Sitting on go

I am unacquainted with standing by.

Apparently.

Since I have finished school, I've found myself at kind of a loss. For…well, anything.

I sit at home and listen to the alternate fighting and love of my children. I think of all the things I should be doing – laundry, writing, reading, cleaning. Making things to hang on the walls since they are all presently blank. Also, there is a strange conglomeration of 8-9 nails on the wall above my couch and I spend more time than I care to admit sitting and wondering what could have possibly ever hung there.

 

I've thought about grad school. But…what? What could I do? I'm thirty four damn years old and really I have no more idea of what I want to be when I grow up than I did when I was nine.

I thought about teaching. Praxis testing is expensive. And what happens if I do all that work and find myself in front of however many kids…and then I hate it?

Problem is, I got used to school. I got used to being occupied. I also have the fortune/misfortune of being married to a man who is always on the go, so many nights the kids and I find ourselves at home, existing through the night. I don't mind it, though. I have time to watch King of the Hill, talk about movies and games with Max, play 4,000 games of various substance with Lucy, or decipher Pretty Little Liars with Ava.

Then I think about what I'd want to do, given the chance.

I'd be creative, I'd have a different outlook on every day. I'd solve and make and do and be.

Or I'd be Beyoncé.

Anyway.

Enough. Enough with the thoughts.

 

Embracing the kook within

Historically I have never been what you would call a joiner.

It's all too much, man. Too much work.

It's why I don't have friends. It's why I find my own things and bury myself in them. Hell, it's why this blog has not died a raging fiery inferno death – because I do it whenever I please and big middle finger when I don't.

But my husband, he's a joiner. He gets all up IN all kinds of shit. And he does it because he's good at it. I support that. How could I not? It makes him happy. Happy him, happy me.

So in a grand gesture of solidarity and total outside-my-comfort-zone-ness, I am donning my brand spanking new JustUsGeeks tshirt, hauling around my weight in purple bluish memefont flyers, and going to a comic & toy convention.

Yeah, that's right. You heard it here first.

 

But you know what's crazy? I'm excited. Like, stupid excited.

So by the time you read this, Josh and The Guv and I (Catch that? Did you? Yeah, I said my name and his name but not Lucy's name. More on that later.) will be tooling off toward Kentucky. Or, well, Friday morning. So whenever you read this in relation to Friday morning. Because I think I'm going ahead and publishing this tonight.

 

See it? It's already happening. DARING.

Wish me luck!

I suppose it was a noble try

This is probably going to come across in the wrong way, but I am nothing if not honest. I see no need to change that now.

What, I might lose some friends? Line up, everyone. Let me count you so I know who goes missing.

Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Apparently the whole month of October is appointed as an awareness month for this issue, which is great, but October the 15th is the special day appointed for memorial and acknowledgement for those of us who have lost little ones.

This is delicate. For anyone.

I have not made a secret of the miscarriage I had in 2008. I don’t bring it up often, but it’s there. I acknowledge it. I think about it more than I ever thought I would. I don’t say that in a macabre way, but it’s true. I think about it enough to know that Lucy’s brother (at some point I apparently decided he was a boy) would be about four now. When I remember him I don’t think about the pain and the terror and how certain I was that I was not going to live – I think about how much he might look like his daddy. I think about T-ball and Transformers. I think about how much would be different today.

And then I don’t think about it for a while. It’s how I process.

But yesterday, since it was an appointed day, I thought about him. The him that never really was.

Some local people had put together a vigil/memorial service type thing for the evening. I decided to go, because I wanted Josh to take pictures and I never really go in for stuff like that. I took a sedative in preparation for being around people.

We went.

I didn’t really know what to do initially, but I went to a spot where it looked like stuff was happening. I signed a book on a lovely little table, I got a lapel pin with an angel, I got a piece of paper to write on – which I would later attach to a balloon. The sentiment was lovely, and I could tell that the people in charge were well-intentioned.

For some reason, there was a group of high school students there…community service? Helping? I don’t know, but they were there. Fine, great, not my business, right?

Except they were obnoxious. They were loud and they were oblivious and they totally killed whatever mood there should have been.

Whatever, man. I live and let live.

The chick in charge (who, incidentally, I used to work with at McAlister’s Deli and is now apparently a pediatrician? Good for you, girl. Your pants were awesome.) took a microphone and welcomed everyone. She went over why we were all there and what was going on.

Then people started talking. It was almost like being at youth retreat, where folks would find their way to the front and get all emotional and you could tell they were so sincere and it just pissed you off because people weren’t paying attention to the sincerity. No? Just me?

Well, it was like that. These women were spilling their hearts out – their loss, their mourning, how they still hurt – and Suzy Sweet Sixteen five yards away from me was texting with Johnny No Nads about letting him get to second base (fine – I made that part up, I don’t know what they were talking about).

It made me so angry.

I was there to mourn a loss. To remember a time my life changed forever. To think for just a few minutes about what could have been. And I couldn’t do that.

There were Bible verses and prayers. Whatever makes it easier, I guess. I just wanted to leave before I vomited from everything I felt.

The talking ended.

We let the balloons go. I watched a jillion pink, blue, and white balloons – all with little messages attached – disappear into the night. So many emotions. So much hurt attached to every string.

It was the one moment that was just as I’d expected. Everyone simply stood and watched as the memories flew upward into the sky. It was worth it for that moment.

I appreciate what went into the evening. I am grateful that there are those who know how I feel, even if I’m sorry that has to be true.

reasons I jump on any superfood, and my latest effort.

I have always, like most people probably, been intrigued by the concept of a superfood.

An elixir. Drink of life that (preferably) wasn’t virgin’s blood. Something that gave me energy and increased cup size while boosting my metabolism and slimming my waist.

I ask for so little, right?

Let’s see, what has it been in the past? All these things that have promised me everything my heart desires?

Green tea. Not bad.
Local honey. It’s just too messy to put into everything, but damn it’s good.
Olive oil.
Canola oil. No joke – it was supposed to lower my set point or something. Not that I remember. Or even know what a set point is. I just know I consistently drank shots of oil for at least a few weeks.
Coconut oil.
Cayenne pepper.
Fish oil.
Chia seeds.
White vinegar.
Cinnamon.
Cloves.
B vitamin complex. I even had some weird kind of sublingual solution.
Prenatal vitamins.

I could go on.

Recently I’ve started keeping a look out for miracle foods and pills again, because I’ve stacked on some significant weight. I thought I was just feeling bloated because I’d been slacking off the running, but during last week’s firepee extravaganza I had to break down and go to the doctor, where I met reality – the cold and ruthless bitch.

Turns out my “bloated” equaled about 25 pounds in less than six months. I was torn between tears and rage when I was on the scale.

Really, I had changed nothing. I have never been one to subsist on leafy greens or say no to a cupcake, but aside from a portion of my life where all I ate was chicken casserole with macaroni and cheese, I have never weighed this much. It’s no wonder all my clothes were/are miserably uncomfortable. Seriously – maternity pants. And my baby is two.

So of course, when I mentioned my weight gain to the nurse practitioner, I expected a lecture about exercise (duh) and eating right (duh). When I mentioned that I was on an antidepressant, though, I got none of that. Word up.

Turns out I’d never bothered to consult Dr. Google about my crazy pills, and they were most likely the weight gain culprits. I’ve since changed meds and have already dropped a few pounds (yeah – just since last week), but my weight dilemma has led me back to the superfood chase.

So now, I present to you my latest harbinger of youth and joy:

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Apple cider vinegar.

It’s a bandwagon I’ve dabbled in before, with not really much result – mainly because the stuff is so vile that stomaching it day after day is terribly daunting.

But I’m doing it. I have no clue what to expect.

ProcrASStination.

Basically, people, I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through the past month.

 

Really.

 

Even yesterday, when I had plenty of work to do at, you know, actual work – I stayed home with a whiny toddler and firepee thanks to being female and having, apparently, a short urethra. *bows to the TMI audience*

So I could have done schoolwork, right? The geneaology paper that is due today. Or the research paper that is due tomorrow. Both are still barebones and need work.

Instead, though, I spent the day watching Big Love on demand, flushing out my system with echinacea and vitamin C, thinking about the past and the future and how to best go about making pumpkin muffins.

So what did I accomplish? I lessened my infection, I think. I pondered what my hair would look like a la Ginnifer Goodwin in Season Three. I made the muffins. I vacuumed the floor. I did work a bit on the papers.

 

I can’t say I made much eternal progress in anything yesterday. Except the muffins. They were amazing.

 

 

Taking stock

I generally think of myself as an open, honest person. I have worked for many years to be a very what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of gal.

And I think I’ve done well.

It does present a problem, though. Trying to live as an open book among the normals.

Because really? No one does that. There is always something underneath or to the side. Where I just let the freak flag fly and try not to worry about it, the rest of the world tries to pretend to have their shit together.

I’m not fooled.

But I do wonder if it’s even healthy to be so open. I mean, do I have to hide faults to make someone want to like me? Do I have to pretend to be something I’m not? Because I’ll be honest – I’m not gonna. Takes too much effort. And the result is that I’m pretty much on my own, but I’m content with that. I have people to love.

Being me is something I’ve become okay with being.

Update on the crazy

It’s been a while since I really said anything about the cogs and wheels in my brain case.

Stuff has changed. How’s that for vague?

Mostly things are better. I have found calm where there was…less than none.

I don’t really know how. That should totally be something I could just spill out, right? It should be a logical progression. Breathing techniques. Colors and crystals, meditation and sex. Positive affirmations.

Maybe it’s all of that. Maybe it’s none of it.

Medicine has been adjusted. That could be part of it. I’m around people more these days.

School is starting back soon, and if I told you how excited I am about that you’d probably think my crazy is just relocating itself.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that things are better. I honestly worked on the way I perceive things and the levels of importance I place on different aspects of life…and I think it has actually worked.

I don’t go to therapy anymore. I was terrible at going to therapy anyway, as evidenced by the fact that my therapist changed jobs and I missed the appointment where she intended

to tell me. I could still go, sure. I could have a new therapist, one who knows about me from notes and files. I could even be okay with that – but things have flipped around so that where there once was too much time, now there is not enough. Also I kind of ran out of things to say.
The remarkable thing is that I know I’m not “fixed”…but I’m okay with that. Glad for it, even. I have grown comfortable with the fact that I will always be a little sadder/more sensitive/weirder than most people, but I’ve decided I like that about myself. It’s okay with me. Besides…isn’t that why I have a blog? Free therapy?

Being a person

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a party with no kids and no real time constraints.

Until this weekend.

Our friends The Wallins have somewhat concurrent birthdays, so they had planned a big party for this past Saturday.

Now, before my brain got all woobly and I started being anxious about things like my shadow and how maybe my shadow didn’t even like me after all, I was a party goer. I did the people thing. I loved it and I was good at it. Perhaps it is just a product of age and things like that, but more often than not I opt out of parties and people and being around other humans in wads.

For some reason, though, I wasn’t worried about this one. Maybe it was the fact that I really like The Wallins and I really enjoy all the JustUs Geeks and the little family it has become, maybe it was all the superhero themed wonder, or maybe it was just all the cake. I was excited.

It was so much fun. S’mores with marshmallows the size of my head, hamburgers, cupcakes, fire, pingpong, photo booth.

I saw people. I talked to people. And I had a good time. This is huge. HUGE.

I should be a person more often.

long lost

I know I say this all the time, but sorry I’ve been missing. However, if you have been reading my stuff for any length of time at all, you know that sometimes I just can’t be bothered to do the things I love to do.

Like play Draw Something. Words with Friends. Pretty much any of the games which require constant turn taking.

And sometimes this blog qualifies too. I just don’t want it to feel like a job.

Lots of things have been going on, though. Good things mostly. My therapist recently told me that she was leaving (after I missed like four sessions – seriously I can’t keep a damn thing straight), and that is sad. Truth be told, though, she did me a shitton of good and I hope she encounters only good things.

Do you suppose it’s true that writing only stems from pain? Because many, many times when things are not great or I feel like whining or punching someone – I’ll come here and yammer about it just to get it out.

And I feel better when I do. Thing is, when I feel good, I feel like I don’t have anything to be deep and meaningful about.

Because who can be deep and meaningful about MYLIFEKICKSASS?

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Confession: being unthankful makes me a bitch

I realize that my life is amazing.

 

I have three kids who are healthy, smart, beautiful, and a lot of the time, they are flat out hilarious.

 

I know this. I know that something like 90% of the globe would be shitting in their pants to wake up every day (in response to a too-smart smartphone) in a climate controlled house, next to a heart-burstingly beautiful husband, to wake my children and make lunches from a full cupboard. And then send them off to get an education in a safe and nurturing environment. While I stay at home to play with the baby and watch educational tv.

 

I know that by having ANY complaints I am a mindbending bitch.

 

But I have to be able to say it somewhere – things feel so worn. So generic. I feel like I make as much impact as a sandpapered rubber stamp.

 

My husband works so hard. He works and does and makes sure we have what we need. He’s a dad and a podcast-er and my very best friend. Being anything less than doting and Stepford is, I realize, a failing of mine.

 

But basically I sit at home and wait for something to happen. Anything. My days feel like a series of wait.

 

Waiting…

 

For the bus

For the kids to come home

For Lucy to give me five minutes

For the dryer to finish

For the coffee to brew

For Josh to come home

For the oven to heat

 

I realize I’m being a big whiny baby, but I just feel like I’m missing something. I feel like I’m a week or so away from talking to the car upholstery, but if I up and say something like, “I just wish something would happen,” then someone will die or get sick or blow up.

 

Don’t get me wrong. I love my life and everything about it. I am grateful.

 

But, I admit, grateful is sometimes boring. Even if that makes me a bitch.