And not at all of a self-pitying nature.
I am looking for a calendar. I've been perusing Etsy for, oh, 20 whole minutes now, and I tire of the search. So I turn to you, dear readers: do you have an artist or vendor that you really love? I would like something from Etsy or the like, if possible, and like funky graphic designs, but am willing to widen my horizons.
Ok, GO.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
It's cold and breezy outside; gray, with a noncommital drizzle.
It's after 3 o'clock, and I'm still in my pajamas, my teeth fuzzy from 3 cups of coffee that granted temporary motivation, enough to get me through 4 loads of laundry, a sinkful of dirty dishes, finally putting that bedskirt on the guest bed, reorganizing the spice cabinet, and relining two large drawers and two shelves with cork Contact paper I ordered over six months ago, which had been sitting on the guest bed, next to the packaged bedskirt, mocking me. Fuck you, Contact paper.
Low blood sugar and the resulting fumbling hands finally made me sit down and let my brain click over from the autopilot of reactions the the buzzes and timers of household appliances - open, unload, close, twist, whirr, soap, lid, click, lather, rinse, repeat. It goes back to where it's been for days, where it always is, if I let that piece of my consciousness win, where it's hovered since this morning when I peed on a plastic stick, and the stick said Failure. Fuck you, plastic stick.
So I sat on the couch, staring out at the gray, tears welling. John sits on the ottoman in front of me, and I look at him. My hair is greasy and my face is red and splotchy. I don't say anything.
"Go back to the doctor. You know that's what you need to do."
And I nod, and the tears fall.
But going back means saying things out loud, which makes them more real.
Taking pills and tracking temperatures and making cryptic marks on the calendar, waking up thirty minutes earlier on a weekday so I can get up and pee on a plastic stick and have enough time to process its answer and cry about it in the shower and still go to work and push it all out of my brain for at least 8 hours and pretend like it wasn't a punch in the gut is an investment. If I put that much time and effort into it, every day, every month, every negative result on those stupid fucking plastic sticks just reads as Your Body And Your Time Are Failures.
It is hard enough for me to hold my shit together without throwing hormones into it. At Midnight Mass, instead of listening to the same asshole priest that married us five years ago tell the story of the wonder of Christ's birth, I found myself counting babies, whimpering, sleeping, staring at me - a disproportionate number of them rocked and nursed by girls nearly ten years younger than me. That's a big part of why I can't go to church anymore - it feels like those teenage mothers, the sleepy, long-lashed eyes of their babies, the self-satisfied smiles of doting grandparents, the solemn faces of the saints and the Virgin, are all mocking me. Yeah, I'm pretty angry at God, angry at the girls who get knocked up by accident in the back of a Corolla on clammy vinyl seats, angry at my parents and mother-in-law for letting that hint of jealousy read in their voices as they tell me about So-and-So's precious grandchildren. I'm angry at my house for seeming so quiet and empty. I'm angry at myself for fixating on it all, for letting it get to me, for letting that fear and hurt paralyze me into inaction, because I tell myself that if I don't put my heart into it all again, it will hurt a little less.
But it still aches.
It's after 3 o'clock, and I'm still in my pajamas, my teeth fuzzy from 3 cups of coffee that granted temporary motivation, enough to get me through 4 loads of laundry, a sinkful of dirty dishes, finally putting that bedskirt on the guest bed, reorganizing the spice cabinet, and relining two large drawers and two shelves with cork Contact paper I ordered over six months ago, which had been sitting on the guest bed, next to the packaged bedskirt, mocking me. Fuck you, Contact paper.
Low blood sugar and the resulting fumbling hands finally made me sit down and let my brain click over from the autopilot of reactions the the buzzes and timers of household appliances - open, unload, close, twist, whirr, soap, lid, click, lather, rinse, repeat. It goes back to where it's been for days, where it always is, if I let that piece of my consciousness win, where it's hovered since this morning when I peed on a plastic stick, and the stick said Failure. Fuck you, plastic stick.
So I sat on the couch, staring out at the gray, tears welling. John sits on the ottoman in front of me, and I look at him. My hair is greasy and my face is red and splotchy. I don't say anything.
"Go back to the doctor. You know that's what you need to do."
And I nod, and the tears fall.
But going back means saying things out loud, which makes them more real.
Taking pills and tracking temperatures and making cryptic marks on the calendar, waking up thirty minutes earlier on a weekday so I can get up and pee on a plastic stick and have enough time to process its answer and cry about it in the shower and still go to work and push it all out of my brain for at least 8 hours and pretend like it wasn't a punch in the gut is an investment. If I put that much time and effort into it, every day, every month, every negative result on those stupid fucking plastic sticks just reads as Your Body And Your Time Are Failures.
It is hard enough for me to hold my shit together without throwing hormones into it. At Midnight Mass, instead of listening to the same asshole priest that married us five years ago tell the story of the wonder of Christ's birth, I found myself counting babies, whimpering, sleeping, staring at me - a disproportionate number of them rocked and nursed by girls nearly ten years younger than me. That's a big part of why I can't go to church anymore - it feels like those teenage mothers, the sleepy, long-lashed eyes of their babies, the self-satisfied smiles of doting grandparents, the solemn faces of the saints and the Virgin, are all mocking me. Yeah, I'm pretty angry at God, angry at the girls who get knocked up by accident in the back of a Corolla on clammy vinyl seats, angry at my parents and mother-in-law for letting that hint of jealousy read in their voices as they tell me about So-and-So's precious grandchildren. I'm angry at my house for seeming so quiet and empty. I'm angry at myself for fixating on it all, for letting it get to me, for letting that fear and hurt paralyze me into inaction, because I tell myself that if I don't put my heart into it all again, it will hurt a little less.
But it still aches.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
HOORAY!
Today at 1:30 p.m., my vacation began - I am DONE for the rest of the year, and it is delicious, like cheesecake and bacon and homemade alfredo sauce, except not all together.
I set up my Out-Of-Office message to read, "blah blah blah, I'm gone bitches, I will NOT be checking email, if you need urgent, immediate, someone-is-bleeding-or-dying assistance, call my cell". I sent out a huge important email, and promptly clocked out. I opened up my work email from home just now for the express reason of giving it the finger. It felt really good.
I think back on where I was at exactly this time last year, think about what I got through these past 12 months, and I'm proud, but relieved to (once again) put this year behind me. Just the words, Twenty-Ten, sound scary. There are a lot of drastic changes coming at work; a year from now, I may be without a job, or I may *have* a job, but will have seen about half of my coworkers get laid off. I'll watch the program I have supported for the past 5 years, and an era in spaceflight, come to an end. My 10-year high school reunion will come (and I will ignore it). We may talk about this Baby thing again. It's a lot to wrap my brain around.
So once again, I'm going to leave the past to itself, let the future wait, and enjoy the In Between.
I set up my Out-Of-Office message to read, "blah blah blah, I'm gone bitches, I will NOT be checking email, if you need urgent, immediate, someone-is-bleeding-or-dying assistance, call my cell". I sent out a huge important email, and promptly clocked out. I opened up my work email from home just now for the express reason of giving it the finger. It felt really good.
I think back on where I was at exactly this time last year, think about what I got through these past 12 months, and I'm proud, but relieved to (once again) put this year behind me. Just the words, Twenty-Ten, sound scary. There are a lot of drastic changes coming at work; a year from now, I may be without a job, or I may *have* a job, but will have seen about half of my coworkers get laid off. I'll watch the program I have supported for the past 5 years, and an era in spaceflight, come to an end. My 10-year high school reunion will come (and I will ignore it). We may talk about this Baby thing again. It's a lot to wrap my brain around.
So once again, I'm going to leave the past to itself, let the future wait, and enjoy the In Between.
An office exchange
Me, to coworker: "Ok, I need to reschedule such-and-such thing from February 3 to February 1."
Coworker: "Ok, February 1...is that April Fools?"
Me: "...are you serious?"
Coworker: "Oh God, I can't believe I just said that. It was already coming out of my mouth before I thought."
Me: "HEE HEE HEE!"
It is time to go home.
Coworker: "Ok, February 1...is that April Fools?"
Me: "...are you serious?"
Coworker: "Oh God, I can't believe I just said that. It was already coming out of my mouth before I thought."
Me: "HEE HEE HEE!"
It is time to go home.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Tomorrow is the 29th birthday of the boyfriend who took me on my very first car date, 11+ years ago. He broke up with me a month into his freshman year of college, over a dessert I didn’t want but he insisted I order at a Chili’s that I drive by at least once a week, the site of which still makes my inner 16 year-old self mutter obscenities, at which my 27 year-old self rolls her eyes. The only reason I remember is because at 16 I memorized every detail of the boys I “loved” – shoe sizes, cologne, what they called their grandmother, the TV shows on in the background of our hours-long, mostly silent phone calls – but not my mother’s birthday…which is January 18th, one month after that First Date Boy. So now I can’t think of my mom’s birth date without also thinking of Brian’s. It is funny and also kind of sad.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
I have already eaten two deep-fried cream cheese puffs.
I really want another one.
Because they are amazing and I am starving.
But then John will come home and see that I've eaten three all by myself in 10 minutes.
But if I eat *all* of them, he won't have to know that I even ordered any.
But then I will be That Woman Who Ate Half A Dozen Deep Fried Cream Cheese Puffs Alone In Her Pajamas At 6 On A Weeknight.
OH MY GOD, THE PRESSURE.
I really want another one.
Because they are amazing and I am starving.
But then John will come home and see that I've eaten three all by myself in 10 minutes.
But if I eat *all* of them, he won't have to know that I even ordered any.
But then I will be That Woman Who Ate Half A Dozen Deep Fried Cream Cheese Puffs Alone In Her Pajamas At 6 On A Weeknight.
OH MY GOD, THE PRESSURE.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
How I've missed you, my doves!
I haven't posted anything substantial in a while - traveling for Thanksgiving and work junk and Life In General have had me pretty busy. The thought of coming up with something neat to post about has been hanging over my head, but y'all, I got nothin' (save bitching, and I do enough of that), and also, I have bigger shizz I need to focus on right now. So I'm giving myself a pass for the next couple of weeks - my downtime will be limited to wine and catching up on Glee and then some more wine. May your evenings consist of much of the same.
Kisses,
G
I haven't posted anything substantial in a while - traveling for Thanksgiving and work junk and Life In General have had me pretty busy. The thought of coming up with something neat to post about has been hanging over my head, but y'all, I got nothin' (save bitching, and I do enough of that), and also, I have bigger shizz I need to focus on right now. So I'm giving myself a pass for the next couple of weeks - my downtime will be limited to wine and catching up on Glee and then some more wine. May your evenings consist of much of the same.
Kisses,
G
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
