Three years ago today, a dear friend of mine lost a much-wanted pregnancy. I just wanted to let her know I was thinking of her. I remember shedding tears with her on the phone; I remember the sad emptiness of realizing that our little babes would not be growing up together; I remember feeling guilty that Bubba was still growing inside of me; I remember feeling astonished at her generosity of spirit when she said she felt guilty, somehow, because she felt that her loss would be frightening and depressing to me in light of my own pregnancy.
I haven't forgotten and never will.
I love you, sister.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
What Do I Want To Be When I Grow Up?
I met with my therapist yesterday. (Warning: Praise of my therapist, to the point of being sickening, will probably occur in this post.) We had a "big" session. I could tell it was big by how uncomfortable I felt during most of it. I knew I was, however lightly, bumping up against some things that I manage not to touch very often; things I need to bump up against and push through in order to live a happier, more fulfilling life.
The session began with a discussion about my unhealthy habits, particularly how I eat and the fact that I don't exercise. I came to realize that the main reason I eat is for pleasure--the immediate, no-strings-attached, no-work-involved, pure pleasure of eating something that tastes good. One of the many things I love about my therapist is that she leads me through issues so that I come to realizations myself rather than just telling me her opinion; this is exactly what she did when she asked me what the "medicine" of food was "treating" in me. I realized it's the general dissatisfaction, malaise, depression, boredom, etc. that I feel about my life, especially my job. So that's how, after a half an hour of intense therapy, I came to actually understand phrases like "emotional eating" or "filling a void with food." I truly never "got it" until yesterday. I thought I did, but I didn't.
My therapist and I discussed how I wasn't living the life I was, in her terms, "put here to live." She told me how I was here in this world to do something, and that my heart would tell me if I would listen to it. I found it hard to accept that I could actually be worthy of a "calling" (and am still working that idea around in my head)--but she explained to me that everyone has it, it's just whether or not they can listen for it. She said, "Imagine the rainbow without the color blue. It would be a completely different thing. That's the world without you."
She encouraged me to completely and fully fantasize about my "dream" life. What I would be doing, where I'd be doing it, how it would feel...imagine myself as if I were actually living it. Then, the hard part--start taking steps toward it, even little baby ones. One of the things we talked about was my fantasy of living on the beach, writing personal essays for a living, walking along the shore contemplating the big mysteries in life. "There are people who live that life," she said. "What's the difference between them and me?" I asked rather pathetically. "They're doing it," she said.
She noted that she felt that along with my fear of failure and anxiety about change lurked a darker force that she labeled "an ugly little troll that lurks in the backround and says 'why bother?'" I immediately recognized the troll and told her I instinctively felt that I didn't even want to talk to the troll (yes, we laugh at this stuff in therapy too, but still honor it) and she agreed that we shouldn't give him any energy. Instead she said, "just kick it away." Then she taught me a cool Sufi thing where you pretend to spit over your left shoulder, and it symbolizes getting rid of bad energy and the like.
So my homework this week is to fantasize. I feel naturally drawn to two areas: my writing, of course, which is what's fed my soul for as long as I've known how to do it; and my experience with Hope and my desire to help others who have gone or are going through similar experiences. I want to keep an open mind that these aren't the only two areas of myself that I can explore in my fantasizing, though. In many ways, I feel that these two aspects of my life/personality/experience do define me, but in other ways, they restrict me. I know there is more to who I am and I want to explore that too. And yet, the fact that those two things immediately draw me in must mean something, right? I don't know. I'm still working it out.
I do know that this is what I need to do to break through my general unhappiness and disappointment in life. I need to find a path in life that excites me, that feeds my soul, that provides a fulfillment that tastes better than Oreos or pizza rolls. If I don't, then the best I can expect for the rest of my life is more of the same.
The session began with a discussion about my unhealthy habits, particularly how I eat and the fact that I don't exercise. I came to realize that the main reason I eat is for pleasure--the immediate, no-strings-attached, no-work-involved, pure pleasure of eating something that tastes good. One of the many things I love about my therapist is that she leads me through issues so that I come to realizations myself rather than just telling me her opinion; this is exactly what she did when she asked me what the "medicine" of food was "treating" in me. I realized it's the general dissatisfaction, malaise, depression, boredom, etc. that I feel about my life, especially my job. So that's how, after a half an hour of intense therapy, I came to actually understand phrases like "emotional eating" or "filling a void with food." I truly never "got it" until yesterday. I thought I did, but I didn't.
My therapist and I discussed how I wasn't living the life I was, in her terms, "put here to live." She told me how I was here in this world to do something, and that my heart would tell me if I would listen to it. I found it hard to accept that I could actually be worthy of a "calling" (and am still working that idea around in my head)--but she explained to me that everyone has it, it's just whether or not they can listen for it. She said, "Imagine the rainbow without the color blue. It would be a completely different thing. That's the world without you."
She encouraged me to completely and fully fantasize about my "dream" life. What I would be doing, where I'd be doing it, how it would feel...imagine myself as if I were actually living it. Then, the hard part--start taking steps toward it, even little baby ones. One of the things we talked about was my fantasy of living on the beach, writing personal essays for a living, walking along the shore contemplating the big mysteries in life. "There are people who live that life," she said. "What's the difference between them and me?" I asked rather pathetically. "They're doing it," she said.
She noted that she felt that along with my fear of failure and anxiety about change lurked a darker force that she labeled "an ugly little troll that lurks in the backround and says 'why bother?'" I immediately recognized the troll and told her I instinctively felt that I didn't even want to talk to the troll (yes, we laugh at this stuff in therapy too, but still honor it) and she agreed that we shouldn't give him any energy. Instead she said, "just kick it away." Then she taught me a cool Sufi thing where you pretend to spit over your left shoulder, and it symbolizes getting rid of bad energy and the like.
So my homework this week is to fantasize. I feel naturally drawn to two areas: my writing, of course, which is what's fed my soul for as long as I've known how to do it; and my experience with Hope and my desire to help others who have gone or are going through similar experiences. I want to keep an open mind that these aren't the only two areas of myself that I can explore in my fantasizing, though. In many ways, I feel that these two aspects of my life/personality/experience do define me, but in other ways, they restrict me. I know there is more to who I am and I want to explore that too. And yet, the fact that those two things immediately draw me in must mean something, right? I don't know. I'm still working it out.
I do know that this is what I need to do to break through my general unhappiness and disappointment in life. I need to find a path in life that excites me, that feeds my soul, that provides a fulfillment that tastes better than Oreos or pizza rolls. If I don't, then the best I can expect for the rest of my life is more of the same.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Considerate Smoker's Manifesto Part II
"Guess what I did tonight," LilCherie asked while we were on the phone tonight. "I bought a carton of cigarettes." In the past, LilCherie has had a personal objection to buying a carton of cigarettes because it is an admission of smokitude that she just didn't want to make.
However, our governor signed a cigarette tax hike today that raises the cost of a pack of cigarettes by $1. The total tax on a pack of cigarettes in my state is now $1.36. How rude.
Thus, the Great Cigarette Run of 2007 was set in motion. After our call I ran out and got a couple cartons myself.
This pisses me off for more reasons than just having to spend more on my bad habit. First, there's all kinds of rhetoric being spewed about how the tax will make Iowa a healthier state, people will quit smoking, it will be good for you, Big Brother says. But it isn't about Big Brother's concern at all. If that were the case, cigarettes would be illegal. What it's really about is making money. Cigarette taxes are just an endless source of revenue for the government, and one that nobody can argue about. Well, people who smoke can argue...but everybody hates us anyway so it's not real effective.
According to this article, Governor Culver said: "With the signing of this bill, we are sending a bold message throughout the state and around the nation that Iowa takes the health care of its people, especially its kids, seriously." The article said Culver pledged the money, which was projected to raise $138 million in fiscal 2008,to expand health care coverage for children.
The idea that health care coverage for children in our state depends on people continuing to smoke rather disgusts me. Shouldn't we be able to take care of our children (and the rest of us, for that matter) with all the other taxes we pay? Isn't it a little slimy to basically say, through a tax hike like this, that we need people to keep smoking in order to give children in our state adequate health care?
Another article said "Culver said the higher taxes will help thousands of Iowans kick the increasingly expensive habit while raising money to expand health care programs." So if the taxes go up, causing thousands of people quit buying cigarettes, aren't we just going to be breaking even here? What if the tax is so successful that everyone just quits tomorrow? What about those poor kids without health care?
Pro-tax individuals would say that the reduction in smoking-related illnesses and medical costs would make up for the shortfall. I don't buy it. A lot of people who smoke pay taxes and pay their own health insurance premiums. Yes, maybe health insurance premiums go up because of people who smoke. They also go up because Cletus can't lay off the cheeseburgers, Rhonda insists on roasting herself in a tanning bed, Harold won't control his diabetes and Tiffany won't wear her seat belt. If people are so concerned about smoking-related medical costs, why not funnel the $138 million into adequate and effective smoking cessation programs? Why not? Because that would be helping those dirty, stinky, scum-of-the-earth smokers!
People in our state who smoke shouldn't have to shoulder the burden of caring for our state's children. Shouldn't this be a responsibility of every citizen? Wouldn't it be more fair to add a smaller tax onto everyone's income tax, or maybe increase the sales tax for everything just a little bit?
Now I'm going to really get myself into hot water, but the very fact that I have to pay for all the uninsured children in this state pisses me off. Don't get me wrong. I would be the first in line to support nationalized health care--for everyone. But in our current system, there are people like my husband's older sister, who hasn't worked a steady job her entire life, despite any real disability other than extreme selfishness. She's popped out her two kids, who, due to neglect and the probable prenatal drug use they were exposed to, will need "services" for the rest of their lives until they finally end up in jail or in "the system" like she is. I don't think my money--from my cigarettes, my steady job, or the goods and services I am able to pay for because of my steady job--should have to support that. It's a difficult issue because of course I don't want to see a sick kid go without medical care; but it's also hard to pay for it when I know there are people out there like my husband's sister. I'd be more supportive if the money went to increase social services to help those who really want to get off state aid do it. I'd rather have my cigarette money go toward building homes--yes, orphanages--so that those children who are being neglected and being cycled through the wheels of the welfare system could at least have a stable life and a chance to grow up away from the constant personification of irresponsibility.
In the end, there's nothing I can do about it. I won't quit smoking, I know that about myself. The revenue from the tax hike probably won't even go to help take care of children. It will probably go to such critically important projects like this one.
I guess it doesn't even matter all that much. We're all going to die from global warming anyway. Unless someone comes up with a way to reverse it and the government actually starts giving enough of a shit to do something about it...and as long as people keep smoking long enough to fund it.
However, our governor signed a cigarette tax hike today that raises the cost of a pack of cigarettes by $1. The total tax on a pack of cigarettes in my state is now $1.36. How rude.
Thus, the Great Cigarette Run of 2007 was set in motion. After our call I ran out and got a couple cartons myself.
This pisses me off for more reasons than just having to spend more on my bad habit. First, there's all kinds of rhetoric being spewed about how the tax will make Iowa a healthier state, people will quit smoking, it will be good for you, Big Brother says. But it isn't about Big Brother's concern at all. If that were the case, cigarettes would be illegal. What it's really about is making money. Cigarette taxes are just an endless source of revenue for the government, and one that nobody can argue about. Well, people who smoke can argue...but everybody hates us anyway so it's not real effective.
According to this article, Governor Culver said: "With the signing of this bill, we are sending a bold message throughout the state and around the nation that Iowa takes the health care of its people, especially its kids, seriously." The article said Culver pledged the money, which was projected to raise $138 million in fiscal 2008,to expand health care coverage for children.
The idea that health care coverage for children in our state depends on people continuing to smoke rather disgusts me. Shouldn't we be able to take care of our children (and the rest of us, for that matter) with all the other taxes we pay? Isn't it a little slimy to basically say, through a tax hike like this, that we need people to keep smoking in order to give children in our state adequate health care?
Another article said "Culver said the higher taxes will help thousands of Iowans kick the increasingly expensive habit while raising money to expand health care programs." So if the taxes go up, causing thousands of people quit buying cigarettes, aren't we just going to be breaking even here? What if the tax is so successful that everyone just quits tomorrow? What about those poor kids without health care?
Pro-tax individuals would say that the reduction in smoking-related illnesses and medical costs would make up for the shortfall. I don't buy it. A lot of people who smoke pay taxes and pay their own health insurance premiums. Yes, maybe health insurance premiums go up because of people who smoke. They also go up because Cletus can't lay off the cheeseburgers, Rhonda insists on roasting herself in a tanning bed, Harold won't control his diabetes and Tiffany won't wear her seat belt. If people are so concerned about smoking-related medical costs, why not funnel the $138 million into adequate and effective smoking cessation programs? Why not? Because that would be helping those dirty, stinky, scum-of-the-earth smokers!
People in our state who smoke shouldn't have to shoulder the burden of caring for our state's children. Shouldn't this be a responsibility of every citizen? Wouldn't it be more fair to add a smaller tax onto everyone's income tax, or maybe increase the sales tax for everything just a little bit?
Now I'm going to really get myself into hot water, but the very fact that I have to pay for all the uninsured children in this state pisses me off. Don't get me wrong. I would be the first in line to support nationalized health care--for everyone. But in our current system, there are people like my husband's older sister, who hasn't worked a steady job her entire life, despite any real disability other than extreme selfishness. She's popped out her two kids, who, due to neglect and the probable prenatal drug use they were exposed to, will need "services" for the rest of their lives until they finally end up in jail or in "the system" like she is. I don't think my money--from my cigarettes, my steady job, or the goods and services I am able to pay for because of my steady job--should have to support that. It's a difficult issue because of course I don't want to see a sick kid go without medical care; but it's also hard to pay for it when I know there are people out there like my husband's sister. I'd be more supportive if the money went to increase social services to help those who really want to get off state aid do it. I'd rather have my cigarette money go toward building homes--yes, orphanages--so that those children who are being neglected and being cycled through the wheels of the welfare system could at least have a stable life and a chance to grow up away from the constant personification of irresponsibility.
In the end, there's nothing I can do about it. I won't quit smoking, I know that about myself. The revenue from the tax hike probably won't even go to help take care of children. It will probably go to such critically important projects like this one.
I guess it doesn't even matter all that much. We're all going to die from global warming anyway. Unless someone comes up with a way to reverse it and the government actually starts giving enough of a shit to do something about it...and as long as people keep smoking long enough to fund it.
Just a Lil Note to LilCherie
Hey...in my proofreading today, I found out this interesting fact:
Hypertension (high blood pressure) is THE major risk factor for cerebral hemorrhage.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Love ya!
Hypertension (high blood pressure) is THE major risk factor for cerebral hemorrhage.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Love ya!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Thanks Prednisone!
So Bubba has caught something new right on the tail of his last cold. He came down with a runny nose Sunday morning but was spry and lively, so J. went ahead and took him on their previously-scheduled lunch date with J.'s sister, who needs a name because I'll probably be mentioning her here, but I'll come up with that later. Since the death of their parents in 2000, she and J. have been basically estranged because of all the shit she did while liquidating the estate. Stuff like stealing $8,000 from the estate to buy a car; forging J.'s names on checks; stealing furniture for her own house; not showing up at appointed times to clean out the house; etc. Anyway, she's fat, depressed and in therapy now like the rest of us and is reaching out to J. to mend fences, and J.'s on board with that, and I'm happy for them all but just don't see the point of getting involved in it myself. So I send J. off on these dinners and lunches with a smile but I am still protecting myself until I see more of how this shakes out.
ANYWAY, J. took Bubba with him for lunch on Sunday with his sister. His sister owns horses, so Bubba got his first up-close-and-personal horse experience, at which point we found that he has inherited J.'s mild horse allergy. So on top of the minor sniffles he was experiencing already, Bubba started sneezing a little and rubbing his nose like crazy. When they came home, Bubba was sleeping and when he woke up, we could tell he was sick. He had a terrible night Sunday. He had the most pathetic, scary, mucous-filled cough and would wake up gagging and crying about every hour or so. We had to do a nebulizer treatment at 3 a.m. I was so freaked out with panic that I ended up staying awake until 5 a.m. just monitoring the situation and Googling croup, pneumonia, tracheobronchitis and epiglottitis. I was determined that we would take him to the doctor yesterday, but then on Monday with my mom and dad, he seemed to be much improved. However, about half an hour after the doctor's offices closed and Mom and Dad left, he started crying about his ear hurting. Dammit! I knew I should have taken him to the doctor even though J. and Mom thought he "just had a cold." I am almost always right about Bubba being sick but because I'm also neurotic I sometimes don't trust it.
So yesterday I slogged through a day of work on three hours of sleep and also went to our great family oto yesterday to confirm my self-diagnosed sinus infection/bronchitis, which he did promptly. I love our oto. He gave me a brief, encouraging, "I know we can get you to quit smoking!" talk but then said, "That's all I'm going to say about it. I'm not going to make you feel bad, I just feel that I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't say something." One thing I really like about Dr. C. is that he actually sat there for a few minutes silently, reviewing my chart and actually thinking about what he wanted to do next. I admire that so much more than a doctor who just tosses off recommendations for tests and throws a prescription at you. Anyway, he did a nasal swab (my teeth are still hurting from this violation of my tender sinuses) and is culturing my "pus" to make sure I get on an antibiotic that will kill my 'crobes. Hey, that sounds just like "microbes." Cool. Until then I'm on the z-pack/prednisone combo. I'll be going in in two weeks so he can see what my sinuses look like when I'm doing well. There will probably be some allergy testing somewhere down the road, some feeble attempts at controlling anything I'm allergic too, and many fruitless attempts to get me to stop smoking before it all fails and I have to have surgery. But we're not that far yet--although I did predict at New Year's that "this year's surgery" would be my sinuses. We'll see! I just want some relief!
I love prednisone. It provides almost immediate relief of my sinus pain with the added bonus of being an upper that allows me to be up at 3:30 in the morning blogging like crazy. It also gives me the weirdest dreams, which I'm going to relate here whether you want to read them or not, because I like to have them documented and this is really my journal these days. But you don't have to read them if you don't have time; I understand.
Last night's dreams were very disjointed, but included a trip back in time to J.'s parents' farm. In the dream, his mother was already dead but his father was still alive. This is often the case in my dreams about J.'s family, possibly because in real life, his mother had been dying for two years with brain cancer while his father just dropped dead one night. In the dream, I was involved in looking after a little boy--I don't know whose it was--and we were just roaming around the barns and having fun investigating all the farm stuff lying around. When we went back into the house, J's dad mentioned something about how clean the house was, but I couldn't take any credit because I knew I hadn't had anything to do with it.
Another bit of dream that is sticking with me today is this: J. and I were at a doctor's office, standing at a metal counter/table thing. An anonymous doctor presented us with several eggs that looked like small chicken eggs, and apparently, these were my lost pregnancies. (In real life, the only pregnancy that I know I lost was Hope; but I also know that many women conceive and miscarry so quickly they don't even know it, which might explain our Great Pregnancy Scare of 1991). Anyway, we were given the eggs so we could crack them open if we wanted to and possibly find out more about the babies we'd lost. The whole thing was extremely distasteful and scary to me in the dream, but we went ahead with the first three eggs, which were each brown and just a bit larger than a robin's egg. They were just like regular eggs when we cracked them open. Relieved by this, we went on to to the last two eggs, which, in contrast to the others, were white. With much reluctance and hesitation, I cracked them open, and inside each one was a little, white blob that looked like a little poached egg. In the dream I was repulsed and put them down and pretty much ran away from the table, crying. I told J. "I didn't know this would be so hard." That was the end of that.
Then I woke up and started this entry, which I'm finishing now at 9:11 a.m. at work just so I can get it posted. I ended up working on another post that I will hopefully finish soon as well. It will be a busy day for me--I have a very minor, kind of silly part-time job I'm going to learn about in about an hour or so, then I have a therapy appointment later today, and in between I need to do some work (imagine that!) Hopefully Bubba will do okay at daycare--he seemed much improved again this morning and never complained about his ear again...but also was very clingy and crying when I dropped him off. So we'll see what happens. Like I told J.--do you ever have a feeling that your day is going to be a trial from beginning to end? I feel that way today. OH WELL!
ANYWAY, J. took Bubba with him for lunch on Sunday with his sister. His sister owns horses, so Bubba got his first up-close-and-personal horse experience, at which point we found that he has inherited J.'s mild horse allergy. So on top of the minor sniffles he was experiencing already, Bubba started sneezing a little and rubbing his nose like crazy. When they came home, Bubba was sleeping and when he woke up, we could tell he was sick. He had a terrible night Sunday. He had the most pathetic, scary, mucous-filled cough and would wake up gagging and crying about every hour or so. We had to do a nebulizer treatment at 3 a.m. I was so freaked out with panic that I ended up staying awake until 5 a.m. just monitoring the situation and Googling croup, pneumonia, tracheobronchitis and epiglottitis. I was determined that we would take him to the doctor yesterday, but then on Monday with my mom and dad, he seemed to be much improved. However, about half an hour after the doctor's offices closed and Mom and Dad left, he started crying about his ear hurting. Dammit! I knew I should have taken him to the doctor even though J. and Mom thought he "just had a cold." I am almost always right about Bubba being sick but because I'm also neurotic I sometimes don't trust it.
So yesterday I slogged through a day of work on three hours of sleep and also went to our great family oto yesterday to confirm my self-diagnosed sinus infection/bronchitis, which he did promptly. I love our oto. He gave me a brief, encouraging, "I know we can get you to quit smoking!" talk but then said, "That's all I'm going to say about it. I'm not going to make you feel bad, I just feel that I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't say something." One thing I really like about Dr. C. is that he actually sat there for a few minutes silently, reviewing my chart and actually thinking about what he wanted to do next. I admire that so much more than a doctor who just tosses off recommendations for tests and throws a prescription at you. Anyway, he did a nasal swab (my teeth are still hurting from this violation of my tender sinuses) and is culturing my "pus" to make sure I get on an antibiotic that will kill my 'crobes. Hey, that sounds just like "microbes." Cool. Until then I'm on the z-pack/prednisone combo. I'll be going in in two weeks so he can see what my sinuses look like when I'm doing well. There will probably be some allergy testing somewhere down the road, some feeble attempts at controlling anything I'm allergic too, and many fruitless attempts to get me to stop smoking before it all fails and I have to have surgery. But we're not that far yet--although I did predict at New Year's that "this year's surgery" would be my sinuses. We'll see! I just want some relief!
I love prednisone. It provides almost immediate relief of my sinus pain with the added bonus of being an upper that allows me to be up at 3:30 in the morning blogging like crazy. It also gives me the weirdest dreams, which I'm going to relate here whether you want to read them or not, because I like to have them documented and this is really my journal these days. But you don't have to read them if you don't have time; I understand.
Last night's dreams were very disjointed, but included a trip back in time to J.'s parents' farm. In the dream, his mother was already dead but his father was still alive. This is often the case in my dreams about J.'s family, possibly because in real life, his mother had been dying for two years with brain cancer while his father just dropped dead one night. In the dream, I was involved in looking after a little boy--I don't know whose it was--and we were just roaming around the barns and having fun investigating all the farm stuff lying around. When we went back into the house, J's dad mentioned something about how clean the house was, but I couldn't take any credit because I knew I hadn't had anything to do with it.
Another bit of dream that is sticking with me today is this: J. and I were at a doctor's office, standing at a metal counter/table thing. An anonymous doctor presented us with several eggs that looked like small chicken eggs, and apparently, these were my lost pregnancies. (In real life, the only pregnancy that I know I lost was Hope; but I also know that many women conceive and miscarry so quickly they don't even know it, which might explain our Great Pregnancy Scare of 1991). Anyway, we were given the eggs so we could crack them open if we wanted to and possibly find out more about the babies we'd lost. The whole thing was extremely distasteful and scary to me in the dream, but we went ahead with the first three eggs, which were each brown and just a bit larger than a robin's egg. They were just like regular eggs when we cracked them open. Relieved by this, we went on to to the last two eggs, which, in contrast to the others, were white. With much reluctance and hesitation, I cracked them open, and inside each one was a little, white blob that looked like a little poached egg. In the dream I was repulsed and put them down and pretty much ran away from the table, crying. I told J. "I didn't know this would be so hard." That was the end of that.
Then I woke up and started this entry, which I'm finishing now at 9:11 a.m. at work just so I can get it posted. I ended up working on another post that I will hopefully finish soon as well. It will be a busy day for me--I have a very minor, kind of silly part-time job I'm going to learn about in about an hour or so, then I have a therapy appointment later today, and in between I need to do some work (imagine that!) Hopefully Bubba will do okay at daycare--he seemed much improved again this morning and never complained about his ear again...but also was very clingy and crying when I dropped him off. So we'll see what happens. Like I told J.--do you ever have a feeling that your day is going to be a trial from beginning to end? I feel that way today. OH WELL!
Saturday, March 10, 2007
It's 4 a.m. and nobody else is up so I have no choice but to ramble endlessly on my blog
So we've figured out why men's butts stink. Now let's tackle another of life's mysteries: why does a simmering illness always become acute, or a new illness always present itself, after 5 p.m. on Friday and usually before noon on Saturday, when all doctor's offices are closed and you still have the majority of the weekend to survive?
Yesterday I came home early from work because I was just so exhausted. I laid down at about 5 p.m. and, other than a few feeble attempts, did not wake up until 2:30 a.m. today. As I was hacking up the chunky shit from my lungs that had accumulated over the past 9 hours, and blowing the chunky shit out of my nose, and feeling pretty much like I might pass out because I had been too fucking tired to even eat anything substantial for the past day and a half, I concluded that yes, my extreme fatigue, coupled with the chunky shit, probably meant I did have a sinus infection for sure and possibly a touch of bronchitis. Gee, it only took me a week to figure it out!
Obviously I had some kind of clue because yesterday, before I fell into a coma, I called our family otolaryngologist and made an appointment for myself because of the almost constant sinus issues I've been experiencing for the past six months (amazingly, I got an appointment on Monday!) And I called in my refills for antibiotics and prednisone, which I got that last time I had a sinus infection. So really, a doctor probably couldn't do much more, but damn! I'm sick of being sick on the weekend.
I had bizarre dreams during my fugue state. In the first part of the dream, LilCherie and J. were with me and we were carousing around Amsterdam and met this group of guys who were also from America and were touring the city and playing a few clubs with their band. They weren't famous or anything, in fact, far from it. Anyway, you'll know this was a dream because the totally hot bass player actually kind of had eyes for me and we were really attracted to one another. We flirted extensively with one another but it never went any further than that.
Suddenly, the bass player and I were at Nigel's Mom's parents' house in the U.K. She had this perfect life (imagine that!) and I was incredibly jealous. She was there getting married and I was there for the wedding. I was hanging out in the living room with Bass Player and my cell phone rang--it was my friend Pioneer Girl. I realized through the course of the conversation that she and Bass Player were actually an item and that they were going to be getting married. I was crushed! Bass Player continued flirting with me in a harmless way and I couldn't resist flirting back even though I knew it was a shitty thing to do, given his relationship with Pioneer Girl.
So...the wedding occurs and it's actually a double wedding, ostensibly between Bass Player and Pioneer Girl and my friend Nigel's Mom and her fiance, but of course in the dream they look completely different. I'm lonely and sad and just waiting to come back to the U.S. the next day, but still kind of sad about coming back because Nigel's Mom's parents' house is so perfect and happy and wonderful. During the wedding, there's a delay and they need someone to "entertain the crowd," so I end up doing this bizarre song and dance number about Christmas in front of the crowd. I notice a few little girls dressed in red, white and blue, obviously from America, and I say something to them in solidarity towards America or something. Finally the wedding occurs, we go back to Nigel's Mom's Parents' house, where I pack and count out my Euros to figure out if I have enough petty cash for the airport the next day.
Next thing I know, I'm in a car with J., heading for the airport, but he's not my husband. He's married to someone else. I say to him, "Do you really love her more than you love me?" He looks at me like he doesn't quite know what to say, like he's contemplating lying, and then lets his guard down and says, "No, I don't. Isn't it funny the choices we make when we're young?" I smile at him and we ride the rest of the way in a kind of friendly, wistful silence, wondering what could have been.
The general feeling I had when I woke up, and now two hours later, is basically one of sadness, lost opportunities, and jealousy, along with a dash of warmth because two men actually loved me or were attracted to me in the dream. The whole dream really took me back to the days of my youth when J. and I were really infatuated with one another. God, it seems like a million years ago. In some ways I feel starved for that kind of attention and adoration. It makes me sad to know that I will likely never feel that again in my lifetime, and because of my choice to marry the first man who ever showed an interest in me, I only got to feel it once.
The feelings J. and I have toward one another now are so much more complex. There's so much baggage attached to it all. All the shit we've been through--his parents dying, my surgeries, Hope--in some ways they deepen a relationship and in other ways they weaken it. You spend so much time just trying to save yourself that it's difficult to focus on the other person, and then the self-centeredness becomes a habit that's hard to break out of. And yet you feel incredibly bound to one another because of all the struggle you've shared. It defines your relationship in a way you never expected, and it kind of puts a cloud over it. When most of the seminal events of your marriage have been incredibly traumatic, the whole relationship seems locked in survival mode, rather than a higher place of love and respect. If that makes sense.
Yet there are some things that remain constant through it all. When I think of the time before I started dating J., when I first became attracted to him, the thing I remember first is sitting in the school library before school, his group of friends and my group of friends horsing around with each other. He made me laugh so hard and so much that I would leave after a half an hour with my face actually hurting. And through it all, I doubt there's been more than a few days here and there when he hasn't made me laugh, even during our darkest times. And I know deep down that I would rather have laughter than cheesy romance. I guess it's just human nature to want we don't have.
There have been three times in my life where I've felt that a dream of mine has actually come true, fully and completely. The first was when J. asked me out for our first date. The second was when I found out I was pregnant with Hope. The third was the day I gave birth to Bubba. When you really think about it, I'm pretty fucking fortunate to have had those three moments.
Yesterday I came home early from work because I was just so exhausted. I laid down at about 5 p.m. and, other than a few feeble attempts, did not wake up until 2:30 a.m. today. As I was hacking up the chunky shit from my lungs that had accumulated over the past 9 hours, and blowing the chunky shit out of my nose, and feeling pretty much like I might pass out because I had been too fucking tired to even eat anything substantial for the past day and a half, I concluded that yes, my extreme fatigue, coupled with the chunky shit, probably meant I did have a sinus infection for sure and possibly a touch of bronchitis. Gee, it only took me a week to figure it out!
Obviously I had some kind of clue because yesterday, before I fell into a coma, I called our family otolaryngologist and made an appointment for myself because of the almost constant sinus issues I've been experiencing for the past six months (amazingly, I got an appointment on Monday!) And I called in my refills for antibiotics and prednisone, which I got that last time I had a sinus infection. So really, a doctor probably couldn't do much more, but damn! I'm sick of being sick on the weekend.
I had bizarre dreams during my fugue state. In the first part of the dream, LilCherie and J. were with me and we were carousing around Amsterdam and met this group of guys who were also from America and were touring the city and playing a few clubs with their band. They weren't famous or anything, in fact, far from it. Anyway, you'll know this was a dream because the totally hot bass player actually kind of had eyes for me and we were really attracted to one another. We flirted extensively with one another but it never went any further than that.
Suddenly, the bass player and I were at Nigel's Mom's parents' house in the U.K. She had this perfect life (imagine that!) and I was incredibly jealous. She was there getting married and I was there for the wedding. I was hanging out in the living room with Bass Player and my cell phone rang--it was my friend Pioneer Girl. I realized through the course of the conversation that she and Bass Player were actually an item and that they were going to be getting married. I was crushed! Bass Player continued flirting with me in a harmless way and I couldn't resist flirting back even though I knew it was a shitty thing to do, given his relationship with Pioneer Girl.
So...the wedding occurs and it's actually a double wedding, ostensibly between Bass Player and Pioneer Girl and my friend Nigel's Mom and her fiance, but of course in the dream they look completely different. I'm lonely and sad and just waiting to come back to the U.S. the next day, but still kind of sad about coming back because Nigel's Mom's parents' house is so perfect and happy and wonderful. During the wedding, there's a delay and they need someone to "entertain the crowd," so I end up doing this bizarre song and dance number about Christmas in front of the crowd. I notice a few little girls dressed in red, white and blue, obviously from America, and I say something to them in solidarity towards America or something. Finally the wedding occurs, we go back to Nigel's Mom's Parents' house, where I pack and count out my Euros to figure out if I have enough petty cash for the airport the next day.
Next thing I know, I'm in a car with J., heading for the airport, but he's not my husband. He's married to someone else. I say to him, "Do you really love her more than you love me?" He looks at me like he doesn't quite know what to say, like he's contemplating lying, and then lets his guard down and says, "No, I don't. Isn't it funny the choices we make when we're young?" I smile at him and we ride the rest of the way in a kind of friendly, wistful silence, wondering what could have been.
The general feeling I had when I woke up, and now two hours later, is basically one of sadness, lost opportunities, and jealousy, along with a dash of warmth because two men actually loved me or were attracted to me in the dream. The whole dream really took me back to the days of my youth when J. and I were really infatuated with one another. God, it seems like a million years ago. In some ways I feel starved for that kind of attention and adoration. It makes me sad to know that I will likely never feel that again in my lifetime, and because of my choice to marry the first man who ever showed an interest in me, I only got to feel it once.
The feelings J. and I have toward one another now are so much more complex. There's so much baggage attached to it all. All the shit we've been through--his parents dying, my surgeries, Hope--in some ways they deepen a relationship and in other ways they weaken it. You spend so much time just trying to save yourself that it's difficult to focus on the other person, and then the self-centeredness becomes a habit that's hard to break out of. And yet you feel incredibly bound to one another because of all the struggle you've shared. It defines your relationship in a way you never expected, and it kind of puts a cloud over it. When most of the seminal events of your marriage have been incredibly traumatic, the whole relationship seems locked in survival mode, rather than a higher place of love and respect. If that makes sense.
Yet there are some things that remain constant through it all. When I think of the time before I started dating J., when I first became attracted to him, the thing I remember first is sitting in the school library before school, his group of friends and my group of friends horsing around with each other. He made me laugh so hard and so much that I would leave after a half an hour with my face actually hurting. And through it all, I doubt there's been more than a few days here and there when he hasn't made me laugh, even during our darkest times. And I know deep down that I would rather have laughter than cheesy romance. I guess it's just human nature to want we don't have.
There have been three times in my life where I've felt that a dream of mine has actually come true, fully and completely. The first was when J. asked me out for our first date. The second was when I found out I was pregnant with Hope. The third was the day I gave birth to Bubba. When you really think about it, I'm pretty fucking fortunate to have had those three moments.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Help Me Choose My Glasses
Okay, for those of you who don't know me, this might be a little more tough because you can't picture the face to go with them...but just keep in mind that I know this shape looks good on me, I just want to know which ones you think are the coolest!
Enjoying the moment
Okay, brace yourselves....this will be a gushy, mushy post about my son. It's about time, huh?
Yesterday we had our first "parent-teacher conference" with Bubba's primary childcare provider, Christina. I put it in quotes because it seems so funny to have a parent-teacher conference for a two-year-old, but that's what they call it, and I guess that's what it is.
Anyway, Bubba got a glowing report. Really, it couldn't have been much better. Here are some of the comments Christina wrote on her report:
"Bubba seems to be doing great with separation from Mom and Dad in the mornings. Bubba does great with our schedule and is always excited to move on to the next activity."
"I think Bubba has a great sense of independence! He is able to play by himself and do things for himself, or at least try to. He has a great relationship with all of the teachers and children. Bubba is very kind to his friends."
"Bubba loves to try new things! He is always the first child in line when we get the sensory table out or get ready to do any new activity. He transitions well from one activity to the next."
We asked about Bubba's speech because it's one of those things we are just constantly worried about, and she said that compared to the other kids, he is well within the normal range. She said Bubba has a "ton" of words, it's just difficult sometimes for him to pronounce them, while on the other hand, some kids in his class can pronounce their words perfectly but don't have that many.
I also asked about tantrums, since that's an area we have difficulty with. She said he usually has one or two meltdowns a day, just like every other kid in the classroom. She also said he is a very happy kid and that they really enjoy having him in the room.
This caps off a week where I've really been enjoying Bubba a little bit more than usual. We began a couple new strategies this week that seem to be working well, for now anyway. When we do time outs, instead of having him sit in a chair, we have him stand with his face in the corner. When he was in the chair, he would just laugh at us like it was a game. However, he hates standing with his face in the corner with a passion, so we usually only have to do it for about 20 seconds before he's ready to listen and do what he's supposed to do. A side benefit of him really hating it is that we can threaten the time out and it actually alters his behavior. Score!
Another new strategy we've been using at bedtime is locking ourselves in the bedroom with Bubba. I think Aurelia suggested that--thank you! We lock the door, turn out the light and get settled, and then have minimal interaction with Bubba. Usually he jumps down and runs to the door, realizes it's locked, has a mini-meltdown and then comes back over asking to be put back in bed. Then he goes to sleep. Last night, he didn't even get down out of the bed, and didn't cry about bedtime. It was lovely! Our next step will be to get him a real-sized bed for his room and start the process in there. We just can't afford to shell out $500 for a new mattress set right now.
The last thing I only tried last night but it worked, so I'll be using it more to see if it has staying power. He decided to play with his cars rather than read stories, and when it got time to go to bed he didn't want to stop. I happened to have the alarm clock right there so I set it to go off in five minutes and told Bubba that when he hears the buzzer, it's time to put the cars away and go to bed. I reminded him a couple times during the five minutes, and when the buzzer went off, he looked up kind of startled, grabbed his blankie, and ran to the bedroom. It was like magic. I hope it keeps working.
Beyond the discipline stuff, he's just been fun this week. I noticed that he no longer says "Meese" anymore and now says "Please." He also learned "Okay" this week and uses it all the time, and it's just so cute. He likes to sit with me on the couch while he watches his movies, and he puts his blankie over me and says "Share!" The other day I was on the phone with my sister and he obviously didn't want me to be, so he came over and said "Ma all done talk." Last night, the weather was finally nice enough to go outside for awhile so we all went out and took a walk, saw the neighbor's dog, and played with the foam swords and the ball in the backyard. When we were getting ready to move from the front yard to the back yard, he started saying goodbye to everything. "Bye stick! Bye tree! Bye sky! Bye Randy's house! (our neighbors)." It was just so freakin adorable!
I've been going to bed with him a lot this week, mostly because J.'s been out doing things at bedtime and I've been really tired (still trying to figure out if I have a sinus infection, bronchitis, or what), and in spite of all the struggling to get him to settle down, it's kind of nice, because when he's just about ready to fall asleep, or when he's waking up, he'll stroke my face and say "Hi Ma," in this really soft, lovely little voice, or he'll come over and want to snuggle.
It seems like he is going through a "growing up phase" where suddenly, this week, he seems a lot older. It always makes me a little bit sad because I feel like I haven't really enjoyed the time up to now. I mean, I know I tried my best at the time, but in retrospect my memories always seem very blurry, very vague, and peppered with a lot of the struggle rather than the joy. I think I will continually be striving to "enjoy the moment." I think I have something to learn from Trish on that.
For right now, I am enjoying the moment. It might change tonight when we are fighting with him to get his jammies on or trying to force some food down his throat, but right now, I feel all warm inside and happy and proud of my boy. I love how friendly he is to other people (the other day, he got wanted me to roll the window down in the car so that he could say "Hi!" to some anonymous person riding a bike right next to us). I love how he really knows and loves members of our extended family, including our friends -- he is obsessed with a little photo we have of LilCherie and her family, and last night when I made the mistake of speculating out loud about how we should go to the cabin with them, he got all excited and started saying LilCherie's son's name over and over. He wanted to go right then! I love how every time I'm on the phone, he says "Tingle?" (well, not actually Tingle, but her name, which she probably doesn't want me to reveal. But it's very cute the way he says it), or when he looks at the photo we have on the door from when we went to Cleveland he says "Di-so-bows" (dinosaur bones) and then says "Unc-Tingle's husband's name?" I love how he calls me "Ma." I love how I end up doing ridiculous things for him, like running around while he chases me with a sword and then yelping when he gets me, or dancing like a dork to the Doodlebops song because he has commanded "Ma dance!"
There have been times when I've thought, oh my god, we still have 15 more years before he leaves the house! Then there are other times when I think, we only have 15 more years with him until he leaves the house! I hope we make those years fun ones. I hope we don't screw him up too bad. I hope he'll want to come back once he does leave. And I hope he'll still call me Ma.
Yesterday we had our first "parent-teacher conference" with Bubba's primary childcare provider, Christina. I put it in quotes because it seems so funny to have a parent-teacher conference for a two-year-old, but that's what they call it, and I guess that's what it is.
Anyway, Bubba got a glowing report. Really, it couldn't have been much better. Here are some of the comments Christina wrote on her report:
"Bubba seems to be doing great with separation from Mom and Dad in the mornings. Bubba does great with our schedule and is always excited to move on to the next activity."
"I think Bubba has a great sense of independence! He is able to play by himself and do things for himself, or at least try to. He has a great relationship with all of the teachers and children. Bubba is very kind to his friends."
"Bubba loves to try new things! He is always the first child in line when we get the sensory table out or get ready to do any new activity. He transitions well from one activity to the next."
We asked about Bubba's speech because it's one of those things we are just constantly worried about, and she said that compared to the other kids, he is well within the normal range. She said Bubba has a "ton" of words, it's just difficult sometimes for him to pronounce them, while on the other hand, some kids in his class can pronounce their words perfectly but don't have that many.
I also asked about tantrums, since that's an area we have difficulty with. She said he usually has one or two meltdowns a day, just like every other kid in the classroom. She also said he is a very happy kid and that they really enjoy having him in the room.
This caps off a week where I've really been enjoying Bubba a little bit more than usual. We began a couple new strategies this week that seem to be working well, for now anyway. When we do time outs, instead of having him sit in a chair, we have him stand with his face in the corner. When he was in the chair, he would just laugh at us like it was a game. However, he hates standing with his face in the corner with a passion, so we usually only have to do it for about 20 seconds before he's ready to listen and do what he's supposed to do. A side benefit of him really hating it is that we can threaten the time out and it actually alters his behavior. Score!
Another new strategy we've been using at bedtime is locking ourselves in the bedroom with Bubba. I think Aurelia suggested that--thank you! We lock the door, turn out the light and get settled, and then have minimal interaction with Bubba. Usually he jumps down and runs to the door, realizes it's locked, has a mini-meltdown and then comes back over asking to be put back in bed. Then he goes to sleep. Last night, he didn't even get down out of the bed, and didn't cry about bedtime. It was lovely! Our next step will be to get him a real-sized bed for his room and start the process in there. We just can't afford to shell out $500 for a new mattress set right now.
The last thing I only tried last night but it worked, so I'll be using it more to see if it has staying power. He decided to play with his cars rather than read stories, and when it got time to go to bed he didn't want to stop. I happened to have the alarm clock right there so I set it to go off in five minutes and told Bubba that when he hears the buzzer, it's time to put the cars away and go to bed. I reminded him a couple times during the five minutes, and when the buzzer went off, he looked up kind of startled, grabbed his blankie, and ran to the bedroom. It was like magic. I hope it keeps working.
Beyond the discipline stuff, he's just been fun this week. I noticed that he no longer says "Meese" anymore and now says "Please." He also learned "Okay" this week and uses it all the time, and it's just so cute. He likes to sit with me on the couch while he watches his movies, and he puts his blankie over me and says "Share!" The other day I was on the phone with my sister and he obviously didn't want me to be, so he came over and said "Ma all done talk." Last night, the weather was finally nice enough to go outside for awhile so we all went out and took a walk, saw the neighbor's dog, and played with the foam swords and the ball in the backyard. When we were getting ready to move from the front yard to the back yard, he started saying goodbye to everything. "Bye stick! Bye tree! Bye sky! Bye Randy's house! (our neighbors)." It was just so freakin adorable!
I've been going to bed with him a lot this week, mostly because J.'s been out doing things at bedtime and I've been really tired (still trying to figure out if I have a sinus infection, bronchitis, or what), and in spite of all the struggling to get him to settle down, it's kind of nice, because when he's just about ready to fall asleep, or when he's waking up, he'll stroke my face and say "Hi Ma," in this really soft, lovely little voice, or he'll come over and want to snuggle.
It seems like he is going through a "growing up phase" where suddenly, this week, he seems a lot older. It always makes me a little bit sad because I feel like I haven't really enjoyed the time up to now. I mean, I know I tried my best at the time, but in retrospect my memories always seem very blurry, very vague, and peppered with a lot of the struggle rather than the joy. I think I will continually be striving to "enjoy the moment." I think I have something to learn from Trish on that.
For right now, I am enjoying the moment. It might change tonight when we are fighting with him to get his jammies on or trying to force some food down his throat, but right now, I feel all warm inside and happy and proud of my boy. I love how friendly he is to other people (the other day, he got wanted me to roll the window down in the car so that he could say "Hi!" to some anonymous person riding a bike right next to us). I love how he really knows and loves members of our extended family, including our friends -- he is obsessed with a little photo we have of LilCherie and her family, and last night when I made the mistake of speculating out loud about how we should go to the cabin with them, he got all excited and started saying LilCherie's son's name over and over. He wanted to go right then! I love how every time I'm on the phone, he says "Tingle?" (well, not actually Tingle, but her name, which she probably doesn't want me to reveal. But it's very cute the way he says it), or when he looks at the photo we have on the door from when we went to Cleveland he says "Di-so-bows" (dinosaur bones) and then says "Unc-Tingle's husband's name?" I love how he calls me "Ma." I love how I end up doing ridiculous things for him, like running around while he chases me with a sword and then yelping when he gets me, or dancing like a dork to the Doodlebops song because he has commanded "Ma dance!"
There have been times when I've thought, oh my god, we still have 15 more years before he leaves the house! Then there are other times when I think, we only have 15 more years with him until he leaves the house! I hope we make those years fun ones. I hope we don't screw him up too bad. I hope he'll want to come back once he does leave. And I hope he'll still call me Ma.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Why Men's Asses Stink So Bad
Inspired by Tingle's comment on my last post, I decided to put a few theories out there. Here are my thoughts.
Why Men's Asses Stink So Bad
1. They're too lazy to wipe their butts adequately after a dump.
2. After they take a dump, if not interrupted, they sit there for an average of 25 minutes reading a magazine. I posit that during this time, poo particles crust onto their skin and are not removed due to the inadequate wipe, which leads us to....
3. Later, rehydrated by the man's sweat, the particles release themselves into the underwear, causing the all-too-familiar skidmark and emitting that familiar odor of butt.
4. They purposely cultivate a little shitgarden down there just to annoy us.
5. They're too lazy to actually bend over or use soap in the crack area during their 30-second showers.
6. More hair down there (see #2 --ha ha, get it?--of this post.)
7. It helps them recognize each other in the wild.
8. The jalapeno burger for lunch, the Triple X chili at the Superbowl Party, Tabasco sauce on everything, the strange desire to prove to other men that they can eat something that's really hot...it adds up.
9. Moist farts.
10. Their ability to go an entire weekend without showering or shaving--and still leave the house and carry on with their normal business--even when they are completely healthy.
11. It's a diversionary tactic to try to get us to stop asking them about their feelings.
I know you all must have some good ones to add to this list. Let's hear 'em!
Why Men's Asses Stink So Bad
1. They're too lazy to wipe their butts adequately after a dump.
2. After they take a dump, if not interrupted, they sit there for an average of 25 minutes reading a magazine. I posit that during this time, poo particles crust onto their skin and are not removed due to the inadequate wipe, which leads us to....
3. Later, rehydrated by the man's sweat, the particles release themselves into the underwear, causing the all-too-familiar skidmark and emitting that familiar odor of butt.
4. They purposely cultivate a little shitgarden down there just to annoy us.
5. They're too lazy to actually bend over or use soap in the crack area during their 30-second showers.
6. More hair down there (see #2 --ha ha, get it?--of this post.)
7. It helps them recognize each other in the wild.
8. The jalapeno burger for lunch, the Triple X chili at the Superbowl Party, Tabasco sauce on everything, the strange desire to prove to other men that they can eat something that's really hot...it adds up.
9. Moist farts.
10. Their ability to go an entire weekend without showering or shaving--and still leave the house and carry on with their normal business--even when they are completely healthy.
11. It's a diversionary tactic to try to get us to stop asking them about their feelings.
I know you all must have some good ones to add to this list. Let's hear 'em!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Just Another Post of Bitching About How Shitty My Life Is
I've been trying, really trying, to be compassionate and understanding. It's what my therapy is all about these days, and for awhile it really seemed to be working--my relationship with J. really seemed to be on an upswing. I felt hopeful and optimistic. Then J. got depressed and it seems all the progress I thought we made went out the window.
I still want to be a compassionate person, so I'm still trying. But damn, it's hard. I've been sick, more or less, for the last two weeks and still, J. has done little to nothing to help out around here. A few examples: While J. worked Saturday morning, I watched Bubba and did all the laundry--at least five loads. It got backed up waiting for things to dry so when J. came home I asked if he could keep it going. This meant he would need to dry and bring up two loads of laundry. Nope, he didn't do it. I even had to rewash a load yesterday because it had gotten sour. I didn't complain or bitch. I just did it and stomped around so he'd know I wasn't pleased. He didn't even say he was sorry.
The only other thing I asked him to do this weekend was clean his shit stains out of the toilet on Saturday before the babysitter (that he'd hired so he could go to the casino with his friends while I did Girl's Night) came over. Said he would; I ended up doing it Sunday night.
Awhile back, I nagged at J. about a hundred times to not leave his meds right next to the edge of the counter where Bubba can get them. Finally, I had to tape a bright orange sign on the counter next to his meds saying "Please Place Meds Away From Counter Edge." Now he's good about that, but he leaves lighters all over the place. So now I've had to nag at him a million times not to do that, and he still does. Today I found one on the floor next to the couch. I suspect it fell out of his pocket, but jesus! We have a two-and-a-half-year-old for crying out loud! On a similar note, yesterday Bubba grabbed J.'s razor off the counter and tried to "shave" with it. No harm done because I caught it in time, but now this is something new I'll have to yell at J. about. He does shit like leave the computer charger plugged into the wall but not the computer, so if Bubba happened to find it, he could easily electrocute himself. This is ridiculous. I should not be the only one thinking about Bubba's safety.
J.'s cell phone does not work properly. This is kind of a sore spot anyway, because when he got a cell phone (about 2 years ago now, I think) he decided he must have the new Razr phone, even though it cost him like $200 or something when he'd just borrowed $300 from me because he couldn't make ends meet. He also got it from a different provider than I have, so we can't call each other for free (he did this because of their "awesome" deal on the Razr.) Then, not too long after he got it, it began malfunctioning. Many times, it doesn't ring, so he doesn't know if I'm calling or not. I also cannot leave a voice mail message because J. has never gotten around to setting up his mailbox. So I can call and call and call and he may or may not realize I'm calling. At least 50 to 75 percent of the time I cannot reach him. Yet he still doesn't go get it fixed or replaced. Plus, he doesn't answer his phone at work if there's a customer in his office. So if there ever was a real emergency, my chances of reaching him are at around 25 percent.
J. is the primary user of our car, since I often ride the bus when the weather is halfway decent. The thing is like a garbage can on wheels. Old bags of fast food, empty cigarette boxes, lighters all over the place, the miscellaneous sock here and there, half-filled sippy cups full of old milk. It stinks and it is disgusting. I've cleaned it out myself many times but it ends up like this in a matter of days, and no matter how much I complain it does no good. And, in fact, Sunday night he bitched at me for leaving a shopping bag of stuff in the back of the car, which had been there for exactly 7 hours.
Likewise, his room--which I've talked about here before--is such a disaster that I can't sleep in there anymore, and I've told him this, but it makes no difference.
My dad actually had a discussion with me last week about how he notices that J. doesn't do a damn thing around here and that he was getting disgusted about it and wanted to give J. a piece of his mind. I managed to thwart that from happening, since I know it won't do any good, but I don't blame him. My mom and dad come out every Monday to watch Bubba, and dad almost always does some shit that J. should be doing, like taking back the recycling or doing yardwork, and J. just lets it go again. Even my dad is getting frustrated with it. To top it all off, whenever my parents do something around the house, J. gets embarrassed and says "they really shouldn't do that stuff. Tell them not to do that stuff anymore." Well, I'm not going to tell them, because I need some fucking help around here! I don't have the time or the energy to clean the entire house, do all the laundry, do all the grocery shopping, do all the cooking, watch Bubba AND clean the garage, take back the recycling, clean out the car, mow the lawn and shovel the walk.
I don't know how to deal with this. I've set him up with a therapist. I think it was helping him, even though a lot of their conversations seemed to be about movies and music; but recently he decided things were going "so well" that he would wait to make the next appointment. It's been about three weeks now and he hasn't gone. I pretty much forced him to see a psychiatrist and cajoled him to take medication, which he now does willingly...but it's just not enough. You have to want to change and it takes a little bit of goddamn effort. I'm really disappointed because things were going so well there for awhile--and now I realize that it wasn't a real change, just another upswing on the bell curve that is our relationship. I find myself wondering if I could have done better. I find myself wondering if I would be better off now if only I had had the self-esteem when I was younger to be able imagine that someone else could find me attractive. Now I pretty much assume that if we get divorced, I'll just be single forever...and truthfully, that doesn't sound so terrible.
Well, I guess I've just written another post "bitching about how shitty my life is" as J. would say. To keep with my earlier promise, now I will try to think of something funny or lighthearted to post. Okay, this falls into the category of dark humor...which happens to be my favorite category. I hope you find it as amusing as I did.
My bus friend, Martha, was telling me that her elderly father died in January. He was an asshole, so she was pretty much okay with it and relieved. Anyway, she said it was apparently a bad week in his town, because the funeral home was hoppin'. When she went there to find out when her father could be cremated, the funeral home director said: "Well, since you're not having a visitation or anything...we might be able to squeeze him in."
I still want to be a compassionate person, so I'm still trying. But damn, it's hard. I've been sick, more or less, for the last two weeks and still, J. has done little to nothing to help out around here. A few examples: While J. worked Saturday morning, I watched Bubba and did all the laundry--at least five loads. It got backed up waiting for things to dry so when J. came home I asked if he could keep it going. This meant he would need to dry and bring up two loads of laundry. Nope, he didn't do it. I even had to rewash a load yesterday because it had gotten sour. I didn't complain or bitch. I just did it and stomped around so he'd know I wasn't pleased. He didn't even say he was sorry.
The only other thing I asked him to do this weekend was clean his shit stains out of the toilet on Saturday before the babysitter (that he'd hired so he could go to the casino with his friends while I did Girl's Night) came over. Said he would; I ended up doing it Sunday night.
Awhile back, I nagged at J. about a hundred times to not leave his meds right next to the edge of the counter where Bubba can get them. Finally, I had to tape a bright orange sign on the counter next to his meds saying "Please Place Meds Away From Counter Edge." Now he's good about that, but he leaves lighters all over the place. So now I've had to nag at him a million times not to do that, and he still does. Today I found one on the floor next to the couch. I suspect it fell out of his pocket, but jesus! We have a two-and-a-half-year-old for crying out loud! On a similar note, yesterday Bubba grabbed J.'s razor off the counter and tried to "shave" with it. No harm done because I caught it in time, but now this is something new I'll have to yell at J. about. He does shit like leave the computer charger plugged into the wall but not the computer, so if Bubba happened to find it, he could easily electrocute himself. This is ridiculous. I should not be the only one thinking about Bubba's safety.
J.'s cell phone does not work properly. This is kind of a sore spot anyway, because when he got a cell phone (about 2 years ago now, I think) he decided he must have the new Razr phone, even though it cost him like $200 or something when he'd just borrowed $300 from me because he couldn't make ends meet. He also got it from a different provider than I have, so we can't call each other for free (he did this because of their "awesome" deal on the Razr.) Then, not too long after he got it, it began malfunctioning. Many times, it doesn't ring, so he doesn't know if I'm calling or not. I also cannot leave a voice mail message because J. has never gotten around to setting up his mailbox. So I can call and call and call and he may or may not realize I'm calling. At least 50 to 75 percent of the time I cannot reach him. Yet he still doesn't go get it fixed or replaced. Plus, he doesn't answer his phone at work if there's a customer in his office. So if there ever was a real emergency, my chances of reaching him are at around 25 percent.
J. is the primary user of our car, since I often ride the bus when the weather is halfway decent. The thing is like a garbage can on wheels. Old bags of fast food, empty cigarette boxes, lighters all over the place, the miscellaneous sock here and there, half-filled sippy cups full of old milk. It stinks and it is disgusting. I've cleaned it out myself many times but it ends up like this in a matter of days, and no matter how much I complain it does no good. And, in fact, Sunday night he bitched at me for leaving a shopping bag of stuff in the back of the car, which had been there for exactly 7 hours.
Likewise, his room--which I've talked about here before--is such a disaster that I can't sleep in there anymore, and I've told him this, but it makes no difference.
My dad actually had a discussion with me last week about how he notices that J. doesn't do a damn thing around here and that he was getting disgusted about it and wanted to give J. a piece of his mind. I managed to thwart that from happening, since I know it won't do any good, but I don't blame him. My mom and dad come out every Monday to watch Bubba, and dad almost always does some shit that J. should be doing, like taking back the recycling or doing yardwork, and J. just lets it go again. Even my dad is getting frustrated with it. To top it all off, whenever my parents do something around the house, J. gets embarrassed and says "they really shouldn't do that stuff. Tell them not to do that stuff anymore." Well, I'm not going to tell them, because I need some fucking help around here! I don't have the time or the energy to clean the entire house, do all the laundry, do all the grocery shopping, do all the cooking, watch Bubba AND clean the garage, take back the recycling, clean out the car, mow the lawn and shovel the walk.
I don't know how to deal with this. I've set him up with a therapist. I think it was helping him, even though a lot of their conversations seemed to be about movies and music; but recently he decided things were going "so well" that he would wait to make the next appointment. It's been about three weeks now and he hasn't gone. I pretty much forced him to see a psychiatrist and cajoled him to take medication, which he now does willingly...but it's just not enough. You have to want to change and it takes a little bit of goddamn effort. I'm really disappointed because things were going so well there for awhile--and now I realize that it wasn't a real change, just another upswing on the bell curve that is our relationship. I find myself wondering if I could have done better. I find myself wondering if I would be better off now if only I had had the self-esteem when I was younger to be able imagine that someone else could find me attractive. Now I pretty much assume that if we get divorced, I'll just be single forever...and truthfully, that doesn't sound so terrible.
Well, I guess I've just written another post "bitching about how shitty my life is" as J. would say. To keep with my earlier promise, now I will try to think of something funny or lighthearted to post. Okay, this falls into the category of dark humor...which happens to be my favorite category. I hope you find it as amusing as I did.
My bus friend, Martha, was telling me that her elderly father died in January. He was an asshole, so she was pretty much okay with it and relieved. Anyway, she said it was apparently a bad week in his town, because the funeral home was hoppin'. When she went there to find out when her father could be cremated, the funeral home director said: "Well, since you're not having a visitation or anything...we might be able to squeeze him in."
Friday, March 02, 2007
Damn.
J. just called with the devastating news that Nate won't be able to make it tonight. He is writing a paper and it's not going as well as he'd hoped and he has to get it in by the end of the day--like midnight--tonight. I'm still hoping he might get a burst of inspiration, get it done, and be able to come over...but it's not looking good.
I'll probably still make chili.
Sigh.
I'll probably still make chili.
Sigh.
Like Chili (or Lasagna?) for Chocolate
Today I decided to take the day off. It's snowy, windy and cold; my
sinuses are really congested and I'm blowing chunky shit out of my nose; I have a touch of the diarrhea; and, frankly, I just needed a day at home by myself and this is the only way I'm going to get it! Obviously, I don't feel 100 percent, but I feel well enough to enjoy a little time to myself.
The good news for the day is that Nate is coming over tonight to play videogames with my husband! Yesterday, I asked J. if he had anything fun planned for the weekend. He said no, so I said "Why don't you see if Nate wants to come over tomorrow night?" He teased me about my Nate-lust and then said it did sound like a good idea. Nate got back to him this morning and said he'd like to come over. Oh, joy! I told J. on the phone that I was kind of feeling weird now because J. knows about my lust. J. responded, "C'mon! It's your dream double team, isn't it?" Or something like that. I'm glad he can have a sense of humor about it. I just find it better to upfront about stuff like this, because I'm a terrible liar and trying to conceal anything from J. feels very wrong to me and infringes on my enjoyment.
So....anyway...I'm planning to make a lasagna to feed my men tonight. I always have some anxiety about fixing food for someone I don't know very well. I don't know that I've ever met someone who hates lasagna...but still, I'm always worried that I'll make the one thing they can't stand and then they'll feel like they have to eat it. Many years ago, when I was fresh out of college and working at my first "real" job at a smalltown newspaper, I had to interview a woman who had won an award from, I believe, the Egg Council or something, for her breakfast casserole recipe. Yes, this was worthy of a feature story in this town of 1500 people, most of whom were related to one another.
Anyway, I get there for the interview and she sits me down at the table and brings out a steaming dish of her award-winning egg and sausage creation. Now I abhor eggs. I hate them. I hate the way they look, I hate the way they smell, I hate the way they taste, I hate the boogery texture of them in my mouth, I hate the fact that they are pooped out of a chicken. I once stopped eating pancakes for an entire year because I found a microscopic piece of cooked egg white peaking out from inside of one. It's almost a phobia.
What did I do? I briefly contemplated telling her I had an allergy, but she was just too sweet. So I snarfed it down as quickly as I could to get it over with and tried not to be too obvious about the fact that I wasn't chewing much and was drinking a lot. I'm still scarred. I never want anyone to feel that way in my house, so I really do my best to serve stuff that usually has universal appeal, rather than breaking out the Mexican Meatloaf or any kind of casserole (those often gross me out, too, unless I've made it and know what's in there).
I could also make chili; I have a really mean veggie chili recipe that has won universal raves when I've served it at potlucks and such, and what man doesn't like chili? I honestly can't think of one; can you? Let me know what you think--lasagna or chili? Which dish better says "Please come back and visit us again so I can feast my eyes on your hot bod, laugh at your sexy sense of humor and fantasize that my awesome cooking will just make you lose control and fuck me?"
I'm such a freak.
sinuses are really congested and I'm blowing chunky shit out of my nose; I have a touch of the diarrhea; and, frankly, I just needed a day at home by myself and this is the only way I'm going to get it! Obviously, I don't feel 100 percent, but I feel well enough to enjoy a little time to myself.
The good news for the day is that Nate is coming over tonight to play videogames with my husband! Yesterday, I asked J. if he had anything fun planned for the weekend. He said no, so I said "Why don't you see if Nate wants to come over tomorrow night?" He teased me about my Nate-lust and then said it did sound like a good idea. Nate got back to him this morning and said he'd like to come over. Oh, joy! I told J. on the phone that I was kind of feeling weird now because J. knows about my lust. J. responded, "C'mon! It's your dream double team, isn't it?" Or something like that. I'm glad he can have a sense of humor about it. I just find it better to upfront about stuff like this, because I'm a terrible liar and trying to conceal anything from J. feels very wrong to me and infringes on my enjoyment.
So....anyway...I'm planning to make a lasagna to feed my men tonight. I always have some anxiety about fixing food for someone I don't know very well. I don't know that I've ever met someone who hates lasagna...but still, I'm always worried that I'll make the one thing they can't stand and then they'll feel like they have to eat it. Many years ago, when I was fresh out of college and working at my first "real" job at a smalltown newspaper, I had to interview a woman who had won an award from, I believe, the Egg Council or something, for her breakfast casserole recipe. Yes, this was worthy of a feature story in this town of 1500 people, most of whom were related to one another.
Anyway, I get there for the interview and she sits me down at the table and brings out a steaming dish of her award-winning egg and sausage creation. Now I abhor eggs. I hate them. I hate the way they look, I hate the way they smell, I hate the way they taste, I hate the boogery texture of them in my mouth, I hate the fact that they are pooped out of a chicken. I once stopped eating pancakes for an entire year because I found a microscopic piece of cooked egg white peaking out from inside of one. It's almost a phobia.
What did I do? I briefly contemplated telling her I had an allergy, but she was just too sweet. So I snarfed it down as quickly as I could to get it over with and tried not to be too obvious about the fact that I wasn't chewing much and was drinking a lot. I'm still scarred. I never want anyone to feel that way in my house, so I really do my best to serve stuff that usually has universal appeal, rather than breaking out the Mexican Meatloaf or any kind of casserole (those often gross me out, too, unless I've made it and know what's in there).
I could also make chili; I have a really mean veggie chili recipe that has won universal raves when I've served it at potlucks and such, and what man doesn't like chili? I honestly can't think of one; can you? Let me know what you think--lasagna or chili? Which dish better says "Please come back and visit us again so I can feast my eyes on your hot bod, laugh at your sexy sense of humor and fantasize that my awesome cooking will just make you lose control and fuck me?"I'm such a freak.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Laugh and the World Laughs With You
The other night, I read some of my wittier, in my opinion anyway, posts from this blog. He listened half-heartedly and when he looked like he was about to fall asleep I stopped and then we fought for awhile about how I wasn't being "understanding" enough about his depression. Anyway, he made the comment that "all your blog is is bitching about how shitty your life is."
I've kind of been thinking about that lately and while I don't totally buy it, I do believe I need to sprinkle in some more lighthearted or funny posts here and there. In an effort to make this blog more enjoyable and maybe even improve my own mood, I am committing to attempting to include a funny, lighthearted, cute or otherwise warm and fuzzy anecdote with every post. Unless, of course, the post itself is funny, lighthearted, cute or otherwise warm and fuzzy, in which case that would be redundant. Or whatever. You know what I mean.
As part of my job, I encounter a lot of names. Not as many as a telemarketer or a salesmen, but a goodly amount. A few years back, I decided to start keeping a list of real names that were really funny. My husband got on board awhile ago because he also encounters a lot of names in his line of work.
My criteria for the list is simple. Is it someone’s real name, and is it funny? If so, it’s on. Even just a little chuckle counts. I’d really like to post it here but I’m afraid someone might Google themselves and find me and boy, that would be great, huh? Plus, someday I might publish a bathroom reader of funny names and I don’t want to give them all away here, right?
But I will tell you the one my husband sent to me today. I feel okay putting this one up because it’s the first two initials, coupled with the last name. I can put it out there without feeling like I’m compromising someone’s identity.
B.J. Belcher.
J.’s comment on this name was “ick.”
Just so you don’t think I’m a total bitch, I did have a really difficult, embarrassing last name when I was growing up, so I have enough karma built up that I can make fun of people’s names with impunity.
I've kind of been thinking about that lately and while I don't totally buy it, I do believe I need to sprinkle in some more lighthearted or funny posts here and there. In an effort to make this blog more enjoyable and maybe even improve my own mood, I am committing to attempting to include a funny, lighthearted, cute or otherwise warm and fuzzy anecdote with every post. Unless, of course, the post itself is funny, lighthearted, cute or otherwise warm and fuzzy, in which case that would be redundant. Or whatever. You know what I mean.
As part of my job, I encounter a lot of names. Not as many as a telemarketer or a salesmen, but a goodly amount. A few years back, I decided to start keeping a list of real names that were really funny. My husband got on board awhile ago because he also encounters a lot of names in his line of work.
My criteria for the list is simple. Is it someone’s real name, and is it funny? If so, it’s on. Even just a little chuckle counts. I’d really like to post it here but I’m afraid someone might Google themselves and find me and boy, that would be great, huh? Plus, someday I might publish a bathroom reader of funny names and I don’t want to give them all away here, right?
But I will tell you the one my husband sent to me today. I feel okay putting this one up because it’s the first two initials, coupled with the last name. I can put it out there without feeling like I’m compromising someone’s identity.
B.J. Belcher.
J.’s comment on this name was “ick.”
Just so you don’t think I’m a total bitch, I did have a really difficult, embarrassing last name when I was growing up, so I have enough karma built up that I can make fun of people’s names with impunity.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
The Considerate Smoker's Manifesto
Day before yesterday, I was standing more than the required 25 feet from any doorway and smoking a cigarette while waiting for the bus. I purposely stationed myself as far away from any human activity as possible--away from the sidewalk, away from any buildings, away from the bus stop.
About halfway through my cigarette, I notice a frumpy woman walking down the sidewalk in my direction, and she clearly has me in her sites. She comes right up to me and says, "I'm not sure you are aware, but this is a smoke-free campus."
I am aware that the campus soon will be smoke-free, as our office has been involved in publicizing this change, but I also know the campus is currently still smoke-full.
"I believe the change is not going into effect until April 2nd," I say.
"Oh, you're absolutely right. Well, good luck!" she says brightly, and continues on her way.
"Um...thanks?" I say after her.
This woman is obviously very psyched about the no-smoking policy, so psyched that she can't wait another five weeks for the power trip. Someone this psyched would HAVE to know that the policy was not yet in effect, so I figure she just assumed I looked like someone who didn't know about it. Or maybe she just figured that people who smoke can't read.
I particularly enjoyed the "good luck" she tacked onto the end of the exchange. This comment provoked a real moment of esprit de l'escalier (for those who are not familiar with this term, as was I until about a month ago when it came to me via dictionary.com's Word of the Day, this is a great expression that means 'In the original it refers to that infuriating situation in which you leave a drawing room and are halfway down the stairs before you suddenly think of that devastatingly witty comment you could have made.') At the time I just threw out a half-hearted, questioning "thanks" because I couldn't figure out why she was wishing me good luck; upon more reflection, I realize she probably just assumed that I would soon be attempting to quit in order to be in line with The Policy. Silly woman.
Anyway, here's my "esprit de l'escalier" -- the witty comment I should have made.
"Good luck!" she said brightly.
"Oh, that's kind of you...it'll be tough, but I'm sure I'll still be able to find somewhere to smoke after the policy is in effect!"
I wish I had some kind of a badge or a certificate I could show proving that I am a Considerate Smoker. I understand that not everybody wants to breathe my smoke. I understand that there are many people who do not participate in my love affair with the burn in the throat and the rush of nicotine in the blood. Therefore, I do my best to be a nuisance to no one when I am indulging in my vice. Usually I smoke on the top floor of the parking ramp next to my building, because there are very rarely people there and it's the top floor--i.e., no roof and lots and lots of ventilation. I never smoke next to a door or a window, and try to remove myself several feet from sidewalks and other thoroughfares so people will not have to walk through a cloud of smoke. If I see someone coming and it looks like they will intersect with the mushroom cloud, I hold the cigarette down and do not exhale until they are out of range. If I'm in a smoking section of a restaurant and there are kids there--even if their parents are smoking up a storm--I usually refrain or seriously limit my puffing because of the guilt factor. In the summer, I even have a fan placed on my screened-in porch to blow the smoke away from my neighbor's house just in case they might catch a whiff when the wind is blowing that way.
Yet I know this doesn't matter to the Smoking Police. It seems that in the crazed puritan/public health/big brother war on smoking, the message has gone from "smoking is bad" to "smokers are bad." (By the way, I hate the word "smoker" because it labels a person as their bad habit. I prefer "people who smoke. But sometimes it's just the easiest word to use, so I've had to relax my rules here. We smokers are rule breakers anyway, you know.)
Yes, in general, we smokers are a surly bunch. I mean, why do you think we're smoking? We've got issues, man! Do you think we enjoy being ridiculed, discriminated against and looked down on? C'mon! Do you think we'd choose to be smokers? No! We were born this way!
Seriously, just because a person smokes doesn't mean he or she is the antichrist. It doesn't mean we are horrible people. You can still be friends with us. We won't try to convert you. Chances are, we don't even smoke in our own homes, so you can come over without being subjected to it. And, chances are, we have some interesting shit to say. Ever notice that at a party, everyone ends up hanging out with the smokers (or, if they aren't, they're the ones nodding off on the couch?) There's a reason for that. We're fun!
Usually, the Smoking Police legitimize initiatives like the smoke-free campus by calling it "a public health issue" or because of their overwhelming "concern for smokers." As far as the public health issue argument goes, I highly doubt that my cigarette, smoldering by its lonesome, outside, more than 20 feet away from any person, is as dangerous as the black clouds of exhaust coming from the back of the fifth bus that just pulled away from the stop. It seems to me that this kind of zealous enthusiasm would be better spent lobbying the government to require smaller, more efficient, "greener" cars, or working for greater production and use of clean energy sources. Likewise, if you're going to rag on my smoking, then make sure you don't stand too close to bus stops while you're at it, or walk through a parking ramp.
The "concern for the health of smokers" argument is especially bothersome. First, it's patronizing. Please don't be concerned for my health when I'm not! Secondly, it's bullshit. If they were that concerned about other people's health, they'd be reprimanding every person eating a Big Mac, having an alcoholic drink, riding a bike during rush hour or trying to raise a toddler.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not proud to be a person who smokes. I wish I'd never started and sometimes I wish I had the inner fortitude required to quit (more often, I just give in and enjoy it, sorry). I admire efforts to prevent kids from starting and to help people who want to quit succeed. I just get pissed off when it becomes more about a power trip than anything else.
About halfway through my cigarette, I notice a frumpy woman walking down the sidewalk in my direction, and she clearly has me in her sites. She comes right up to me and says, "I'm not sure you are aware, but this is a smoke-free campus."
I am aware that the campus soon will be smoke-free, as our office has been involved in publicizing this change, but I also know the campus is currently still smoke-full.
"I believe the change is not going into effect until April 2nd," I say.
"Oh, you're absolutely right. Well, good luck!" she says brightly, and continues on her way.
"Um...thanks?" I say after her.
This woman is obviously very psyched about the no-smoking policy, so psyched that she can't wait another five weeks for the power trip. Someone this psyched would HAVE to know that the policy was not yet in effect, so I figure she just assumed I looked like someone who didn't know about it. Or maybe she just figured that people who smoke can't read.
I particularly enjoyed the "good luck" she tacked onto the end of the exchange. This comment provoked a real moment of esprit de l'escalier (for those who are not familiar with this term, as was I until about a month ago when it came to me via dictionary.com's Word of the Day, this is a great expression that means 'In the original it refers to that infuriating situation in which you leave a drawing room and are halfway down the stairs before you suddenly think of that devastatingly witty comment you could have made.') At the time I just threw out a half-hearted, questioning "thanks" because I couldn't figure out why she was wishing me good luck; upon more reflection, I realize she probably just assumed that I would soon be attempting to quit in order to be in line with The Policy. Silly woman.
Anyway, here's my "esprit de l'escalier" -- the witty comment I should have made.
"Good luck!" she said brightly.
"Oh, that's kind of you...it'll be tough, but I'm sure I'll still be able to find somewhere to smoke after the policy is in effect!"
I wish I had some kind of a badge or a certificate I could show proving that I am a Considerate Smoker. I understand that not everybody wants to breathe my smoke. I understand that there are many people who do not participate in my love affair with the burn in the throat and the rush of nicotine in the blood. Therefore, I do my best to be a nuisance to no one when I am indulging in my vice. Usually I smoke on the top floor of the parking ramp next to my building, because there are very rarely people there and it's the top floor--i.e., no roof and lots and lots of ventilation. I never smoke next to a door or a window, and try to remove myself several feet from sidewalks and other thoroughfares so people will not have to walk through a cloud of smoke. If I see someone coming and it looks like they will intersect with the mushroom cloud, I hold the cigarette down and do not exhale until they are out of range. If I'm in a smoking section of a restaurant and there are kids there--even if their parents are smoking up a storm--I usually refrain or seriously limit my puffing because of the guilt factor. In the summer, I even have a fan placed on my screened-in porch to blow the smoke away from my neighbor's house just in case they might catch a whiff when the wind is blowing that way.
Yet I know this doesn't matter to the Smoking Police. It seems that in the crazed puritan/public health/big brother war on smoking, the message has gone from "smoking is bad" to "smokers are bad." (By the way, I hate the word "smoker" because it labels a person as their bad habit. I prefer "people who smoke. But sometimes it's just the easiest word to use, so I've had to relax my rules here. We smokers are rule breakers anyway, you know.)
Yes, in general, we smokers are a surly bunch. I mean, why do you think we're smoking? We've got issues, man! Do you think we enjoy being ridiculed, discriminated against and looked down on? C'mon! Do you think we'd choose to be smokers? No! We were born this way!
Seriously, just because a person smokes doesn't mean he or she is the antichrist. It doesn't mean we are horrible people. You can still be friends with us. We won't try to convert you. Chances are, we don't even smoke in our own homes, so you can come over without being subjected to it. And, chances are, we have some interesting shit to say. Ever notice that at a party, everyone ends up hanging out with the smokers (or, if they aren't, they're the ones nodding off on the couch?) There's a reason for that. We're fun!
Usually, the Smoking Police legitimize initiatives like the smoke-free campus by calling it "a public health issue" or because of their overwhelming "concern for smokers." As far as the public health issue argument goes, I highly doubt that my cigarette, smoldering by its lonesome, outside, more than 20 feet away from any person, is as dangerous as the black clouds of exhaust coming from the back of the fifth bus that just pulled away from the stop. It seems to me that this kind of zealous enthusiasm would be better spent lobbying the government to require smaller, more efficient, "greener" cars, or working for greater production and use of clean energy sources. Likewise, if you're going to rag on my smoking, then make sure you don't stand too close to bus stops while you're at it, or walk through a parking ramp.
The "concern for the health of smokers" argument is especially bothersome. First, it's patronizing. Please don't be concerned for my health when I'm not! Secondly, it's bullshit. If they were that concerned about other people's health, they'd be reprimanding every person eating a Big Mac, having an alcoholic drink, riding a bike during rush hour or trying to raise a toddler.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not proud to be a person who smokes. I wish I'd never started and sometimes I wish I had the inner fortitude required to quit (more often, I just give in and enjoy it, sorry). I admire efforts to prevent kids from starting and to help people who want to quit succeed. I just get pissed off when it becomes more about a power trip than anything else.
Things That Would Be Awesome
*To come home to a clean house after a fun evening out with my niece.
*To not have to smell the trash when I walk in the kitchen.
*To be able to walk to the bathroom without navigating Wedgit land mines on the floor.
*To be able to go bathroom to pee (after my fun evening out with my niece) without having to pull my pants back up and go out to the car to retrieve the only toilet paper we own, especially since I asked my husband to bring it in three hours ago before I left.
*To come home after my husband has been responsible for our son all night and see some kind of evidence that they did something, anything, besides sit in front of the television.
*To look in on my son and see that he had been put in his pajamas before bed rather than left in his clothes.
*To see him in his pajamas and then know that he had been lotioned before bed--especially since his eczema is flaring up and especially when I've had email correspondence with my husband about this specific topic earlier in the day.
*To have nights like this be an anomaly.
*To not have to smell the trash when I walk in the kitchen.
*To be able to walk to the bathroom without navigating Wedgit land mines on the floor.
*To be able to go bathroom to pee (after my fun evening out with my niece) without having to pull my pants back up and go out to the car to retrieve the only toilet paper we own, especially since I asked my husband to bring it in three hours ago before I left.
*To come home after my husband has been responsible for our son all night and see some kind of evidence that they did something, anything, besides sit in front of the television.
*To look in on my son and see that he had been put in his pajamas before bed rather than left in his clothes.
*To see him in his pajamas and then know that he had been lotioned before bed--especially since his eczema is flaring up and especially when I've had email correspondence with my husband about this specific topic earlier in the day.
*To have nights like this be an anomaly.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Have you ever seen The Shining?
My weekend bore striking similarities to the good old Jack Nicholson movie, except for the fact that unfortunately my house is much smaller than the Overlook Hotel and Danny Torrance is a lot quieter than my kid (and not half as scary).
12:30 a.m.: I cuddle up with Bubba and go to sleep.
Most of my predictions came true. I was sick. Bubba was kind of sick. LilCherie’s boy really was sick. Girls’ Night was cancelled. The worst winter storm of about 30 years descended upon us and we lost power for a total of about 8 hours. Luckily, four of those hours happened after Bubba was asleep. Of the other four hours, approximately two of them were spent trying to explain to Bubba that the TV was “broken,” that there would be no “Thomas mooo-ie” or “Cars dee-dee-dee (DVD),” that there were, in fact, other fun things to do in the house besides stare at the idiot box, and in the end, just listening to him sob, yes, sob, about the lack of television. At risk of boring you, dear readers, I feel the need to describe my weekend in a little more detail, to purge it from my memory in the hopes that this weekend will be repressed in my memory and that there won’t be too much in the way of PTSD fallout.
For your skimming convenience, I’ve labeled each section so you can skip.
Bitching About the Weekend In General
Friday Night
Typical night; storm starts slowly with just a little rain/sleet mix.
Saturday
5 a.m.: Bubba’s up, therefore we’re all up. My left ear and the left side of my throat are killing me.
7:30 a.m.: We set out early to keep our commitment to be research subjects for a friend of J.’s, who is involved in a study of TENS. J.’s appointment is at 8 a.m. and mine is at 9. We get set up in a physical therapy student lounge that is complete with comfy chairs, a massage table, and a life-size model of a skeleton. Bubba and I had a great time with the skeleton. He wanted to shake hands with it, which was really cute.
10 a.m.: When we leave the building, there is a thin coating of ice over everything with more coming down. We get home without too much trouble and hunker down.
11:30 a.m.: My cold-turned-ear-infection-and-sore-throat gets the best of me, and Tingle pisses me off by making fun of my saggy tits, so I give up and take a long nap.
3 p.m.: I awake to what sounds like someone scraping a very heavy snow shovel across the roof above our bedroom. I stumble out to the living room to find the house quiet and J. and Bubba napping together on the chair. Still looking for the source of the sound, I venture out to our back porch and see that the branches of our tree are so laden with ice that many of them are hanging about 8 feet lower than they should be, and the hellatious wind is whipping them across our roof—thus the otherworldly noises that woke me up. More ominous are the branches that are sagging across the electrical and phone lines running into our house. Soon, the noises wake J. up—Bubba, thankfully, remained asleep for another hour and a half—and after whacking the branches with a machete to no avail, heads out into the storm to buy a set of tree nippers to take down the branches.
Approximately five minutes before he returns, the power goes out—not due to our tree branches but instead a neighborhood-wide issue. J. trims the tree to avoid any further issues and we set up house with candles, flashlights, and some tunes on the radio (before the radio stations went out, that is). For supper, we enjoy a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli, slow roasted in a cake pan atop a contraption designed to heat a pot of coffee with a small candle. I was really kinda proud of that idea.
4:30 to 6:30 p.m.: “I wanna watch Car moo-ie! I wanna watch Thomas dee-dee-dee! Mease! Meeeease! MEEEEASE!” Sob, scream, cry.
6:30 to 8:30 p.m.: We decide to build a fire in the fireplace downstairs, and Bubba finds this fascinating which thank god distracted him from the TV issue. We’re actually having fun by the time the power comes back on. As soon as the lights come back on, Bubba runs for the stairs yelling “I wanna watch Bob mooo-ie!”
8:30 to 10:30 p.m.: We put on the damn SpongeBob DVD and hope against hope that Bubba will fall asleep without a fight. Nope. Finally goes down after the usual crying and numerous escape attempts.
11:20 p.m.: Bubba has coughing fit; pukes all over himself. Change jammies, change bedding, squirt cough medicine down crying mouth; peace is restored.
11:30 p.m.: Power goes out again. J. and I, desperate to salvage some sort of enjoyment from the day, stay awake for awhile; I draw by flashlight while J. watches a DVD on the computer (yes, I know…we didn’t break it out for Bubba because we didn’t know how long the power would be out and we knew if it pooped out on us in the middle of the dee-dee-dee it would be worse than not having it at all.)
Sunday12:30 a.m.: I cuddle up with Bubba and go to sleep.
1:30 a.m.: Bubba wakes up crying for Daddy and physically pushes me from the bed. I rouse J. off the couch to come sleep with Bubba and I curl up in my own bed.
2:30 a.m.: Bubba wakes up, jumps out of bed and runs around the house sobbing, having “one of his fits” as J. calls them (I’ve since diagnosed them on Google as confusional arousal episodes. Which you can’t do anything about. Just another fun thing he will supposedly grow out of.) After about 10 minutes he is subdued and the house is quiet once again.
3:30 a.m.: According to my bedside clock, this is when power was restored. I didn’t wake up for it.
8 a.m. to 1 p.m.: The ice is gone and now we just have rain interspersed with sleet now and then. Ear and throat still killing me, and I have a headache. We lounge around and have a decent morning, even though I have to force myself to work through my pain to do dishes, multiple loads of laundry and make lunch because J. is apparently going through a lazy mode lately and is basically doing jack shit around the house. We all watch Wizard of Oz, which Bubba quite enjoys, then switch over to Gone With the Wind, which he tolerates. He is practically falling asleep at his little table so we decide it’s nap time….
1 p.m. to 2 p.m.: Bubba will not go down for his nap. He cries, he screams, he demands a “krabby patty with cheese” and insists he’s hungry (not surprising, since he ate no lunch) so we make him a peanut butter sandwich only to have him refuse it. After half an hour of this nonsense I decide enough is enough, Bubba WILL take a nap. I spend about 10 minutes in the bedroom, physically restraining him to prevent him from crawling out of the bed. He yells, screams, cries and thrashes about. Finally I lose it (I believe the words “Fuck it!” escaped from my mouth….possibly followed by a crazed “Can you say that, Bubba? Can you say fuck it?” as I stomp to the kitchen). I blame J. for Bubba’s awful sleep habits; he blames me for not stopping him from doing them. He finally gets Bubba down and I go to my happy place—i.e., sleep—for the next three hours.
5 p.m.—present: Not too horrible. We ate, watched the Oscars, I did laundry, we didn’t even attempt to put Bubba down, opting instead for letting him play until he drops and then letting him fall asleep in J.’s arms, which happened at about 10 p.m. At 11 p.m., Bubba wakes up and comes out for comfort. At 12 a.m., he demands that J. come to bed with him, and that was the end of my day with the family. Now it’s 2:30 a.m. and I’m not tired at all. And tomorrow’s Monday.
Bitching About Bubba's Sleep Issues
Bubba’s sleeping is completely out of control, and I don’t really know what to do about it. I don’t understand how to do the “crying it out” method if he just keeps getting out of bed as soon as we put him in it. I mean, there’s not even enough time to get to the door before he’s up. When we’ve become desperate enough to hold the door shut so he can’t get out, he screams and cries so violently that he starts gagging and coughing like he’s going to throw up. Eliminating his nap does nothing to prevent the bedtime struggles and nighttime awakenings. We’ve adhered pretty strictly to our “soothing bedtime routine” of jammies, quiet play, brushing teeth and stories for months until recently, when out of desperation we’ve pretty much been doing anything to prevent the nightly struggle.
Bitching About Motherhood Overall
You know what? I’m sick of being a mother to a toddler. I’m sick of catering to the needs of a tiny tyrant all goddamn day. I’m sick of preparing meals he won’t eat, I’m sick of cleaning petrified corn kernels off the floor, I’m sick of sitting down only for Bubba to ask for more juice, more milk, for me to fix his train, get him the orange car, put on the Bob movie. I’m sick of listening to another human being cry multiple times every single day. I’m sick of being sick, of him being sick, of trying to figure out whether or not he’s sick and if so, whether or not he needs medicine, or whether or not he needs a nebulizer treatment, or whether or not he needs to go to the doctor. I’m sick of reminding J. to lotion Bubba’s skin and to take the yellow blankie back to daycare and to limit Bubba’s juice so he doesn’t get the shits. I’m sick of refilling humidifiers and cleaning nebulizer parts. I’m sick of watching SpongeBob and playing with Thomas the Tank Engine. I’m sick of trying to figure out how to get him to sleep.
I feel overwhelmed by the whole thing. I feel like a child myself, wishing that someone would swoop in like a fairy godmother-nanny and say, “Depressionista, it’s going to be all right now. I’m here to take over everything. I will raise your child to be an intelligent, well-adjusted, productive member of society and all you have to do is pop in now and then—and only, of course, when Bubba’s in a good mood.”
I’m sick of feeling inadequate and not up for the challenge. I’m sick of feeling guilty about not enjoying this and bewildered at people who seem to truly get some kind of pleasure out of raising their children. I’m sick of feeling like every time I complain about Bubba I am tempting the fates to take him away from me, or that I am betraying the sisterhood of women who are infertile and/or have lost a child.
When does this get fun? Ever? Or is that just a carrot people dangle in front of us so we won't kill ourselves? Because a lot of the time, it's just pretty unbearable, and I find it difficult to believe I did this to myself.
Friday, February 23, 2007
90 percent chance that I'll need to get sloshed this weekend
How did Friday get here so fast without me posting at all? I think it had something to do with...
Monday: Bubba returns home with the sniffles.
Tuesday: Bubba has bad cough, stuffy nose, mild fever...a really nasty cold. I stay home with him all day and enjoy lots of cuddles, along with the occasional spray of spit and mucous as he sneezes on me. About three hours into the day, I hear some mild whimpering and come out of the kitchen to see Bubba sticking his tongue out at me. "Tongue hurts!" he says. "Owie....kiss!" Throwing caution to the wind in order to comfort my son, I kiss his tongue, then move swiftly out of his line of vision to rigorously wipe my mouth. Tuesday night I meet my old work spouse for cocktails. I have two of my new favorite--the chocolate martini--then bend Tingle's ear while I sober up enough to drive home. I fall into bed shortly thereafter.
Wednesday: Bubba still really sick. J. stays home with him. I start feeling not-so-great that afternoon. We take Bubba to the doctor at 6:30 p.m. and get the official diagnosis, which is: Bad Cold. At 9 p.m. I fall asleep next to Bubba. I wake up the next morning sick and still in my work clothes!
Thursday: Bubba's getting better; I'm getting worse. Wait for my mom to come out to watch Bubba on his last sick day at home, then get a ride to work from LilCherie, who is in town to get a massage. That was so nice! Later she comes and takes me to lunch, which was also lovely. All in all, other than the cold, not a bad day. I rallied yesterday evening and J. and I watched "Little Miss Sunshine" which was AWESOME. I felt bad that the title put me off of it for so long.
Today: Woke up feeling like a small rodent had crawled into my mouth and died during the night. Lots of congestion. Extreme fatigue. Managed to get myself to work and here I am...being really productive as you can see.
So that's my week. It looks like the gods of illness and weather are converging to ruin any chances of a Girls' Night this weekend, as LilCherie's little guy is now down with a fever and runny nose, etc., and we're under a winter storm watch from now until Sunday afternoon, with phrases like "ice pellets" and "90 percent chance of precipitation" and "ice accumulation of up to a quarter of an inch" in the forecast. Looks like it will be a weekend full of runny noses and temper tantrums...and that's not even counting Bubba.
I better get to the store this evening before the big storm and stock up. Hopefully there won't be too much of a run on cream, chocolate syrup, and creme de cacao.
Monday: Bubba returns home with the sniffles.
Tuesday: Bubba has bad cough, stuffy nose, mild fever...a really nasty cold. I stay home with him all day and enjoy lots of cuddles, along with the occasional spray of spit and mucous as he sneezes on me. About three hours into the day, I hear some mild whimpering and come out of the kitchen to see Bubba sticking his tongue out at me. "Tongue hurts!" he says. "Owie....kiss!" Throwing caution to the wind in order to comfort my son, I kiss his tongue, then move swiftly out of his line of vision to rigorously wipe my mouth. Tuesday night I meet my old work spouse for cocktails. I have two of my new favorite--the chocolate martini--then bend Tingle's ear while I sober up enough to drive home. I fall into bed shortly thereafter.
Wednesday: Bubba still really sick. J. stays home with him. I start feeling not-so-great that afternoon. We take Bubba to the doctor at 6:30 p.m. and get the official diagnosis, which is: Bad Cold. At 9 p.m. I fall asleep next to Bubba. I wake up the next morning sick and still in my work clothes!
Thursday: Bubba's getting better; I'm getting worse. Wait for my mom to come out to watch Bubba on his last sick day at home, then get a ride to work from LilCherie, who is in town to get a massage. That was so nice! Later she comes and takes me to lunch, which was also lovely. All in all, other than the cold, not a bad day. I rallied yesterday evening and J. and I watched "Little Miss Sunshine" which was AWESOME. I felt bad that the title put me off of it for so long.
Today: Woke up feeling like a small rodent had crawled into my mouth and died during the night. Lots of congestion. Extreme fatigue. Managed to get myself to work and here I am...being really productive as you can see.
So that's my week. It looks like the gods of illness and weather are converging to ruin any chances of a Girls' Night this weekend, as LilCherie's little guy is now down with a fever and runny nose, etc., and we're under a winter storm watch from now until Sunday afternoon, with phrases like "ice pellets" and "90 percent chance of precipitation" and "ice accumulation of up to a quarter of an inch" in the forecast. Looks like it will be a weekend full of runny noses and temper tantrums...and that's not even counting Bubba.
I better get to the store this evening before the big storm and stock up. Hopefully there won't be too much of a run on cream, chocolate syrup, and creme de cacao.
Monday, February 19, 2007
If only I were five years younger, beautiful, single, thin...you get the idea
I was up until 4 a.m. and still managed to haul myself out of bed before 11 a.m. this morning, all by myself! And, I'm feeling pretty decent, which is also unusual and pleasant.
It's a veritable heatwave in Iowa today. My morning smoke on the porch was actually enjoyable! We're at 43 degrees already. What a relief.
Over the past two days, I've been nursing a crush on one of J.'s friends that I met for the first time on Saturday when he came over to the house for the guy's night that turned into a party. J. warned me before he came over that he was "pretty good-looking" and that he was going back to school for "literature or something like that" (turns out he's studying to be an English teacher). I joked with J. that I couldn't be responsible for my behavior in this situation and that maybe he'd better think twice about having him to the house, but J. decided to risk it anyway.
He was the first to arrive, and I immediately saw that he was not "pretty good-looking" but, in fact, downright HOT. He looks like he's about 27 or so but is actually 31 (thereby making it possible for me to fantasize about him without feeling like a pedophile). He has close-cropped reddish brown hair and a nice scruff on the face. He has a soap opera name...man, I wish I could just write it here but oh my god if he Googled himself and found this he'd probably never come back to our house, and we do not want that to happen. So let's just call him....Nate, since I've always thought that name was sexy.
Nate's one of those people, like another friend of ours, Don, who we say "has the vibe" -- the irresistible combination of boyish charm, bad boy rebelliousness, and confidence that is like a, well, for lack of a better term, chick magnet. Unlike Don, this guy didn't have an asshole component, which made him all the more attractive.
It's been awhile since another man (or any man, really...let's be honest) had the effect of actually giving me a...physical reaction...just from looking at him. Nothing outlandish, now, but certainly a "fire in the loins." Not only is he physically attractive and engaged in the study of one of my favorite things--words--he also was completely laid-back, funny, and easy to laugh at my jokes. When everyone else was giving some pretty lackluster responses to my favorite party game , which is Let's Ask Fun, Embarrassing and/or and Difficult Questions to Get to Know Each Other, he was enthusiastic and into it. "Keep asking the questions, I wanna hear what you've got," he said.
As an added bonus, he "got into a lot of trouble" when he was in high school and early adulthood--minor stuff like getting into a fight or stealing something small--and has spent a night or two in jail. Hot, I tell you!
He brought my husband three books to read. Poetry by Leslie Marmon Silko; The Death of Vishnu by Manil Suri, which includes the phrase “In a fevered state, Vishnu looks back on his love affair with the seductive Padmini and wonders if he might actually be the god Vishnu, guardian of the entire universe,” on the back cover; and Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, which includes the review “the most romantic novel in years” on the back. I mean, could it get any better?
Well, it turns out that it could. He spoke freely about how he lost his virginity and how he once had sex with a “voodoo chick” in an empty church. He was funny and ribald, two of my favorite traits in a man. I was so smitten that I ended up using him as the muse for one of my erotic drawings, as well as a semi-depressing poem focusing on the fact that I'm old, fat, and ugly, and that my chances for getting this kind of action are pretty much completely gone for good. I'll include it here for your reading pleasure:
Middle Age CrushWhen the first bird began chirping at 6:34,
I was sketching you in crayon and Sharpie
From memory and imagination.
You crushed me with your grin as you looked at my yearbook.
I was amazed at how swiftly you knocked me back to 15 years old and lip gloss and initials sunburned into my skin,
And how that made me feel every one of my 35 years more sharply:
Every extra pound more burdensome;
Every scar more sad and used.
In two days your energy will dissipate.
In four, I’ll laugh at my foolishness.
But this morning I picture you sleeping,
Your whiskered babyface drooling on the pillow,
And I just long to be next to you,
To bask in your adoration for just one night,
To feel the thrill of a longing fulfilled,
To be restored to what I might have been,
To be wanted for who I am.
I have been known to occasionally lust after someone on the bus or a group of college guys working on construction sites during the summer. But when the combination of attractive physicality mixes with my favorite things like humor, a sense of naughtiness, a willingness to reveal oneself and be interested in others’ revelations, and an appreciation for the written word, well, I honestly can’t fault myself for turning into a junior high school kid again.
It’s fun and only slightly painful. Do any of you have secret (or not-so-secret) crushes, or am I alone in my freakitude? Inquiring minds wanna know.
This is why moms need breaks
Depressionista's Helpful Hint of the Day: When blogging in the middle of your frigid living room, keep a hot rock nearby to warm your typing fingers. It works like a charm!
Status Report: Possible PMS as indicated by libido level (high), tolerance level (low), zit category (nasty, oil-filled hideous bumps, or "under-the-skinners" as LilCherie and I call them) and distribution (big nasty on the chin and two more along jawline). It would be a little soon, since I just had a period a month ago, but every once in awhile my body throws me for a loop and does something the way it's supposed to.
Bubba spent yesterday to today at my sister's house, and is spending tonight at my Mom and Dad's (they all live in my old hometown). I had grand plans to organize my clutter, be creative and finish the next chapter of Sex and the Silos, change all the sheets, make a little scrapbook for Bubba, maybe even have sex...and I accomplished none of it. Instead I got together with some friends, have been reveling in the quiet, puttering around, and pretty much doing whatever I want, including pulling all-nighters and sleeping all day. For some reason I love the middle of the night, so whenever I am left to my own devices, my sleep schedule flip-flops to the exact opposite of what is necessary to be a productive member of society. I've decided to not spend the time worrying about the next day and instead enjoy it until I get tired and deal with the fallout later. Luckily, except for going in for a one-hour meeting in the afternoon, I am taking tomorrow off since J. has it off for President's Day. Bubba will return somewhere around 3 p.m.
I miss the little bugger. I know, I know...I complain about him all the time here and then when he's away for a day I talk about how much I miss him. What can I say, I'm never happy! I think it's just easier to remember what you like about your child when he or she isn't screaming "THOMMMMMASSSS MOOOOOOVIEEEE" in your ear.
I know I don't mention it here nearly enough, and I don't remember it nearly enough in real life either, but we are so incredibly lucky to have our Bubba. When I have the peace to stand back and look at it, I realize how much I am learning by being his mother, and how much more I need to learn. It's odd to think of Bubba as my teacher, but he most definitely is. And the toughest one I've ever had. It's even harder than algebra II.
While he is often a holy terror at home, I take solace in the fact that he is most definitely charming, which I think will get him out of a lot if he keeps learning how to work it. Almost every report we get from daycare says "Bubba had a wonderful day!" or "Bubba was in a great mood!" Everyone who sits for him is amazed at how "easy" he is. I can already tell that the study of people is going to be a lifelong hobby for my son, who takes every opportunity to interact with others, adult or child, family and friends or strangers. When we started riding the bus when he was just about two, he became the personal greeting section of the bus, waving and saying "Hi!" cheerily to every person who came down the aisle. At the park or--much to my inner germaphobe's chagrin, at the doctor's office--he goes right up to whatever little kid happens to be there, sticks his hand out in a kind of reaching wave, and throws them the cheery "Hi." If he's rested and not sick, he will even share his toys without prompting.
Because I can never enjoy anything without worrying about it, I worry sometimes that he is too outgoing and will someday be a) abducted, b) hurt by rejection (well, who isn't, I guess) or c) is exhibiting the signs of some kind of social interaction disorder. But after I give each fear its obligatory 10 seconds of anxiety, I can step back and see how adorable this side of his personality is. I think the thing that really tugs at my heart is that you can tell that he just assumes that everyone is his friend, and god, that's sweet!
He also is such a demonstrative little guy. He will play a game with me where I give him a kiss and then I say his favorite phrase, "one more time?" and he kisses me again and I keep saying it and pretty soon we're just smooch-smooch-smooching as fast as we can. Other times he will just cuddle up with me and as we nuzzle each other he will say "Awwwww," in his cutest voice and tilt his head over to the side and smile. He'll also give me a hug just about every time I ask...but only as long as I say the magic word "please." He's a stickler.
He must have all ouchies kissed which amuses the hell out me, especially when they're on his butt. He finds certain parts of his favorite movies hilarious, and will bellylaugh at Shrek and the freaky scarecrow on Bob the Builder. The other day, J. farted in the bedroom and Bubba said, "Daddy poop!" "Did Daddy poop his pants?" I asked. "Yeah," Bubba said with feeling. "Daddy poop...potty!" Clearly, although he hasn't mastered it for himself yet, Bubba is realizing that poop goes in the bathroom.
Now if I can just teach J. :-)
Thank god I have family members who love my child so much and want to spend time with him, and family that he wants to spend time with (he was so excited to go yesterday that he barely could stop long enough to kiss me goodbye). It's been wonderful having some time alone and I'm still enjoying it, but I am looking forward to getting a hug and a kiss tomorrow from my Bubba.
Status Report: Possible PMS as indicated by libido level (high), tolerance level (low), zit category (nasty, oil-filled hideous bumps, or "under-the-skinners" as LilCherie and I call them) and distribution (big nasty on the chin and two more along jawline). It would be a little soon, since I just had a period a month ago, but every once in awhile my body throws me for a loop and does something the way it's supposed to.
Bubba spent yesterday to today at my sister's house, and is spending tonight at my Mom and Dad's (they all live in my old hometown). I had grand plans to organize my clutter, be creative and finish the next chapter of Sex and the Silos, change all the sheets, make a little scrapbook for Bubba, maybe even have sex...and I accomplished none of it. Instead I got together with some friends, have been reveling in the quiet, puttering around, and pretty much doing whatever I want, including pulling all-nighters and sleeping all day. For some reason I love the middle of the night, so whenever I am left to my own devices, my sleep schedule flip-flops to the exact opposite of what is necessary to be a productive member of society. I've decided to not spend the time worrying about the next day and instead enjoy it until I get tired and deal with the fallout later. Luckily, except for going in for a one-hour meeting in the afternoon, I am taking tomorrow off since J. has it off for President's Day. Bubba will return somewhere around 3 p.m.
I miss the little bugger. I know, I know...I complain about him all the time here and then when he's away for a day I talk about how much I miss him. What can I say, I'm never happy! I think it's just easier to remember what you like about your child when he or she isn't screaming "THOMMMMMASSSS MOOOOOOVIEEEE" in your ear.
I know I don't mention it here nearly enough, and I don't remember it nearly enough in real life either, but we are so incredibly lucky to have our Bubba. When I have the peace to stand back and look at it, I realize how much I am learning by being his mother, and how much more I need to learn. It's odd to think of Bubba as my teacher, but he most definitely is. And the toughest one I've ever had. It's even harder than algebra II.
While he is often a holy terror at home, I take solace in the fact that he is most definitely charming, which I think will get him out of a lot if he keeps learning how to work it. Almost every report we get from daycare says "Bubba had a wonderful day!" or "Bubba was in a great mood!" Everyone who sits for him is amazed at how "easy" he is. I can already tell that the study of people is going to be a lifelong hobby for my son, who takes every opportunity to interact with others, adult or child, family and friends or strangers. When we started riding the bus when he was just about two, he became the personal greeting section of the bus, waving and saying "Hi!" cheerily to every person who came down the aisle. At the park or--much to my inner germaphobe's chagrin, at the doctor's office--he goes right up to whatever little kid happens to be there, sticks his hand out in a kind of reaching wave, and throws them the cheery "Hi." If he's rested and not sick, he will even share his toys without prompting.
Because I can never enjoy anything without worrying about it, I worry sometimes that he is too outgoing and will someday be a) abducted, b) hurt by rejection (well, who isn't, I guess) or c) is exhibiting the signs of some kind of social interaction disorder. But after I give each fear its obligatory 10 seconds of anxiety, I can step back and see how adorable this side of his personality is. I think the thing that really tugs at my heart is that you can tell that he just assumes that everyone is his friend, and god, that's sweet!
He also is such a demonstrative little guy. He will play a game with me where I give him a kiss and then I say his favorite phrase, "one more time?" and he kisses me again and I keep saying it and pretty soon we're just smooch-smooch-smooching as fast as we can. Other times he will just cuddle up with me and as we nuzzle each other he will say "Awwwww," in his cutest voice and tilt his head over to the side and smile. He'll also give me a hug just about every time I ask...but only as long as I say the magic word "please." He's a stickler.
He must have all ouchies kissed which amuses the hell out me, especially when they're on his butt. He finds certain parts of his favorite movies hilarious, and will bellylaugh at Shrek and the freaky scarecrow on Bob the Builder. The other day, J. farted in the bedroom and Bubba said, "Daddy poop!" "Did Daddy poop his pants?" I asked. "Yeah," Bubba said with feeling. "Daddy poop...potty!" Clearly, although he hasn't mastered it for himself yet, Bubba is realizing that poop goes in the bathroom.
Now if I can just teach J. :-)
Thank god I have family members who love my child so much and want to spend time with him, and family that he wants to spend time with (he was so excited to go yesterday that he barely could stop long enough to kiss me goodbye). It's been wonderful having some time alone and I'm still enjoying it, but I am looking forward to getting a hug and a kiss tomorrow from my Bubba.
Anger, Part II
First, thanks to Nicole, Aurelia and Vixanne who commented on my last post. I appreciate your support and the thoughtfulness of the comments so much. I found myself thinking quite a bit today about Vixanne's question of why I lurk around on infertility/loss blogs and boards. I don't do much on the boards anymore--I broke my addiction to SHARE a few months ago--but I still can't help but search out and read people's personal stories of their journeys through loss.
Like Vixanne said, it is like picking at scab, and at first I couldn't come up with a good reason why I do it. As I thought about it though, I remembered the words my therapist has uttered so many times--"it's coming up for a reason; to be transformed." I think because I haven't been able to come to terms with the anger, because I haven't been able to transform it into anything positive, it needs to keep coming up, and I facilitate that by seeking out things that will do it for me. The problem is that I don't yet have the tools to transform it. That's what I hope I will gain from therapy and from my own internal reflection.
Vixanne commented that "I can't really imagine that it happened to me." I really have been feeling this way a lot lately. I look at Hope's photo on the bookcase and her little urn and it seems so surreal, so unreal. My life has changed in so many ways since that day in 2003. In the course of two years, I went from infertile to pregnant to grieving to infertile to pregnant to mother of a living child. I met Tingle and we walked together through some of the worst of our grief. I watched LilCherie's son grow into a little boy and stood by as she lost her dear grandma. I got close to divorcing my husband and am working on rebuilding our relationship. All of those events were (are) impacted in one way or another by my experience of having and losing Hope, a lot of them in positive ways--but it remains stunning that it was me who laid there in the hospital that day losing my child. Sometimes I feel like I am fighting against the part of me that tries to protect my psyche from damage, the part that wants to bury the trauma and not let me access it anymore. I need to be able to access it, not only because it's my daughter and I have a duty to her--not to dwell in a mire of pain, but to remember--but also because there are riches there that are mine if I am courageous enough to keep going back to get them.
Like Vixanne said, it is like picking at scab, and at first I couldn't come up with a good reason why I do it. As I thought about it though, I remembered the words my therapist has uttered so many times--"it's coming up for a reason; to be transformed." I think because I haven't been able to come to terms with the anger, because I haven't been able to transform it into anything positive, it needs to keep coming up, and I facilitate that by seeking out things that will do it for me. The problem is that I don't yet have the tools to transform it. That's what I hope I will gain from therapy and from my own internal reflection.
Vixanne commented that "I can't really imagine that it happened to me." I really have been feeling this way a lot lately. I look at Hope's photo on the bookcase and her little urn and it seems so surreal, so unreal. My life has changed in so many ways since that day in 2003. In the course of two years, I went from infertile to pregnant to grieving to infertile to pregnant to mother of a living child. I met Tingle and we walked together through some of the worst of our grief. I watched LilCherie's son grow into a little boy and stood by as she lost her dear grandma. I got close to divorcing my husband and am working on rebuilding our relationship. All of those events were (are) impacted in one way or another by my experience of having and losing Hope, a lot of them in positive ways--but it remains stunning that it was me who laid there in the hospital that day losing my child. Sometimes I feel like I am fighting against the part of me that tries to protect my psyche from damage, the part that wants to bury the trauma and not let me access it anymore. I need to be able to access it, not only because it's my daughter and I have a duty to her--not to dwell in a mire of pain, but to remember--but also because there are riches there that are mine if I am courageous enough to keep going back to get them.
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