Friday, July 19, 2013

Lazy Funday

My husband does not lay around. At least, not for days a time. He likes to be doing things. For the most part, I'm the same way. Every now and then, I just want to spend a whole weekend in bed. Forgive me for my childless indulgence, but I work hard. I don't get to be a lazy ass very often. I like laying around.

My job requires thinking. Lots of it. All the time. If you combine this with the new ventures that seems to be coming to fruition around me, there isn't a lot of turn-off-and-chill-out time. If there is one thing I am (usually) good at, it's thinking about nothing at all. I can just shut it down and space out. Usually, I end up dozing off. It ties into my never-ending ability to be able to fall asleep during a commercial break.

Anyway, husband tends to make me feel bad about being lazy because, well, I'm being lazy and he's not. He doesn't do it on purpose. It would irritate me if he was sitting around while I was busting my ass.

Not this weekend though.

I guess it's because he was out of the country for a few days and, while they were there for play, he didn't get a lot of time to be lazy. They were exploring and climbing things and doing boy stuff. So this weekend, the first one since he's been home, he has literally been in bed the whole time. He did get up this afternoon to do the lawn, but other than that, it has been a Big Bang Theory marathon and laying around.

It's been a good weekend.

I'm still ready for bed, though.

As always, it's hip to be square (and lazy!), kids.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Somebody That I Never Used To Know

I've talked about my ridiculous affection for "Glee" before. I've also talked about how I sometimes worry about the content (here). 

I got a text at 2 a.m. Sunday morning from my brother that said, "They found Cory Monteith dead in a hotel room."

It was like a punch to the stomach. It was a punch to the stomach followed by abdominal confusion as to why it stung so much.

I didn't know Cory Monteith, obviously, but I knew Finn Hudson. I knew him so well. I knew him because I spent many ugly cry moments sobbing over his relationship with Rachel and how it reminded me very much of my personal teenage heartbreak. The heartbreak is in the past, but the moments of hurt that came with it sometimes pop up. I bonded with those characters over how much I just understood their fiction. 

In some ways though, I knew Cory Monteith. I knew him as formerly bright-eyed kid who had been through more in his short time on this earth than most people in much longer. I knew him from the look of desperation I have seen from people who can't believe how far they've let this go and how many people they've hurt him the process. I knew him from hearing that this is someone's "last chance" because they don't think they'll live through another relapse. I see him walk into my office every day.

I know him. 

But I don't.

We don't know what took Cory Monteith from this earth to wherever he is (or isn't) now. Those answers have not come out yet. While we wait for that information, I wonder if it's any of our business?  In fact, I know it's not. The truth of could leave a now deceased public figure open to the ridicule that comes from people who think they know better. Everyone knows better than addicts. Addicts know better than addicts. If that made an ounce of difference, there would be no addicts in the world. Judging someone's choices that you can't possibly understand is like yelling at someone in Spanish when they only speak Farsi. Will we feel any different about him if we get confirmation that it was an overdose? I can't say that it will hurt more, but it will hurt differently. It will hurt in the way that makes you want to yell, "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?! HOW COULD YOU HURT THE PEOPLE THAT LOVE YOU SO MUCH?"

But if yelling that made a difference, I would be hoarse from unrelenting attempts to get that across to people who were on the road to a similar fate.

It just doesn't work like that. You can't talk logic to an addict when he or she is behaving like an addict just like you can't poetically coerce a diabetic's body into creating insulin. You have to wait for them to want it as much as you do and hope that it happens before they're dead. 

You have to wait. 

And wait and wait.

And sometimes get a glimmer of hope. Sometimes a whole damn ray of light.

And sometimes, you find yourself waiting again.

We don't know how he went, but we know that we miss him. We don't know what took him, but we know it's still unfair. Life is unfair. Death is too. Just don't spout off about how you know better. It's not relevant. What's relevant is that if this was an overdose, it kills too many people who deserve better than a life of addiction and death at the hands of their illness.

And please, don't stop believing. 

Monday, July 15, 2013

The "P" Word

Lately, there has only been on "P" word rumbling around in my brain. It's pretty much always there, any it will change the rest of my life. It involves little feet and lots of love and late nights and excitement. The thoughts of it tend to be self-centered and rarely branch outside of myself or my husband. They're about what I want and what I need so that I can someday share with some little person. Even though it involves someone else, it's pretty much all about me.

Until today. I met another "P" word. I don't like it very much. It made me cry. In some other ways, it made me relieved. 


Doc has Parkinson's Disease. 

Doc, my best friend and dad, the person I work with every day and who has supported me through every single thought that I have ever had, has Parkinson's. 

Well, fuck.

We knew for a while something was up. He was having trouble walking and would seem to forget how to use his legs occasionally. He would sometimes walk with a cane, but he couldn't figure out how to use it. He couldn't get a rhythm going when he was trying to walk with it. A few years ago, he was put on a medication for what they called a "Parkinsonian Shuffle". (I have since found out that this is nothing like the Cupid Shuffle, in case you were wondering.) The medicine didn't help at all and, in fact, just made him very drowsy. They tried it again a few months later, and it made him spontaneously puke. (Beeteedubs, that was gross.) They're now trying it again. I wish they would try something else. but I guess we'll see what happens.

As a family, the diagnosis has not rocked us too terribly. We needed answers as to why he was having so much trouble, and this might be it. Maybe the medicine isn't right, but the diagnosis puts us in the correct direction. It has gotten to the point where I don't like to go out with my dad because everything he does stresses me out. I worry about him getting up or going to the bathroom alone. I worry about what he eats and choking on things. I would have to take complete control of the entire outing to make sure that nothing went wrong or I would be a wreck the whole time. 

Today, I breathed a little. Maybe we will get this figured out, and I won't be responsible for worrying for two, which often feels like 10. 

Maybe things are just going to be okay.

That would just be swell.

As always, it's hip to be square, kids.

Friday, July 12, 2013

Fair Trade

I know enough about obsessions to know that when obsessive people get over one, they often replace it with another. It's not usually something that is in their control. For example, someone with OCD can't say, "I don't want to obsess about being clean anymore, so I'm going to obsess about punctuation instead," but they do trade them out over time.

Well, I'm obsessive. There is no way around it. I am obsessing about babies and pregnancy and why other people get what I want. I check Facebook for pictures of friends baby bumps just to get angry at them. I mean, the anger is not my intent, but that's what happens every time. 

Basically, I'm certifiably nucking futs. 

Anyway, I felt like I wouldn't be able to get through the day by just breathing through it. It was like there wasn't enough air to survive another month. My brain came up with it's own way of handling it, and it's worked out really well for several reasons.

I have always been a clean-ish person, but not fanatical. I can't stand mess, but I don't mind things being out of place. I hate dishes in the sink, but the solution is often to just stay away from the sink. Problem solved.

The last few days? Not so much. My house is spotless. I sit at work and think about things that need to be cleaned at home. I bought a bare floor vacuum. I'm excited to go to the store and get a Swiffer and a new mop. The floors have never been this clean. The counters are scrubbed. Tonight, I will clean out the fridge. I vacuumed the stairs last night. Oh, and the rest of the house.


Dishes? Done. Floor? Cleaned. Except I didn't have a mop, so I used a rag. My husband is in neatfreak heaven. Rather than sitting on the couch and let negative thoughts creep in, I make sure there ain't shit creeping through my house. I know that I'm redirecting the fact that I feel like I don't have control onto a situation that I can control, but, uh, okay. I really like it when my house is clean. I am enjoying having the motivation to do it. It's exercise that actually feels productive. The dogs are kind of confused as to why mom is scrubbing without dad nagging her to do it, but they'll figure it out. 

Also, the little dog chased the vacuum around the floor last night and it was hella funny. 

So, I traded up. I traded lack of control for total control and shiny new appliances for dusting and mopping and becoming Suzy homemaker. The only parts I haven't gotten to yet are the bathrooms. I really don't think that needs elaboration. Bathrooms are gross, and my husband doesn't mind cleaning them. Boom. 

I'm obsessive, not an idiot.

As always, it's hip to be square (and off the deep end!), kids. 

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Things No One Tells You About Baby Making

If you got pregnant on your honeymoon or totally by accident, this post is not for you.

Also, I hate you.

Okay. Not really.

But kind of.

If you've never thought of having kids, this might be for you. If you are thinking about it, but you aren't sure, this might be for you. If you are actually going through the process, this might be for you.

If you're the Duggars, this is in no way, at all, ever, for you. Ever.

The acts required to make babies in a heterosexual relationship are supposed to be fun. They are awesome. They are supremely enjoyable.

If you are specifically doing the sex to make-a the babies, some of the recreation gets sucked out of it. What you're told in health class is that this shit is easy and happens to everyone all of the time.

To quote Mean Girls, "If you have sex, you will get pregnant and die. Here, take some rubbers."

And while I guess it can work like that, that's not been my experience. It has also not been the experience of a lot of the people I know.

Making babies is hard work, yo. They don't tell you that.

The following is the list of other things that certainly never occurred to me when we set out on this journey. I though it was "insert sperm, receive baby" all instantaneous like.

It isn't. It can be, but it often isn't. 

Obviously, these are my observations of things that I didn't know would happen. Maybe these only apply to me, but I like to believe that I am a representative of the entire world, and for that, I should be revered. 

You know, or some shit.

1- If you want to have a kid, you will spontaneously live your life by the calendar. You will pay attention to dates and number of days in your cycle and your fertile days and a bunch of other stuff that doesn't come up in health class. You'll know when they best days to get frisky are and when you're actually just doing it to have fun. If you want your sex life to seem at all unplanned, you're going to have to plan ahead to know what the best days to not plan your sex life are. It makes absolutely no sense unless you have been there, but I promise you that's how it works. 

2- That calendar that you now live by? It changes all the time. It can be off by a day or a week. You won't get warning that things are changing. They just will. Can you imagine if the regular calendar changed like that? One week has 10 days and another had 4 and another has 14 and just, fuck. You don't know how many days you work or how long the weekend is and does this change the day that Iron Man comes out because now I'm just confused? That's your life. You THINK your most fertile day is Tuesday but it actually turns out to be Friday. Why? 'Cause the universe said so and SCIENCE.

3- You have to deal with gooey substances even before you have a booger eater creating them. Just trust me. It's gross in a way that you totally get used to.

4- You will be disappointed. A ton. It blows. You will be disappointed because the night you should have sex, you're too tired or you had a cold. You will be disappointed because it takes longer to be successful than you want. You will be disappointed because your boobs hurt but they don't hurt because you're incubating a human. They hurt because your body is being a mother fucker. Your mind and body will play tricks on you because you want everything to mean that your pee stick will be positive. 

5- You will feel like a crazy person. You might even become a crazy person if you didn't start out that way.

6- You will be scared to eat and drink if you have the tendency to eat and drink as terribly as I do. I like soda. And cake. And I think vegetables are gross. You'll wonder if you're having too much sugar for a fetus who might not even exist yet. You'll wonder if you're creating a hyperactive nutter of a nonexistent child based on your caffeine intake. 

7- You will cry at movies with adorable kids. You'll swear it's because you're hormonal and knocked up. It could just be that kids are cute (sometimes). 

8- You'll hate some days. You'll get through them, too.

9- You will find a list of thousands of things that you are doing wrong that make this hard. You aren't doing anything wrong. This process is just fucking hard. 

10- You'll wonder if it is just better to get a puppy. I wonder that all the time. 

11- You will fight the urge to look at baby clothes and room decor. FIGHT IT. FIGHT IT WITH A PASSION.

12- You might get angry at the people around you who are successful as fetal incubating. It's cool. Just don't be a dick about it. They'll understand.

13- You will feel old. There aren't that many people who can be "on" for sex all of the time. Sometimes you have a long day at work and you can't muster the energy. Sometimes, you're just closed for business because your hoohaa is taking a holiday. Sometimes your husband is out mowing the lawn and wastes all of his energy on the shrubberies. If you are a grown ass adult, there will be days that just aren't good days. If you don't have those days, please tell me your secret. 


What things did you learn about baby making that no one told you?

As always, it's hip to be square, kids.

Monday, July 8, 2013

One Month Down

The first month of active trying is over. We survived it and none of the sticks that were peed on yielded anything positive. Mother Nature has arrived with all of her glory and reminded me again that I'm not in control.

And now, for some melodrama. 

I just don't think I can do this again. I really don't think I can go through another several months of waiting for something completely out of my control to happen. The thought of the time and the suspense and the obsessing is making me nauseous. 

I don't understand how anyone can do this and not lose sanity. I don't get how anyone could be patient or upbeat or optimistic during this process. This sucks. It's awful. It's miserable. I am hating every second of waiting and not knowing. I can't "just hang on." I can't just let the days pass without worrying. Every day is hard. Every minute is hard. 

I think this whole thing just isn't for me. I can spoil other people's kids and still get to sleep in on weekends. 

Right now, the sheer enormity of the amount of time in the universe is making it so this seems insurmountable. Variables and I are not palsies. Variables can suck it. Every time I solve for x, the answer is "Fuck this shit."

If part of being a good parent is understanding self care, then I'm being a good independent adult and understanding my limitations. This is causing so much anxiety and melancholia that there are moments where I can't breathe. 

This shit is too much.

I assume that it's just the hormones of being a menstrual case that are making me so overwhelmed, but maybe not. Maybe I'm just understanding my limits. Maybe I don't want to feel like this for another second, and I understand that as long as this is an option, it will be the only thing. There will be nothing else. If this could be a part of my universe and not the whole damn thing, it would be manageable. I cannot move it to a place in my mind that isn't ALL OF IT. 




As always, it's hip to be square (and fucking beat), kids!

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