P.S. Dear Blogger, WTF with the wonky spacing. Love, Gin
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
P.S. Dear Blogger, WTF with the wonky spacing. Love, Gin
Monday, December 29, 2008
Our Christmas was good, even though I sort of stumbled through it all in a kind of My God, Is It Really December? haze. For some reason, I'm just not feeling it this year - I don't know if it's the stress, or the meds, or the fact that the weather has varied wildly from highs near 80 to lows in the 30's over the past couple of weeks. I'm kind of relieved it's over, but sad that I didn't enjoy it like I normally do each year - I didn't even get all weepy over cheesy holiday commercials and It's A Wonderful Life. And it's just not Christmas without unexplained crying jags!
Let me digress into a backstory which, trust me, is worth it, so just stick with me here:
Tell me, are Jamie and I not the luckiest women in the country?
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I saw my doctor earlier this week, and I am on medication - something to take the edge off every day, and something to help when I feel an attack coming on, and it's helping a LOT, but I have very little appetite. It's worth it to feel capable again, like I can get out of bed, like my life is worth getting out of bed for. I know this will be something I struggle with for a while, but I have the support of my family, friends, and awesome blog peeps. I sincerely appreciate the kind words and thoughts - thanks.
In the meantime, I have a LOT of work to get done before I can start my Christmas vacation - so no more posts from me until next week.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Is it funny or sad that it’s more acceptable to tell your coworkers that you spent most of yesterday with your head in a toilet than admit that you’ve been having panic attacks, yesterday to such proportions that you couldn’t get out of bed?
People can better handle the idea of someone vomiting than they can a grown woman that can't handle her shit. Or am I projecting?
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Although there are still a few weeks left of the year, and I have presents to buy and wrap, friends to catch up with, and much more drunken Christmas carols to sing before the month is through, 2009 looms on the horizon – bright, shiny, unmarred, full of possibility.
It’s with a crying hangover blurring my vision, a slightly bruised ego, and a heart full of hope for the New Year that I present to you my list of resolutions for 2009.
1. Post more comments.
I am the WORST about commenting, y’all, and yet I’m still a whore for them on my own blog. Shower me with attention and witticisms so I can promptly ignore you! I’m sorry, you guys – I will try to be better.
2. Find a hobby.
J pointed out the other night night, as I was still wallowing in my pity party, that I really don’t have anything outside of work, which is probably why I brood so much over it when anything goes wrong – I let it define me. I was in a book club and a Bunco group, but both dissolved over a year ago, and I never found anything to fill that void. I need something else to distract me when the inevitable I-Screwed-Something-Up comes along again. I am open to suggestions - if you've found something you dig that helps keep you sane, please spill.
3. Make a concerted effort to be more spontaneous.
I know that I have always been this way to an extent, but the nature of my job has made me even more of a rigid planner. If Gin leaves her house at 7, sits in traffic for 38 minutes, drives through Starbucks for 4 minutes, walks through the parking lot for 7 minutes, eats lunch at 1:30, leaves work at 5:40, sits in traffic for 45 minutes, how many gray hairs does she sprout when someone disrupts the schedule and makes her late for some imaginary Home deadline? This drives J nuts, that I need a day’s notice to know if we will go to the grocery store on Thursday instead of Friday, because I have to reconcile it somehow in my head. Plus, it’s totally exhausting.
4. Toughen up.
Or, as the ever wise Jay-Z puts it, Get that dirt off your shoulder (words to live by, friends).
I am jealous of people that seem to waltz through life without getting too riled up by anything, or anyone (even if it's an act). I have no poker face, and I wear my feelings in very close proximity to my sleeve. Sensitivity has its benefits, but it can be such a hindrance, and pain in the ass (see above re: crying jag). Maybe it's something that comes more with age...in which case, I can't WAIT to be an old lady.
What are some goals you have for the new year?
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
What is the effing deal? Did I cut someone off in traffic? Did I accidentally kick someone's dog or something? Was it that red light I sort of ran the other day? Because I can't figure out who or what I have angered, and the shit you're throwing at me is about to break me. Seriously. I am teetering on the edge of sanity. THISCLOSE to losing it, dissolving into a mess, and being escorted out by security. One more email away from walking away from this job. I Can. Not. Handle. Any. More. Please. Stop. It.
At Wit's End,
Monday, December 8, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Isn’t it funny (and not ha-ha funny, more like knock-the-wind-out-of-you awful and strange) how you remember most vividly the mortifying things that happen to you?
When I was in 7th grade, a boy named James told me I had a big twinkly, shiny nose. It had never occurred to me before that my nose was that much out of the ordinary, and looking back, this comment was probably more in the vein of I-like-you-so-I’m-going-to-tease-you and not meant to be cruel, but it sparked a neurosis that haunts me to this day. You will never see a picture of me in profile, and at any given moment I generally have a powder compact or blotting papers within reaching distance.
When I was in middle school, I was “going out” with a boy named Alan. One weekday evening, my friend Kristina called me from the pay phone outside the school gym. She and Alan had stayed to watch a basketball game. Kristina told me that Alan said if I wouldn’t kiss him, we would have to break up. I was in my third year of wearing braces, and terrified at the thought of kissing a boy and him telling everyone I had food in my brackets, or some ridiculous thing. I said I couldn’t do it, and I heard her move the phone away from her mouth and tell him, “She said no.” I hear him murmur something, and Kristina ended the call by saying, “Okay, you’re broken up then. Bye!” CLICK.”
When I was a freshman in high school, I had to write a biographical paper on Freud for my pre-AP English class. In typical Gin fashion, I put it off until the very last minute and was up until the not-so-wee-anymore hours finishing it on the day it was due. Towards the end, I was just rambling and throwing in sources and citations to meet the minimum requirements. I can still quote the last line of the paper, but it was so awful and I’m so ashamed of it that doing so would make my head explode, and I wouldn’t be able to look any of you in the eye.
When I was a junior in college, my mom and dad drove up to visit me for Parent’s Weekend. On Saturday night, in the middle of the stadium parking lot, my mom and I ended up getting into a screaming fight in front of hundreds of people leaving the stands after the game. She threw a biscuit at me that she’d saved in her purse from dinner (I don’t know what the fuck that was about). I went back to my room and sobbed on the floor for a long time. Jamie came and held me, and we rocked back and forth on the floor, for a minute? An hour? All night? The next morning, she and my dad stopped by the campus to say goodbye before they made the drive back to
The incidents that I wish most to be stricken from my memory are those are the ones that hang doggedly on, popping up in nightmares or in wandering thoughts on a random Tuesday, sending my stomach plummeting to my toes, my palms clammy, tears pricking my eyes. The red-letter days – the ones that I want to engrave on my heart so I can treasure every scent, every sound, every ray of sunshine, every word of every song we heard on the radio on the way there – are the ones that are fuzzy. The only distinct memory of my first kiss is that it was near a dumpster. All I remember from my college graduation was slipping off my painful heels after I made my walk across the stage, and that J told me later the kid sitting next to him was Mormon and tried to witness to him. I can’t recall much of my wedding day, even though it was only four years ago.
I had one of the shitty, sickening things happen at work on Friday. I’ve spent the past three days brooding, crying, nursing an ulcer. And even though the mistake I made was an honest one, and in the end can be corrected with little pain, I know that this will be one of the memories that haunts me for years. Even though I can try to psych myself up, play all of my Loud Bangy Fierce music on the way to work tomorrow, walking in and facing the repercussions Monday morning will be unpleasant. (I’ll note here that it’s entirely possible that I’m making too much of this, and that it all may blow over with little more than a chiding email and a bruised ego, but that won’t erase the punch-in-the-gut feeling of I Fucked Up that keeps washing over me).
If you could spare some good vibes, please send them my way.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Every day something has happened that, in the grand scheme of things, is not that strange - maybe only qualifies as Notable, or merits a Cocked-Eyebrow; not even Blogworthy (not that most things I post are necessarily worth writing about) - but to me, in the context of My Life and Work, and in such close proximity, all these happenings have caused me to question my mental health. Is this all actually happening? Am I dreaming? Did someone slip me something funky? And is it really only Thursday? You mean I still have TOMORROW to deal with?
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
High rise. Elastic waist. Tapered leg. With a braided belt.
Kick Me In The Box.
My mom called the other day to let me know that she’d bought matching shirts for her, my sister, and I to wear in upcoming family Christmas pictures.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I understand why people abuse Ritalin.