I do not like being stressed. I try to pride myself on using humor and my inner monkey DJ and the other various frenetic things that run about in my brain to keep the stress away....but I have my days. Today was one of those days. I attribute it to the fact that even though I'm on my 89th course of antibiotics, they are not really helping me completely. I was brought up to think that once you had the "good stuff," the Keflex, the Amoxicillin, what have you, you will be cured. With me, not so much. I have basically been sick since September with brief patches of wellness nuzzled in places.
Here's the thing. No, I don't have cancer or something horrible, but constantly being sick with sinuses, allergies, associated migraines with those maladies, it gets really old really fast. I'm not an old person, I'm freaking 33 years old, and I can't make plans that far in advance because I can't say if I'll be well or not. I'm to the point, and I am totally serious, of telling my ENT to remove my septum, my adenoids, my ovaries, and my prostate. Take whatever will fix it, and it can't possibly make it worse. This is a bunch of shit...
On a completely different note, I think it should be acceptable...and encouraged to tell everyone exactly what you think. I haven't so much had problems with this before, as you that know me well, know, but it seems that actually calling people or dumb policies or whatever out, is not acceptable. It also seems that the dumb are rewarded and promoted while the hardworking intelligent are left to flounder and hit a ceiling, because people in charge don't want intelligent people to work with, they want sycophants and yes-men to enforce their inane policies.
I always thought, and was raised to believe, that intelligence would be rewarded, and being the best at what you do made a difference, but sometimes it's political, and sometimes it's the degree behind your name, and a whole host of other ridiculous notions. I want to interject that this is not remotely specific to me at all, that my hard-working high blood pressure-having husband has worked himself to near-insanity and has little to show for it at this point. I want a better life for us. I want for both of us to feel fulfilled and rewarded and at the level at which we should be. I want to get my ass in gear and write, because I want us to have a cook and a maid and monkey butlers. I imagined great things for myself at this age, and I don't disparage myself for current expectations lacking, but, to be honest, I didn't picture a husband in the mix.
I feel that we are working toward good things, and we are doing better than most people our age at this point in the economy, but we are both frustrated, for different reasons. It's a part of life and a part of genuinely growing up, I know, but I've never been patient before, so this is tough. I mostly want Smitty to be rewarded for the time he puts in and the care he takes, and his genuine desire for the job to be done correctly. I never realized that I would care more about someone else's well-being than my own, but I do. I swear, I would create a scenario worthy of Lifetime Movie Network if it would help him. He is the most diligent, hard-working human being I've ever met, and he deserves like a $5 million bonus for all the stuff he's done. Plus, then I could get my maid and monkey butlers.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
An unconventional Valentine's...am I capable of any other kind??
As I have recently mentioned, Smitty and I are not big on Valentine's Day. We subscribe to being loving all year long and not just one commercially-induced day of the year. That being said, we "celebrated" last night, making dinner together and gazing lovingly into each others' eyes..Well, actually, we made dinner together, watched our favorite DVR's shows, and then did some other things I'm not at liberty to discuss...but pants were off..
I have had HORRIBLE previous Valentine's days. In fact, this blog started after the worst one I ever had, where I learned it's best A. not to discuss commitment on your 3rd date, and B. if during that conversation, the guy tells you he doesn't want a commitment, for God's sake, listen. We're friends now, but we both still refer to it as the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre," because we did, in fact, break up on that date, even though we did eventually get back together...only to break up again. Hence, point b. mentioned above.
I began today by driving to work, having my engine nearly catch on fire. Here's how this was a dually-faulted situation: (Once upon a time....)
On Saturday, Smitty sends me a text asking me to check underneath my car because I had left drops of green liquid on the carport. I ask, "What would that be?" He tells me it's radiator coolant, which, if leaking in excess, will burn up the engine. When I left work, I forgot to check it, but the temperature gauge was fine, and he had told me he would check the car on Sunday. Fault 1: I didn't check it. Fault 2: He didn't check it.
This morning, about 75% of the way to work, while sitting at a stoplight, the hood starts to smoke. I don't know what happened, I froze. My only goal was to make it to work. I wasn't at a place I could pull over, and I didn't want to be late for work or have to have him come retrieve me from the side of the road. Plus, I didn't want to be on the side of the road like a vagrant.
So, I drove an additional 8 miles with smoke coming out of the hood and the tailpipe, and eventually, the interior vent, while praying that the car didn't literally catch on fire. It didn't, but smoke did continue to come out of the hood after I turned the car off, and I had to tell our security guard at work, "If a white Aveo catches on fire, please page me on the intercom." Seriously...
So, now, we have the part, not installed yet, and we don't know if the engine is damaged. Apparently, the hose that connects the radiator and engine has a thermostat inside, and that exploded...The dealership told Smitty it was made of plastic. So, I am entirely correct when I say my car is made out of plastic. How incredibly unsafe.
So, all is well, considering, and this is a perfect example of how Smitty is a paragon of patience when it comes to dealing with me. He wanted to yell; oh, how he wanted to yell. But he restrained himself, only asking, "Why would you keep driving with smoke coming out of the hood?" I gave him my aforementioned reasons, and I'm sure there was sighing and eye-rolling when he read my e-mail response, but I didn't have to see it. God bless that tall, patient man. He even took me to dinner, so technically, we celebrated Valentine's Day..that's how we roll...
"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning
I have had HORRIBLE previous Valentine's days. In fact, this blog started after the worst one I ever had, where I learned it's best A. not to discuss commitment on your 3rd date, and B. if during that conversation, the guy tells you he doesn't want a commitment, for God's sake, listen. We're friends now, but we both still refer to it as the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre," because we did, in fact, break up on that date, even though we did eventually get back together...only to break up again. Hence, point b. mentioned above.
I began today by driving to work, having my engine nearly catch on fire. Here's how this was a dually-faulted situation: (Once upon a time....)
On Saturday, Smitty sends me a text asking me to check underneath my car because I had left drops of green liquid on the carport. I ask, "What would that be?" He tells me it's radiator coolant, which, if leaking in excess, will burn up the engine. When I left work, I forgot to check it, but the temperature gauge was fine, and he had told me he would check the car on Sunday. Fault 1: I didn't check it. Fault 2: He didn't check it.
This morning, about 75% of the way to work, while sitting at a stoplight, the hood starts to smoke. I don't know what happened, I froze. My only goal was to make it to work. I wasn't at a place I could pull over, and I didn't want to be late for work or have to have him come retrieve me from the side of the road. Plus, I didn't want to be on the side of the road like a vagrant.
So, I drove an additional 8 miles with smoke coming out of the hood and the tailpipe, and eventually, the interior vent, while praying that the car didn't literally catch on fire. It didn't, but smoke did continue to come out of the hood after I turned the car off, and I had to tell our security guard at work, "If a white Aveo catches on fire, please page me on the intercom." Seriously...
So, now, we have the part, not installed yet, and we don't know if the engine is damaged. Apparently, the hose that connects the radiator and engine has a thermostat inside, and that exploded...The dealership told Smitty it was made of plastic. So, I am entirely correct when I say my car is made out of plastic. How incredibly unsafe.
So, all is well, considering, and this is a perfect example of how Smitty is a paragon of patience when it comes to dealing with me. He wanted to yell; oh, how he wanted to yell. But he restrained himself, only asking, "Why would you keep driving with smoke coming out of the hood?" I gave him my aforementioned reasons, and I'm sure there was sighing and eye-rolling when he read my e-mail response, but I didn't have to see it. God bless that tall, patient man. He even took me to dinner, so technically, we celebrated Valentine's Day..that's how we roll...
"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning
Friday, February 11, 2011
Slip slidin' away
I am a strange person. Yes, it's like a Strange Person Anonymous meeting, "Hi, I'm Emily, and I'm strange." I have weird physical issues, like being allergic to everything they test you for, sinus infections can quickly turn into pneumonia, flu, or strep throat for me because it takes at least 2 rounds of antibiotics to cure anything I have, just tonight, my left hand and the side of my face broke out in hives for no apparent reason, and any prescription meds tend to do the opposite to me that they do to normal folks. This really only started to happen about 3 years ago, and let me say, it is not fun at all; yet, I have to laugh at it or I would be on Thorazine.
Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.
First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)
Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.
I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.
I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain
Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.
First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)
Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.
I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.
I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
So, does rock bottom involve licking a CD?
I had a strong urge for Janis Joplin this morning. I was yelled at last night for having insomnia, and I wanted to sing out any remaining hostility before I got to work. My really, really old Janis Joplin CD was, however, stuck to another CD by an undetermined substance. I'm pretty sure it was coffee, I hope it was coffee, because when the CD kept skipping, I took it out, licked it, and then remembered the sticky substance. On a bright note, I got to hear all of "Bye, Bye Baby" and "Mercedes Benz," which was the goal. If I start to lose vision in either eye, I'll probably have to take a sample of whatever that was with me to the ER.
So, I'm married, and I still think Valentine's Day is stupid. I think possibly our first V-Day as a married couple, we may have done a faux elaborate thing, but we are both pretty cranky toward it since then. I'm speaking for Smitty here, and he's welcome to argue, but we love each other, and we genuinely like each other's company. So, Valentine's Day is no different than a Monday to us, except for judgment from others when asked what we did, and we say "dinner made together and the naked Lambada." Yes, those are things we do all the time, so Valentine's Day is not a particularly unique day. I guess my point is, if you love and enjoy each other, you don't need a commercial holiday set aside to exhibit that.
Apparently, we're bracing for a massive blizzard of up to 2 inches of snow tomorrow night...SIGH. I love cold weather, I do. Fall is my favorite season, when it just starts to turn into sweater weather, but this winter is starting to make me wish for Easter and Cadbury eggs to come next week. My hair is a mass of static electricity, and the wind is constantly causing it to smack me in the face, my hands are so dry, they look like those of a North Country miner, and I've almost given up trying to keep my legs shaved. I shave them, I get chill bumps, hair grows back, game over. I grow tired....
I realized once I got home to change clothes that one of my socks was on inside out. I frequently put my underwear on inside out and don't realize until later. Srsly, is this normal? There's no history of dementia (well, that may be debatable) or Alzheimer's in my family, but I swear some days, I forget names of things I know, actors' names (and if you know me well, that's really something), once I wore two bras to work, and Smitty says I forget conversations he swears we've had, and it's a little scary that I don't remember. I'm being half-way serious, although I think when I forget those conversations, I'm only pretending to listen. That's a normal marriage thing, right?
"It takes two to speak the truth — one to speak and another to hear."
Henry David Thoreau
I bet neither of those people had a monkey DJ in their head or the deep Harry Potter questions I've been pondering.
So, I'm married, and I still think Valentine's Day is stupid. I think possibly our first V-Day as a married couple, we may have done a faux elaborate thing, but we are both pretty cranky toward it since then. I'm speaking for Smitty here, and he's welcome to argue, but we love each other, and we genuinely like each other's company. So, Valentine's Day is no different than a Monday to us, except for judgment from others when asked what we did, and we say "dinner made together and the naked Lambada." Yes, those are things we do all the time, so Valentine's Day is not a particularly unique day. I guess my point is, if you love and enjoy each other, you don't need a commercial holiday set aside to exhibit that.
Apparently, we're bracing for a massive blizzard of up to 2 inches of snow tomorrow night...SIGH. I love cold weather, I do. Fall is my favorite season, when it just starts to turn into sweater weather, but this winter is starting to make me wish for Easter and Cadbury eggs to come next week. My hair is a mass of static electricity, and the wind is constantly causing it to smack me in the face, my hands are so dry, they look like those of a North Country miner, and I've almost given up trying to keep my legs shaved. I shave them, I get chill bumps, hair grows back, game over. I grow tired....
I realized once I got home to change clothes that one of my socks was on inside out. I frequently put my underwear on inside out and don't realize until later. Srsly, is this normal? There's no history of dementia (well, that may be debatable) or Alzheimer's in my family, but I swear some days, I forget names of things I know, actors' names (and if you know me well, that's really something), once I wore two bras to work, and Smitty says I forget conversations he swears we've had, and it's a little scary that I don't remember. I'm being half-way serious, although I think when I forget those conversations, I'm only pretending to listen. That's a normal marriage thing, right?
"It takes two to speak the truth — one to speak and another to hear."
Henry David Thoreau
I bet neither of those people had a monkey DJ in their head or the deep Harry Potter questions I've been pondering.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
What do I do?
After roughly two weeks of the sinus infection that will not die, I believe to be on the road to recovery. Or as on that road as I get, a pox on my immune system! I've been in a marvelous, albeit disconnected mood -- this is the Zen Emily to which I sometimes refer.
We had a pregnancy scare, no fooling. I was intermittently nauseous for about 3 weeks and because I'm on the crazy, yet lovely Pill where I only have a hormonal visitor every 3 months, it's often sort of a prayer ritual to make myself "not with child." I have taken two pregnancy tests in two weeks, and the thing is, I was actually disappointed when they were both negative. Well, Disappointment: 60%, Relief: 40%. I guess in my head, I just wanted to plan for a baby so we're prepared, but honestly, how many people actually plan? So, the new plan is "whatever happens, happens," but I would really like to not be 40 when we have a baby. Jus' saying.
To that end, previously I've mentioned things at which I excel and other things...not so much. I am AWESOME at getting along with children...and dogs. They both love me. Why wouldn't they? I let kids have popsicles for breakfast, I can be very silly, and I adore coloring. On the other hand, when I actually think about having a baby, I imagine that I will hover over their crib, making sure they are breathing and when anything weird happens, I'm calling the doctor, who will probably eventually discharge us as patients.
I mention this, because today, my 3-year-old nephew Matthew wanted me to take him to the bathroom at lunch. He only wants to go to the bathroom to frolic away from the table, but when it comes to a gamble between whether or not he has to go or not, you don't really want to hedge your bet the wrong way. Therefore, he asked for me to take him, and I froze....he's a boy....my first male nephew was Drew, who already was potty trained when I came into his life, and I said, "What do I do?"
My brother-in-law had a field day with this. Granted, he really enjoys making fun of me, but, still. Here's the thing: I'm a girl, I've had nieces until Matthew was born, I don't have any children, and frankly, I didn't know if he would need me to hold his winky or what. I didn't want to scar the child, nor did I want to refuse to take him to the bathroom. Turns out, all he wanted to do was have me escort him, tell me the bathroom smelled, brag about his Batman shirt, and wash his hands. Sigh...I actually prefer to have a boy, because Smitty wouldn't know what to do with a girl, and frankly, I'd lock her in her room until she went to college, but, still...their boy "stuff" at that age is a bit of a mystery.
Oh, but when I smell their hair, and they hug me....I'm done. Does it freak you out, reader, the thought of Smitty and I being parents?? It freaks the hell out of me, but I still think we'd be good at it. I'd like to think that because we have such a strong love and mutual friendship for each other, a little person would only strengthen our bond. Ahh...content...
We had a pregnancy scare, no fooling. I was intermittently nauseous for about 3 weeks and because I'm on the crazy, yet lovely Pill where I only have a hormonal visitor every 3 months, it's often sort of a prayer ritual to make myself "not with child." I have taken two pregnancy tests in two weeks, and the thing is, I was actually disappointed when they were both negative. Well, Disappointment: 60%, Relief: 40%. I guess in my head, I just wanted to plan for a baby so we're prepared, but honestly, how many people actually plan? So, the new plan is "whatever happens, happens," but I would really like to not be 40 when we have a baby. Jus' saying.
To that end, previously I've mentioned things at which I excel and other things...not so much. I am AWESOME at getting along with children...and dogs. They both love me. Why wouldn't they? I let kids have popsicles for breakfast, I can be very silly, and I adore coloring. On the other hand, when I actually think about having a baby, I imagine that I will hover over their crib, making sure they are breathing and when anything weird happens, I'm calling the doctor, who will probably eventually discharge us as patients.
I mention this, because today, my 3-year-old nephew Matthew wanted me to take him to the bathroom at lunch. He only wants to go to the bathroom to frolic away from the table, but when it comes to a gamble between whether or not he has to go or not, you don't really want to hedge your bet the wrong way. Therefore, he asked for me to take him, and I froze....he's a boy....my first male nephew was Drew, who already was potty trained when I came into his life, and I said, "What do I do?"
My brother-in-law had a field day with this. Granted, he really enjoys making fun of me, but, still. Here's the thing: I'm a girl, I've had nieces until Matthew was born, I don't have any children, and frankly, I didn't know if he would need me to hold his winky or what. I didn't want to scar the child, nor did I want to refuse to take him to the bathroom. Turns out, all he wanted to do was have me escort him, tell me the bathroom smelled, brag about his Batman shirt, and wash his hands. Sigh...I actually prefer to have a boy, because Smitty wouldn't know what to do with a girl, and frankly, I'd lock her in her room until she went to college, but, still...their boy "stuff" at that age is a bit of a mystery.
Oh, but when I smell their hair, and they hug me....I'm done. Does it freak you out, reader, the thought of Smitty and I being parents?? It freaks the hell out of me, but I still think we'd be good at it. I'd like to think that because we have such a strong love and mutual friendship for each other, a little person would only strengthen our bond. Ahh...content...
"A child is a curly dimpled lunatic." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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