I heard her complain, often and loudly

Today I dragged myself into work by 9:20 a.m. At approximately 9:35 a.m. I blew my nose. A big chunk came out; nothing new there, at least not since surgery almost a month ago now. Then watery fluid came pouring out of my right nostril, down onto my desk and onto the floor. With visions of a ruptured sinus and cerebrospinal fluid leak, I called J. for a ride, called my otolaryngologist’s office and started crying when she told me they didn’t have any doctors in the office at that time (what the fuck?) In a semi-hysterical state on the way to the car, I said “Well, do I go to the emergency room or what, because I’m sick and I’m scared and I need someone to look at me so you tell me where to go.” She sent me to the ER since my oto was there anyway in surgery, and he could see me in between cases.

Alas, no cerebrospinal fluid leak—but a CT showed that the fucking infection I’ve been fighting since the week after surgery is still there. It is now apparently invisible to the naked eye, since my oto thought everything looked good on Friday and again today when he looked before the CT. So is it in my bones now or what? I have to ask on Wednesday when I go back for my next follow-up. I got an IV infusion of antibiotics and a prescription for yet another one to take over the next week.

In the last two months, I’ve been on Amoxicillin for an unrelated respiratory infection; Levaquin for the sinus infection that broke the camel’s back and sent me to surgery; Ancef during surgery; Cephalexin prophylactically for the week after surgery; Augmentin for a week for the post-surgical infection, which I finished last Thursday; Rocephin today in the IV, and now Bactrim. As well as methylprednisolone prescribed last Friday for inflammation. And hydrocodone for pain, which I’m trying to limit but did take again today. Strangely, I still haven’t really lost faith in my doctor. I feel like his actions and recommendations have been rational and appropriate given the symptoms I’ve been exhibiting—they just aren’t helping so far. So I’m sticking with him, for now anyway.

I spent most of the six hours we were at the ER in tears. I am so, so very tired. We had to reschedule our marriage counseling appointment this afternoon, and we needed it. J. did come through pretty well at the hospital today, a real sacrifice for him I know since missing work is about his number one pet peeve. I feel like I’m trying to save my sanity, my health and my marriage all at once, and failing at all to various degrees.

I’ve been ordered off work for the rest of the week, which is only three days because of Thanksgiving. I have to give credit where it’s due and report that my Mom and Dad happily and cheerfully took Bubba on Sunday to Monday to give us a break, and then today volunteered to keep him over another night, which they are. So all I have to do tonight is rest…and for once, I just can’t. I’m lonely, but J. had to go back to work for the remaining two hours of the day, and then volunteer for a reception his workplace was hosting for a local athletic team. He is picking me up dinner on the way home so I guess I shouldn’t complain, but I sort of wish he would have just stayed home. Even though we don’t talk anyway. So scratch that. I don’t know what I wanted. Just to feel better, I guess.

I struggle with blaming myself for my bad health, but you know, I'm so tired of it all that I'm not even going to do the blame game. It's pointless. As Best Friend Tingle would say, it is what it is. I'm sick a lot. I've always been like this. What sucks is that I don't really have the mental stamina to deal with it. I've specifically instructed my loved ones that if I died from some kind of painful disease they are to make it known that I complained every chance I got. I hate it when i read about how "She had XYZ Most Horrible Painful Disease in the World but she never once complained." I mean, let's be real, people. Being sick sucks. And I complain about it, a lot, in real life and--so lucky for you--here.

There are some good things in my life, too

I’ve been struggling with the fear that I’m alienating my few readers by posting things that are so damn depressing. Then, I remembered what I wrote when I started blogging again about how I really just had to blog for myself, not for anyone else, so I’m getting over it. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that it’s not really about whether or not people are reading it—it’s more important that I’m getting it out. That said, I do appreciate those of you who still stop by, and I want you to know I’m reading your blogs even if I’m not commenting. I’m working up to it, I promise.

I stayed home sick again today. Called the doctor, talked to his nurse, who told me to “try to get up and around a little bit more to get your strength back” and to take Excedrin Migraine for my headaches. They just don’t get it. I’ve had enough bad infections in my life to know that there’s something going on. The exhaustion I am feeling is beyond just normal recovery. It is time for what my boss calls a “come to Jesus” meeting with my doc on Friday when I have my appointment.

I do want to write something a little more upbeat tonight, if for no other reason than to make myself feel better. First, the highlight of my day was talking to LilCherie, who called me on her way home from therapy. Lately I have been struck by what a lifeline LilCherie is for me. She is like a part of my body and my soul. I can’t imagine life without her. We met each other in second grade, so that was like what, 30 years ago? We became “best friends” in sixth grade, 24 years ago or something like that, and except for a brief two-year stint in college when we were stupid, we’ve been sharing laughter, secrets and tears ever since.

How lucky I am, not only to have her friendship, but to be able to see her at least once a week on our Girls’ Nights. I bitch about J. a lot here, but I have to say that a lot of husbands wouldn’t be so accommodating of that, and I am grateful. He knows my time with LilCherie is sacred and life-giving to me.

If LilCherie was my only friend, I’d still feel rich and blessed. But I have another soulmate: Tingle. Remember that cruel bitch Fate I was talking about yesterday? Well, she also brought me Tingle, right when I needed her the most. Tingle understands me in ways that nobody else can. She and I are so alike it is frightening at times, difficult at times, but mostly, reassuring and comforting.

I hate it that she is all the way in Cleveland, but one of the joys of our friendship is that even if our almost-nightly phone conversations consist mostly of “I’m tired” and “Me too,” there is never that awkward space between us that can happen in long-distance relationships. She is coming to see us later this month, to participate in our annual Pre-Holiday Girls’ Night celebration, and I am so excited to see her. I appreciate so much her efforts to visit and I hope she feels the same way about me. After this visit, I hope that the entire Depressionista clan can head out there, maybe in January if we have decent weather.

J. and I had our second marriage counseling session yesterday. Most of the hour was spent with me crying about my postpartum depression after having Bubba, but it was good to get it out. I think J. and I have isolated that time as when things really started falling apart for us. Yes, we had problems before, but it seems like that is when the anger really came down on us: he was angry and confused about my inability to be the mother he thought I would be, and I was angry and confused by his seemingly uncaring attitude toward it all. It was like that was just the final straw that made us give up, in a way, and we haven’t really had time to do any repair work on it, so here we are.

I think we both feel a little more hopeful just having started counseling. It’s not like the therapist is really doing anything spectacular…it’s more that we are just finally devoting an hour each week to talking about “the issues.” I told J. that I’m not sure we really even need counseling, per se, but rather just the time to talk about the big stuff. He wisely said that while I may be right, unless we are paying for it and actually going somewhere where we have to focus on that stuff, we just won’t do it, so it is good we are going. I agree. I think there is hope.

Another thing I realized after talking yesterday about that time when Bubba was an infant is how far I have come with him. I am truly enjoying being his mother right now. Things that others might take for granted, like missing their kid during the day or looking forward to seeing him at night, are somewhat new to me, as sad as that is to say. He is fun! He has such an amazing imagination right now, and we spend lots of time playing with pretend bunnies and baby Garys (the snail from SpongeBob). The funniest things come out of his mouth: last night, I told him I was going to make dinner, so I went and got things started in the kitchen and came out to find him already sitting at his little table in the living room (we are up and down with the “eating as a family” thing). He said, “Get back out there, Mama.” I looked at him, puzzled by what he meant, so he say, “Get back out in the kitchen and cook, Mommy.” It just cracked me up. Anyway, I’m grateful that at last, this parenthood thing is fun, and even more glad that Bubba and me seem to have a really strong, loving relationship right now—something I was afraid would never happen.

There are many things I have to be grateful for. It's hard to see them sometimes through a fog of pain and depression, but they are there, and I'm trying to remember that.

Mediocrity

My life is not that bad.

My marriage is not that bad. Just bad enough to make me feel miserable, but not so bad that there’s a definable reason to call it quits, like abuse or alcoholism or anything like that.

My job is not that bad. Just bad enough to make me feel like my soul is dead, but not so bad that I can afford to sacrifice the benefits, flexibility and decent pay.

My health is not that bad. Just bad enough to keep me in pain most of the time, just bad enough to keep me from enjoying almost anything, just bad enough to keep me struggling to get to work for at least six hours a day, but not bad enough to get disability or a leave of absence.

I am struggling. I can barely get to work in the morning. Each day I struggle with myself about whether or not I can justify calling in sick yet again. It’s a combination of feeling like shit with my sinus pain, and depression from being in pain all the time and hating my job and not being satisfied in my marriage. I have not been sleeping well at night, even though I feel exhausted all day, and I don’t know if that’s because of the depression or because I force myself to make it through the day without taking a pain pill because I don’t want to get addicted and then finally, at 6 or 7 p.m., with my headache and facial pain in full swing, I take one so that I can at least deal with my three-year-old, and then I feel decent for a few hours so I take advantage of it and stay up later than I should. And then I wake up sluggish and tired and feeling like crap and the whole cycle starts over again.

I feel ungrateful for hating my job so much. It is a good job, a cushy job. I write articles for newsletters at a university. It’s pretty much brainless work, and generally there’s not much, if any, stress that goes along with it. I spend a good deal of the time here surfing the ‘net because I’m so painfully unmotivated to write yet another profile or story about the latest administrative changes or grant that’s been awarded. I’m left alone to do my stuff. I get paid more than my work is worth. I get more vacation and sick time than 90 percent of the working population. And yet every day, my soul cries out to me in protest. I can actually hear the words in my head: “You have to find a way out of this! This isn’t what your life is meant to be! You can’t stand this much longer! There’s got to be something else you can do!” And then I think about the benefits, and the subsidy I get for the university-owned daycare that Bubba goes to, and I realize I am stuck here, and I die a little more inside.

As I write this, I realize that much of the same could be said about my relationship with J. The two situations are more similar than I really realized before this moment. I am unmotivated, tired from the trying and the constant disappointments. I hear the same kinds of phrases in my head: “You have to find a way out of this! You need to leave. You need to realize it’s hopeless.” And then I think about how much debt we have and how difficult it would be to divide it and where would I live and how would we deal with custody arrangements. I think about how J. is really not that bad. He doesn’t drink, he holds a job, he doesn’t hit me or Bubba. Or I look at J. when he’s sleeping and my heart gets warm with the memory of how he used to be happy most of the time and how he made me laugh and I think of how much I want to work things out. Either way, I feel stuck here, too.

And that’s when I start thinking about jumping in the car and driving, just driving. Leaving all of it behind. But I can’t leave my Bubba. I have trapped myself in my own web of mediocrity without even trying (kind of ironic, isn’t it?) Is it a life full of “safe” choices that's brought me here? I look back on some of the decisions I’ve made and I see a pattern: I will study English because I’m not good at math. I will major in journalism because I have to earn a living. I will marry J. because who else would want to be with me, and this might be my only chance for any kind of love. I will work at this shitty job or that shitty job, because I have to get experience so I can get a better job (that I still hate). I have to, I have to, I have to. Rational. Practical.

The only big life decision that I can’t (or maybe don’t want to) put into the pattern is the decision to have children. I still haven’t figured out exactly why I did it…not sure if it was a response to a biological urge, or if it was because we’d been married for seven years and we were “supposed to,” or if I felt it was my duty as a woman, or if the more difficult it became to achieve it the more I wanted it. Probably all of those things. I strangely don’t remember much about really wanting to be a mother. I remember wanting a child, but not really thinking about being a mother. I never really looked too far beyond the mental image I had of contentedly nursing my newborn in the rocking chair, like something out of a commercial.

Sometimes I think maybe it’s time to stop the rationality, the practicality, the have to-s. To just say fuck it, quit my job, leave my husband, and start over. Try just having faith in the universe or whatever to carry me along and keep me afloat. As tantalizing as this is for a moment, I think about how royally the universe has screwed me over so far and I know this is a pipedream.

Fate hands some people in this world everything they could want or need. For others, fate’s hands are empty again and again, and they scrabble for a kernel of corn and a drink of water and watch their children starve. For the vast majority of us, though, it isn’t so black and white. I believe – and maybe this is where I’ve gone wrong all these years – that we have to play active part in steering our lives. I don’t have faith that if I just let go of the wheel, things will be okay. Maybe that lack of faith is the problem in my life…or maybe it’s what keeps me from being a homeless drunk. Who knows?

I don’t trust myself anymore.

In This Post, I Reveal My Real First Name

I called my sister tonight just to say hello. It was a pretty mundane conversation for the most part. Then, in typical fashion for my family, it all went to hell in about 20 seconds. Despite all my whining on here, I must have done some kind of healing or had some kind of personality development since I left home because it seems like the older I get, the more obviously dysfunctional the rest of my family is. I mean, I am too, but at least I'm aware of it!!!

Anyway, I was telling her about how much fun Bubba is right now, how incredibly cute he is and how much I'm enjoying it. I related to her about how when we get home from work/daycare, he says "I wanna cuddle you," and we sit on the couch and watch a DVD and love on each other. He'll say "You love me Mama?" and I'll smile and say "I love you SO much!" and then he'll say "I love you too Mama!" with a big smile on his face; sometimes he'll reach is hand up and stroke my cheek. It's enchanting and magical and it's like a big huge reward for all the struggling I've had in the past three years learning how to be somewhat comfortable with motherhood and learning how to enjoy my child rather than pretty much hating the whole thing.

Her response was this: "Oh my god, Sue, don't make him into a wuss! He's gonna be such a mama's boy!" This really pissed me off. Here I am, trying to relate something positive (at last) about my experience as a mother and she just stomps on it. Nevertheless, I tried to be rational so I said, "It's taken me so long finally enjoy something about having a kid and I'm going to revel in it and enjoy it as much as I can." She said she just thought it was "weird." I asked why, and I'm sure at this point she realized she'd pissed me off, so she said she didn't know and that she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. I tried to get off the phone but she said she didn't want us to get off the phone with me being mad. I told her I wasn't mad, just felt defeated. In all honesty, I didn't want it to be a big deal because I've learned from experience that it's just not worth it in my family. So I told her I was having a hard week and that it wasn't a big deal and let's just stop talking about it. We talked about some other stuff and got off the phone with our usual "I love yous."

My sister and I have a complicated relationship (do all sisters?) She's eight years older than me and very bossy. She's an elementary school teacher and her husband is very passive so she pretty much runs the show at work and at home and it spill over into every other relationship as well. I don't think she means to hurt people; I think she's just so used to pushing everyone around that she doesn't have a filter there that the rest of us do. I also recognize the occasional bitchy, uncalled-for comment as a family trait. Christ, I did it to LilCherie last night. Still, I at least TRY to rein it in.

Obligatory Disclaimer To Address My Guilt Issues: I love my sister dearly, and in many ways she's like another mother, which is comforting at times but difficult at others. I can say that she's always been there for me, with one exception that I'll talk about some other time, and she's incredibly loyal. Generally, she's really a good person.

Like the rest of my family, and myself although I 'm working on it, she has a unique ability to turn anything upside down and inside out to make it negative, or to point out the worst possible aspect of anything you share with her. I doubt she even realizes she's doing it.

The other day I went back to my hometown, where she lives as do my mom and dad, and we were talking at dinner about Bubba's sleep issues (one of us pretty much has to sleep with him in order for any of us to get any rest). She starts going on about how "He's three years old. He's old enough to be sleeping by himself. What's he going to do when he starts getting invited to people's houses for sleepovers?" I said something about how that was a long ways off and hopefully we'd have made some progress by then; right now we're just trying to relax about it and wait awhile until he's a little developmentally older and we're a little more ready to deal with it.

At some point in the conversation she makes sure to remind us all (as if we weren't there at the time) about how her girls never had any sleep issues. They both slept through the night at six weeks (they honestly really did) and they never had to sleep with them. That helps a lot! Thanks, Sis!

I am naturally a very open, honest person and I kind of like to just let things be out in the open. I guess that's why I have to keep learning the lesson over and over and over again to never discuss anything that's important or meaningful with any of my family members. But in my defense, I shared the Bubba cuddling story with her because I thought it was charming and sweet. It never even occurred to me that she could spin it negatively.

Personally, I think it's healthy that Bubba and I are able to be that lovey-dovey with one another and I hope that it is evidence that Bubba will grow up to be a little more in touch with his emotions than his father and most other men are. I love it and Bubba loves it so that's enough for me, but I'm curious...what do you guys think? Do you think it's "weird"?

I'm such a Debbie Downer.

I have to say that I am really touched by everyone's supportive comments on my last post, especially after my being gone for months and sinking into lurkdom on everyone else's blogs. This is the part of blogging that I really enjoy. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, because in a way, this is what brought me and Best Friend Tingle together--not blogging, but sharing our experiences on the SHARE message boards. Still, I appreciate it very much. Thank you!

It is so interesting to hear about everyone else's experiences. I was really intrigued, Aurelia, about your comment that people with ADD need their therapists to tell them what to do, but that if the spouse does that, it backfires. This struck me close to home because this is where a lot of stress in our relationship comes from--me asking J. to do something and him not doing it and then us fighting about it. Right now he is on Adderall, a fairly high dose I think. It doesn't seem to calm him down, however--I feel like it's made him more aggressive. He would disagree with me. He's seeing a therapist who specializes in adult ADD and we've heard good reports from several different people who have been treated by him...but I don't really know what they are working on in therapy because he "doesn't want to share." For all I know, J.'s spending his time there complaining about how stressed out he is at work or something.

Thrice, I go back and forth between thinking that therapy is really something that can help and then feeling like it's a con-job. I did have that thought today as I was sitting there listening to the therapist talk about how it's not surprising that J. doesn't do much around the house since in his "family of origin" the house was always a shithole. I sat there thinking "yeah, but we've been fighting about this for 14 years now...at this point, his 'forgetting' to do anything I ask him to do around the house can't be blamed on his mother." I mean, I'm not expecting miracles--I just want him to take the fucking laundry to the basement. I would like to think that if it's a choice between hauling the laundry and saving the marriage or playing PlayStation, he'd do the laundry, but so far, that hasn't been the case.

After meeting with the therapist today, I'm still kind of neutral. I think she was fine, if a little bit touchy-feely for my tastes. More importantly, J. liked her and felt comfortable there, and I think that's a bigger hurdle to have cleared. Today's session was pretty much the get-acquainted appointment where we tell her our long tale of woe, which generally takes about the full hour. I suppose next week we'll get into the nitty gritty.

This last few weeks has been such a struggle. I have had a headache almost every day since my sinus surgery two weeks ago, and this week they seem worse. Not worse like I have an infection or a complication, just worse in that I feel more aware of my sinuses themselves and there's pain that's probably a normal part of the healing process but still severely limits my ability to function. Anyway, I felt like crap tonight and of course, tonight is J.'s softball night, but to give credit where credit is due, he went to the game, called me to check how I was feeling, and came home immediately afterward instead of going out with the guys. And didn't even guilt-trip me about it. That was nice. Still, it adds to that feeling of failure I've been carrying around lately.

Then while he was getting Bubba to sleep I talked to Best Friend LilCherie on the phone, sucking her into my vortex of pain and making an unintentional yet bitchy nonetheless comment about her husband. I apologized to her but still feel like I want to make a public acknowledgment of it and tell her again that I am sorry and that I appreciate how she's stuck by me through all my shit and how she lets things slide when I'm in this mode. She's a true friend in every sense of the word.

Wow, this is so uplifting, isn't it? I do have a happy post planned for sometime soon about how much I am really enjoying my kid right now, so it won't all be gloom and doom forever, I promise!

Marriage counseling again.

So much for NaBloPoMo, huh? I briefly thought about back-dating some posts but then decided to just say fuck it. Still, in the spirit of it, I'm going to at least try to post more often.

Tomorrow J. and I have an appointment with a new marriage counselor. We tried counseling a couple of years ago, and for various reasons it didn’t work out. I decided we needed to give it at least one more go before calling it quits, and he agreed.

I don’t even know how to begin to explain the deadness, the emptiness, and the anger that seems to define our relationship. Those who have known us for a long time will note that we’ve always had conflict in our relationship, and that’s true. Since high school we’ve been fighting and making up and fighting and making up. The difference is that back then, there was genuine affection between us during the good times, and we made real efforts to stop doing the things that pissed the other one off. Now, the “good” times are when we are pretty much ignoring each other but not actively pissed, or maybe sharing a joke or some small talk. It doesn’t go beyond that—there’s no intimacy, no cameraderie…it’s just not loving.

Sometimes it feels very much like we are coworkers, and our job is Bubba. I almost added “and the house” but I am the only one who does any housework, so I guess that’s my job alone. J. has generally been a very loving and involved dad, but lately I’ve noticed that even that seems to be sliding. Maybe it’s because I feel I’m doing a better job at being a mother, so now I notice his shortcomings as a father. I don’t know. J. is very good about taking Bubba out to the park, out to the mall to ride the carousel, things like that. But at home, he rarely does any kind of play with him that requires effort or attention. Usually they sit and watch cartoons together.

Every night, J. has to be reminded to brush Bubba’s teeth and give him his medicine. When I had my sinus surgery, Bubba didn’t get a bath all week because J. just couldn’t be bothered and I was too sick. He got one the day before I went for surgery and got his next one on the first day I was even semi-functional again. This morning, Bubba had to go potty and J. was in the shower. J. had locked the bathroom door because he didn’t want Bubba to open the door and possibly expose J. to my parents, who come out on Mondays to watch Bubba. Like that’s even a big deal anyway—it’s not like they’d be looking, you know?

Anyway, I went to take Bubba into the bathroom and encountered the locked door. Bubba was rattling the door pretty frantically trying to get in. “Bubba has to go potty,” I called into the bathroom. “Goddammit!!!” J. yelled. Then, in response to Bubba’s rattling, he yelled “Stop it!” so harshly I figured he was talking to me. “Bubba’s doing it,” I called back. “I know, I wanted him to stop,” he replied. I was really taken aback that he would yell at Bubba like that for something as innocent as that. It worries me to think of what it would be like if we were divorced. What would Bubba do when he visited Daddy? Just sit in front of TV all the time? Would I have to call every night to make sure he got his teeth brushed and his medicine taken and got bathed once in awhile? Would J. yell at him like that every time he was grumpy and tired from playing PlayStation until 2:30 in the morning (which is almost every night)?

What really got me motivated to make the counseling appointment was the love letter. On Oct. 14, I wrote J. a love letter. It was a page-and-a-half long, and I sent it through the mail for him because in the past he’d complained about never getting good mail. I started the letter out with the sentence “Warning: This is a love letter.”

Now, as mentioned above, I’ve not been really feeling the love lately, but the night I wrote this I was feeling optimistic and trying to count my blessings. This letter was my way of reaching out and trying to get things on the right track again. I sent it to him on Tuesday, and it arrived at our house on Wednesday.

He opened it right away, read the first sentence, smiled, then said he’d read it later. Sounded reasonable, since he’d just gotten home from work and was still in his work clothes and Bubba was being demanding, etc. But three days later, it was still where he’d left it. I picked it up and put it with my stuff. Two days after that, he noticed it was missing and asked for it back. At first I said no, but then I decided to try to be a better person than that, to try to be compassionate, etc., so I handed him back the letter and said “Even though it hurt my feelings that you haven’t read this yet, I still want you to have it because I still feel these things for you.” I handed it to him as he was playing Guitar Hero (he paused it for me—how sweet).

Two weeks go by. I hear nothing about the letter. J. spends his evenings spending hours playing Guitar Hero or indulging in his latest obsession with crossword puzzles. So finally I ask him one night, “Did you ever read that letter I gave you?”

Nope. He hadn’t read it. He knew he was in deep shit because he actually uttered the words “I’m sorry” but then told me he’d just forgotten it was there. I asked him where it was because I wanted it back for good this time. He wouldn’t tell me, so I started rifling through his stuff, for some reason thinking maybe it had actually made it all the way back to his nightstand or something. Finally, angrily, he went and got the letter—off the kitchen counter—and handed it to me, snarling at me that I should “cut him some slack” because it had been a “crazy couple of weeks” with his bad cold and my sinus surgery.

When I pointed out that he’d had plenty of time to play games or do crosswords, he didn’t say anything. Then I asked him how he would feel if he’d given me a present and I just left it on the counter unopened for two weeks. “That’s not the same thing,” he said. “This wasn’t a present.” That hurt me quite a bit, because I really do consider a love letter to be a gift, and one that’s way better than a popcorn popper. “Just because I didn’t go out and buy it at a store?” I replied. “Well, it wasn’t in a box, wrapped up in paper and with a bow on it,” he said. It just seems so cold and heartless and insulting to me. It seems like he really just doesn’t give a shit about me or us.

This weekend we went to LilCherie’s annual Halloween party, which is always a blast and which we always really get into. We’ve gone for 12 years or something like that and only missed one; we’ve had some awesome costumes. This year I decided to be Britney Spears, and had a hilarious costume that I’d spent a lot of time getting ready. J. didn’t know what to be, so I came up with some ideas and he picked one. While I was recovering from surgery, and still feeling pretty crappy, I went out and got him all the stuff he needed for his costume, going to three or four different stores and shelling out probably $30 to $40 bucks.

Saturday came around and by Saturday afternoon, J. was acting kind of mopey. When I asked what the problem was, he said he’d been invited to too many things that night, none of which he’d told me about. Apparently, another friend was having a party, and his sister was having a little get-together. I told him, nicely, to do whatever he wanted to do, to just be happy. He decided he would drop me off at LilCherie’s, go to his sister’s for awhile, then come back to the party. When he dropped me off at 4:30 p.m. he said, “I’ll be back in a little while.”

Somewhere around 11 p.m. he came back to the party, only I didn’t know it because I was in another room of the house and J. didn’t even bother to find me to say hello. He just went straight down to the basement so he could play PlayStation with some of the guys. I didn’t even know he was there until 12:30 or 1 a.m., and by that time I’d taken off my costume. He never even got to see me in it. And he never even took his costume out of the bag. Later on, I just said to him, “I wish you could have seen me in my costume. It was kick-ass.” He said, “Well, you can show me later.” I declined.

I don’t know what’s going on. He seems so uncaring and distant. He sits outside of work and smokes for half an hour before coming home, so he doesn’t get home now most days until 6:20 p.m. or so. We don’t have sex at all, haven’t for months. We don’t sleep in the same room. Our friends notice he’s moody. My parents think we should get divorced and are actively starting to get angry at how he treats me and how he doesn’t do jack shit around the house. I can’t hold it together much longer.

Some of you might be thinking, “It sounds like he’s depressed.” He is, I’m sure. We both are. He’s on antidepressants, and recently, got diagnosed with ADD so he’s also on meds for that, which, in my opinion, have just made things worse. He feels they are helping, though, so he won’t quit them. He does go to therapy sporadically, but “doesn’t feel like sharing” what he is working on. Maybe that’s because all he talked about with his previous counselor, whom he saw for about a year, was current events, movies, and music. Gee, I wonder why it didn’t help anything?

So that’s the story of why we’re going to marriage counseling. If this counselor can’t get to the bottom of things, then I really think it’s over. It’s just hard to make the move to actually get divorced. I wrote in my journal the other day that it's like doing CPR on someone who is clearly dead: You don't know if the very next breath you give might be the one that saves the life, so you don't know when to quit, but in the end, you're still stuck with a corpse. I am afraid of what my life will be like financially because we have a lot of debt, and I’m afraid of how it might screw Bubba up. But I think this situation could screw him up too, and I know I can’t live the rest of my life like this.

Today I walked back from lunch and it just hit me what a mess my life is. I hate my job, my marriage is essentially ending three years after we finally managed to bring a kid into the mess, I’m depressed and old and fat and my sinuses hurt and I’m in debt. How did I get here? I can’t believe I’ve failed so spectacularly. I have always tried to do the right thing and make the right decisions, and this is where I end up. It feels very overwhelming right now, like I’m buried under a pile of shit and I can only claw my way out turd by turd.

So how was your day?

Nov. 1: What Kind of a Parent Am I?

Tertia had an interesting meme/questionnaire on her site a couple days ago that I wanted to do, but since I got into so much trouble there the last time I posted, I'm going to just copy and paste here with my answers. As Tertia said on her blog, if you have kids, let me know what kind of a parent you are; if you don't have kids but hope to, let me know what kind of a parent you hope to be.

I would never:
Have another child. Does that count? If not, here's another: Hit or humiliate my son.

I always:
Tell him I love him and hug and kiss him about a million times a day.

I got an easy ride when it came to:
Potty training: it only took a week and wasn't that bad.

The part I dislike most about parenting is:
The constant worry and anxiety and guilt about everything related to my son and how I parent him; the comparison game with other parents; bedtime battles and middle-of-the-night wakings; never knowing whether you're doing the right thing or not; seeing all the bad parts of my mother come out in me when Bubba pisses me off.

The part I love most about parenting is:
Hugs, kisses, cuddling, hearing Bubba say "I love you," all the hilarious things he does every day.

My terrible parenting secret is:
Am I only allowed one? Probably would be that I smoked when I was pregnant. I will NEVER stop feeling bad about that one. There's also the time I left him alone in the car when I ran in to get a prescription. He was sick, sleeping, cool outside, and I knew it would only take about 60 second. Still, I used to say I'd never do that.

I would describe my approach to discipline as:
Good intentions, not so great on the follow-through. I give in too often when he cries because1) I hate it when he's sad and 2) I have a very low threshold for crying/tantrums.

My worst parenting habit:
Again, just one? Parking him in front of his DVDs to clean the house, take a shower, and smoke on the porch. God, I sound trashy!

The one thing I am really proud of is:
How hard I have worked to overcome postpartum depression, not be so angry, and be more in control when Bubba has a meltdown, and, going hand-in-hand with that, how Bubba and I have a really good, close relationship now.

I probably am too lenient when it comes to:
Letting him watch TV, letting him sleep with J. or me, and letting him eat sugary stuff.

I hope my kids inherit my:
Ability to feel and express emotion (I know, he's a boy...it's a long shot); empathy; willingness to be wacky sometimes.

I hope my kids don’t inherit my:
Mental health issues--the inability to be happy no matter what.

I love that my kids are:
Genuinely and intentionally funny--he's a little comedian and I love it; generally sweet and loving; social with other kids and adults.

The thing I miss most about my pre-mom days is:
The ability to be completely irresponsible sometimes. There's never really a "day off" because even when they're with someone else you trust, you still worry about him, think about him, talk about him, miss him.

Motherhood is:
Indescribable, in every sense of that word--the good, the bad, the ugly.

NaBloPoMo

Okay, I did it. I signed up for the NaBloPoMo thing where you have to blog every day for the month of November or they cut your head off. No, really, it's one of those trendy blog-world things, but hell, I felt like doing it so there. I thought it might be good motivation to do it. We'll see if life allows it to happen!

The Worst Excuse Ever.

Yesterday, my mother came out to my house (about an hour's drive for her) to take me to the doctor to get my nose sucked out and septum splints removed after my sinus surgery. Before we went to the doctor, we dropped Bubba off at daycare. He was not in the mood to go, and as I led him into school he looked woefully back at NaNa. When I returned, I mentioned to Mom that if she wanted to, she could pick Bubba up from daycare after my doctor's appointment and keep him for the night, and J. would pick him up the next day. I was thinking, oh, I don't know, that maybe it would be really nice to have a little break since I was still feeling Miserable with a capitol M and J. was dealing with either the fallout from last week's Cold From Hell or possibly a complication like bronchitis or something of that ilk. She seemed at least open to the idea and said "Let me think about it for a little bit." Seemed reasonable.

Well, after my doctor's appointment I asked if she had decided what she wanted to do and she replies, "I better not take him. I need to go shopping tomorrow for a new frying pan."

I was so drugged up on pain meds when this conversation occurred and the frying pan excuse was so shockingly bad that I’m still not sure if I made any kind of remark immediately after she said this, but after some uncomfortable silence I do remember saying “Okay. I don’t ever want you to feel pressured into watching my kid.” Then more uncomfortable silence, punctuated by a few small-talky comments we both made to just sort of ease the tension. I was pretty desperate for her to go home, however, so I sort of urged her to go home immediately by saying “I know you’ll want to be home for lunch with Dad.” Almost like the last turn of the knife, even though I know it was unintentional, she says to me as she’s walking out the door, “Well, I hope you feel better soon…let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” As long as it doesn’t involve watching my son, I guess.

Here is where I must give you some essential background.
*My Mom does help me, Bubba and J. out a lot. Really. She's generally a very good Mom and NaNa.
*She does watch Bubba one day every week and has since he was born. This was at her request because she wanted to make sure Bubba "knew her" and that she had a good relationship with him.
*Mom is 68 years old. She's in better physical shape than I am; still, I understand that caring for a young child is tiring.
*Mom has never worked outside of the home, so since she stopped babysitting for my nieces about 10 years ago, she's been "retired." Which means, theoretically at least, that urgent shopping trips for critical items like frying pans could be carried out any day of the week.
*Before Bubba was born, there were many comments from Mom about how much fun it would be to have Bubba "come and visit NaNa and PaPa for a week!" She and Dad have taken Bubba for many one- or two-night stays, and shared a six-day babysitting stint with my sister when we went to Amsterdam. There have not, however, been any spontaneous requests to have Bubba for a week, and only one or two to have him for a night or weekend.
*Finally, I feel a disclaimer is necessary: I know I am lucky to have a mother who loves me, my husband and our child, and that she is willing to take him at all, ever, and I am eternally grateful for those things. I am still, however, a little pissed about the frying pan incident. Okay. Now I can move on and really get into the bitching.

Here’s what bugs me about this whole thing. First, if she didn’t want to watch Bubba, I wish she could have just said “I’m sorry, Depressionista, but I just don’t feel up to it today,” or “It just really tires me out to have him overnight,” or something even closely resembling the truth. But having to shop for a new frying pan???? Jesus!

Secondly, I think about all the times she said (and even as recently as last week, says) she wants to have Bubba for a weekend or an overnight but then never carries through on it unless I specifically ask (beg). What happened to the woman who just couldn’t wait for me to procreate so she could have all this quality time with my child?

Third, it sparks off a smidge of paranoia in me that wow, my kid must really be a brat. Maybe I’m delusional but I really don’t think he is (at least not any more than any other three-year-old) but an excuse like having to go shopping for a frying pan makes you kind of think twice, you know? And if, in fact, she really doesn’t like watching him because he’s a terror, I’d rather have her be honest with me and maybe give me some useful information that I could work with than making up this ridiculously stupid excuse.

Finally…she had to go SHOPPING FOR A FRYING PAN??? This is the best she could come up with after three hours, including a half an hour with nothing to do but think while she waited for me to come out of the exam room? This excuse was so bad that it was almost impossible for either one of us to pretend that it was even remotely believable.

I so wanted to call her tonight and ask her if she had found the perfect frying pan and ask her to tell me all about it. “Tell me, Mom, is it stainless steel or Teflon-coated? A Calphalon, perhaps Farberware? Ten-inch or twelve-inch?” And, in my fantasy, this final question: “Was shopping for the frying pan more fulfilling than spending quality time with your grandson?”

I really do hope that at some point, she does ask me if she can have Bubba for a night or a weekend, and I hope I will have the guts (and not be so desperate to unload my kid) that I'll be able to say, "Gee, Mom, that would be great, but we're going shopping tomorrow for a new frying pan and Bubba's really excited about it so I think we'll have to make it some other time."

In reality, I'll have to just let this slide because I know I will at some point be desperate to unload my kid and I'll have to ask (beg) her to take him again, and because I know from experience that any kind of honesty surrounding this issue will just cause more trouble than it's worth. I don't want to deal with the crying and the hurt feelings and Dad telling me how much I've hurt my mother, yada yada blah blah blah. But last night, when I was feeling sick and feverish and wanting to cry but trying not to so I wouldn't drown my poor, ailing sinuses in mucus, and this morning when I sat in the living room and did cry in spite of everything, and in front of Bubba who then asked if I was sad and brought me a tissue to wipe my tears, and as I watched my sick husband take our son out to the mall because I was feeling so horrible, and as I looked at all the laundry that needs to be done because I can't do anything and J. is expending all of his meager store of energy on taking care of Bubba...I felt really alone. And sad.

Blogalicious

And just like that, I'm blogging again. Hi! I decided that it really wasn't fair to my minions to deprive them of my witty observations. I decided that I really do have a duty to make sure my revelations and my daily trials, tribulations and triumphs are available to help others deal with their own life challenges. I mean, how can I, in good conscience, not share this wisdom with the world? We all have a responsibility to do our part, and if this is my calling, well, I just need to put my own wants and needs aside and make this sacrifice for the greater good. Thanks to Oprah for setting such a good example!

I've actually done a fair amount of thinking about blogging. I've decided that I like putting my "stuff" out there, but that I really need to just be myself and be true to my own voice, as cheesy as that sounds. I guess I realize that if I can blog without worrying about offending people or whether or not I have any readers, then it will be a more honest experience for me, and that's what I'm looking for. I may never have more than three readers (Tingle, LilCherie and Pioneer Girl, I'm counting on you). I may never go to BlogHer and therefore never have the requisite "I'm so nervous about going to BlogHer!" and "BlogHer was awesome!" posts (although against my better judgment, I might jump on the NaBloPoMo bandwagon because I always thought tht would be kinda cool). But I hope to have some fun and maybe work some shit out along the way. I have no idea if this even makes any sense. It's 1:30 a.m. and I'm recovering from sinus surgery and totally drugged out on hydrocodone.

So...sinus surgery. Don't ever, ever, do this unless you really have some major, horribly painful sinus issues that need to be dealt with. I thought I did, but, three days after surgery, I'm wondering if they were really that bad. Honestly. I've had surgeries that required me to pack a gaping, oozing wound right next to my clitoris for Christ's sake and still, not as bad as this. I'm just sayin'.

I have lots of things I want to blog about. Here, for future reference, and so I can remember them later when I'm not fogged out on pain meds, are a few:

*Blogs I Like and Blogs I Don't and Why. What I Want This Blog to Be and What I Don't Want It to Be.
*Celebrating the Vulva, or, Why It's Kind-Of Embarrassing to Say the Word "Vulva," Why It's Kind-Of Embarrassing to Discuss Medical Issues Pertaining to the Vulva, and Ways to Bring the Vulva Out of the Closet.
*Why Breast Cancer Awareness Month and Everything Related to It Kind-Of Pisses Me Off.
*My Consternation Over the Fact that My Neighbor is Building the World's Most Awesome "Play Structure" for Their Son While We Will Never Be Able to Afford Anything Close to That for Our Son and Whether or Not This Will Scar Him for Life and Why, WHY Am I Even Spending Time Thinking About This?
*Oprah. Yes, I've blogged about The Big O before but I don't feel I'm done with this issue. Especially not after catching it today, on a day when I felt especially shitty about my physical health/life/the world, and it was fucking Seal and Heidi Klum and their awesome fucking life together. PUKE!
*How Much the Viagra/Cialis Ads Gross Me Out and Why.
*My Life as a Trichotillomaniac.
*Notes From Daycare: How They Automatically Make You Feel Like a Failure as a Parent.
*The Places I'm Afraid to Go in Therapy.
*The Grossest Thing Your Body Has Ever Done/Produced. This will require reader participation, so I might have to save this one for later, when my readership has grown exponentially despite my complete disregard for whether or not anyone is reading me.

So. Here I go again. I'm already having fun!

Taking a break, and here's why.

So I've been thinking a lot about blogging lately: why I do it, why I haven't felt like it lately, what I get out of it, etc. An experience on another blog today illuminated it for me. My comments on Tertia's blog, So Close, apparently really pissed some people off.

Of course, at first I just wanted to bite back and try to defend myself and there was even a desire to really succumb to my base instincts and just hurl back my own insults. I'm glad that I didn't. Instead I just reiterated that I intendend no malice, and then I emailed Tertia privately to apologize for the firestorm.

It made me realize how absurd the whole "blogosphere" really is. There are several things that have been bothering me about it, which I will put in bullet points here for easy reading:

•People get personally, deeply offended by comments that are made about situations not involving them and by people they don't know.

•Blogs tend to have a couple different kinds of commenters: those who dissent and then get crucified for it, and those who support the blogger no matter what. "So you killed your mother? Well, I'm sure she deserved it because you are so great!!!!"-- that kind of post. Both of which equally bother me.

•I think at the beginning I got sucked into the blog world because I was reading other people's blogs and I really wanted to be in "the club." I wanted to belong. I wanted other people to link to me and leave comments. There's a whole high school mentality to it that was obscured to me by the technology and the coolness of anonymously posting my thoughts and ramblings.

•The high school mentality extends to situations like that in which I found myself today. The blog world is the perfect setting for backbiting, insults, in-fighting and exclusion, all done anonymously, behind a computer screen and a pseudonym.

•There's a selfishness to it that has been troubling me lately. Why should the world care about the minutae of my life?

I feel I MUST state that this is no comment on any of the wonderful blogs I often read or the (mostly) women who write them. I enjoy reading about other people's experiences and it is a way to connect as human beings. Sometimes, though, it seems like it's too easy, if that makes sense. There is no obligation to one another because most of us are anonymous and even if we aren't, chances are that without some major effort and planning, we'll never meet in real life. It almost gives people too much freedom, somehow.

I have "met" some great bloggers out there, and I've enjoyed this experience quite a bit most of the time. I've gotten a lot of support from those who have commented here, and I appreciate it. I love reading other people's blogs, and I can't say I will never leave a comment again. I also can't say I'll never blog again. My mind changes; I'm fickle. But for right now, I need to examine what I get out of blogging, and what that says about what I need in real life. Is it because I want to feel popular and accepted, and if so, what kind of insecurity does that reveal? Is it because I want someone to tell me how great/okay/normal I am, and if so, wouldn't it be better to work on feeling confident within myself? Is it because I just need to vent (and if that's the case, I'll probably be back!)

So....I'm taking a break. I don't know how long it will last. I'll still be lurking around on other people's sites, but probably quietly. Thanks to everyone who has reached out to me and read my words. Take care everyone, I wish you the best!

A quick note to say hi

Hello! Anybody still stopping by?

I don't have a reason for my absence, other than just not feeling the urge to post. I seem to go through some kind of cycle where I inexplicably need to take a break for awhile and just disappear.

And this won't be much of a post either, because I'm a little under the weather and still not sure if I'm in the blogging frame of mind. But I did want to just put a little feeler out there to say hi to people. I'm still reading people's blogs but am also finding it difficult to comment.

I have some things to write about when I'm feeling better. I hope you'll stop back again and not give up on me when I take my little breaks.

Take care, everyone, and hopefully I'll be back in a few days.

P.S. I'd love to hear from a couple of bloggers: Thrice, from "After All That," and Rosepetal from "Moksha." Both recently went password-protected and I miss reading them...so if anyone knows how to get me in touch with either lovely lady, please email me.

Thanks friends!

The illusion of safety

Yesterday's shootings at Virginia Tech are on my mind. Like any normal human being, a tragedy like this shocks me, sickens me, angers me. Since the birth of my son, tragedies like this rock me at a deeper level. My first thought was of the parents of those students who were killed; I put myself in their place, receiving that phone call or waiting for hours and hours for the confirmation that their child was among the dead. It physically turns my stomach. The tears have been stinging my eyes since last night.

On November 1, 1991, I was a junior at the University of Iowa. It was a dreary, snowy Friday afternoon, and J. and I were preparing to go back to our hometown for the weekend. When he picked me up at my dorm, he told me about how he'd had to come a different route because there were all kinds of emergency vehicles and ambulances around the Pentacrest, the heart of our campus. Puzzled, but able to brush it aside in the way that narcissistic college students are able, we packed up the car and hit the road. We were no more than 20 miles out of town before announcers broke into the music and reported that several people on campus had been shot.

At first, the numbers that were reported were up to 25; later, it turned out that five people were killed, one person was critically injured, and the gunman had killed himself. We listened to the radio all the way home in shock. In the days before cell phones, there was no way to know if my brother and sister-in-law, who worked on campus, or any of our friends were among the victims; there was no way to call our parents to tell them we were okay. When we got to my parents' house, my mother's relief was palpable. Not sure when we'd left Iowa City, she'd tried repeatedly to call us, but the huge influx of calls from anxious parents and loved ones had jammed the lines.

After calling his parents, me, J., and my family sat in front of the NBC Nightly News, watching Tom Brokaw report on the "massacre" that had happened at our school. Eventually we were able to reach my brother and our friends and they were all okay. The details trickled in. The shooter was a graduate physics student from China. He was angry because his doctoral dissertation wasn't nominated for an honor. He killed the student who received it, along with three physics faculty members. He then walked across campus to an administrative building, killed the associate vice president for academic affairs, and seriously wounded a student employee, who survived but is now quadriplegic.

We returned on Sunday night to a quiet campus (in my insular world that revolved around myself, I didn't even about what it must have been like for my parents to send me back that Sunday night). Classes were cancelled the next day, and there was a memorial for the victims. Students stayed in their rooms, gathered with friends, processed the awful event. More than anything, I remember the quiet of that day and the days that followed. It seemed like time stopped for a little while. Even when classes resumed, people didn't talk much, and when they did, it was hushed.

The feeling I had then was remarkably similar to the one I have now. I felt stunned and deeply saddened, sick — but also felt as if I didn't really have a right to those feelings, because I didn't know any of the victims personally; I wasn't touched directly by the violence. Although I like to think that as a human being, we are all touched — injured — when something like this happens.

Last night I sat on my couch and watched the coverage while my two-and-a-half year old son lay sleeping quietly in our bedroom. He was there in our home, safe in our bed...but I didn't feel any reassurance. Watching the images of a bloody student being carried from a building, of the crackling of gunfire coming from a building on campus, a voice in my head said "This is the world you have brought your son into. This is the world you will send your son into. This is the world you DO send your son into."

Today, I feel a deep sense of guilt for that. That my selfishness, my desire for a child brought him here to this cruel, senseless, violent world — a world where college students are gunned down for no other reason than that they were there; a world where children are snatched from their beds, raped and murdered; a world where the president of our country talks about the tragic deaths of these college students while he sends other (often less-privileged) 19-year-olds to Iraq to be gunned down; a world where the president says that schools are supposed to be sanctuaries, while schoolchildren in Iraq face violence and death every day at his hands.

The hypocrisy of that is stunning to me. The words flying through the airwaves today are empty to me. "How can we stop this from happening again?" "Are schools in America safe?" "What needs to be done to increase security?"

The truth is that we cannot stop this from happening again. If we could, there would have been one school shooting in history and then no more. Schools in America are not safe. America is not safe. The world is not safe. Increased security will do nothing but add one more hurdle that a deranged murderer will not hesitate to overcome.

As I walked to the bus stop last night, on the same campus where I went to school and where I now work, I thought to myself how nothing really changed after the shooting in 1991. There's a memorial walkway, dedicated to one of the victims; there are anniversary remembrances and vigils that are more sparsely attended every year. But it's no more difficult for a disgruntled student with a gun to mow people down now than it was on October 31, 1991. How could it be? What, honestly, could be done?

The truth is that safety is a necessary illusion that we nurture in order to be able to function every day. When something like yesterday happens, it is momentarily shattered, and then the rationalization and the empty words and simply time and distance from the event let us build it up again. We need that illusion to prevent us from completely giving in to debauchery and instant self-gratification, to be productive, to raise our children as if, by some miracle, they will survive intact to live out their projected lifespan.

For breakfast this morning, I let my son have a cupcake, because the only words in my head that don't seem empty are these: enjoy today as much as you can.

Neko Case Concert: A Dream Come True

Warning: This post is going to sound like I am 15 years old again because, well, I was and am so PSYCHED about the concert last night that I can't contain myself.

Last night we went to the Beachland Ballroom to see Jon Rauhouse and Neko Case in concert. The ballroom is located in a completely charismatic, old-time working class neighborhood of downtown Cleveland. There were union buildings, mom-and-pop type storefronts, taverns...all with that heavy red brick, rundown feeling that is charming and wistful and sad all at once.

The ballroom was built in 1950 as the Croatian Liberty Hall. It has a tavern attached, and a music store in the basement, as well as some vintage stores elsewhere in the building, I think. The actual ballroom is a standing-room-only venue, and looks like a combination of an old-fashioned movie theatre, with amazing crown molding on the ceiling and interesting mural panels dotting the perimeter, and a school gymnasium, with its high ceiling and wood floor. Along each side is a little shelf for setting down your drinks. It smelled like old smoke, old shoes, and old sweat, and I loved it. It was like stepping back in time. I could imagine couples, dressed up for their night on the town, dancing away to big band music all night long, smoking their cigarettes before the government took it away (Cleveland has a law now that you can't smoke in any public place. In a place like the Beachland, it really is a shame, because it's kind of part of the ambiance. There were posters up all around the Beachland which expressed the management's view of this law. They said: "Big Brother Says No Smoking. Any Questions? Call the Cleveland Anti-Sex League at 1-800-XXX-XXXX." Like I said, this is my kind of place!)

When we got there a little past 7, there weren't many people there--maybe 30 or so. We got some drinks, went back outside for some smokes, then settled in at the right of the stage. We were able to rest for awhile before having to stake our claim to our spots about 10 to 15 feet from the artists themselves. AWESOME! The show got started a little late but opened with Jon Rauhouse's amazing Hawaiian steel guitar performance. I am going to his website today to buy it. It's old-fashioned, forties-style, non-cheesy Hawaiian music. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

After he and his band, including the amazing Kelly Hogan on vocals, played for awhile, Neko came out and began tuning her guitars. Jon, members of his band, and Kelly remained on stage to back up Neko. When Neko opened her mouth to sing, it came out of her so effortlessly and flawlessly. It was amazing to be in the presence of such talent, really. I mean, I can't imagine having a gift like that. She was really humble, modest and funny during the show. She sang all my favorites, including "Deep Red Bells," "Maybe Sparrow," "John the Baptist," and "Lions Jaws." I was awestruck, honestly. The main performance lasted for about an hour, then she came back for a three-song encore, then came back for one more song.

Not ready to relinquish the magic of the evening, Tingle, J. and I stood around the stage for awhile after most of the crowd had filed out. A few brave souls jumped on stage to grab some set lists. Then a stage crew person came out and someone asked him if there were any more. He found some, and Tingle spoke up and asked if we could have a couple, and he very kindly just handed them out. The one Tingle has is different from mine, and we were exactly sure which one was the one followed last night because they are very similar, but who cares? They were on stage!

As if this wasn't good enough, Jon Rauhouse then came back out and sat down at his steel guitar. "We have to go all the way to Columbia, Mo., tonight, so I have to replace this string right now." We told him how much we loved his performance, how we were going to be buying his CD, etc. Then we asked if he could sign our set lists, and he seemed flattered by the request. J. kindly ran and got a pen from the bar. We were so excited!

Then we headed out to the lobby area, where there were all kinds of cool things on sale, including awesome coloring books from girlsnotchicks.com. We wandered into the bar, just hoping maybe Neko would be in there milling about. No dice. We wandered back into the lobby area, and J. and Tingle were going to go downstairs to look in the music store. Tingle decided at the last moment that she would stay upstairs with me, since there was a rumor that Neko would be coming out to visit with the minions. J. went downstairs.

Then, she appeared behind the table, talking to the girls selling the merchandise. We were right up by the table...Some guy called out, "Neko, will you sign anything?" She replied, "Sure!" and sat down. Tingle and I moved up front and shoved our set lists in front of her. We were fucking shaking, we were so excited.

When she looked our way, I engaged with the ultra-original, "I love your music!" "Oh, thanks!" she said, very friendly. "Have you been singing as long as you can remember?" I asked her. "Well...at home," she said and smiled. "Well thank you so much for sharing your gifts with us," I said. Cheesy, I know, but shit, I was dumbfounded, okay? Then I told her that we had driven all the way from Iowa to see her. "Oh," she said and put her hand to her heart. "Bless your heart," I think she said, or it might have been, "Oh, that is so nice!" or something like that. "Make sure you drive carefully on the way home!" We said we would, then J. appeared and told her again that we were from Iowa City. I then said, "You should come to Iowa City!" And she said, "Yeah, the Englert! We'll be going back." I couldn't believe she just knew right off the top of her head about the Englert. I remembered then that she'd played there several years ago, before I knew about her. I told her that I'd missed her the last time she played and that I hoped she'd come back. Then we left, shaking with excitement.

I thought that was the pinnacle...but then, upon getting home and downloading our photos, I found that Tingle had shrewdly taken photos of Neko at the table AND signing my set list! FUCKING AWESOME!

Bottom line: Neko case rocks. Tingle rocks for getting J. and me the tickets for our birthdays. Beachland Ballroom rocks. The whole evening FUCKING ROCKED!!!!

Whew. I think I have to go have a cigarette now.

Smells like Cleveland again!

The title of this post is inspired by my first real whiff of Cleveland, received yesterday on the way back from our museum run. Wow. For some reason, I've never really smelled it on our other visits; this time, with the heavy, wet spring air, it was at full strength and really, really awful. I had to adopt the patented Tingle Air Filter maneuver in which you pull the front of your shirt up over your nose, and even that didn't block it all. I told Tingle she should keep a bar of soap in the car to sniff on her commute. Or a gas mask/respirator combo. Jesus.

Hi folks!

I didn't intend to stay away from my blog for so long, but for some reason I just wasn't "feelin' it." The last couple weeks haven't been very remarkable. It's been one of those spans of time in which you feel you are just kind of surviving. Nothing major, just the daily grind. The sinus infection that won't go away (I'm now under the care of an otolaryngologist and taking $25 co-pay antibiotics, nose spray, prednisone, and chanting over chicken bones every night before I go to bed); Bubba's allergies/asthma (he and I are going to the allergist/asthma clinic in April); an unusually busy period at work, etc.

Today, I come to you from the fair city of Cleveland. J. and I are visiting Tingle and her husband for a few days. Bubba is staying with my sister and brother-in-law for the weekend and then with my mom and dad for Monday and Tuesday. The inspiration for this trip is the Neko Case concert we are going to tonight. She is playing at the Beachland Ballroom tonight in Cleveland, along with Jon Rauhouse. If you've never listened to Neko Case before, I highly recommend her. She is very difficult to describe, but here are some words that come to mind when I try: haunting, old-fashioned country flavor, soaring, intimate, deep, beautiful. Just go listen for yourself! We are SO excited to see her, especially in such small and intimate venue.

So far we have had a fun-filled, jam packed day and a half in Cleveland. We got here Friday night and had dinner at one of my favorite restaurants here, a little corner Italian place that has incredible eggplant parmesan. That night Tingle and I stayed up talking and playing show-and-tell with photos, drawings, and of course the gifts that Tingle showers on me every time I see her. This time she got me a sweet LED light panel that fades to different vibrant colors...it's very cool; a cool journal; a fun book about disgusting things; some hair combs; a sushi magnet; some fun stuff for Bubba; a lovely red sweater; a fiber-optic lamp; and probably some other stuff I'm forgetting. Tingle just can't help herself from buying stuff for other people. Her house is always dotted with little piles here and there of gifts for this person, that person, and oftentimes, me. I've given up on trying to match her gift for gift and have relaxed into the knowledge that this is how she is, so now I just get her something if it strikes me but otherwise accept her gifts with gratitude and peace.

Yesterday we went to the Monet exhibit at the art museum here. I have to say something about Monet. Yes, the paintings are beautiful, and yes, the man was extremely talented...but when I look at his paintings, for the most part, I think, "yeah, that's a pretty picture." And that's about as far as the reaction goes. Some of the paintings evoked a little more emotion in me, to be sure, but for the most part, he just doesn't do it for me. I think it's a combination of not really getting into landscapes all that much, and the fact that it isn't all that disturbing. Pain and darkness speak to my soul much more strongly than serenity and beauty. That's just the way I am. But J. and Tingle really wanted to go, so Tingle's hubby and I went along for the ride. I felt I learned something, so that's worth it.

We ate lunch at trattoria in Little Italy. Very good. We topped that off with pastries from an Italian bakery there, where I had an orgasmic napolean. That sounds like a band name, doesn't it?

Then the boys went off on their own to go to music stores and play videogames, while Tingle and I continued on to the Princess Diana exhibit at the Historical Society here. I'm fascinated by Princess Diana. She seems like a truly good person; human, of course, but basically good. The exhibit was great. Organized by her brother, it included some of her childhood belongings, home movies and snapshots her father took, a whole section on the charity work she did, the original, scribbled-on lyrics to the Candle in the Wind song Elton John and Bernie Taupin adapted for her funeral; and of course, the dresses, including her wedding dress. I felt like crying many times during the exhibit...then felt kind of stupid for wanting to cry about someone I never even knew. It was touching. I was especially moved by the entire wall, filled top to bottom, with condolence books from all over the world.

Then Tingle and I, almost crippled from our day standing at exhibits in museums, hobbled out to the car and came home for a hot bath (me) and a nap (Tingle), before heading out once again for a get-together with Tingle's boss and her husband at their beautiful home. They had intended for it to be a larger gathering of creative people they knew who would get together and discuss spirituality and stuff like that. We did do that, but unfortunately everyone else begged off for some reason, so it was just the four of us. They are a great couple and we had a great time, great snacks, and great wine. To top off our classy evening, Tingle and I stopped by Taco Bell on the way home.

We will be here two more days before heading back Tuesday morning. I have to say I miss Bubba much more than I expected to. More than I have on previous trips without him. It's reassuring to me that I feel this way, even though it is somewhat painful and I'm struggling against the natural urge to feel guilty for leaving him. I truly believe that it's good for Bubba to grow up knowing that Mom and Dad have other parts of their lives that don't revolve around him. I know from experience that it's a lot of pressure when YOU are your parents' whole life. I also know that it's good to nurture his relationships with the rest of our family. Yet, he's at an awkward stage where he knows that Mama and Daddy are gone, but can't really understand why, so I do feel a pang of pain at that. I checked in yesterday and he was doing great, playing with my sister's family dog, running around, doing Bubba things. I love him so much. Soon (hopefully) I will be posting a "funny things Bubba does" entry, because he's endlessly amusing right now and I want to get it down for posterity's sake.

So...that's my update. I haven't been checking blogs or commenting or anything, but I promise to try and catch up soon. Until then, take care!

Remembering

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.

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 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.

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!

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!