. It hasn't happened yet. But doesn't it just sound like one of the final circles of hell?

A Re-Birthing Party? And a SURPRISE one?

The Party Boy and I were out for drinks and chow tonight, and both of us nearly lost our beer through our nostrils over the idea. Especially as it seems to include some kind of shuttling of yours truly through the legs of a few friends who may (or may not) be into such rituals.

Suffice it to say, Uh, you know, this is really *not* me.

This is all about where The Good Witch is coming from. She's into rituals. And when she happened to call me this evening to talk to me about a few things, including a story about how she'd been bit by her *own dog,* she asked, about 30 minutes into the conversation, how my weekend had been.

I replied honestly, Well, it was really dreadful, actually, because I had some kind of meltdown that seemed to circle on my dad's spreading cancer, my sister's medical mystery, (this other thing I don't want to talk about), the recollection of several awful childhood memories that were ellicited by reading about ADHD *and* my upcoming birthday. Like, all at *once* in some hideous firestorm in which all I really wanted was someone to *take care of ME* and, like, I CRIED about that to one (OK, two) of my friends, but only one of them witnessed the full bore meltdown, and god bless her, she gave me a cup of tea and a hug in her satiny pajamas, and I realized I've never actually hugged anyone in satiny pajamas before and I thought, Well, the next GF needs to wear some of these....

To which The Good Witch replied, "Mmmmm. Silk pajamas are nice. But you know, I'm going to seize on this birthday thing because I happen to think birthdays are very important. But that's mainly because I really like to blow my own horn and think that the best damn thing that's ever happened in my life is my birth. So what I think I want you to do is ... OK, just think about this, would you?"

You know when there's a pause and someone says, "Just think about this..." that something weird is coming. So I tried not to hold my breath while she continued.

"I'm really into rituals. What do you say you give me some names of some of your friends who you would want to participate in this, and we have a ritual -- OK, I'm still working on it, but this would be the idea: Some kind of re-birthing experience. We could all push you -- or well, you could pass -- beneath our legs in some kind of--"

I don't think so! I replied.

"OK, not pass beneath our legs. Let's see. We could put a bunch of pillows on the floor. Or better yet, we could all get into that gorgeous bed of yours, and then we could start, you know ... uh, stroking you and expressing our love for you and...."

Elbow to the table, I covered my mouth with my hand and listened, feeling a bit horrified. The only way I could make it better was to envision said women all wearing little Playboy bunny outfits while *I* wore the satiny pajamas. Then, they could all be stroking me. But otherwise....

Finally, I cut her off. You know, I appreciate what you're suggesting here, but ... whoa ... just the thought of this has got me feeling really ... uh, uncomfortable.

The Good Witch is NOTHING if not persistent, though, so she replied, "Well, it can be whatever you like it to be. But you know, I think you should really consider some kind of ritual in which you get the power of everything that is the birth of UCM really anchored in *yourself.* You just think about it. It can be anytime in your birth season."

My birth *season*? I asked.

"Oh yes," The Good Witch replied. "Well, my ego is so big and wants so much feeding and birthdays are so important, that I've expanded it to a birth season. To an entire season. Mmm-hmm. We can do this anytime in your birth season. So listen, you just think about it, and then invite S2 to participate in whatever it is."

S2, huh? Oh dear....

Fortunately, at that moment, The Party Boy rang to tell me he was downstairs, so I had to hang up.

Later, at a brew pub, we were talking about our approaching birthdays, his Saturn Return, what my Saturn Return was like, etc., and my philosophy about suicide, which is, in short: You don't know whether *not* being is better or worse than being. If you're such a gambler that you're willing to risk finding out, why not gamble on *this* life?

To which The Party Boy said, "Yeah, there's so much here that I still don't know. I'm intrigued by *this* life and what might come next. What is there here that you don't want to try just once?"

Uh, I do think I have *something* on that list: a re-birthing party.

Then, chatting, we decided that the only thing more disturbing than a re-birthing party in which you're "passed" through your *FRIENDS'* legs as a metaphor for birth would be...

A Surprise Re-Birthing Party.

Like, "SURPRISE!" Care for some stir-fried placenta on grilled pita? And what might I find in *your* vagina tonight?

Now *that* would be fucked up, my friends. REALLY fucked up.

But not quite so fucked up as killing yourself.

In any case, my complete meltdown has apparently been completed. It took a few people to fish me out of it, one of whom offered chips, salsa and discussion about "community," and another who offered a satiny hug and cup of tea (not to mention a rather funny image of me standing on a scale, obsessively taking my temperature, getting my blood pressure checked and having my eyes examined all at the same fucking time).

There was also a third and a fourth friend who happened upon accident to turn over the rock beneath which I was hiding. And a fifth who, bless her soul, wants to "re-birth" me.

All I can say is that, thanks to the collective effort, part of me feels reborn already.

And the rest of me is thinking, Well, if it can be *any* ritual I choose, why not something that involves soaking in a hot tub, rubbing me down with frangrant oils, feeding me wine and braised lamb with raisins and then letting me drift to sleep, while being soothingly caressed by any one of the six or seven really beautiful women I know, between freshly laundered sheets?

Heh. Now *that* is my idea of a good time. By all means, make it into a ritual. And I shall be reborn ... as the hedonist to which I've long aspired.