Last night I resurrected an old practice of mine: Drunk Baking. The result of my intoxicated efforts: from-scratch chocolate sheet cake with homemade chocolate icing. It’s pretty fucking awesome, if I do say so myself.
Yesterday afternoon was a bitch, and I knew I needed something to focus on or I’d spend the evening as a weepy, hormonal mess, hence the cake. I’m a surprisingly industrious stress-drunk – by the time J got home at 6:30, I’d baked and iced the cake, cleaned the kitchen of my mess, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, cleaned out our stinky trash can, started dinner, and polished off an entire bottle of wine.
When I shared this story with my coworker (as he shoveled cake into his mouth), he said, “I know what I’m getting you for Christmas: a nice Riesling and an invitation to my house.”
(Wow, out of context, that sounds incredibly inappropriate.)
I’m feeling better today, in more ways than one, though perhaps a teeny bit queasy – I haven’t had that much to drink in quite a while.
It was actually nice being a little drunk – I was able to tell J about everything I’ve been stressing about without going into The Ugly Cry. I don’t know about you guys, but for me, every kind of upset – angry, disappointed, frustrated, sad, overwhelmed, any combination of those, etc, - turns into The Ugly Cry, and I HATE that, especially when I’m trying to get things off my chest. I feel like my message is lost because whoever I’m talking to is reacting to the crying instead of what I’m saying.
But last night, I was loopy enough that I felt a little farther removed from everything, and was able to say everything I needed to. I wish I could do that all the time, but drunken rants and baking, as cleansing as they may feel, are not exactly the most healthy way to deal with one’s feelings (ha).
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Having a reeeeally hard time waking up this morning. My mind is fuzzy and slow, and I don’t feel like talking to people.
I’m sure a lot of this gray fog has to do with a conversation I had with my mom yesterday.
I alluded to her guilt trip the other day – she was giving me a hard time because I took a pass on a trip that she and my dad wanted me and J to take with them. We had planned to go out of town already on the weekend previous to the Parent Trip, and it would just be too much traveling and expense in a short period of time, so I told her we couldn’t make it this time, and that’s what caused the problem.
Our already-scheduled trip will kick off a busy period of mandatory family-related traveling in the April-May timeframe, and I feel like, given the stress I have already felt this year, and the anticipated aggro of the family-related trips, we will need that chill time to build up the mental strength that it will require to keep us from strangling my relatives.
Anyway, my mom stopped by for a bit yesterday (she started out surprisingly pleasant), and the conversation came around to my hormone treatments/efforts at conception. There I am, crying over my frustration over the whole situation, and her response is “It seems like you’re rushing and overstressing over all of this”, and then promptly changed the subject back to her inability to make up her mind about taking a trip to Hawaii later this year. Right.
I dried up and made it through the rest of her visit, but when she left, I flipped out. How could my own mother be so callous about something that is obviously a big deal to me??? I understand that everyone thinks their own shit is the most important, but it would be nice for her to at least pretend to care. I told her not in hopes that my worries would become her priority, but mostly so she would maybe realize that my world does not revolve around her petty disagreements with my sister and my aunt, or her latest imagined ailment. I realize that what I’m going through, in terms of infertility treatment and the world in general, pales in comparison to what most people go through, but guess what? It’s a big deal to ME, and I had hoped that she could at least respect the concerns of her own fucking daughter.
I ranted and raved to J for a while, and he sympathized, but pointed out that everyone’s own stresses are consuming in their own mind, but not necessarily to others (which I acknowledged), and also hinted that my mom might be making light of my concerns as a passive-aggressive way of “paying me back” for backing out of the trip with her and my dad. The sad truth is that I wouldn’t put it past her to do that – we’ve had a rough time in the past, and she’s done that and worse to me before.
It hurts me that I feel like my own mother is not on my side with this.
I have some awesome friends that are always there with words of encouragement when I need it, whether it’s re: all this hormone/pregnancy shit, or work, or whatever, but they are all, literally, thousands of miles away; and J is amazing, but acknowledges that, as far as these treatments go, I feel the disappointment and frustration in a way that he never can. And I understand that, but that makes me feel even more alone.
It would have been nice to feel like I have someone else local in my corner, but I just don’t think I can tell my mom anything about it anymore. And that sucks. The past couple of years, our relationship had improved so much – for the first time, I felt like I could confide in my mom, but now it feels like she’s going back to her old way of exploiting my confidences as vulnerabilities. And I suffered through too much of that shit before to let her do it again.
I’m sure a lot of this gray fog has to do with a conversation I had with my mom yesterday.
I alluded to her guilt trip the other day – she was giving me a hard time because I took a pass on a trip that she and my dad wanted me and J to take with them. We had planned to go out of town already on the weekend previous to the Parent Trip, and it would just be too much traveling and expense in a short period of time, so I told her we couldn’t make it this time, and that’s what caused the problem.
Our already-scheduled trip will kick off a busy period of mandatory family-related traveling in the April-May timeframe, and I feel like, given the stress I have already felt this year, and the anticipated aggro of the family-related trips, we will need that chill time to build up the mental strength that it will require to keep us from strangling my relatives.
Anyway, my mom stopped by for a bit yesterday (she started out surprisingly pleasant), and the conversation came around to my hormone treatments/efforts at conception. There I am, crying over my frustration over the whole situation, and her response is “It seems like you’re rushing and overstressing over all of this”, and then promptly changed the subject back to her inability to make up her mind about taking a trip to Hawaii later this year. Right.
I dried up and made it through the rest of her visit, but when she left, I flipped out. How could my own mother be so callous about something that is obviously a big deal to me??? I understand that everyone thinks their own shit is the most important, but it would be nice for her to at least pretend to care. I told her not in hopes that my worries would become her priority, but mostly so she would maybe realize that my world does not revolve around her petty disagreements with my sister and my aunt, or her latest imagined ailment. I realize that what I’m going through, in terms of infertility treatment and the world in general, pales in comparison to what most people go through, but guess what? It’s a big deal to ME, and I had hoped that she could at least respect the concerns of her own fucking daughter.
I ranted and raved to J for a while, and he sympathized, but pointed out that everyone’s own stresses are consuming in their own mind, but not necessarily to others (which I acknowledged), and also hinted that my mom might be making light of my concerns as a passive-aggressive way of “paying me back” for backing out of the trip with her and my dad. The sad truth is that I wouldn’t put it past her to do that – we’ve had a rough time in the past, and she’s done that and worse to me before.
It hurts me that I feel like my own mother is not on my side with this.
I have some awesome friends that are always there with words of encouragement when I need it, whether it’s re: all this hormone/pregnancy shit, or work, or whatever, but they are all, literally, thousands of miles away; and J is amazing, but acknowledges that, as far as these treatments go, I feel the disappointment and frustration in a way that he never can. And I understand that, but that makes me feel even more alone.
It would have been nice to feel like I have someone else local in my corner, but I just don’t think I can tell my mom anything about it anymore. And that sucks. The past couple of years, our relationship had improved so much – for the first time, I felt like I could confide in my mom, but now it feels like she’s going back to her old way of exploiting my confidences as vulnerabilities. And I suffered through too much of that shit before to let her do it again.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Today is a good day.
Not only is it Friday, but it’s a short workday for me (God bless the dude who invented flex time), after work I’m getting a massage, and tonight, it’s What Not To Wear.
I love this show. I love Clinton Kelly. Stacy…well, Clinton is a nice foil to her eye-rolling and “Shut. Up.”s. It’s entertaining, and a self-esteem booster in that, no matter how old and busted you think your wardrobe is, at least you’re not wearing 25 year-old t-shirts, tapered leg sweatpants, and pathetic gray-white athletic socks with plastic sandals held together with duct tape.
I know there are some people that hate on the show, because they feel like C&S turn these women into a generic version of their ideal, but my counter to that is, Come On, is a tomboy in an A-line skirt and heels any worse than their previous wardrobe of track suits and a ball cap?!
The one issue I have with the show is not with the show itself, but the (Contestants? Participants? Humiliatees?) folks that don’t want Nick to change their hair, to which I say SHUT UP and Trust The Man. It is in his best interest to make people look awesome, that way he can charge hundreds of dollars for a cut and color – he is not going to fuck you over.
J has an obligation this evening, so that means it will be a super-mellow me, some Ben & Jerry’s, and TLC tonight…Life is beautiful.
Not only is it Friday, but it’s a short workday for me (God bless the dude who invented flex time), after work I’m getting a massage, and tonight, it’s What Not To Wear.
I love this show. I love Clinton Kelly. Stacy…well, Clinton is a nice foil to her eye-rolling and “Shut. Up.”s. It’s entertaining, and a self-esteem booster in that, no matter how old and busted you think your wardrobe is, at least you’re not wearing 25 year-old t-shirts, tapered leg sweatpants, and pathetic gray-white athletic socks with plastic sandals held together with duct tape.
I know there are some people that hate on the show, because they feel like C&S turn these women into a generic version of their ideal, but my counter to that is, Come On, is a tomboy in an A-line skirt and heels any worse than their previous wardrobe of track suits and a ball cap?!
The one issue I have with the show is not with the show itself, but the (Contestants? Participants? Humiliatees?) folks that don’t want Nick to change their hair, to which I say SHUT UP and Trust The Man. It is in his best interest to make people look awesome, that way he can charge hundreds of dollars for a cut and color – he is not going to fuck you over.
J has an obligation this evening, so that means it will be a super-mellow me, some Ben & Jerry’s, and TLC tonight…Life is beautiful.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
On Mothers and Guilt Trips
Wait, do I even need to write an actual post, or does the title do enough for you?
Oh, thank God, because even recounting this bullshit would give me an ulcer.
Oh, thank God, because even recounting this bullshit would give me an ulcer.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Dude
I HATE the color yellow, and yet I still totally love this dress – that is how powerful the Cute is. (But the shoes and the pathetic belt have got to go.)
Monday, February 4, 2008
Dear Girl At The Starbucks Window,
Let me preface this whole rant by making it clear that I would NEVER SAY THIS TO YOUR FACE, because I think picking a petty squabble with anyone that comes in contact with my consumables is tempting fate.
That said, I will continue with this note, in hopes that putting it Out There, the message will somehow find its way into your tiny brain.
When I roll up to the window so money and coffee can exchange hands, I am pre-caffeinated – this is why I visit your crack-doling establishment on a daily basis. As such, this is not the time to strike up some chit-chat with me. The way this works is, I hand you $3.83, you hand me my tall non-fat no-whip mocha with a sticker over the mouthpiece, tell me to have a good day, I mumble thanks, and by the time I have driven onsite, parked, hiked through the parking lot, and trudged up the stairs, I have taken sufficient sips of that delicious chocolaty nectar that I can give my cubemates a pleasant “Good morning” before I start pretending to work.
Your job is to be pleasant, succinct, and good at handing things to people – let’s not overcomplicate things by throwing “relating a story about 2 crazy customers getting into a screaming fight” in there (though I should mention that the reason they probably got into said shouting match is because they had been waiting so long for their coffee because you were busy telling some other customer some stupid story.)
The drawback to working in the customer service industry is that most Customers just want Service, not a best friend – this is a lesson I too learned working in retail and at a grocery store in high school and college, and this was more than sufficient motivation to finish college so I would never have to work in such a job Ever Again. Let this be another After School Special-type lesson to you – Don’t Do Drugs, Don’t Get Knocked Up, Finish School, Don’t Get Stuck In A Job That Requires You To Wear An Apron And A Headset.
With Love and an Extra Shot of Moody,
Gin
Let me preface this whole rant by making it clear that I would NEVER SAY THIS TO YOUR FACE, because I think picking a petty squabble with anyone that comes in contact with my consumables is tempting fate.
That said, I will continue with this note, in hopes that putting it Out There, the message will somehow find its way into your tiny brain.
When I roll up to the window so money and coffee can exchange hands, I am pre-caffeinated – this is why I visit your crack-doling establishment on a daily basis. As such, this is not the time to strike up some chit-chat with me. The way this works is, I hand you $3.83, you hand me my tall non-fat no-whip mocha with a sticker over the mouthpiece, tell me to have a good day, I mumble thanks, and by the time I have driven onsite, parked, hiked through the parking lot, and trudged up the stairs, I have taken sufficient sips of that delicious chocolaty nectar that I can give my cubemates a pleasant “Good morning” before I start pretending to work.
Your job is to be pleasant, succinct, and good at handing things to people – let’s not overcomplicate things by throwing “relating a story about 2 crazy customers getting into a screaming fight” in there (though I should mention that the reason they probably got into said shouting match is because they had been waiting so long for their coffee because you were busy telling some other customer some stupid story.)
The drawback to working in the customer service industry is that most Customers just want Service, not a best friend – this is a lesson I too learned working in retail and at a grocery store in high school and college, and this was more than sufficient motivation to finish college so I would never have to work in such a job Ever Again. Let this be another After School Special-type lesson to you – Don’t Do Drugs, Don’t Get Knocked Up, Finish School, Don’t Get Stuck In A Job That Requires You To Wear An Apron And A Headset.
With Love and an Extra Shot of Moody,
Gin
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
