My Own Brand of Coping
Today I am organizing my office here at work. It's what I do when I'm ignoring major issues-- I like to take a moment to, say, clean out and organize the bathroom closet when I've been informed that the house is on fire. Just hold on a minute! Let me get all of the band-aids in one box, please, and then I will deal with this pesky heat and smoke!
NCETMB Exam Countdown:
7 days! Shit Fire and save the matches, folks! Last night I fell asleep in Bird's bed at 8:30 ish and did not rise again, thus losing an entire precious night of studying. Oh, my.
I Made Two Delicious Things This Week.
First, simple salad that required no genius (and will include no measurements):
Bag of Dole Classic Romaine Salad (or whatever, organic something something if you so choose, just get some greens together)
Grape Tomatoes
Red Pepper
Carrots
Cucumber
Chopped peanuts
Dried Apricots
Morningstar Chik Patties, baked and cut up
T. Marzetti's super-fattening but always delicious Honey Dijon dressing.
Note: A. used real chicken breast on his salad, marinated in olive oil and soy sauce and baked. Gross.
+++++++++
Second, I revisited the smoothie I was so keen on making while I was pregnant with Bird:
One cup vanilla soy milk
One cup quick-cook Quaker Oats
One Banana
Frozen fruit (I chose a frozen strawberry-mango-pineapple mix and added frozen blueberries).
Blend, eat for breakfast, stay full until lunchtime.
I use a super-washed-out tall salsa jar (Kroger's Private Selection, I assume?) to drink from because it is tall and straight with no neck (easy washing), and it has a lid for transporting to the office in a hurry.
I Also Discovered a New (to me) Budgeting Tool.
mvelopes.
I'm trying the 30 days free, and so far so good. I like that it asks you to assign your money to be spent certain ways BEFORE you spend it, rather than the traditional budget program (or homemade spreadsheet in my case) that tells you where you over-did it and hopes you won't do it again. It's the old-fashioned envelopes (hello, Mr. Ramsey, you are a pompous butthead but your system works) idea, but online and integrated with your online banking instead of cash-only. I like that it's not going to let me cheat, that every dime spent needs to come from somewhere, whether it's the mortgage money set aside for next month or the food budget, whatever. High hopes over here. Try it with me if you want and we can talk about it.
Family Health Crisis Moves from Red to Yellow
Dad doing great after surgery, Grandpa with MRSA infection and other multiple, layered, serious health issues cleared to go home (which, honestly, I did not think was going to happen, but yay). Granddad (other one) still stable, holding on, taking a couple of sips of juice a day. Family and hospice still hovering. Snee family still grocery shopping in three-day blocks, waiting for news and travel plans.
Bird is Still Two, Not Terrible (mostly).
Had a nasty fever over the weekend, but seems all better now.
Tells Thomas "Oh, Thomas! You have such a pretty tail!" Melts heart.
Calls Beardog "sweet boy." Double melts heart.
Showing posts with label Massage School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Massage School. Show all posts
20 February 2008
01 February 2008
Friday again, somehow
What is this, just a Friday-posting blog now? Forgiveness, please, my job has me pinned down like a frog in biology class. (now find my duodenum.)
Here is the weekly collection of mostly unrelated mishmash you may have come to expect:
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Dear LOST,
Thanks for that. I've missed you.
xoxo,
Mama
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Me: Your hair is getting really long. How long are you going to grow it out?
A: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, like, do you want shoulder-length long hair, or Fabio-long hair?
A: I want to grow it long enough so that I can wrap it around under my chin and make a beard out of it.
A's Chanitx Update:
Day 5
No smokes
No psychosis
One night of sleepwalking
One very, very proud wife.
I stayed home today to study again. Here's how it went:
7:45: Drop Bird at Daycare.
7: 46: Run into my friend C. dropping off her little one at Daycare.
7:50: Go to breakfast with C. Delightful!
8:45: Return home and gather laundry, start laundry, various household tedium, listen to NPR.
9:00: Receive call from baby brother, with whom I have not chatted leisurely in a coon's age. Catch up on ailing relatives, current job woes, political candidates, cat medicines, LOST.
11:15: Study. Really! I studied a proper long time, even while I ate my lunch. (egg noodles, frozen peas and carrots, shredded cheddar, Bragg's. Yum.
(okay, in my head right now I hear a little Asian woman saying "Oh! You should study! A proper long time!" like in that 2 Live Crew song.)
And now it is time to pay bills and finish the laundry and collect my child from daycare.
And now, a video clip in which:
Here is the weekly collection of mostly unrelated mishmash you may have come to expect:
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Dear LOST,
Thanks for that. I've missed you.
xoxo,
Mama
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Me: Your hair is getting really long. How long are you going to grow it out?
A: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, like, do you want shoulder-length long hair, or Fabio-long hair?
A: I want to grow it long enough so that I can wrap it around under my chin and make a beard out of it.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
A's Chanitx Update:
Day 5
No smokes
No psychosis
One night of sleepwalking
One very, very proud wife.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
I stayed home today to study again. Here's how it went:
7:45: Drop Bird at Daycare.
7: 46: Run into my friend C. dropping off her little one at Daycare.
7:50: Go to breakfast with C. Delightful!
8:45: Return home and gather laundry, start laundry, various household tedium, listen to NPR.
9:00: Receive call from baby brother, with whom I have not chatted leisurely in a coon's age. Catch up on ailing relatives, current job woes, political candidates, cat medicines, LOST.
11:15: Study. Really! I studied a proper long time, even while I ate my lunch. (egg noodles, frozen peas and carrots, shredded cheddar, Bragg's. Yum.
(okay, in my head right now I hear a little Asian woman saying "Oh! You should study! A proper long time!" like in that 2 Live Crew song.)
And now it is time to pay bills and finish the laundry and collect my child from daycare.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
And now, a video clip in which:
- My homemade highlights are clearly visible (and unimpressive... yipes)
- I try my best to blend into the couch with my new green Goodwill skirt
- Birdy sings "Cows in the Kitchen" with a spectacular vocal dismount. She's got some flair, that kid.
17 January 2008
Good Thursday To You
So last night, I had a mild, prickly anxiety all over, like wearing some uncomfortable, buzzing electric jumpsuit with a helmet. I fell asleep in Bird's bed until 11:30p and had strange, mean dreams. I got up and let the dogs out, had a smoke, and had a hard time falling back to sleep in my own bed. Starting to think I'M the one taking brain-drugs to quit smoking.
But you know, come to think of it, yesterday I drank coffee in the morning, diet coke on the road, maybe a drop or two of water from the melty remains of the road coke, and then another diet coke (leftover from the baptism festivities) with my dinner. Usually it's coffee and then waterwatertonsofwater. Maybe those were aspartame- or caffeine- induced dreams. But then again, my shoulders are tight, I'm grinding my teeth an awful lot, and I have brief moments where I feel like I could take off running right out of my skin. Hello, anxiety! To what do I owe this visit?
Maybe my job situation, which, as previously indicated, continues to suck. No longer a specific, intense sucking that starts angry fires here and there-- that, at least, provokes emotion and action-- but a prolonged and gray sucking that can now just be described as an overall drain.
I'm noticing in conversation that I am overly critical of things/ people, and I think this worklife dissatisfaction makes me too eager a critic in my real life. I'm a sorter and a get-to-the-bottom-of-it kind of gal, constantly finding the glaring errors and unsavory characteristics floating around my workplace, trying to put my finger on the reason for the gray sucking, now that the firey, precise sucking has passed. Also, I'm becoming a skilled case-builder, like a lawyer of grouchiness, assembling facts and events that, small on their own, combine into a guilty verdict of "I Don't Like You." In other words, I'm a grouch. A grouch too eager to point out what is wrong with whatever is in my line of sight. To assign blame for the sucking.
And maybe all of this grouchiness is making me a little anxious, too.
---
Also, my NCETMB exam is scheduled for Feb 28 at 11:00. Time to kick the studying into high gear. Or rather, actually begin the studying. When I thumbed through the calendar to check the dates, I realized it's been a full year since I took kinesiology. But really, I'm okay with having not studied. It's never real until I have a deadline anyway, and now it's real, so now I study. Here we are, looking forward. simple.
Except! I'm in the middle of a wonderful book that I believe I can finish swiftly, but today I received notice that Animal, Vegetable, Miracle awaits me at East Branch Library. I think I was number ninety thousand and seven on the wait list, and finally, it is my day. Which sounds more interesting to you: the origin and insertion of every large and teensy muscle in the body or Animal, Vegetable, Miracle? What's a girl to do?
---
Chantix update: Husband shows no signs of psychosis. And, on day 3, no signs of cigarettes seeming unappealing.
---
This morning, Bird and I were dressed and ready at a miracle of an hour, considering our family's wake-time. Bird has been sleeping in, see. And for the last two years we've started the day with an urgent crying out for comfort from Bird, and now, well, the alarm gets far less compassion.
Anyway. We were ready, by some miracle, on time.
And then.
The cat started to puke. Bird is no stranger to cat puke, my little expert cat-puke spotter, shouting on Saturday mornings from the living room and pointing to a sizeable hairball in the doorway before any of us steps on it, barefoot, in the morning dark. But this morning! Oh! To actually SEE the actual CAT actually PUKING! With the retching and the scooting and the opening his mouth in that weird cat-puke way, where you think his face might peel right back off of his skull! And my Thomas, always the showman, put on an impressive puking display for Bird, being certain to spread four separate puke-puddles all over the parlor, dangerously close to piles of toys and laundry. Amazing!
I cleaned up the cat puke, while answering a barrage of questions about said puke.
And then, upon delivering Bird to daycare, she marched right up to the teacher and declared, "My cat puked! My cat puked! My cat puked!"
Hear Ye, Hear Ye!
But you know, come to think of it, yesterday I drank coffee in the morning, diet coke on the road, maybe a drop or two of water from the melty remains of the road coke, and then another diet coke (leftover from the baptism festivities) with my dinner. Usually it's coffee and then waterwatertonsofwater. Maybe those were aspartame- or caffeine- induced dreams. But then again, my shoulders are tight, I'm grinding my teeth an awful lot, and I have brief moments where I feel like I could take off running right out of my skin. Hello, anxiety! To what do I owe this visit?
Maybe my job situation, which, as previously indicated, continues to suck. No longer a specific, intense sucking that starts angry fires here and there-- that, at least, provokes emotion and action-- but a prolonged and gray sucking that can now just be described as an overall drain.
I'm noticing in conversation that I am overly critical of things/ people, and I think this worklife dissatisfaction makes me too eager a critic in my real life. I'm a sorter and a get-to-the-bottom-of-it kind of gal, constantly finding the glaring errors and unsavory characteristics floating around my workplace, trying to put my finger on the reason for the gray sucking, now that the firey, precise sucking has passed. Also, I'm becoming a skilled case-builder, like a lawyer of grouchiness, assembling facts and events that, small on their own, combine into a guilty verdict of "I Don't Like You." In other words, I'm a grouch. A grouch too eager to point out what is wrong with whatever is in my line of sight. To assign blame for the sucking.
And maybe all of this grouchiness is making me a little anxious, too.
---
Also, my NCETMB exam is scheduled for Feb 28 at 11:00. Time to kick the studying into high gear. Or rather, actually begin the studying. When I thumbed through the calendar to check the dates, I realized it's been a full year since I took kinesiology. But really, I'm okay with having not studied. It's never real until I have a deadline anyway, and now it's real, so now I study. Here we are, looking forward. simple.
Except! I'm in the middle of a wonderful book that I believe I can finish swiftly, but today I received notice that Animal, Vegetable, Miracle awaits me at East Branch Library. I think I was number ninety thousand and seven on the wait list, and finally, it is my day. Which sounds more interesting to you: the origin and insertion of every large and teensy muscle in the body or Animal, Vegetable, Miracle? What's a girl to do?
---
Chantix update: Husband shows no signs of psychosis. And, on day 3, no signs of cigarettes seeming unappealing.
---
This morning, Bird and I were dressed and ready at a miracle of an hour, considering our family's wake-time. Bird has been sleeping in, see. And for the last two years we've started the day with an urgent crying out for comfort from Bird, and now, well, the alarm gets far less compassion.
Anyway. We were ready, by some miracle, on time.
And then.
The cat started to puke. Bird is no stranger to cat puke, my little expert cat-puke spotter, shouting on Saturday mornings from the living room and pointing to a sizeable hairball in the doorway before any of us steps on it, barefoot, in the morning dark. But this morning! Oh! To actually SEE the actual CAT actually PUKING! With the retching and the scooting and the opening his mouth in that weird cat-puke way, where you think his face might peel right back off of his skull! And my Thomas, always the showman, put on an impressive puking display for Bird, being certain to spread four separate puke-puddles all over the parlor, dangerously close to piles of toys and laundry. Amazing!
I cleaned up the cat puke, while answering a barrage of questions about said puke.
And then, upon delivering Bird to daycare, she marched right up to the teacher and declared, "My cat puked! My cat puked! My cat puked!"
Hear Ye, Hear Ye!
13 November 2007
Oh, Tuesday, here you are again.
Remember how I said I moved my blogroll into it's new little blog apartment sometime last week? Well, I think maybe I should delete the whole thing. I've been to the end of the internet and back this afternoon, quite unintentionally, and have burned some remarkably useful hours looking at... I don't even know what. Blogs? Pictures? In any case, burning my eyeballs to raisins, once again. If I'm going to waste time, I have plenty more productive ways to do it, you can be assured of that. Maybe I need to have a No Bloglines Before 4pm policy. But then how would I read all of those stinkin' blogs? THE PRESSURE IS JUST TOO MUCH.
I've decided to adopt a dear friend's "I feel sorry for you that you have to be a butthole" approach to anger-processing here in the workplace. I believe the technique was developed for mothers-in-law, but I'm hoping it will work here, at least to dilute some of my anger about our new... um... "leadership." Some days I feel like running from the building screaming, others I feel like this might still be okay somehow if I just sit tight. It also seems I am incapable of making a plan and sticking to it, distracted by possibilities and what-ifs and bright and shiny objects. And, ultimately, comfort. And the bowl of candy on the admin's desk.
In related news, we are out of money. Not kidding. Maybe we will get some more soon?
I have officially applied to take the exam to become licensed in Therapeutic Massage and Bodywork. I should start studying, like, yesterday (actually, a month ago), but if you must know the truth I'll wait until I get the go-ahead to schedule the exam and then and only then will I crack a book, closer to the last minute than anyone thought possible. I could pretend otherwise, but the truth is: that's just how I roll.
And lastly, this made me laugh today.
I've decided to adopt a dear friend's "I feel sorry for you that you have to be a butthole" approach to anger-processing here in the workplace. I believe the technique was developed for mothers-in-law, but I'm hoping it will work here, at least to dilute some of my anger about our new... um... "leadership." Some days I feel like running from the building screaming, others I feel like this might still be okay somehow if I just sit tight. It also seems I am incapable of making a plan and sticking to it, distracted by possibilities and what-ifs and bright and shiny objects. And, ultimately, comfort. And the bowl of candy on the admin's desk.
In related news, we are out of money. Not kidding. Maybe we will get some more soon?
I have officially applied to take the exam to become licensed in Therapeutic Massage and Bodywork. I should start studying, like, yesterday (actually, a month ago), but if you must know the truth I'll wait until I get the go-ahead to schedule the exam and then and only then will I crack a book, closer to the last minute than anyone thought possible. I could pretend otherwise, but the truth is: that's just how I roll.
And lastly, this made me laugh today.
25 October 2007
No Title This Time
Y'all.
I'm cooked.
So many things, not enough things, too many things.
Bird:
is two. Wants to do things "all my byself." Is funny. Is friendly and kind. Is charming. Is in need of a bath. Is not getting enough of my attention.
A:
Is my soother. I encourage you, if you are wound tight or worried about something, to talk to him about it. He will make a few simple comments, dilute the whole thing, and you'll be all like, "okay, pass me a beer, please. All is well." His motto: "nothing is fucked here, dude."
New boss:
is a man, is younger than me, eats out every meal (oh, the days of no babies), is totally for-serious, of the not-fuckin-around variety, will probably put the kibosh on my PT daycare opportunity (scheduling issues) and possibly my PT job opportunity. But there are advantages to a non-PT salary, so I'm sitting still and waiting for shit to settle. Something about doors closing and windows opening.
Also something about not having another job and really needing an income, about being in less control than I'd like to believe.
Job:
Where do I begin. I'm doing everyone else's lately. Finding myself in the mental state I fled two years ago when I declared my disdain for offices, slacks, and small talk. Somehow I have a real job again, and a part of me feeds on that, while another part gets food poisoning.
School:
Was over two months ago. Have not started studying for exam. Have not scheduled exam. Have not really thought about massage in a while. Either I'm ignoring the idea because It's easier to get comfortable-ish where I am (I know my way around non-profit work, to be sure), or because I made a sizable mistake when I borrowed all of that money to go to school. Stay tuned on that one.
Dogs:
Are stinky.
Clothes:
All are stupid, ill-fitting, worn or stained. New ones are expensive. And new boss has been wearing a tie every day, so I have a feeling I'm going to get the "talk" at some point, for my continued pushing (shoving?) the limit of casual workplace.
Bangs:
Over it. Growing out.
Edited to Add:
Um, so sorry, this post is pretty much a rerun of the last post. Obviously in need of some changes in the ole life-aroo.
I'm cooked.
So many things, not enough things, too many things.
Bird:
is two. Wants to do things "all my byself." Is funny. Is friendly and kind. Is charming. Is in need of a bath. Is not getting enough of my attention.
A:
Is my soother. I encourage you, if you are wound tight or worried about something, to talk to him about it. He will make a few simple comments, dilute the whole thing, and you'll be all like, "okay, pass me a beer, please. All is well." His motto: "nothing is fucked here, dude."
New boss:
is a man, is younger than me, eats out every meal (oh, the days of no babies), is totally for-serious, of the not-fuckin-around variety, will probably put the kibosh on my PT daycare opportunity (scheduling issues) and possibly my PT job opportunity. But there are advantages to a non-PT salary, so I'm sitting still and waiting for shit to settle. Something about doors closing and windows opening.
Also something about not having another job and really needing an income, about being in less control than I'd like to believe.
Job:
Where do I begin. I'm doing everyone else's lately. Finding myself in the mental state I fled two years ago when I declared my disdain for offices, slacks, and small talk. Somehow I have a real job again, and a part of me feeds on that, while another part gets food poisoning.
School:
Was over two months ago. Have not started studying for exam. Have not scheduled exam. Have not really thought about massage in a while. Either I'm ignoring the idea because It's easier to get comfortable-ish where I am (I know my way around non-profit work, to be sure), or because I made a sizable mistake when I borrowed all of that money to go to school. Stay tuned on that one.
Dogs:
Are stinky.
Clothes:
All are stupid, ill-fitting, worn or stained. New ones are expensive. And new boss has been wearing a tie every day, so I have a feeling I'm going to get the "talk" at some point, for my continued pushing (shoving?) the limit of casual workplace.
Bangs:
Over it. Growing out.
Edited to Add:
Um, so sorry, this post is pretty much a rerun of the last post. Obviously in need of some changes in the ole life-aroo.
28 August 2007
Eight Things, Doggie
1. I had my chakras treated (by pendulum) on my last day of massage clinic. Do I believe in chakras and energy centers? Yes. Maybe. Mostly. Everything was open and flowing freely except my sahasrara (higher consciousness/ spiritual connection) chakra was spinning in a wide circle. Backwards. WTF.
2. So we went to church on Sunday, in part because I was feeling a little shaken by the whole "your spiritual connection is not only off, it's backwards" thing. My bedside reading has been Blue Like Jazz, a gift from my Dad, and there have been many other nudges lately pointing me back in the direction of our sweet and liberal neighborhood Episcopalians.
3. My Gran is in the hospital, three days before we were scheduled to visit. We will still visit, of course, because what trip to the home town of both of my parents would be complete without forty-seven lunch and other various commitments and the pressure to really soak up the family that is all together all too rarely? She left me a bizarre message Sunday night, and according to my mother there is still an unexplained fever and some not-entirely-with-it behavior. But hey, who among us doesn't exhibit a little fogginess now and then? And then again, I'm also going to guess you're not eighty-seven. Because there's also that. So-- good thoughts toward my Gran, please.
4. I'm reading the History of Love by Nicole Krauss, which had been suggested to me and which I avoided for some reason, probably because I thought the title was hokey and it sounded like one of those best-sellers on an end-cap shelf at the check-out at the grocery, a book by someone with a first name common in my own generation, a book with little to no content, just a semblance of a story riddled with brand names and the pursuit for Mr. Right. Of course, it is not that book. It is beautifully written and twisty and I can't put it down. Next up on the reading list: frantic studying for for the national board exam. I promise not to write any kind of review here.
5. I've been checking this group regularly. Because it's like going to some hipster place and people- watching, without having to fight the line at the bar to buy a beer. Though I wish there was beer involved, sometimes. And sometimes there is.
6. A disturbing new trend in my office: continuing to participate in conversation after you are safely in the little bathroom with the door closed. This is a small office, and now we can no longer pretend the hearable is unhearable. inaudible. whatever. If we can continue our conversation while you're in there, I can't pretend you can't hear me pooping.
7. I got really dedicated to my job a few months back. And now I'm taking a break from that dedication. Many reasons, one of which is that my office is an ovening bunnery, with everyone gestating and wearing granny panties and complaining of heartburn, and wanting to talk about breastfeeding and what kind of pack-n-play they should put on their registry. I am completely willing to kill an hour or two a day this way. Another reason is that I've made it known that I plan to stick around there for a while until I figure things out, and I believe that at that very moment when the words came out of my mouth, my dedication went from flame to flicker. Another reason is that it's heart-wrenching work, no matter what your boundaries, and sometimes I just think you have to lay low, dammit. I'm on break. I'm still doing the nuts and bolts of my job and nothing is falling through the cracks, still enjoying the steady paycheck and the flexible hours, and I'll get my act together soon.
8. Once again, you are rewarded for making it to the end of this post. Bird has been singing "you are my sunshine" on a continuous loop for days, sometimes going for 30 minutes at a time. A. shot and cut this together. Please notice "you make me happy, and that's okay"
2. So we went to church on Sunday, in part because I was feeling a little shaken by the whole "your spiritual connection is not only off, it's backwards" thing. My bedside reading has been Blue Like Jazz, a gift from my Dad, and there have been many other nudges lately pointing me back in the direction of our sweet and liberal neighborhood Episcopalians.
3. My Gran is in the hospital, three days before we were scheduled to visit. We will still visit, of course, because what trip to the home town of both of my parents would be complete without forty-seven lunch and other various commitments and the pressure to really soak up the family that is all together all too rarely? She left me a bizarre message Sunday night, and according to my mother there is still an unexplained fever and some not-entirely-with-it behavior. But hey, who among us doesn't exhibit a little fogginess now and then? And then again, I'm also going to guess you're not eighty-seven. Because there's also that. So-- good thoughts toward my Gran, please.
4. I'm reading the History of Love by Nicole Krauss, which had been suggested to me and which I avoided for some reason, probably because I thought the title was hokey and it sounded like one of those best-sellers on an end-cap shelf at the check-out at the grocery, a book by someone with a first name common in my own generation, a book with little to no content, just a semblance of a story riddled with brand names and the pursuit for Mr. Right. Of course, it is not that book. It is beautifully written and twisty and I can't put it down. Next up on the reading list: frantic studying for for the national board exam. I promise not to write any kind of review here.
5. I've been checking this group regularly. Because it's like going to some hipster place and people- watching, without having to fight the line at the bar to buy a beer. Though I wish there was beer involved, sometimes. And sometimes there is.
6. A disturbing new trend in my office: continuing to participate in conversation after you are safely in the little bathroom with the door closed. This is a small office, and now we can no longer pretend the hearable is unhearable. inaudible. whatever. If we can continue our conversation while you're in there, I can't pretend you can't hear me pooping.
7. I got really dedicated to my job a few months back. And now I'm taking a break from that dedication. Many reasons, one of which is that my office is an ovening bunnery, with everyone gestating and wearing granny panties and complaining of heartburn, and wanting to talk about breastfeeding and what kind of pack-n-play they should put on their registry. I am completely willing to kill an hour or two a day this way. Another reason is that I've made it known that I plan to stick around there for a while until I figure things out, and I believe that at that very moment when the words came out of my mouth, my dedication went from flame to flicker. Another reason is that it's heart-wrenching work, no matter what your boundaries, and sometimes I just think you have to lay low, dammit. I'm on break. I'm still doing the nuts and bolts of my job and nothing is falling through the cracks, still enjoying the steady paycheck and the flexible hours, and I'll get my act together soon.
8. Once again, you are rewarded for making it to the end of this post. Bird has been singing "you are my sunshine" on a continuous loop for days, sometimes going for 30 minutes at a time. A. shot and cut this together. Please notice "you make me happy, and that's okay"
22 August 2007
We Have Reached Maximum Occupancy of Brain
Oh, oh, oh, my head is on the verge of explosion. There's too much going on in there, bumping around and against itself and still not making a shred of sense.
I have one more day of intern clinic, and then one more weekend of classes (proprioceptive neuromuscular facilitation, which is not as bad as it sounds), and then school is over. I will study. I will take the national board exam and I will become licensed.
And then I can't use "I'm in school" as an excuse to not have my shit together, or at least have some kind of a plan for thinking about deciding how said shit will come together. And by my shit, I mean my whole family's shit, because I tend to be in charge of the shit that needs to come together. And I can no longer use "I'm in school" as an excuse for working part time and keeping my family broke. Even a little bit. I'm going to have to own the part-time thing as it relates to the broke-ass thing, knowing that the good-hearted effort to spend more time with Bird also includes the reality that I could be doing more. I could be trying harder to save us from broke-assness.
So then maybe I will give massage somewhere one day a week in addition to my now three-day-a-week job with the dying people and the small-but-steady paycheck. But then, am I following my initial plan to have more time with my family? Or am I just really looking for full-time work after all, no matter how you piece it together? And do I really want to stick around with the dying people? This was supposed to be temporary. And oh, what a mess.
So begins the whirring of my gears, but the cogs and wheels are getting all mucked up with muck and it becomes overwhelming. What if this, what if that, what about childcare, what about another baby, what about the bills, what about the mortgage, what about that ten-year-old car, what about a drink? Yes, I could use a drink, thank you. And I'll kiss you on the mouth if you give me a smoke and talk to me about something else.
I have one more day of intern clinic, and then one more weekend of classes (proprioceptive neuromuscular facilitation, which is not as bad as it sounds), and then school is over. I will study. I will take the national board exam and I will become licensed.
And then I can't use "I'm in school" as an excuse to not have my shit together, or at least have some kind of a plan for thinking about deciding how said shit will come together. And by my shit, I mean my whole family's shit, because I tend to be in charge of the shit that needs to come together. And I can no longer use "I'm in school" as an excuse for working part time and keeping my family broke. Even a little bit. I'm going to have to own the part-time thing as it relates to the broke-ass thing, knowing that the good-hearted effort to spend more time with Bird also includes the reality that I could be doing more. I could be trying harder to save us from broke-assness.
So then maybe I will give massage somewhere one day a week in addition to my now three-day-a-week job with the dying people and the small-but-steady paycheck. But then, am I following my initial plan to have more time with my family? Or am I just really looking for full-time work after all, no matter how you piece it together? And do I really want to stick around with the dying people? This was supposed to be temporary. And oh, what a mess.
So begins the whirring of my gears, but the cogs and wheels are getting all mucked up with muck and it becomes overwhelming. What if this, what if that, what about childcare, what about another baby, what about the bills, what about the mortgage, what about that ten-year-old car, what about a drink? Yes, I could use a drink, thank you. And I'll kiss you on the mouth if you give me a smoke and talk to me about something else.
25 July 2007
Sass, smokes, and bigger questions
Do Not Fuck with Me
This means YOU, Electronics Express. That's right, Tall Guy, Other Tall Guy, Hipster Guy, and Guy Who Wasn't Even Wearing an Electronics Express Outfit. I called your regional manager. And I got that thing-- you remember, the very necessary thing for which you tried to charge me ANOTHER twenty bucks? On top of the sixty I just paid you? Just to make the thing work? The thing that you installed that doesn't work and needs an extra part that you didn't tell me about? Yeah, I got that shit for FREE.
Time to Break Up
I love smoking. I do. I love it just as much now that I only have one or two a night as I did when I was smoking like a damn dragon. There, I said it. I still love it.
I remind myself all the time how horrible it is, how selfish and irresponsible and stupid, how dangerous and destructive, how ugly and tacky, how unacceptable and how lame. Smoking is my really bad boyfriend. And hey, come to think of it, a bad boyfriend is exactly how I started smoking in the first place, so I guess it's fitting.
I Had a Dream
That I walked into school and it had closed down, doors shuttered, one and a half months before my graduation.
And I felt relieved. Off the hook.
So explain that.
This means YOU, Electronics Express. That's right, Tall Guy, Other Tall Guy, Hipster Guy, and Guy Who Wasn't Even Wearing an Electronics Express Outfit. I called your regional manager. And I got that thing-- you remember, the very necessary thing for which you tried to charge me ANOTHER twenty bucks? On top of the sixty I just paid you? Just to make the thing work? The thing that you installed that doesn't work and needs an extra part that you didn't tell me about? Yeah, I got that shit for FREE.
Time to Break Up
I love smoking. I do. I love it just as much now that I only have one or two a night as I did when I was smoking like a damn dragon. There, I said it. I still love it.
I remind myself all the time how horrible it is, how selfish and irresponsible and stupid, how dangerous and destructive, how ugly and tacky, how unacceptable and how lame. Smoking is my really bad boyfriend. And hey, come to think of it, a bad boyfriend is exactly how I started smoking in the first place, so I guess it's fitting.
I Had a Dream
That I walked into school and it had closed down, doors shuttered, one and a half months before my graduation.
And I felt relieved. Off the hook.
So explain that.
26 June 2007
The Pipes, The Pipes are Calling
So Bird has watched this video on YouTube at least once a day for the past couple of weeks.
She's the only twenty-month old obsessed with Danny Boy. She approaches anyone who will listen, saying "Beaker sad. Beaker so sad. Blows a noses. Danny Boy. Sad." She's so empathetic and serious that she made my mom cry over her sincerity and sweetness.
God bless YouTube and God bless the muppets.
+++
Funny massage school story: At the completion of a massage, many instructors will suggest that you end with a peaceful message to your client as you take your leave of the body, something as simple as "thank you" or "namaste."
After being on the receiving end of a massage in class last weekend, my partner leaned over me and whispered, "como estas." I think she meant "namaste."
+++
I'm reading again. I know! Books and everything! I've been off TV for several weeks now, and I settled up with the library months ago on my long-standing fine in order to shake up our board book variety. I'm back on the reading rainbow. Hi LeVar! I'm almost finished with Ayun Halliday's The Big Rumpus, which I highly recommend to any mama tired of hearing about the need for more bedrooms, bigger cars, and expensive, hideous children's clothing.
+++
Yesterday I made a 2+ hour drive to visit a patient. I got lost, again.* And my contact lenses seem to not be fitting so great these days, and I ended up behind a massive semi in the rain that I thought said "Shit Fuck" on the back, but it said "Ship by Truck." How disappointing. I also ended up listening to Dave Ramsey, which has happened on more than one occasion on these drives. Me? Dave Ramsey? I don't know how that happens. How is it that ten years ago I wouldn't have set out for the one-hour drive from college to home without a carefully planned stack of mix tapes, and now I'll gladly hop in the car for a five-hour round trip with nothing more than the new Modest Mouse (which I am loving, but which I have listened into the ground) and the naive hope of finding something on the radio in the middle of fucking nowhere?
+++
I am often so fed up with Southern stereotypes, the idea that we're all crawling out from under rocks and what have you with our ragged clothing, clutching a hit Country tune scrawled on a napkin, flocking to the city to make it big. Or throwing our fanny packs and Brooks and Dunn T-shirts over our big hair and big asses and running out to vote for the GOP. Or maybe sitting on a broken down rocking chair on a broken down porch facing a broken down Ford and talking about Nascar with our old and deaf grandmas drinking dusty lemonade. It isn't always like that down here.
But.
My unbiased research (meaning my trips to visit patients for work) tells me that if you drive anywhere over an hour outside of a metropolitan area in Tennessee-- and for no reason in particular, you will find stronger results traveling East-- and enter any gas station or truck stop or drive-thru and you are sure to see the most fucked up looking bunch of people you've ever encountered. The drive thru girl looks normal until you see the fraction of a stub of a lone tooth and the fingers without fingernails. Or the guy with an honest-to-baby-Jesus pig nose talking a blue streak to the guy of normal weight with sixteen chins and a wonky eye at the gas station-slash-Pizza Hut- slash Dairy Queen-slash-video store- slash- smoky den of smoke. I'm sure they're all lovely people worth knowing, but It's just fucked up out there. The landscape is beautiful, but yeesh. The vibe isn't always pastoral and simple-- sometimes it's just plain spooky and inbred.
*The visit before this one included miles and miles of deserted highway, more miles and miles of no cell phone service, driving through two creek beds and receiving multiple stern warnings to stay on the "main road" so as not to "end up in a baaaaaad holler." It was straight out of a movie. A movie where an old blind witch lives in an abandoned house and an inbred aggressor-- her son, maybe-- stands on a dilapidated front porch shooting a shotgun in the air and shouting, "Friend or Foe?!?" at the man in the business suit who has just pulled up, lost, in a shiny black car. The businessman who will soon end up in some kind of stew cooking over an open fire in the bad holler.
She's the only twenty-month old obsessed with Danny Boy. She approaches anyone who will listen, saying "Beaker sad. Beaker so sad. Blows a noses. Danny Boy. Sad." She's so empathetic and serious that she made my mom cry over her sincerity and sweetness.
God bless YouTube and God bless the muppets.
+++
Funny massage school story: At the completion of a massage, many instructors will suggest that you end with a peaceful message to your client as you take your leave of the body, something as simple as "thank you" or "namaste."
After being on the receiving end of a massage in class last weekend, my partner leaned over me and whispered, "como estas." I think she meant "namaste."
+++
I'm reading again. I know! Books and everything! I've been off TV for several weeks now, and I settled up with the library months ago on my long-standing fine in order to shake up our board book variety. I'm back on the reading rainbow. Hi LeVar! I'm almost finished with Ayun Halliday's The Big Rumpus, which I highly recommend to any mama tired of hearing about the need for more bedrooms, bigger cars, and expensive, hideous children's clothing.
+++
Yesterday I made a 2+ hour drive to visit a patient. I got lost, again.* And my contact lenses seem to not be fitting so great these days, and I ended up behind a massive semi in the rain that I thought said "Shit Fuck" on the back, but it said "Ship by Truck." How disappointing. I also ended up listening to Dave Ramsey, which has happened on more than one occasion on these drives. Me? Dave Ramsey? I don't know how that happens. How is it that ten years ago I wouldn't have set out for the one-hour drive from college to home without a carefully planned stack of mix tapes, and now I'll gladly hop in the car for a five-hour round trip with nothing more than the new Modest Mouse (which I am loving, but which I have listened into the ground) and the naive hope of finding something on the radio in the middle of fucking nowhere?
+++
I am often so fed up with Southern stereotypes, the idea that we're all crawling out from under rocks and what have you with our ragged clothing, clutching a hit Country tune scrawled on a napkin, flocking to the city to make it big. Or throwing our fanny packs and Brooks and Dunn T-shirts over our big hair and big asses and running out to vote for the GOP. Or maybe sitting on a broken down rocking chair on a broken down porch facing a broken down Ford and talking about Nascar with our old and deaf grandmas drinking dusty lemonade. It isn't always like that down here.
But.
My unbiased research (meaning my trips to visit patients for work) tells me that if you drive anywhere over an hour outside of a metropolitan area in Tennessee-- and for no reason in particular, you will find stronger results traveling East-- and enter any gas station or truck stop or drive-thru and you are sure to see the most fucked up looking bunch of people you've ever encountered. The drive thru girl looks normal until you see the fraction of a stub of a lone tooth and the fingers without fingernails. Or the guy with an honest-to-baby-Jesus pig nose talking a blue streak to the guy of normal weight with sixteen chins and a wonky eye at the gas station-slash-Pizza Hut- slash Dairy Queen-slash-video store- slash- smoky den of smoke. I'm sure they're all lovely people worth knowing, but It's just fucked up out there. The landscape is beautiful, but yeesh. The vibe isn't always pastoral and simple-- sometimes it's just plain spooky and inbred.
*The visit before this one included miles and miles of deserted highway, more miles and miles of no cell phone service, driving through two creek beds and receiving multiple stern warnings to stay on the "main road" so as not to "end up in a baaaaaad holler." It was straight out of a movie. A movie where an old blind witch lives in an abandoned house and an inbred aggressor-- her son, maybe-- stands on a dilapidated front porch shooting a shotgun in the air and shouting, "Friend or Foe?!?" at the man in the business suit who has just pulled up, lost, in a shiny black car. The businessman who will soon end up in some kind of stew cooking over an open fire in the bad holler.
22 May 2007
Ball of Mental Yuck, and some other stuff
So yesterday I had a bit of a crisis.
It started with an innocent myspace message from an old college friend who also went to massage school while her kids were little, seven years ago. And now she's started selling real estate. Because she's burned out.
I won't lead you through the prickly thought process, but it ended in a giant WTF that included thoughts you might suspect. Thoughts like "what the fuck am I doing?"
But you've heard this all before, no? It's more common on days when I sit here in my office and have nothing pressing going on, and I sit and just stew. And I get restless. I start thinking about how my half-ghetto, half-hipster neighborhood is no place to raise a child. Or at least maybe not the place I want to raise a child. I start to miss quiet nights and unlocked doors and I decide that we need to pack it up and head back to Bloomington. I also decide I'd like to get wicked drunk and smoke a bunch of cigarettes.
And then I try to explain all of this to A. and it comes out sounding less than half as dramatic and urgent as it does in my head and my gut. Because he tends to live in reality, and not worry about the things that have not yet happened. Lucky bastard.
And dear God, this chatter is already boring me to tears. Feeling better/ more level today, but the restlessness is still ticking. Ticking, ticking.
Because the point is that really, what the fuck am I doing? Am I fixing a problem, or just changing jobs? And if that's the case, why not just stay here where I have unlimited freedom and the occasional dead person? And what is my fucking problem anyway? No matter what happens, I still need to work so that we can have little luxuries like a roof over our heads. And really--I can't believe I'm saying this-- at this point, Birdy freaking loves daycare and I'd wrestle with myself for pulling her out even if I could. And I know moving closer home is not an answer, but it's always my go-to option because life was simpler when we lived there. And the Grandparents. The Grandparents need the Bird. I need some kind of cottage industry. Something I can just pour myself into, something that comes naturally. I need to stop job-hopping and fucking around. I need to work toward something, not around something. And this is exactly the prickly shit I told you I would not drag you through. Maaah.
So let's talk about pooping, eh? I don't understand the "light a match" trick to get rid of bathroom smells. My family just never did that. Is it a southern thing? Maybe I'm doing it wrong, but I just lit a match in the bathroom at work and now it smells like I set some poop on fire.
The heating and cooling guy came for our spring tune-up yesterday, speaking of smelling like shit on fire. I will be having semi-permanent nightmares and flashbacks of the (literally) sheets of hair he removed from the big humming machine downstairs. He also thought that (since I mentioned that I used to work in mental health) (and BTW, yes, I know better than to say that, but I was in the aforementioned crisis and I can't be held accountable) that he ought to run down the laundry list of meds he's taking and ask me in a panicked voice if he was going to go "really crazy." Did I mistakenly claim to be psychic? Because, dude. Maybe you have already gone crazy. And maybe I have as well. I thanked him for peeling the layers of hair off of the whatchamacallit and sent him on his way with a big "you'll be FINE!" and a fake smile. Because at least I don't have to solve those kinds of problems anymore, and for that I am thankful.
Bird has been piping up with some crazy chatter lately, like this very serious warning, which she will shout right in your face, with great urgency:
"Mo-kees! Tey combeen! (translation: Monkeys! They're coming!)
Monkey Threat Level: Orange
It started with an innocent myspace message from an old college friend who also went to massage school while her kids were little, seven years ago. And now she's started selling real estate. Because she's burned out.
I won't lead you through the prickly thought process, but it ended in a giant WTF that included thoughts you might suspect. Thoughts like "what the fuck am I doing?"
But you've heard this all before, no? It's more common on days when I sit here in my office and have nothing pressing going on, and I sit and just stew. And I get restless. I start thinking about how my half-ghetto, half-hipster neighborhood is no place to raise a child. Or at least maybe not the place I want to raise a child. I start to miss quiet nights and unlocked doors and I decide that we need to pack it up and head back to Bloomington. I also decide I'd like to get wicked drunk and smoke a bunch of cigarettes.
And then I try to explain all of this to A. and it comes out sounding less than half as dramatic and urgent as it does in my head and my gut. Because he tends to live in reality, and not worry about the things that have not yet happened. Lucky bastard.
And dear God, this chatter is already boring me to tears. Feeling better/ more level today, but the restlessness is still ticking. Ticking, ticking.
Because the point is that really, what the fuck am I doing? Am I fixing a problem, or just changing jobs? And if that's the case, why not just stay here where I have unlimited freedom and the occasional dead person? And what is my fucking problem anyway? No matter what happens, I still need to work so that we can have little luxuries like a roof over our heads. And really--I can't believe I'm saying this-- at this point, Birdy freaking loves daycare and I'd wrestle with myself for pulling her out even if I could. And I know moving closer home is not an answer, but it's always my go-to option because life was simpler when we lived there. And the Grandparents. The Grandparents need the Bird. I need some kind of cottage industry. Something I can just pour myself into, something that comes naturally. I need to stop job-hopping and fucking around. I need to work toward something, not around something. And this is exactly the prickly shit I told you I would not drag you through. Maaah.
So let's talk about pooping, eh? I don't understand the "light a match" trick to get rid of bathroom smells. My family just never did that. Is it a southern thing? Maybe I'm doing it wrong, but I just lit a match in the bathroom at work and now it smells like I set some poop on fire.
The heating and cooling guy came for our spring tune-up yesterday, speaking of smelling like shit on fire. I will be having semi-permanent nightmares and flashbacks of the (literally) sheets of hair he removed from the big humming machine downstairs. He also thought that (since I mentioned that I used to work in mental health) (and BTW, yes, I know better than to say that, but I was in the aforementioned crisis and I can't be held accountable) that he ought to run down the laundry list of meds he's taking and ask me in a panicked voice if he was going to go "really crazy." Did I mistakenly claim to be psychic? Because, dude. Maybe you have already gone crazy. And maybe I have as well. I thanked him for peeling the layers of hair off of the whatchamacallit and sent him on his way with a big "you'll be FINE!" and a fake smile. Because at least I don't have to solve those kinds of problems anymore, and for that I am thankful.
Bird has been piping up with some crazy chatter lately, like this very serious warning, which she will shout right in your face, with great urgency:
"Mo-kees! Tey combeen! (translation: Monkeys! They're coming!)
Monkey Threat Level: Orange
16 May 2007
Fail Before You Start
So, Sunday night, A. felt sick. Like a "rock in my stomach," he said. Monday he was sicker. More crampy, more bathroom-y. Completely out of commission. And yesterday he went back to work.
Monday night, I came home from my Board meeting and threw up. I thought it was because I ate all those damned cheeses and triscuits. But it kept happening, and then I felt like... oh, I don't know, like I had a rock in my stomach? And did I mention the cramping?
And let me say now that I married a fine and compassionate human being, and that I am publicly sorry for not taking his illness more seriously.
So yesterday, I stayed home from work, occasionally writhing around in pain and spending a lot of time in the bathroom.
And today was to be my first day of intern clinic at school. I got up, got dressed, got Bird off to daycare, tried to eat some crackers, got my stuff all together, and realized there was no way in hell I could give a massage today. Even if I could stay in the same room for a full hour without racing to the bathroom, even with the aid of Immodium, I still haven't eaten anything since those damned Triscuits and cheese Monday afternoon and my arms feel like spaghetti.
So I sat on the couch and weighed the options, tried to gauge my physical state and figure out a way to make it work. Because if you don't go to intern clinic when you're supposed to, it really fucks things up and makes it hard on the people running the thing, who also happen to be the people assigning the grades, and who also happen to be very kind people that I'd like to not inconvenience in this way.
But in the end there was no way I could go. I felt impending doom and inevitable emergency. I envisioned embarrassing scenarios. I called in. And I feel rotten in general and rotten for calling in. Because no matter how sincere I am, I always feel like such a flake when these things happen. And on my first day, no less.
And now? About an hour since I called to cancel because I felt like I might shit my pants or vomit or both, I feel like I could do neither-- just a little groggy but digestively patched up, probably thanks to the Immodium. How nice, no? I mean, things could definitely turn south at any moment, and at this point I am sort of hoping they do, so I can feel at least a little bit okay about shirking my responsibilities. Because if I end up being fine for the rest of the day? I'll just feel like an ass.
Monday night, I came home from my Board meeting and threw up. I thought it was because I ate all those damned cheeses and triscuits. But it kept happening, and then I felt like... oh, I don't know, like I had a rock in my stomach? And did I mention the cramping?
And let me say now that I married a fine and compassionate human being, and that I am publicly sorry for not taking his illness more seriously.
So yesterday, I stayed home from work, occasionally writhing around in pain and spending a lot of time in the bathroom.
And today was to be my first day of intern clinic at school. I got up, got dressed, got Bird off to daycare, tried to eat some crackers, got my stuff all together, and realized there was no way in hell I could give a massage today. Even if I could stay in the same room for a full hour without racing to the bathroom, even with the aid of Immodium, I still haven't eaten anything since those damned Triscuits and cheese Monday afternoon and my arms feel like spaghetti.
So I sat on the couch and weighed the options, tried to gauge my physical state and figure out a way to make it work. Because if you don't go to intern clinic when you're supposed to, it really fucks things up and makes it hard on the people running the thing, who also happen to be the people assigning the grades, and who also happen to be very kind people that I'd like to not inconvenience in this way.
But in the end there was no way I could go. I felt impending doom and inevitable emergency. I envisioned embarrassing scenarios. I called in. And I feel rotten in general and rotten for calling in. Because no matter how sincere I am, I always feel like such a flake when these things happen. And on my first day, no less.
And now? About an hour since I called to cancel because I felt like I might shit my pants or vomit or both, I feel like I could do neither-- just a little groggy but digestively patched up, probably thanks to the Immodium. How nice, no? I mean, things could definitely turn south at any moment, and at this point I am sort of hoping they do, so I can feel at least a little bit okay about shirking my responsibilities. Because if I end up being fine for the rest of the day? I'll just feel like an ass.
06 May 2007
Aheck, Aheck, I'm Not Coming In
So yesterday, I was sick.
Of living in absolute filth.
So I stayed home and worked a little on a freelance project and cleaned four rooms of my house from top to bottom. It is like I have a brand new home.
And, of course, after my easy breezy yesterday, I am scrambling to come up with a way for A. and I to make more money-- or just different money-- that would make that kind of day a little less rare. And of course, being typical me, I analyzed and hypothesized about what in the hell exactly I'm doing in school and what makes me think I'm going to be able to do this and why did I think this was this the answer? Because I'm nearing graduation and so my bank account and my calendar look remarkably unchanged-- one too empty, the other way too full. And I see no dramatic developments in the future.
:::
My parents were in town this past weekend, and Bird was so overjoyed by their visit-- laughing and chattering and hollering and doing this hilarious move she learned from Miss O. where she does this big, dramatic laugh complete with knee-slapping. Oh, and biting her own arm twice and mine once, thanks to Abby the Biter. I know she's just processing what happened (which happened again on Friday) and testing some cause-effect relationships, but geez. Lay off my Bird, Abby. Keep your biting issues to yourself, thanks.
:::
Number one thing I love about having my parents visit (besides the excellent company, watching Bird LOVE them, restaurant carry-out, FREE date-night, and twenty bucks secretly slipped into my purse):
My parents are excellent nappers. CHAMPION nappers. Growing up, I remember them taking regular, daily naps for as long as I lived at home. They start feeling a little bit draggy, they invest forty-five horizontal minutes, and they wake up refreshed and pick up where they left off. It is a beautiful thing. They are not afraid to pause.
I am genetically constructed to fit right in with this long line of top-notch dozers. Unfortunately, A. is not wired like us. It's hard for him to nap, poor thing. He has trouble falling asleep and when he does, he sleeps way too long and too hard and wakes up feeling like he's taken a lot of bong hits. Or Nyquil. I don't know really, I can't speak for him. I do not understand what it is to be an unskilled napper, as I do not understand what it is like to be unable to read and write. Or breathe.
So back to my parents: when they are visiting, they do not disrupt their nap schedule, and there is a decree across the land each afternoon that We Shall All Nap. I don't give myself that permission often enough, and it's so, so nice.
:::
A. cleaned out the garage last weekend in honor of Large Item Pickup Day, where you drag your shit to the alley and magically it is gone by morning. And we had a lot of shit. He did a thorough job, going against his packrat nature to ditch a lot of useless junk, and as a reward to himself he stacked the dorm fridge on top of the desk, plugged it in, and filled it with tasty, tasty beers. The Man-garage has been restored, he says.
So while my parents were here and we were watching Birdy stomp all over the yard, A. thought it would be nice to have a tall cold one from the Manrage. So I said:
"Why don't you take my dad into the garage and show him your man-area?"
:::
While we're talking about A. and all, I'll leave you with this A. quote from a friend's cookout Sunday afternoon, featuring severely delayed grilling due to the birthday boy/ host getting drunk in an inflatable pool :
"Sometimes a man just gets all oiled up and forgets he has guests."
Of living in absolute filth.
So I stayed home and worked a little on a freelance project and cleaned four rooms of my house from top to bottom. It is like I have a brand new home.
And, of course, after my easy breezy yesterday, I am scrambling to come up with a way for A. and I to make more money-- or just different money-- that would make that kind of day a little less rare. And of course, being typical me, I analyzed and hypothesized about what in the hell exactly I'm doing in school and what makes me think I'm going to be able to do this and why did I think this was this the answer? Because I'm nearing graduation and so my bank account and my calendar look remarkably unchanged-- one too empty, the other way too full. And I see no dramatic developments in the future.
:::
My parents were in town this past weekend, and Bird was so overjoyed by their visit-- laughing and chattering and hollering and doing this hilarious move she learned from Miss O. where she does this big, dramatic laugh complete with knee-slapping. Oh, and biting her own arm twice and mine once, thanks to Abby the Biter. I know she's just processing what happened (which happened again on Friday) and testing some cause-effect relationships, but geez. Lay off my Bird, Abby. Keep your biting issues to yourself, thanks.
:::
Number one thing I love about having my parents visit (besides the excellent company, watching Bird LOVE them, restaurant carry-out, FREE date-night, and twenty bucks secretly slipped into my purse):
My parents are excellent nappers. CHAMPION nappers. Growing up, I remember them taking regular, daily naps for as long as I lived at home. They start feeling a little bit draggy, they invest forty-five horizontal minutes, and they wake up refreshed and pick up where they left off. It is a beautiful thing. They are not afraid to pause.
I am genetically constructed to fit right in with this long line of top-notch dozers. Unfortunately, A. is not wired like us. It's hard for him to nap, poor thing. He has trouble falling asleep and when he does, he sleeps way too long and too hard and wakes up feeling like he's taken a lot of bong hits. Or Nyquil. I don't know really, I can't speak for him. I do not understand what it is to be an unskilled napper, as I do not understand what it is like to be unable to read and write. Or breathe.
So back to my parents: when they are visiting, they do not disrupt their nap schedule, and there is a decree across the land each afternoon that We Shall All Nap. I don't give myself that permission often enough, and it's so, so nice.
:::
A. cleaned out the garage last weekend in honor of Large Item Pickup Day, where you drag your shit to the alley and magically it is gone by morning. And we had a lot of shit. He did a thorough job, going against his packrat nature to ditch a lot of useless junk, and as a reward to himself he stacked the dorm fridge on top of the desk, plugged it in, and filled it with tasty, tasty beers. The Man-garage has been restored, he says.
So while my parents were here and we were watching Birdy stomp all over the yard, A. thought it would be nice to have a tall cold one from the Manrage. So I said:
"Why don't you take my dad into the garage and show him your man-area?"
:::
While we're talking about A. and all, I'll leave you with this A. quote from a friend's cookout Sunday afternoon, featuring severely delayed grilling due to the birthday boy/ host getting drunk in an inflatable pool :
"Sometimes a man just gets all oiled up and forgets he has guests."
10 April 2007
Holy Effing Eff
Did you think I had run off and left? Set my house on fire and run screaming into the street? Did you mistakenly think I am a person capable of keeping a blog afloat?
Well, I am here, just quiet lately and unable to breathe through all the layers and layers of shit going on. Are things out of control? Yes. Always. Am I okay with that? Yes. Because it has kind of always been this way, hasn't it?
So here are six things I felt like talking about tonight. And one more bonus thing right here in the beginning: our smoke detector battery has started its slow, chirping death this evening, and I don't have the right sized batteries or the right sized arms and legs to reach up to replace it, so it chirps about every four minutes or so, which is making my dogs act like a bunch of weenies and try to crowd under the desk together where they absolutely do not fit. They are driving me nuts. And the cat? The cat shits in the house, in a box, because I not only said it was okay to shit in the house, I invited him to shit right there in that box. It is awesome.
One
First of all, if the collective world keeps setting out Easter candy, I'm going to keep eating it, and I will be a big fat slug that waddles around holding her belly and whining about how she feels so siiiiiiiiick. Eat your own candy, everybody. I am here to help you, but do not make me help you eat that shit.
Two
Second of all, living with a toddler is like sharing your home with a severely bipolar midget with bowel and bladder control problems, who talks with her mouth full and throws things from time to time. And sleeps in a big, open-topped cage.
Seriously. She gets funnier and more clever, sweeter and more herself every hour. But with that growth comes independence, opinions, the word "no," and periodic short-circuiting that usually ends in mild to moderate bodily injury for one or more parties and, ultimately, a sweaty, teary little exhausted person.
Daycare was closed yesterday and I had the privilege of spending the whole day with Bird, just me and her, playing and running errands and making lunch and flopping around in the big bed. It made this morning's drop-off 300% harder on both of us.
Three
Next item: School. I think the last I spoke of it, I was getting sort of fucked over by the new schedule at school. The update is that I met with the director and she did not receive my carefully crafted email with the zinger at the end, of which I was so proud. There were reasons for the schedule shift and I get that now, but I still think it was handled shittily. She was willing to wheel and deal a little bit with me, and now I will start intern clinic in May (!!) and graduate in September, which is about 8 months earlier than I'd projected. So yay to that.
And to the person that landed here by Google-searching "Massage School rip-off No Jobs," thanks a bunch for bringing up that encouraging scenario.
Four
Removed. It wasn't very nice. Sorry.
Five
I tried to do our taxes on Turbotax, but when it told me we owed $1500 I was certain I had made a mistake. (We had, in fact, made a mistake-- walking around for 12 months with our heads squarely up our asses not having enough tax withheld and not realizing how much contract income was coming in that is now being taxed). So I went to HR Block for the miracle experts to fix it and get us that fat refund they're always talking about on television.
I started just now to write out the whole moment-by-moment encounter, but I'm tired and I've told the story a hundred times already because I needed to hear myself tell it, because the whole time I was sitting there I was pretty sure nobody would believe me when I tried to explain. Like the time I went to the psycho mad-scientist dentist and wondered for years (still do) if I dreamed the whole ordeal, with the goggles and the spelunker's headlamp and the shredding of my gums.
The short version (do I ever do a short version?) is that my tax preparer was blind, for the most part-- definitely not drivable and definitely shopping in the audiobook section-- with one eye looking one direction and one eye not really looking anywhere but definitely not the same direction as the other eye. And he spoke in a barely-audible whisper. And he ignored my questions, or maybe he answered them, who knows? Because his voice was the teensiest, mousiest whisper.
I'm all for people with disabilities getting jobs just like anyone else, and when this guy greeted me at the front desk of HR Block, I got all psychosocial rehabby and was really impressed that they'd hired a disabled guy to be the greeter. Until I realized he was going to do my taxes. That he would be there to read the fine print, literally. And I had dashed in to HR Block on my way back to the office after a patient visit, so it wasn't like I had all damn day.
Collectively, A and I had four W-2's between us, two mortgage interest statements, four 1099s and a shitload of daycare and school receipts. And he read each one with a magnifying glass, less than an inch away from his face, and punched the keys on the keyboard one by one, looked back through the magnifying glass, hovered over the keyboard, punched a key, squinted at the screen. Looked through the magnifying glass, hovered over the keyboard, punched a key, squinted at the screen. Lather, rinse, repeat. All of those forms. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
And at the end? After the blind guy read the teensy numbers off of the complicated forms and performed a barely interactive reading of TurboTax? It was going to cost me TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT DOLLARS for the whispering and magnifying and the pecking out of the letters and numbers. On top of the $1500 we do, in fact, owe. The $1500 we don't have immediately available, as we are the definition of paycheck-to-paycheck living.
A blind guy. Did my taxes.
Five and a Half
Visited my in-laws for Easter. Ate yellow foods and brown foods, no green foods. Some small, hard pink and blue foods, also.
Bird hunted Easter eggs in the freezing-ass cold during the day, ate sugary treats in the afternoon, and violently fought sleep Saturday night, forcing us to employ the "cry it out" method which I have used less than five times in the entire almost eighteen months I've been a parent. I just can't see the point in forcing her to fall asleep so lonely and out of control that she collapses in an exhausted heap. That does not feel like a parenting success to me.
While in Indianapolis, I slept in a bed so Downy fresh that I woke up feeling like I'd rubbed a dryer sheet all over the inside of my mouth. Please, if you are having guests, don't double-up on the freshness. Some people just don't like it.
Of course, the only Downy fresh bed I ever sleep in is there at my in-laws' house, and usually we are there for a celebratory occasion and I might be associating waking up in a Downy-fresh bed with waking up with a fierce hangover. In any case, I had little to drink this trip and I can say with certainty that the bed was over-Downied and I stand by my dryer-sheet-in-the-mouth description.
Six
I've been checking Bloglines here and there, though I have not updated my own little corner, thanks to my barely flickering personal life. I find myself getting really jealous of all the crafty blogs- -the women who just decide on a whim to stitch up a sundress or a this or a that or bake homemade bread and take the time to get delighted by this pattern or this thing or this thrift store find or whatever. All with beautiful photos and a true appreciation for little satisfying details. I'm not talking about jealousy like "oh, that's so well done! I love that! Omigah! I'm so jealous!" I'm talking about actual, poisonous jealousy of these bloggers and their fucking awesome crafts. I covet their time and their productive use of it. I have a traffic jam of shit to crank through before I can even speak the words "sewing machine" or even "photoshop" outloud.
But I can say "Fuck!" outloud! Also "Fuck this!" and "Fuck that!" and "For fuck's sake, cat, get out of the fucking sink!" Because I am prim and sweet and I dream of stitching up some aprons.
Well, I am here, just quiet lately and unable to breathe through all the layers and layers of shit going on. Are things out of control? Yes. Always. Am I okay with that? Yes. Because it has kind of always been this way, hasn't it?
So here are six things I felt like talking about tonight. And one more bonus thing right here in the beginning: our smoke detector battery has started its slow, chirping death this evening, and I don't have the right sized batteries or the right sized arms and legs to reach up to replace it, so it chirps about every four minutes or so, which is making my dogs act like a bunch of weenies and try to crowd under the desk together where they absolutely do not fit. They are driving me nuts. And the cat? The cat shits in the house, in a box, because I not only said it was okay to shit in the house, I invited him to shit right there in that box. It is awesome.
One
First of all, if the collective world keeps setting out Easter candy, I'm going to keep eating it, and I will be a big fat slug that waddles around holding her belly and whining about how she feels so siiiiiiiiick. Eat your own candy, everybody. I am here to help you, but do not make me help you eat that shit.
TwoSecond of all, living with a toddler is like sharing your home with a severely bipolar midget with bowel and bladder control problems, who talks with her mouth full and throws things from time to time. And sleeps in a big, open-topped cage.
Seriously. She gets funnier and more clever, sweeter and more herself every hour. But with that growth comes independence, opinions, the word "no," and periodic short-circuiting that usually ends in mild to moderate bodily injury for one or more parties and, ultimately, a sweaty, teary little exhausted person.
Daycare was closed yesterday and I had the privilege of spending the whole day with Bird, just me and her, playing and running errands and making lunch and flopping around in the big bed. It made this morning's drop-off 300% harder on both of us.
Three
Next item: School. I think the last I spoke of it, I was getting sort of fucked over by the new schedule at school. The update is that I met with the director and she did not receive my carefully crafted email with the zinger at the end, of which I was so proud. There were reasons for the schedule shift and I get that now, but I still think it was handled shittily. She was willing to wheel and deal a little bit with me, and now I will start intern clinic in May (!!) and graduate in September, which is about 8 months earlier than I'd projected. So yay to that.
And to the person that landed here by Google-searching "Massage School rip-off No Jobs," thanks a bunch for bringing up that encouraging scenario.
Four
Removed. It wasn't very nice. Sorry.
Five
I tried to do our taxes on Turbotax, but when it told me we owed $1500 I was certain I had made a mistake. (We had, in fact, made a mistake-- walking around for 12 months with our heads squarely up our asses not having enough tax withheld and not realizing how much contract income was coming in that is now being taxed). So I went to HR Block for the miracle experts to fix it and get us that fat refund they're always talking about on television.
I started just now to write out the whole moment-by-moment encounter, but I'm tired and I've told the story a hundred times already because I needed to hear myself tell it, because the whole time I was sitting there I was pretty sure nobody would believe me when I tried to explain. Like the time I went to the psycho mad-scientist dentist and wondered for years (still do) if I dreamed the whole ordeal, with the goggles and the spelunker's headlamp and the shredding of my gums.
The short version (do I ever do a short version?) is that my tax preparer was blind, for the most part-- definitely not drivable and definitely shopping in the audiobook section-- with one eye looking one direction and one eye not really looking anywhere but definitely not the same direction as the other eye. And he spoke in a barely-audible whisper. And he ignored my questions, or maybe he answered them, who knows? Because his voice was the teensiest, mousiest whisper.
I'm all for people with disabilities getting jobs just like anyone else, and when this guy greeted me at the front desk of HR Block, I got all psychosocial rehabby and was really impressed that they'd hired a disabled guy to be the greeter. Until I realized he was going to do my taxes. That he would be there to read the fine print, literally. And I had dashed in to HR Block on my way back to the office after a patient visit, so it wasn't like I had all damn day.
Collectively, A and I had four W-2's between us, two mortgage interest statements, four 1099s and a shitload of daycare and school receipts. And he read each one with a magnifying glass, less than an inch away from his face, and punched the keys on the keyboard one by one, looked back through the magnifying glass, hovered over the keyboard, punched a key, squinted at the screen. Looked through the magnifying glass, hovered over the keyboard, punched a key, squinted at the screen. Lather, rinse, repeat. All of those forms. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
And at the end? After the blind guy read the teensy numbers off of the complicated forms and performed a barely interactive reading of TurboTax? It was going to cost me TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT DOLLARS for the whispering and magnifying and the pecking out of the letters and numbers. On top of the $1500 we do, in fact, owe. The $1500 we don't have immediately available, as we are the definition of paycheck-to-paycheck living.
A blind guy. Did my taxes.
Five and a Half
Visited my in-laws for Easter. Ate yellow foods and brown foods, no green foods. Some small, hard pink and blue foods, also.
Bird hunted Easter eggs in the freezing-ass cold during the day, ate sugary treats in the afternoon, and violently fought sleep Saturday night, forcing us to employ the "cry it out" method which I have used less than five times in the entire almost eighteen months I've been a parent. I just can't see the point in forcing her to fall asleep so lonely and out of control that she collapses in an exhausted heap. That does not feel like a parenting success to me.
While in Indianapolis, I slept in a bed so Downy fresh that I woke up feeling like I'd rubbed a dryer sheet all over the inside of my mouth. Please, if you are having guests, don't double-up on the freshness. Some people just don't like it.
Of course, the only Downy fresh bed I ever sleep in is there at my in-laws' house, and usually we are there for a celebratory occasion and I might be associating waking up in a Downy-fresh bed with waking up with a fierce hangover. In any case, I had little to drink this trip and I can say with certainty that the bed was over-Downied and I stand by my dryer-sheet-in-the-mouth description.
Six
I've been checking Bloglines here and there, though I have not updated my own little corner, thanks to my barely flickering personal life. I find myself getting really jealous of all the crafty blogs- -the women who just decide on a whim to stitch up a sundress or a this or a that or bake homemade bread and take the time to get delighted by this pattern or this thing or this thrift store find or whatever. All with beautiful photos and a true appreciation for little satisfying details. I'm not talking about jealousy like "oh, that's so well done! I love that! Omigah! I'm so jealous!" I'm talking about actual, poisonous jealousy of these bloggers and their fucking awesome crafts. I covet their time and their productive use of it. I have a traffic jam of shit to crank through before I can even speak the words "sewing machine" or even "photoshop" outloud.
But I can say "Fuck!" outloud! Also "Fuck this!" and "Fuck that!" and "For fuck's sake, cat, get out of the fucking sink!" Because I am prim and sweet and I dream of stitching up some aprons.
14 March 2007
I'm tired of thinking up titles
Is this what it's come to now? I post once a week and it's just a hodge-podge of incoherent ramblings?
Yes. Yes.
Be Nice
I was paid a compliment in my class on Tuesday and I was reminded how that can change your day. It was a weird compliment, but I took it and I'd like to remind all of us to give more compliments (sincere only, please) because they can mean a lot to a person in dumpy clothes with dumb hair who may or may not have showered this morning.
Springing
I have walked either around my neighborhood or on the greenway almost every day since Saturday and it feels effing great to be moving around. Bird and I walked the sidewalks on Sunday and experienced our hipster neighborhood in all its bustle and shake, like we were part of a Move to the East Side Campaign video. Priuses driving by, shaggy dads pushing high end strollers to the gourmet ice cream shop. People planting things. Bird saying "hi!" to everything. And "wassat?" about seven hundred thousand times within the first block alone.
She's Been Hanging Around with the Cat
Speaking of Bird, we had a nice little "teaching moment" a couple of evenings ago, where she wanted to take off her diaper and I let her, while she climbed in and out of a big cardboard box and giggled like a crazy person. I kept the little potty right there so that when I saw any trickling I could whisk her over to the potty and she would have a peepee victory and then for sure FOR SURE the peepee-potty connection would be cemented in her brain. But instead she crouched down in the huggies box and managed in a split second to take a very large shit.
Down a Peg
Progress toward my job-free goal: My big-time, I-am-a-professional-do-you-hear-me estimate on a freelance project was passed over for a lower bid. Which is sad, but also okay, because I know I am supposed to learn from this. I'm supposed to learn not to count my chickens before they hatch, not to get too big for my britches. To not start getting greedy. To appreciate the jobs I do have, no matter how small-time, and not go around feeling so entitled.
So I have put that into practice today, and accepted a few more pieces from a client I don't love, because I need the work and apparently I need to check my ego and my get-rich-quick schemes.
Code Orange
I've upped the office fragrance threat level from yellow to orange as we have moved out of Vanilla Flavored Coffee territory and moved swiftly to the Scented Candle zone. I love pumpkin pie just as much as the next guy, but blugh.
Emergent Matter
In my little notebook, or "capture system", as they say-- the place where I frequently dump bits out of my brain to be reviewed later so I can clear the shit and focus on the task at hand-- I wrote "basketball lady." I have no idea what that means, but apparently the basketball lady was tangling up my thought process in a way that rendered me useless until such time as I wrote it down so I could move on with my ever-important life.
Speaking of capture system, this is a great idea. One of those great, organized-person ideas. For people that do things like keep baby books and put their photos in albums and remember how old their child was when she started saying words. In other words, not me. So you go do it! And good luck to you!
The Bursting of the Bubbles ("Bah-Boze!" if you're Bird)
So yesterday, I walked into class and everyone was all in a wad about the class schedule for next term. Why? Evening classes only beginning in MAY, no more day classes next term or ever. And daytime is the only time I can take classes at all, and barely that even, due to the 20 pounds of obligations crammed into the five-pound bag that is my waking life. Which means that without a minor miracle (an option I am not discounting, trust me), I won't be able to take classes next term or for a very, very long time. Which means my plan? Lots of plans? Totally Fucking Fucked.
I am typically not an excitable person and I tend not to panic. And I feel like I remained calm for the longest amount of time I physically could, but when our class started talking about it, all together? All touchy-feely like, lying around on massage tables and sitting on the floor? I had a complete come-apart, with the crying and the blotchy face and the gross mouth and the snot and the works. Mwah. In front of everyone.
Not that I don't think my emotions weren't true, but It became obvious to me once I'd begun that I needed this cry, that stress and responsibility and hefty, weighty things had been building and building and it was time to release. So once I started, I couldn't stop. In fact, well into the class, I was lying on my back while my partner tried to isolate my vastus lateralis, tears still running sideways down into my ears.
The last time I cried like this, I was sitting in my car outside of Birdy's first daycare, unable to move for the heartbreak of leaving her. And while this felt different because it was about fear and disappointment and exhaustion, it was much the same in that it was a lot like vomiting. Uncontrollable. Sometimes you just have to get the poison out, and live in your fear/heartbreak/general muck before your wheels can start turning again. I just happened to do it in a room full of people this time.
Let me tell you, my capture system is overflowing with scrawlings about this. Some angry, some level-headed, some illegible.
Why did this news break me? Because I quit my full-time-with-benefits job to go to school. I took a huge, scary risk. I took a job I don't love where I deal with the gravity of terminal illness and death and things of that nature on a daily basis. I rearranged my family's life and reduced our income. I've had to hustle for freelance work to make up the differences. I incurred debt to pay for this.
And if each of these things-- money, job, general scrambling, time management, being a mama, child care, marriage, et cetera et cetera-- is a gajillion pound elephant, piled up one on the back of the other tied together with dental floss, then my planning and scheduling of all of it is the flimsy net of dental floss that is barely containing the elephants. And if you take away the option of day classes at school? Then you take away the bottom elephant and set the dental floss on fire. That's just how it is right now. The whole pile, future-plans-wise, is built on getting through school.
I know it's going to be okay. I have a meeting with the highest-up person next Wednesday where I will discuss how I understand that as a business owner she must make certain decisions, but that as a customer she is fucking me over. And who knows if that will change things. It will only change things if I am not the only one that speaks up, and judging from the reaction of the rest of my class, there is soon to be an uprising.
But again, I know I'm supposed to learn from this. It's all going to be fine, I will finish school somehow, and maybe this will cause things to shift into place in some combination I'd never even thought of. Maybe the elephants will get their shit together and at least form a pyramid.
**Sigh**
Be the water not the rock, right?
Also, Birdy? This is all for you.
Yes. Yes.
Be Nice
I was paid a compliment in my class on Tuesday and I was reminded how that can change your day. It was a weird compliment, but I took it and I'd like to remind all of us to give more compliments (sincere only, please) because they can mean a lot to a person in dumpy clothes with dumb hair who may or may not have showered this morning.
Springing
I have walked either around my neighborhood or on the greenway almost every day since Saturday and it feels effing great to be moving around. Bird and I walked the sidewalks on Sunday and experienced our hipster neighborhood in all its bustle and shake, like we were part of a Move to the East Side Campaign video. Priuses driving by, shaggy dads pushing high end strollers to the gourmet ice cream shop. People planting things. Bird saying "hi!" to everything. And "wassat?" about seven hundred thousand times within the first block alone.
She's Been Hanging Around with the Cat
Speaking of Bird, we had a nice little "teaching moment" a couple of evenings ago, where she wanted to take off her diaper and I let her, while she climbed in and out of a big cardboard box and giggled like a crazy person. I kept the little potty right there so that when I saw any trickling I could whisk her over to the potty and she would have a peepee victory and then for sure FOR SURE the peepee-potty connection would be cemented in her brain. But instead she crouched down in the huggies box and managed in a split second to take a very large shit.
Down a Peg
Progress toward my job-free goal: My big-time, I-am-a-professional-do-you-hear-me estimate on a freelance project was passed over for a lower bid. Which is sad, but also okay, because I know I am supposed to learn from this. I'm supposed to learn not to count my chickens before they hatch, not to get too big for my britches. To not start getting greedy. To appreciate the jobs I do have, no matter how small-time, and not go around feeling so entitled.
So I have put that into practice today, and accepted a few more pieces from a client I don't love, because I need the work and apparently I need to check my ego and my get-rich-quick schemes.
Code Orange
I've upped the office fragrance threat level from yellow to orange as we have moved out of Vanilla Flavored Coffee territory and moved swiftly to the Scented Candle zone. I love pumpkin pie just as much as the next guy, but blugh.
Emergent Matter
In my little notebook, or "capture system", as they say-- the place where I frequently dump bits out of my brain to be reviewed later so I can clear the shit and focus on the task at hand-- I wrote "basketball lady." I have no idea what that means, but apparently the basketball lady was tangling up my thought process in a way that rendered me useless until such time as I wrote it down so I could move on with my ever-important life.
Speaking of capture system, this is a great idea. One of those great, organized-person ideas. For people that do things like keep baby books and put their photos in albums and remember how old their child was when she started saying words. In other words, not me. So you go do it! And good luck to you!
The Bursting of the Bubbles ("Bah-Boze!" if you're Bird)
So yesterday, I walked into class and everyone was all in a wad about the class schedule for next term. Why? Evening classes only beginning in MAY, no more day classes next term or ever. And daytime is the only time I can take classes at all, and barely that even, due to the 20 pounds of obligations crammed into the five-pound bag that is my waking life. Which means that without a minor miracle (an option I am not discounting, trust me), I won't be able to take classes next term or for a very, very long time. Which means my plan? Lots of plans? Totally Fucking Fucked.
I am typically not an excitable person and I tend not to panic. And I feel like I remained calm for the longest amount of time I physically could, but when our class started talking about it, all together? All touchy-feely like, lying around on massage tables and sitting on the floor? I had a complete come-apart, with the crying and the blotchy face and the gross mouth and the snot and the works. Mwah. In front of everyone.
Not that I don't think my emotions weren't true, but It became obvious to me once I'd begun that I needed this cry, that stress and responsibility and hefty, weighty things had been building and building and it was time to release. So once I started, I couldn't stop. In fact, well into the class, I was lying on my back while my partner tried to isolate my vastus lateralis, tears still running sideways down into my ears.
The last time I cried like this, I was sitting in my car outside of Birdy's first daycare, unable to move for the heartbreak of leaving her. And while this felt different because it was about fear and disappointment and exhaustion, it was much the same in that it was a lot like vomiting. Uncontrollable. Sometimes you just have to get the poison out, and live in your fear/heartbreak/general muck before your wheels can start turning again. I just happened to do it in a room full of people this time.
Let me tell you, my capture system is overflowing with scrawlings about this. Some angry, some level-headed, some illegible.
Why did this news break me? Because I quit my full-time-with-benefits job to go to school. I took a huge, scary risk. I took a job I don't love where I deal with the gravity of terminal illness and death and things of that nature on a daily basis. I rearranged my family's life and reduced our income. I've had to hustle for freelance work to make up the differences. I incurred debt to pay for this.
And if each of these things-- money, job, general scrambling, time management, being a mama, child care, marriage, et cetera et cetera-- is a gajillion pound elephant, piled up one on the back of the other tied together with dental floss, then my planning and scheduling of all of it is the flimsy net of dental floss that is barely containing the elephants. And if you take away the option of day classes at school? Then you take away the bottom elephant and set the dental floss on fire. That's just how it is right now. The whole pile, future-plans-wise, is built on getting through school.
I know it's going to be okay. I have a meeting with the highest-up person next Wednesday where I will discuss how I understand that as a business owner she must make certain decisions, but that as a customer she is fucking me over. And who knows if that will change things. It will only change things if I am not the only one that speaks up, and judging from the reaction of the rest of my class, there is soon to be an uprising.
But again, I know I'm supposed to learn from this. It's all going to be fine, I will finish school somehow, and maybe this will cause things to shift into place in some combination I'd never even thought of. Maybe the elephants will get their shit together and at least form a pyramid.
**Sigh**
Be the water not the rock, right?
Also, Birdy? This is all for you.
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