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“I’m a sweet piece of work, well intentioned yet disturbed
Wrongly labeled and underfed, treated like a rose as an orchid…”
-Alanis Morisette
Last night, I was reading through some old journal entries I had saved and in the fit of the moment was feeling pretty shitty. Things I hadn’t thought of in awhile came to the surface, feelings I hadn’t felt in awhile came pushing through and amidst that slew of crap, I realized something: those words I wrote, those things I felt… I don’t know if I feel like that anymore.
Sure, reading those words brought it bubbling back up, but the fact is, I’m not hovering in that feeling of desperation or claustrophobia all the time these days, and though I have my bad days, oh I surely surely do, they aren’t quite as crushing as they had been.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that my Lameass Thyroid™ was truly crippling me emotionally or if all the things I was dealing with in my life were simply too much for me to handle and I was slowly shutting down all my systems – I don’t know. And I don’t know if it’s the thyroid medicine that’s made it better or if it’s just the passing of time that has made it so I’m not feeling quite as stuck as before, not feeling so much like I’m drowning.
I have no idea, and the thing is, somedays I still do feel like I’m drowning. True to the way I’ve been for awhile, I turn into a hormonal wreck every month and for a day or two it’s probably a good idea to steer clear of me unless you’re planning to give me cherry Tootsie Pops. There are a few other times that happen to predictably overwhelm me as well.
For the most part though, I’m kinda sorta maybe starting to feel like I’m digging out again.
(Would be a lot better, though, if all my size 2s were fitting me again).
“Now oh so easily you’re over me
Gone is love
It’s me that ought to be moving on
You’re not adorable
I was something unignorable…”
-The Ting Tings
The weather is getting hot again. Several days this week, it was so unbearably humid that I finally had to turn on the air conditioning even though I’d been holding out. I hate air conditioning – usually, I only need the air to be a smidge cooler than outside, and the humidity just out of the air. I don’t like arctic temps either. This time of year, anytime you go anywhere you have to contend with the cranked-up AC. I can’t go to a restaurant or a movie without bringing in a sweater with me. I’m prone to feeling cold most of the time anyway, so AC is not my friend.
This week finds me with several new blisters as I have decided to battle the painting projects I have been putting off for a year. Last night, I got started on a massive project and was kind of overwhelmed with the enormity of it. Turns out that I easily conquered the first third of it, the second portion this morning was a cake walk as well. The last bit… well, that involves renting a special ladder to paint my staircase, and I’m a bit nervous about falling off said ladder and cracking my head open. If I stop posting all of the sudden, you’ll know that I’m probably in a coma somewhere with a traumatic brain injury. Painting is one of those things that I do on my own, and one of the few things that I nearly beg my husband to not help with. For a guy with perfect vision, his eye for detail is not so finely tuned. That’s alright, I have got a handle on it, and if I’m just gonna totally pat myself on the back, I think I have a pretty keen eye for picking out the “right” color for each particular living space. Even when it seems my choices are whacked out and “too much”, ultimately, once it’s on the wall, the doubters see it my way. (Said my daughter after seeing the color on the wall versus the paint chip, “Well, I like it now.”)
My mom texted me last night with news that my cousin and his wife are expecting a baby – this actually means I lost the bet, as I thought FOR SURE they would be knocked up by April. In any case, I surfed over to their Facebook page to send a congratulatory message, and found a post on his wall from his sister (another cousin – duh) about their plans to go have some drinks, BBQ, and talking about a trip they had recently gone on together. Maybe it’s petty of me, but there was this twinge of jealousy that they are so tight, and I will never have that kind of relationship with my brother (it’s not even remotely possible, given his mental age is about ten or so). Though as time goes on, my sister and I get closer, sometimes I feel cheated out of that sibling stuff. Like I said, it’s petty, I know it. My best friend is like a sis to me, so in a sense, I do have that – with the family I have chosen – but, even so. Just a twinge, ya’ll.
Looking to have a low key Sunday gearing up for the short holiday week ahead. Fourth of July (damn, July is almost here? Wow) is not one of my favorites, and never really has been. Fireworks, I could take or leave. We never have big festive plans, but the third and fourth are holidays and that dramatically shortens my week, so… I’ll take it. My stepson is here for the week again, so it’s going to be chaotic with too many kids underfoot for sure. But I’ll get through it. I’m totally tough like that.
Have a happy Sunday everyone.
“Sorry I’m not home right now
I’m walking into spiderwebs
Leave a message and I’ll call you back….”
-No Doubt
I think this is going to be my new M.O. for Saturdays – letting you know the song currently stuck in my head, not having any real purpose (because sometimes, there just isn’t one, would you agree?). Today, as a carry over from last night, I’ve been singing No Doubt’s “Spiderwebs”, because as I was painting the girls’ playroom last night, I had to clear a spiderweb off the ceiling. No, I’m that shitty of a housekeeper – it’s just that the ceilings in there are really tall, and I don’t usually have a ladder in there. I swiped the spiderweb with a damp rag, then began singing. God, I loved this song.
“And it’s me who is my enemy
Me who beats me up
Me who makes the monsters
Me who strips my confidence…”
-Paula Cole
Well, hello there. I promise I’ve snapped out of my insane bitch-mode don’t-fuck-with-me get-the-hell-out-of-my-way mood I was in earlier. It was kindly pointed out to me (by, um… several different people, actually. Yeah, thanks) that hey, girlie, it’s that time, isn’t it? Um. Let me check my calendar. Yeah. I guess that would be about right. I was in a wee bit of a hormonally induced tizzy earlier today. That’s not to negate everything I said earlier – I still totally think that maybe people ought to help a bit more, and that the fam has gotten a little too comfy-cozy with the fact that I am pretty much stuck on having a clean house and will not just leave it in disarray in hopes that someone else (other than moi) gets inspired to clean it.
I guess my mood was helped by my husband agreeing to pick up takeout on the way home, forty hardcore minutes on the treadmill watching “Grey’s Anatomy” on DVD (Limbic system, anyone?), and making pretty speedy progress on a home improvement project that I thought would take me much longer than it did. I’ll easily be able to wrap up the project tomorrow morning, which is awesome. Onward and upward to the next project. I’ll be a frequent Home Depot visitor for the next few weeks, I’m thinking, but that’s alright – though the process sometimes makes me crazy, I’m in love with the end-results so ultimately I’ll find some joy in it.
Whew.
It’s a relief to not be a raging bitch right now. I talked to my husband on the phone in the midst of it – he was sharing with me something moronic my stepson’s mother said (this is nothing new, believe me), to which I let loose with a spiel of negativity. My husband paused, laughed and said, “You’re a hardass bitch, aren’t you?” And my response was, “That’s how I’m rolling today…”
But, I’m kinda glad to not be rolling that way anymore. If I could just get the kids to fall asleep so I could sink in a bubble bath reading my book, I’d be blissing.
“Sometimes I wonder what I’m-a gonna do
There ain’t no cure for the summer time blues…”
-The Who
I’m so over summer already and it’s not even freakin’ July yet.
The other moms on my block are busy doing fun things like building castles out of popsicles sticks or taking trips to the beach or just basking in the glow of all the family togetherness. Me, well, if I’m glowing, it has more to do with the 85 degree heat and the stifling crazy humidity than joy. Finding the balance between work and “life” doesn’t get easier with summer – if anything, I feel more inclined to jump out the fucking window (except, well, if I jumped out the nearest window to me right now, I might stub my toe and that would be the extent of the damage – pretty low window).
Despite my mother’s helper (who I am growing used to, by the way), I still struggle to get things done. There is definitely more work than any one person can accomplish on her own, and it becomes more and more apparent to me that hey! No one’s helping me. I wake up in the morning to a sink full of dishes because apparently I am the only one who can figure out how to open our dishwasher to put stuff in it. I have asked my husband before, “If I make the dinner, can you help by cleaning up after dinner?” His interpretation of that is to put the leftovers in a tupperware and leave the dirty pans and dishes in the sink or on the counter. That doesn’t really help me. I could’ve put the leftovers away – that’s the easy part! Some people belong to the school of thought that I should praise the hell out of every little thing any one does, but I haven’t noticed anyone singing my praises lately. Hm. Methinks I should just prominently display the numbers for local restaurants on the fridge and get lost at dinner time – let someone else figure it out.
Either way, when my helper is here, I feel inclined to sort of “hide” – in my office or on the treadmill so I am not giving the impression of watching her every move and so the kids aren’t tempted to come to me for every little thing. This means that nothing really gets cleaned on those days – I get some work done, but that’s about it. The house is still a mess, and then I have my messy house freakout.
I am counting down until school is back in session. This probably knocks me out of the running for mom of the year.
“All the pictures had been washed in black
Tattoed everything…”
-Pearl Jam
I’m 31 and have no tattoos. Whereas back in my mom’s day, I’d be the rule, these days I’m kind of like the exception. I don’t know many people who aren’t inked in some way – and most people I know have multiple tattoos. I’m not sure why I’ve never gotten one, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that I’m sort of a chicken shit. Even back in my younger days I would think about getting something done on my lower abdomen, near my hip, and the practical side of me would say, “Yeah, that butterfly is gonna be stretched out like Big Bird after one pregnancy!” (Note: I would never get a butterfly tattoo. Nothing against butterflies. Or butterfly tattoos, or people who get butterfly tattoos, it’s just nothing to me – butterflies are pretty but have no deep meaning to me).
I’ve always kind of thought that if you are going to get something permanently inked on your body, it should have some greater meaning. My husband got a tat when he was 18, and admittedly it is one of the stupider ones I have ever seen. Even he can’t tell you what it means, just that he was legally able to get inked, so he did.
Of course, most of my female friends have the notorious lower back tattoo (which I’ve seen called a “tramp stamp” or a “ho tag” – none of which sell me on the idea of getting one). My sister’s first tat was a so-called tramp stamp – a Chinese character that probably doesn’t mean Serenity like she thinks it does. It’s probably the symbol for Shoe or something. My sister has gotten her second and third tattoos in the past year – the second being a phrase on her right wrist, and the third being her boyfriend’s initials on her left.
Let me pause there: having someone’s name put on your body? Bad idea. Bad bad bad. I’m not entirely sure what my husband’s ex-wife had to do to cover over his name on her boob, but basically, putting someone’s name on your body almost never seems to end well.
My sis says he plans to get her initials tattooed to his person somewhere now. All fine and good, but, if they get married like they occasionally talk about, well, those initials won’t be her initials anymore. The guy has gone this far in life (apparently the only in his family who is ink free), and now he’s getting my sister’s initials tattooed on. As my husband says, “Yeah, that won’t end badly.”
I’m not trying to be a skeptic (who are we kidding? I don’t have to try, it comes somewhat naturally). I’m not saying that a tattoo is a relationship killer. I am not opposed to tattoos – and I know people who have some incredible ones with incredible meaning.
I guess I just could never think of anything that meant so much to me that I would commit it to my body for all my life. Anything I would have done when I was younger would have been meaningless to me by now. Occasionally I consider getting something related to my kids – as they are the only thing in my life that I could with confidence commit to for all my days. But I don’t. Because ultimately, I think it would hurt, and let’s go back to my earlier statement: I’m kind of chickenshit.
“I wish I was a lesbian and not a hetero
I wouldn’t have to deal with men and all their come and go
And all their yucky yucky facial hair and all their machismo
I wish I was a lesbian and not a hetero…”
-Wainwright Loudon
The other night, I was drooling over Jack Johnson and my husband said, “So, do you just think he’s cool or ar you like… sexually attracted to him?” I laughed, because honestly, whether or not I’m sexually attracted to Jack Johnson (I am) is moot because he’s in a totally different realm and it’s not like finding your mailman sexy, when you actually stand a shot with him. This conversation evolved to… The List.
While I definitely have a list in my head – I mean, I have just enough free time to think what celebrities I’d have sex with if I had a snowball’s chance in hell – my husband and I had never really talked about it, and so he was thinking on it, puzzling it, “Who would be on your list?”
I run it down – definitely Jack Johnson, definitely Matt Damon, Wentworth slipped my mind and I remembered the next day with a gasp – HOW could I forget him? I didn’t know that I could fill the five spots on my list, but, I also figured, hmmm. Better not put the husband in shock. I turned the tables.
Who is on YOUR list?
He hemmed and hawed. “I don’t want to tell you because I know you don’t like some of them.” That right there tells me that Angelina Jolie is one of them. I am one of the few people on the planet that doen’t see what the big deal is about her (he tells me it’s her lips, and I’m like, “Whatever. She’s not all that.”). The next on his list… Jessica Simpson. Ah yes, the stupid chick with big boobs. Of course. And so I said to him, “But she’s sooooooo stupid!” To which he responded, “That’s the difference between women and men – to me, this list is about looks and nothing else, whereas you’re saying, I bet he’s really nice too…” Hm.
He then asks, “Well, who do you think should be on my list?” Of course – this is where the wifey confesses to which celeb woman is hot to indulge his threesome fantasies. Whatever – I’ll bite – I told him, the first was Charlize Theron. She’s very beautiful. He said, “There’s something funny looking about her face.” Of course, I responded with some comment about something she said in an interview that made her seem like a really cool chick.
“Who else?” he asked. Sigh. I list women that are pretty, and he’s somewhat salivating: Anna Nalick, Liv Tyler back in her “Stealing Beauty” days, Katie Lee Joel (she looks like she could be her husband’s daughter, agewise, but she’s very pretty) and so on.
“What about Britney Spears?” he asked, to which I must have responded with a stunned silence and a dropped jaw. He quickly qualified, “Britney pre-train wreck, pre kids. She wasn’t bad then… Yeah, if you and Britney and Charlize got together….”
Oy.
“Don’t wait for answers
Just take your chances
Don’t ask me why.”
-Billy Joel
My freshman year of college I moved two hours away from home into a room on the fifth floor of a dormitory that happened to have no elevator. I knew prior to my arrival that I would have two roommates – I had talked to both on the phone and had received a letter and a picture from one. In the letter she told me that she had cystic fibrosis and had had a double lung transplant. I would later learn that her identical twin sister’s life had already been claimed by CF years before, and that her older brother also had the disease.
By the time I entered the dorm room, she had moved in, taken the biggest closet, picked the best bed, and had basically laid claim to anything worth having in that shithole dorm room. Not only that but she looked nothing like her picture, and I was so startled by her face, bloated from steroids. I wasn’t really sure how I was going to be able to deal with her, with it, with living with people.
The first night, I went to a club and a party with the girls across the hall. In my true stupid fashion, I met a guy and ended up swapping countless amounts of spit with him, and then he “walked” me home. He was pretty drunk. He climbed into my bed where he promptly passed out. When he woke up in the morning and I said it was about time for him to go, he vomited all over the floor and then stumbled on his way. What a way to start college, no?
I scrubbed the carpet and scrubbed it, but unfortunately, the cleaner ended up bleaching the color out of the carpet. On a weekend when both my mother and my roommate’s mom were in town, mom asked about it. Knowing the full story, my roommate’s mom lied for me and my roommate followed through on the charade. Because of them, I didn’t have to explain that on my first night of college I brought home a drunk stranger.
Cystic fibrosis can be a really ugly disease. My roommate was on countless medications and was admitted to the hospital several times that year. She had a port that she used to administer IV medication every morning and every evening. Everyone on our hall was awakened to the beeping of her IV each morning. At the end of the day, when she would come home from class you could hear her labored breathing – heaving up the five flights of stairs (no elevator – why did they put someone with CF on the fifth floor with no elevator?).
While the three of us had several great moments (including the adoption of our old lady nicknames – we called her Esther), it wasn’t always easy. My other roomie (nicknamed Mildred, by the way – and don’t hold your breath, I am not telling you mine) and I got along really well. We bonded over music and in our freshman year we wrote two songs together, and sang together frequently. Our favorite song to sing was Billy Joel’s “The Longest Time”. Mildred would take harmony, and it was always just a really fun time (and not bordering on pathetic like it might sound).
One night, Esther got really pissed. She wanted to hear “Don’t Ask Me Why” by Billy Joel. I can’t remember why we didn’t play it, but we didn’t. Instead, she woke us up at 5 a.m. the next morning blasting the damn song. To this day, when I hear it, I think of her.
She died seven years ago. Her older brother has since died too.
Having seen first hand how CF can ravage a person’s body, it is one of my causes. I have a few causes that I support – with my time, with my money or both, and CF is one of them. The other is the American Cancer Society. Chances are, when the fraternal order of police calls, I’m going to give them a lame ass excuse why I can’t donate to their organization. Same for the disabled veterans who keep sending me return address labels (but thanks, y’all, I have so many freakin’ labels, I’ll never be able to move). However, I have my two pet causes that mean the most in my heart, and those are the ones I’m a sucker for nearly every time.
My family has been hit particularly hard by cancer. My grandfather kicked stomach cancer more than twenty years ago – and is thankfully cancerfree to this date. He had over half of his stomach removed in the 1980s, and at that time, we really were scared we might lose him. To this day, my grandfather has continued to kick the ass of every thing that ails his health – including a quadruple bypass in 2000. My cousin was struck with a particularly rare type of cancer in the late 90s – one that offered a survival rate of only 5%. With chemo and radiation, she beat the odds – and just finished her freshman year of college. My grandmother passed away of colon cancer last year.
A few years ago, I captained a team for the ACS Relay for Life. Along with my coworkers, we made awesome strides with fundraising, increasing awareness, and keeping that track populated with our friends and family supporting us as we supported the ACS. In the 24 hours on site (and I was there the whole time), I walked fifteen miles in support of cancer research and finding a cure. This year, though I’m not on a team and my fundraising efforts were not as impressive, I’ll still be taking part of the Relay in honor of my friends and family who have survived cancer, and in memory of those who haven’t.
I’m not totally intending to be on my soap box today, though I’m sure it sounds that way. I think it’s important to find a cause that you believe in, embrace it, and do what you can to honor those that the cause supports.
Don’t wait for answers.
Just take your chances.
Don’t ask me why.
“You’re on a mission and you’re wishing
Someone could cure your lonely condition
Looking for love in all the wrong places
No fine girls just ugly faces
From frustration first inclination
is to become a monk and leave the situation
But every dark tunnel has a lighter hope
so don’t hang yourself with the celibate rope…”
-Young MC
Another day with another afternoon where I’ve already spent a bit of time snoozing on the couch. I’ve been exhausted for the past two days with really no reason behind it. Husband is golfing, one daughter napping, the other eating my last Tootsie Pop on the couch next to me. (Seriously? I love Tootsie Pops – I almost bought the 100 count box of ‘em at Costco this morning and for some reason, did not. What the hell was I thinking?).
My stepson went home Friday night and so that means our house has resumed a bit of normalcy again. You know me – rigid and routine-loving. Throwing an extra kid into the mix – one more kid with laundry, dishes, mess… ugh. It’s exhausting. On a fun note (and by fun, I mean poke a fork in your eye fun), his mother scheduled an appointment that my husband ended up taking him to – which involved the yanking of four teeth and great amounts of anesthetic. This resulted in my stepson stumbling around our kitchen, washing paper plates in the sink and drooling. Just one more thing, you know.
The highlight of my week was going to see one of my favorite singers in concert the other night. My sister and I ventured out, spent lots of time on the road driving to the venue, and then had a kick ass time at the concert. We had excellent seats, we got excellent pictures. The music was amazing (the opening acts? Eh, not so much). We both got a little snarky as we tend to when we’re people watching – especially since much of the crowd seemed to be highly intoxicated college-age kids. Now, I am not so old that I don’t remember college or remember underage drinking – but, I do know that I have never gotten so publicly intoxicated that I was walking and puking at the same time. (Side note: I have only puked from drinking once, and I’m sure the pain pills I had been on at the time for foot surgery kind of factored in to why I felt like such hell).
This morning I went for a four mile walk. It’s about a mile and a half to our nature trail (which is paved) and I typically go a half mile out and back on the trail. This morning, I was behind this couple – they appeared to be in their late 70s. They were walking, holding hands, and the woman had her head tilted in towards the man. They were so close that the lengths of their arms were touching each other. It was really sweet. For awhile, I walked behind them, wishing I had my camera – that it was one of those moments that you want to be able to look at and think of. I started feeling a bit like I was intruding on their moment, though, and picked up the pace and sped ahead.
The clouds are filling the sky again, and I’m hoping it rains. The temperature has been sitting in the low 70s today and that’s perfect for me. Sometimes a lazy Sunday is just what is in order.
