Being a Type A, slightly-more-than-a-little-neurotic person, I file my taxes the minute I get the last piece of paperwork in the mail. Which is usually ... oh the first of February.
I will also confess that I am generally the person who watches the 10 o'clock news on Tax Day and makes guffawing noises at the poor people in line to have their taxes postmarked by 11:59 p.m. Seriously people, you can't plan ahead enough to get your taxes in on time? It's not as if Tax Day ever changes. It is, and forever will be, April 15.
Lesson learned: Do not mock those whom you do not wish to join.
I knew the 2008 tax filing season was going to be a huge disaster right after receiving my W2 from The Factory last tax season - two months late, complete with the wrong state identification number. Once The Factory metaphorically collapsed, it only promised to get worse. Therefore, it was without any great shock that I did not receive a W2 from The Factory - neither did The Boss respond to any inquiries. (She did respond to my accountant, and told him she must have had the "wrong address" (ha!) - funny, it's been 2.5 months since she called and ... nothing).
I began the 2008 tax odyssey in February. February 17, as a matter of fact, which is the earliest you can begin pursuing tax preparation if you are missing a W2 that includes half of your income for that year.
It began with taking a very old friend up on his offer to give me tax advice (I'm sure he now regrets it, although he was more helpful than any of the other four tax accountants I'd spoken with prior to him - all who assured me that The Boss WOULD INDEED send a W2 because "she has to." Of course, that is assuming that this woman even cares about not breaking the law, which she doesn't.) Two months, four calls to the IRS (which garnered 4 separate answers), a dozen e-mails, 20 hours of effort (on his and my parts), 4 hours of number crunching and several headaches and bury-my-head-in-the-sand-and-hum moments later, I was ready to file.
Good thing too, since it was late evening on April 14 by this point. See, it wasn't just the missing W2, it was the fact that I had received only 6 pay stubs for 12 paychecks over six months. Combined with the fact that my pay rate changed 4 times. Combined with the fact that there was no discernible pattern to the withholding from any of the paychecks. Combined with my general lack of tax-aptitudeness. See the problems? Plus, the IRS recommends not filing until April 15 if you are missing any critical documents.
Of course, the missing W2 means the IRS won't let you e-file. For the record, I have not filed a paper return since 1997 - a year in which I made $3,500 and filed the short form. This of course means I should be forgiven for the insanity that ensued on tax day - and all mocking should be done lightly.
As it turns out, I'd have to pay to download the files I'd prepared (but couldn't file) online, so I had to print out the summary and then fill out the 1040 form and all the appropriate addendums as well as the state of Utah's ridiculous new "easy file" tax form (I seriously want to know which legislator thought it was a good idea to make us copy our W2 information over to the state's form rather than just sending the W2s in - mistakes galore will abound, I'm sure). That took several hours.
Then there was the matter of what to include with the tax forms. The IRS, in all it's brilliant booklet-producing wisdom, isn't exactly clear on that subject. So I called the only person I know who still files his taxes via the mail - my father. He
laughed at me, until I reminded him that it had been 11 years since I had had to mail in anything.
Then I was ready to send them in - right? Except, no - did you realize when you file a joint return that both of you have to sign it? Yeah, neither did I. Not an issue - except Himself worked until 8 p.m. tax day and didn't arrive home until nearly 9 p.m.
Himself arrived home, signed the forms, and then I realized I didn't have a single envelope (or stamp) in the house. I drove to the grocery store on the way to the post office with the automatic machine that gives postmarks until midnight every day of the year (only 3 in line there v. 5 times that at the post office tax party downtown). Of course, the grocery store had no envelopes. The drug store next door closes at 9. I finally found a store, relatively on the way to the post office (more or less) that had envelopes. Mission accomplished.
Then I went to weigh and purchase stamps for my two tax filings ... only to find out the automated postage machine won't do transactions less than $1. Wouldn't you know it that my postage added up to 1 cent shy of $1? I had to buy an extra postmarked stamp just to mail my envelopes. A tax on a tax for the taxes of sorts, I suppose.
I got home just in time to catch the 10 o'clock news, where they featured all the goofy people at the post office trying to get their taxes in on time.
This time, however, there was no guffaws, only sympathy, from my living room. As it turns out, not everyone who greets the tax man on tax day is actually procrastinating.
Showing posts with label Neurosis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Neurosis. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, November 17, 2008
Running from Kites
I sat in Wolfgang Puck's express yesterday, in Terminal B in the Cincinnati Airport, absently dining on four cheese ravioli in a spicy tomato sauce, lost among the streets of Kabul and the loss of innocence of a fictional character named Amir, the trade paperback held open by the heavy rim of the white stoneware plate.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part IV
A Continuation of This...
Spring came in fits and starts - teasing with warm weekends and sunny days here and there - enough to keep hope that the snow wouldn't last forever. With spring, the backyard of the Hobbit Hole came alive in color - tulips, blossoms, the first hint of green in grass.
With spring, came news that the Hobbit Hole was up for sale. The news felt as if I had swallwed a grapefruit whole. Coming from the real estate world, I knew what it took for a home to sell - pristine cleanliness and staging. The Hobbit Hole regularly looked like an F5 tornado had struck inside, since I could barely make myself cook dinner, let alone function enough to keep my house clean every, single day with only an hour's notice. I spent much of the season on pins and needles. I felt the weight of the world beging to press down even harder. Wife, mother, employee, chef, maid ... and what about that stack of mail that hadn't been opened ... ?
Using the excuse "I forgot" about mine and Woodstock's hospital bills was ridiculous. No one in his right mind in the billing office would believe I had curled up in a mental ball and hibernated for the entire winter. During the course of the winter, I hadn't answered the phone either. I went three weeks without answering it at all. I would sit and stare blankly at the wall and listen to the machine click on. Only rarely would the fact that someone had left a message even register. Himself would answer it if it turned out to be someone he knew - otherwise, he let me ignore it.
He let me ignore everything. During the course of his unemployment, at the urging of my head shrinker, he spent a lot of time with Woodstock. He spent more time cleaning and cooking. He tolerated my sharp recoil at the thought of being touched or held as well as could be expected. He deserves far more credit than I could ever give ... for just hanging on.
The first really warm weekend - one warm enough to wear bare feet outside - came in late April. With it came the Hobbit Hole's first open house, following a week of hell at The Factory. I cleaned and panicked. I stayed up late and got up early, scrubbing and organizing - frantic to make everything perfect. Woodstock had an allergic reaction and wasn't feeling well. Himself, who by now was employed, worked late, then had to work Saturday too.
An hour before the scheduled open house I had a full-blown panic attack - calling the landlord's wife and sobbing on their machine. "I just can't do it." Their house was perfect. The one I was renting from them would never look that way. I knew they needed it to sell. It had to be perfect. The agent showed up and I was feeding Woodstock in the nusery - showered, but still in messy pajamas, a look of frenzied desperation on my face. My The show went on. I came home after the open house and realized I had nothing to do - the house was clean. I had no hobbies. No mindset to relax. And no cleaning to do. I paced the house for an entire hour. Woodstock was sleeping. I began to feel like a caged animal. I felt like I was suffocating.
Spring continued. While I started to feel again and have some hope that I could return to "normal," The Factory continued to crumble - I would put in my time at the office, come home, fix dinner, take care of Woodstock and work long into the wee morning hours after she (and Himself) had gone to bed. I was sleeping 3-4 hours a night, if at all. There was no time to continue to heal, and the anxiety portion took control - the background static of life drove me to the brink of my sanity. I was working 12-to 14-hour days trying to juggle ridiculous Wicked Witch requests that got in the way of clients. I couldn't keep up with the ridiculousness of what was being asked. I kept most of what I saw and heard to myself, trying to protect my team. Scathing editorials of my performance were a weekly occurance because it was impossible for me to do what was asked/expected. I walked on eggshells.
I made promises - to my friends, my family, myself, random people ... and I couldn't keep them. Breathing took almost all of my effort. I continually thanked God that He, in his infinite wisdom, had sent me Woodstock - whose happy little soul seemed never to need more of me than I was able to give.
And then, for the third time in just over a year, the bottom of life as I knew it fell out. It was the worst day and the best day - as sometimes liberations are. I could not keep up with the demands The Factory put on me, nor was I willing to play the ridiculous game. Even a healthy person wouldn't have been able to put up with it long. I felt like I had failed my team - that I hadn't been able to protect them from The Wicked witch. In the process, I had failed myself ... I cried because I had begged to leave, and always the answer was "not yet."
At that point, the entire summer stretched ahead of me, deliciously sunny, hot and bright ... if I didn't care about the bank balance.
To Be Continued ...
Spring came in fits and starts - teasing with warm weekends and sunny days here and there - enough to keep hope that the snow wouldn't last forever. With spring, the backyard of the Hobbit Hole came alive in color - tulips, blossoms, the first hint of green in grass.
With spring, came news that the Hobbit Hole was up for sale. The news felt as if I had swallwed a grapefruit whole. Coming from the real estate world, I knew what it took for a home to sell - pristine cleanliness and staging. The Hobbit Hole regularly looked like an F5 tornado had struck inside, since I could barely make myself cook dinner, let alone function enough to keep my house clean every, single day with only an hour's notice. I spent much of the season on pins and needles. I felt the weight of the world beging to press down even harder. Wife, mother, employee, chef, maid ... and what about that stack of mail that hadn't been opened ... ?
Using the excuse "I forgot" about mine and Woodstock's hospital bills was ridiculous. No one in his right mind in the billing office would believe I had curled up in a mental ball and hibernated for the entire winter. During the course of the winter, I hadn't answered the phone either. I went three weeks without answering it at all. I would sit and stare blankly at the wall and listen to the machine click on. Only rarely would the fact that someone had left a message even register. Himself would answer it if it turned out to be someone he knew - otherwise, he let me ignore it.
He let me ignore everything. During the course of his unemployment, at the urging of my head shrinker, he spent a lot of time with Woodstock. He spent more time cleaning and cooking. He tolerated my sharp recoil at the thought of being touched or held as well as could be expected. He deserves far more credit than I could ever give ... for just hanging on.
The first really warm weekend - one warm enough to wear bare feet outside - came in late April. With it came the Hobbit Hole's first open house, following a week of hell at The Factory. I cleaned and panicked. I stayed up late and got up early, scrubbing and organizing - frantic to make everything perfect. Woodstock had an allergic reaction and wasn't feeling well. Himself, who by now was employed, worked late, then had to work Saturday too.
An hour before the scheduled open house I had a full-blown panic attack - calling the landlord's wife and sobbing on their machine. "I just can't do it." Their house was perfect. The one I was renting from them would never look that way. I knew they needed it to sell. It had to be perfect. The agent showed up and I was feeding Woodstock in the nusery - showered, but still in messy pajamas, a look of frenzied desperation on my face. My The show went on. I came home after the open house and realized I had nothing to do - the house was clean. I had no hobbies. No mindset to relax. And no cleaning to do. I paced the house for an entire hour. Woodstock was sleeping. I began to feel like a caged animal. I felt like I was suffocating.
Spring continued. While I started to feel again and have some hope that I could return to "normal," The Factory continued to crumble - I would put in my time at the office, come home, fix dinner, take care of Woodstock and work long into the wee morning hours after she (and Himself) had gone to bed. I was sleeping 3-4 hours a night, if at all. There was no time to continue to heal, and the anxiety portion took control - the background static of life drove me to the brink of my sanity. I was working 12-to 14-hour days trying to juggle ridiculous Wicked Witch requests that got in the way of clients. I couldn't keep up with the ridiculousness of what was being asked. I kept most of what I saw and heard to myself, trying to protect my team. Scathing editorials of my performance were a weekly occurance because it was impossible for me to do what was asked/expected. I walked on eggshells.
I made promises - to my friends, my family, myself, random people ... and I couldn't keep them. Breathing took almost all of my effort. I continually thanked God that He, in his infinite wisdom, had sent me Woodstock - whose happy little soul seemed never to need more of me than I was able to give.
And then, for the third time in just over a year, the bottom of life as I knew it fell out. It was the worst day and the best day - as sometimes liberations are. I could not keep up with the demands The Factory put on me, nor was I willing to play the ridiculous game. Even a healthy person wouldn't have been able to put up with it long. I felt like I had failed my team - that I hadn't been able to protect them from The Wicked witch. In the process, I had failed myself ... I cried because I had begged to leave, and always the answer was "not yet."
At that point, the entire summer stretched ahead of me, deliciously sunny, hot and bright ... if I didn't care about the bank balance.
To Be Continued ...
Saturday, October 04, 2008
On Falling Down the Stairs
pho·bi·a /ˈfoʊbiə/
–noun a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it.
I have an irrational fear of falling. Off cliffs, off curbs and especially down the stairs. I have spent years in the corporate world going UP the stairs and DOWN in the elevator if I had to go down more than one flight - only to be subjected to raised eyebrows, snickers and exclamations of "Seriously?!"
Yes. Seriously. My phobia of falling down the stairs is so bad that if there is an elevator, I'd rather take the elevator - and I HATE ELEVATORS.
Now that we have stairs in The New (to us) House, I have to go up and down them several times a day. There is not a single time that I go down the stairs without picturing myself falling and ending up in a tangled heap at the bottom. It is so bad (and our house stairs are so narrow) that I won't wear shoes down the stairs, so there is often a random assortment of shoes, flip flops and slippers at the top of the stairs. (Clearly I am not afraid of breaking my neck before I even get to the stairs.)
It is even worse when I am carrying Woodstock down the stairs. I envision both of us at the bottom in a complex tangle of elbows, knees and necks bent at the wrong angles. With me on top, of course. Phobias are all about the worst possible scenario.
Either it is a self-fulfilling prophesy or I have good reason to be afraid, because this morning, while Himself was bathing Woodstock, I fell down the last half of the staircase.
I landed flat on my back at the bottom with a "WHOOMPH!" Himself asked what had happened, but I had no wind left in me. He couldn't actually see what happened or make sure my neck wasn't broken, as Woodstock was still in the tub. And, in the triage of broken neck v. drowning baby (or, more likely, one who will try to climb out of the tub), the broken neck came in second.
My left rear side hurts like ___________ (enter your own 4-letter word here). My back hurts. My pride hurts.
Worst of all, the little voice in my head is yelling, "TOLD YOU SO! You should not go down the stairs."
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Rising Out of The Dust
In the past month I have reconnected with a lot of old friends rising from the dust of former lives - from middle school/junior high, high school, college and several former employers. It's alternately terribly exciting and dreadfully awful.
Why is it that nearly TWO DECADES after I first stepped foot into middle school, whenever I talk to someone from those four (mostly horrible) years I am sucked back into feeling like the awkward, Kmart-clothed, goofy, pegged-and-acid-washed-pants persona of my early adolescence? Seriously. Does one ever just grow up and forget that they were not the lone dork on the planet at that point - that 99.9% of the population could also lay claim to that title in some shape or form?
Perhaps my anxiety-ridden descent into madness each time I hear from a friend who knew me during that time period is because I went to junior high the same number of years as elementary school (if you don't count half-day Kindergarten), giving me more than ample time to develop my special brand of obsessive dorkiness. No one should spend the same number of years trapped in early adolescence as they did having lunch recess.
Maybe it is because I still firmly believe that the shirt my mom made me wear on the first day of 6th grade was THE UGLIEST SHIRT EVER and that it did indeed scar me for life.
Maybe it is because I still remember the multiple pairs of carefully coordinated slouch socks in a dozen different colors, the LA Gear high tops (conveniently the only pair of shoes in a 50-mile radius that fit) or the fact that I tripped and fell running track in PE twice a year, without fail, four years in a row (on a cinder track - I have the scars to prove it).
Maybe it is remembering the four years of braces, the lack of a single athletic bone in my body (small town athletes = royalty) or the fact that I was one of the tallest people on the planet three of those four years (ironically, once I was okay with being tall, I quit growing - and have been the same height for roughly 16 years).
Whatever it was, I've nearly gone comatose over the last month any time I've reconnected with someone who knew me between the ages of 11 and 14. Each time, I pray I won't hear the dreaded phrase, "You haven't changed at all!"
Why is it that nearly TWO DECADES after I first stepped foot into middle school, whenever I talk to someone from those four (mostly horrible) years I am sucked back into feeling like the awkward, Kmart-clothed, goofy, pegged-and-acid-washed-pants persona of my early adolescence? Seriously. Does one ever just grow up and forget that they were not the lone dork on the planet at that point - that 99.9% of the population could also lay claim to that title in some shape or form?
(As a side note, It should be said that I pity anyone who had to spend four years in middle school/junior high. Through a quirk of re-aligning schools and new construction, there were three classes of people who had to endure four years of acne- and hormone-fueled trauma just to get on with real life. Combine it with the year we all spent in high school together and it's rather amazing we didn't end up in either one giant lovefest for all of the obsessive-compulsive, algebra-sluffing, label-obsessing time we spent together).
Perhaps my anxiety-ridden descent into madness each time I hear from a friend who knew me during that time period is because I went to junior high the same number of years as elementary school (if you don't count half-day Kindergarten), giving me more than ample time to develop my special brand of obsessive dorkiness. No one should spend the same number of years trapped in early adolescence as they did having lunch recess.
Maybe it is because I still firmly believe that the shirt my mom made me wear on the first day of 6th grade was THE UGLIEST SHIRT EVER and that it did indeed scar me for life.
Maybe it is because I still remember the multiple pairs of carefully coordinated slouch socks in a dozen different colors, the LA Gear high tops (conveniently the only pair of shoes in a 50-mile radius that fit) or the fact that I tripped and fell running track in PE twice a year, without fail, four years in a row (on a cinder track - I have the scars to prove it).
Maybe it is remembering the four years of braces, the lack of a single athletic bone in my body (small town athletes = royalty) or the fact that I was one of the tallest people on the planet three of those four years (ironically, once I was okay with being tall, I quit growing - and have been the same height for roughly 16 years).
Whatever it was, I've nearly gone comatose over the last month any time I've reconnected with someone who knew me between the ages of 11 and 14. Each time, I pray I won't hear the dreaded phrase, "You haven't changed at all!"
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Falling
In January, I began to realize that the fact that I didn't feel like myself wasn't just because I was crazy. After mentioning it to my pediatrician (Baby Girl sees a doctor more than I do and my pediatrician had been telling me she wondered if something was "off"), then seeing my doctor, who prescribed yoga and a pill that gave me the worst migraine of my life the first (and only) night I took it, I ended up in head-shrinking.
My head shrinker never quite embraced the post-partum depression label that everyone else (including myself) had chalked my neurosis up to. It puzzled her that it could be that, because the hallmark characteristic is a failure to bond with the baby ... I had the opposite problem. I was clinging to Baby Girl for all I was worth - clinging to her to save me. She was the one who required nothing more than what I could give. Food, love and an occasional bath were all she needed.
Meanwhile, other things were spiraling rapidly out of control. Things at The Factory were bad. If I got up and did something more than pull on something clean and put my hair up wet, it was a good day. Sundays, previously a day of restful bliss, were angst-ridden and full of a sick panicky feeling. The Hobbit Hole stood neglected. Himself stood neglected. Stacks of mail went neglected. I didn't sleep more than an hour or two at once.
Sometime after the first grateful rays of sunshine began to unthaw The Frontier, my head shrinker and I discovered something - with the lifting of the heavy clouds and wet, salt-crusted days of winter, I was able to engage in a little more self-review. What I discovered led to a complete change in my 'label' and 'treatment' - Severe Anxiety Disorder, though it's debatable whether I fall further into the "panic" or "general anxiety" category - rather a mix of both.
The last two months I've spent trying to understand triggers, reduce stressors and free myself of something that has been present my entire adult life, but crippled me for 6 months. It has helped, some. I am realizing that if I am backed into the corner, I can't function. I can't think. I can't be coherent. All I hear is the rush of my heart pounding and the primal need to flee or get defensive or disappear.
But that doesn't mean I know how to FIX it. It is nearly impossible to explain to someone who hasn't had the feelings of anxiety so deep, so encompassing that the entire world spins as if you were on the Teacups at Disneyland and everything sounds like a sonic boom. Volume is magnified. Little things become huge stressors. It is a feeling of One. More. Thing. Everything is the straw that breaks the camels back, no matter how minor.
It is over the minor things I end up agonizing, over the very things that will help me get healthy from which I run. My head shrinker insists that meditation is the key, but I cannot be alone in silence for more than 30 seconds or the anxiety overwhelms me, attacks me, to the point of panicky breathlessness.
So I fill every spare second with action, with noise ... NPR or a book on CD while I'm in the kitchen, reading until I fall asleep, talking to Baby Girl when I'm at the grocery store, flipping stations back and forth and back again in the car. There is no silence, because I spend every second trying to drown out the rushing panic, the rising tide of anxiety that consumes me if I leave a spare inch through which it may be able to creep.
This week has been one of the worst in recent memory. I am falling - falling through a dark tunnel filled with chaos and noise and insanity and breathlessness. And I am trying to understand it.
My head shrinker never quite embraced the post-partum depression label that everyone else (including myself) had chalked my neurosis up to. It puzzled her that it could be that, because the hallmark characteristic is a failure to bond with the baby ... I had the opposite problem. I was clinging to Baby Girl for all I was worth - clinging to her to save me. She was the one who required nothing more than what I could give. Food, love and an occasional bath were all she needed.
Meanwhile, other things were spiraling rapidly out of control. Things at The Factory were bad. If I got up and did something more than pull on something clean and put my hair up wet, it was a good day. Sundays, previously a day of restful bliss, were angst-ridden and full of a sick panicky feeling. The Hobbit Hole stood neglected. Himself stood neglected. Stacks of mail went neglected. I didn't sleep more than an hour or two at once.
Sometime after the first grateful rays of sunshine began to unthaw The Frontier, my head shrinker and I discovered something - with the lifting of the heavy clouds and wet, salt-crusted days of winter, I was able to engage in a little more self-review. What I discovered led to a complete change in my 'label' and 'treatment' - Severe Anxiety Disorder, though it's debatable whether I fall further into the "panic" or "general anxiety" category - rather a mix of both.
The last two months I've spent trying to understand triggers, reduce stressors and free myself of something that has been present my entire adult life, but crippled me for 6 months. It has helped, some. I am realizing that if I am backed into the corner, I can't function. I can't think. I can't be coherent. All I hear is the rush of my heart pounding and the primal need to flee or get defensive or disappear.
But that doesn't mean I know how to FIX it. It is nearly impossible to explain to someone who hasn't had the feelings of anxiety so deep, so encompassing that the entire world spins as if you were on the Teacups at Disneyland and everything sounds like a sonic boom. Volume is magnified. Little things become huge stressors. It is a feeling of One. More. Thing. Everything is the straw that breaks the camels back, no matter how minor.
It is over the minor things I end up agonizing, over the very things that will help me get healthy from which I run. My head shrinker insists that meditation is the key, but I cannot be alone in silence for more than 30 seconds or the anxiety overwhelms me, attacks me, to the point of panicky breathlessness.
So I fill every spare second with action, with noise ... NPR or a book on CD while I'm in the kitchen, reading until I fall asleep, talking to Baby Girl when I'm at the grocery store, flipping stations back and forth and back again in the car. There is no silence, because I spend every second trying to drown out the rushing panic, the rising tide of anxiety that consumes me if I leave a spare inch through which it may be able to creep.
This week has been one of the worst in recent memory. I am falling - falling through a dark tunnel filled with chaos and noise and insanity and breathlessness. And I am trying to understand it.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Neurotic Nonsense
My brain is all over today.
First, I have to brag on my father. He is the greatest father ever. I could write an entire book about it - and I would take on anyone who says that my claim to having the world's greatest father is biased. (And I'm tougher than I look).
Sometime during the decade since I lived in the Great Frozen North, all of my serious winter gear has dwindled into wimpy winter gear - an alarming number of fleeces, a wool dress coat (requisite for the East) and so forth. Being back in the Frontier, where it acually snows (and there are no such things as "snow days"), I realized I needed something more substantial to keep me warm (unless yesterday's 70-degree day has become the norm - very weird). Alas, I've only managed to pick up a good set of waterproof driving gloves.
Today my dad calls me at work - very unusual. He is, I realize, immensely excited over something. He asks if I've procured a winter coat yet. Nope. Then he tells me about a sale notice he got over e-mail today where there is a really great coat on sale for 50% off - no tax, no shipping if you order $X worth. He goes into the benefits of the coat and how much my sister paid for the same one last year (I'm sure my sister is thrilled to know she paid $40 more than I did). He reads me the item number, has me pull it up, recommends a size (yes, my blind father, recommending sizes - don't ask) and then he orders something to bump me into the free shipping zone (I don't tell him that paying for my shipping would have been cheaper than buying a new $50 camp pad).
Because of his eagerness, I was even able to snag a black coat in my size - on clearance (side note: who sells coats on clearance in November?!) - no neon green, slightly-the-wrong-size for me. My coat is on its way. I'm not going to freeze here. Thanks Dad!
--
In other news. One of my Google alerts for a client is "New Orleans" and "children" and "Katrina" - imagine the number of interesting news tidbits I get on that every day.
Today, however, I scored a good one - an interview with Jennifer Garner in Glamour, reprinted on MSNBC.com.
Most interviews with celebrities make me sick. They're either so ridiculously perfect with ridiculous, "I have no idea what the world is really like" opinions or they are ridiculously messed up. Usually I want to throw something at Jennifer Garner because she looks stunning - all the time - and lately I've taken to wearing my hair in a knot on my head - all the time - and smelling like eau de sour milk.
This time, however, I wanted to hug her. I will forever love her for this quote, in response to who she thinks is heroic:
Someone who realizes that loving, cooking, working, balancing, juggling, going slightly insane, volunteering - living life - counts. That waking up every day and working to make it a better day is something to be celebrated.
It didn't hurt that she confessed to feeling sheepish about hugging the Boston Red Sox's mascot - a giant red sock. "Why did I have to hug the sock? Just say hello like a normal person."
Sometimes I metaphorically hug a sock too - it's nice to know I'm not the only goofball.
First, I have to brag on my father. He is the greatest father ever. I could write an entire book about it - and I would take on anyone who says that my claim to having the world's greatest father is biased. (And I'm tougher than I look).
Sometime during the decade since I lived in the Great Frozen North, all of my serious winter gear has dwindled into wimpy winter gear - an alarming number of fleeces, a wool dress coat (requisite for the East) and so forth. Being back in the Frontier, where it acually snows (and there are no such things as "snow days"), I realized I needed something more substantial to keep me warm (unless yesterday's 70-degree day has become the norm - very weird). Alas, I've only managed to pick up a good set of waterproof driving gloves.
Today my dad calls me at work - very unusual. He is, I realize, immensely excited over something. He asks if I've procured a winter coat yet. Nope. Then he tells me about a sale notice he got over e-mail today where there is a really great coat on sale for 50% off - no tax, no shipping if you order $X worth. He goes into the benefits of the coat and how much my sister paid for the same one last year (I'm sure my sister is thrilled to know she paid $40 more than I did). He reads me the item number, has me pull it up, recommends a size (yes, my blind father, recommending sizes - don't ask) and then he orders something to bump me into the free shipping zone (I don't tell him that paying for my shipping would have been cheaper than buying a new $50 camp pad).
Because of his eagerness, I was even able to snag a black coat in my size - on clearance (side note: who sells coats on clearance in November?!) - no neon green, slightly-the-wrong-size for me. My coat is on its way. I'm not going to freeze here. Thanks Dad!
--
In other news. One of my Google alerts for a client is "New Orleans" and "children" and "Katrina" - imagine the number of interesting news tidbits I get on that every day.
Today, however, I scored a good one - an interview with Jennifer Garner in Glamour, reprinted on MSNBC.com.
Most interviews with celebrities make me sick. They're either so ridiculously perfect with ridiculous, "I have no idea what the world is really like" opinions or they are ridiculously messed up. Usually I want to throw something at Jennifer Garner because she looks stunning - all the time - and lately I've taken to wearing my hair in a knot on my head - all the time - and smelling like eau de sour milk.
This time, however, I wanted to hug her. I will forever love her for this quote, in response to who she thinks is heroic:
My younger sister is my hero: She’s a mom and an accountant for the state of West Virginia. She’s able to juggle a job, kids, volunteer work and church, and she still manages to cook dinner every night without feeling bogged down. There are lots of people out there who are literally heroic, but what she does counts too.
Someone who realizes that loving, cooking, working, balancing, juggling, going slightly insane, volunteering - living life - counts. That waking up every day and working to make it a better day is something to be celebrated.
It didn't hurt that she confessed to feeling sheepish about hugging the Boston Red Sox's mascot - a giant red sock. "Why did I have to hug the sock? Just say hello like a normal person."
Sometimes I metaphorically hug a sock too - it's nice to know I'm not the only goofball.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Sheer Torture and Idiotic Statements from Well-Meaning Folks
I am still here.
By that, I mean Baby Girl is still content to remain nestled in an ever-shrinking environment in which her feet are crammed under my ribs and smooshed against my right ovary; her head pressing against muscles I've never felt before in nether regions of my body. She is her father's child - doesn't take direction, kicks you in bed, listens only long enough to make you *think* she's going to comply and responds eagerly to food.
Alas, I think she is so comfortable in there she might have to be forced to come out, which is not in the Birth Plan. I haven't given up hope, I'm still six days from my actual due date, but I am planning on attending my brother's university soccer game on Saturday - having given up hope she's going to be convenient and arrive before Labor Day weekend, just because it works out better for everyone.
Over the past week, I made the mistake of deciding that we would never be ready for Baby Girl's arrival, and so she might as well come right now. Before, I was so paranoid she'd make her grand entrance before I was ready, that I think I willed her into a state of permanent residency in utero. Once I made the decision that I could be ready, Baby Girl decided she was not ready and all contractions promptly ceased.
Now, I fidget. The nesting energy remains, but my concentration is shot. I stopped planning after last Saturday, clearing my schedule for Baby Girl from now through eternity, which means I face day upon day of empty calendar blocks staring back at me. I fidget at work - barely able to concentrate on the mundane things, let alone the two proposals sitting on my desk staring back at me. I fidget at home - wandering from room to room, driving Himself up the wall (and driving myself slowly mad). I can't concentrate to read, watch tv, scrapbook, do laundry - anything. Except cook. Himself thinks I'm trying to kill him with all the cooking - homemade apple/peach pie, french onion soup, roast with veggies and sour cream gravy, pad thai, Indian baked rice and chicken, homemade tomato garlic soup to freeze (Himself isn't a fan) - the leftovers are piling up and Himself last night finally said, "No more cooking!"
Now I really am fidgeting. I'm actually looking forward to having to water the lawn tonight - an hour where I can focus on getting the sprinklers just right to reach the dry spots.
Meanwhile, well-meaning folks have chimed in, right on cue, with what friends promised would be "ridiculous statements." The following are some of my favorites, of course, with editorial commentary following:
* "Relax and enjoy these last few weeks." (This from a pregnancy "congratulations you're 39 weeks" newsletter yesterday)
Relax?! I'm not even sleeping. I'm plagued with insomnia from all the fidgeting, not to mention that I have body parts stuffed into every available crevice. Enjoy?! Same thing. I am peeing so often I am thinking of moving the TV into the bathroom so I can at least be entertained in there. And weeks? As in plural? Oh no. They said 40 weeks. I'm almost there. That means I'm down to single-digit days. Not weeks. They have to be wrong. Please be wrong.
* "Enjoy your sleep now, you won't get any when the baby comes."
You think I'm sleeping now? Okay, I KNOW I won't be sleeping when the baby comes, but I haven't slept for the past 9 months. I'm lucky if I don't see every hour on the clock each night. Every time I move to get comfortable, Baby Girl takes the opportunity to expand into whatever new available space has appeared. Then the fidgeting. You'd think I had pregnancy-onset ADD (hmm ... maybe I'm on to something?).
* "You should take some time off before the baby comes."
Um, okay. No work = no pay. Besides that, while I AM ridiculously uncomfortable at work (some days more than others), I am a one-woman disaster at home. It's bad enough that weekends have two days - I burn out on the first day and have to recover the second. If I stayed at home this week, I'd be able to feed a small, third-world country with the food I generated. The towels would be washed again (third time in two weeks) because I would be scrubbing things again. We'd be bankrupt or own a large stock in Harmon's due to the increased grocery volume - I'm not sure which. Baby Girl's closet would be re-arranged for the third time in as many weeks. I'd walk the entire valley, giving my suddenly over-protective mother a coronary. Himself would check himself into the looney bin to escape. No, it's better I keep working.
* "Be patient. You want the baby to be done."
Done? As in fully-cooked? I'm not baking a roast here. And yes, I do want her fully developed. I didn't start being impatient until well after I hit "full-term." I can handle six more days. I can't handle weeks. In plural. I have been patient for 39 weeks - that is a record for me. Patience is a virtue, but not one I posess.
* "You'll miss being pregnant."
I will miss feeling Baby Girl move. I will miss feeling like she's all mine - that we have some sort of "all girls" secret club. But I am relatively confident that I will NOT miss being pregnant. I won't miss having a meltdown because stretchmarks and zits (the first of pregnancy) hit on the same day (39 weeks exactly - I wasn't nuts when I started willing her here LAST week) or because I've already worn the three pairs of pants that fit TWICE in the last week. I won't miss not being able to breathe. I won't miss feeling like everything is "off limits" because I am pregnant. I won't miss the not feeling good for a single 24-hour period since before Christmas.
* "You haven't had the baby YET?!"
Actually, I have. I just loved being pregnant so much I invested in a fat suit and waddle by the end of the day because I'm practicing my runway modeling spoof. Really. I know I live in a new place, but I PROMISE I don't look like this in my other life.
Yes, patience be darned, I'm never going to be any more ready than I am now or any less nervous about screwing Baby Girl up. Bring on the contractions, let's get this show on the road.
By that, I mean Baby Girl is still content to remain nestled in an ever-shrinking environment in which her feet are crammed under my ribs and smooshed against my right ovary; her head pressing against muscles I've never felt before in nether regions of my body. She is her father's child - doesn't take direction, kicks you in bed, listens only long enough to make you *think* she's going to comply and responds eagerly to food.
Alas, I think she is so comfortable in there she might have to be forced to come out, which is not in the Birth Plan. I haven't given up hope, I'm still six days from my actual due date, but I am planning on attending my brother's university soccer game on Saturday - having given up hope she's going to be convenient and arrive before Labor Day weekend, just because it works out better for everyone.
Over the past week, I made the mistake of deciding that we would never be ready for Baby Girl's arrival, and so she might as well come right now. Before, I was so paranoid she'd make her grand entrance before I was ready, that I think I willed her into a state of permanent residency in utero. Once I made the decision that I could be ready, Baby Girl decided she was not ready and all contractions promptly ceased.
Now, I fidget. The nesting energy remains, but my concentration is shot. I stopped planning after last Saturday, clearing my schedule for Baby Girl from now through eternity, which means I face day upon day of empty calendar blocks staring back at me. I fidget at work - barely able to concentrate on the mundane things, let alone the two proposals sitting on my desk staring back at me. I fidget at home - wandering from room to room, driving Himself up the wall (and driving myself slowly mad). I can't concentrate to read, watch tv, scrapbook, do laundry - anything. Except cook. Himself thinks I'm trying to kill him with all the cooking - homemade apple/peach pie, french onion soup, roast with veggies and sour cream gravy, pad thai, Indian baked rice and chicken, homemade tomato garlic soup to freeze (Himself isn't a fan) - the leftovers are piling up and Himself last night finally said, "No more cooking!"
Now I really am fidgeting. I'm actually looking forward to having to water the lawn tonight - an hour where I can focus on getting the sprinklers just right to reach the dry spots.
Meanwhile, well-meaning folks have chimed in, right on cue, with what friends promised would be "ridiculous statements." The following are some of my favorites, of course, with editorial commentary following:
* "Relax and enjoy these last few weeks." (This from a pregnancy "congratulations you're 39 weeks" newsletter yesterday)
Relax?! I'm not even sleeping. I'm plagued with insomnia from all the fidgeting, not to mention that I have body parts stuffed into every available crevice. Enjoy?! Same thing. I am peeing so often I am thinking of moving the TV into the bathroom so I can at least be entertained in there. And weeks? As in plural? Oh no. They said 40 weeks. I'm almost there. That means I'm down to single-digit days. Not weeks. They have to be wrong. Please be wrong.
* "Enjoy your sleep now, you won't get any when the baby comes."
You think I'm sleeping now? Okay, I KNOW I won't be sleeping when the baby comes, but I haven't slept for the past 9 months. I'm lucky if I don't see every hour on the clock each night. Every time I move to get comfortable, Baby Girl takes the opportunity to expand into whatever new available space has appeared. Then the fidgeting. You'd think I had pregnancy-onset ADD (hmm ... maybe I'm on to something?).
* "You should take some time off before the baby comes."
Um, okay. No work = no pay. Besides that, while I AM ridiculously uncomfortable at work (some days more than others), I am a one-woman disaster at home. It's bad enough that weekends have two days - I burn out on the first day and have to recover the second. If I stayed at home this week, I'd be able to feed a small, third-world country with the food I generated. The towels would be washed again (third time in two weeks) because I would be scrubbing things again. We'd be bankrupt or own a large stock in Harmon's due to the increased grocery volume - I'm not sure which. Baby Girl's closet would be re-arranged for the third time in as many weeks. I'd walk the entire valley, giving my suddenly over-protective mother a coronary. Himself would check himself into the looney bin to escape. No, it's better I keep working.
* "Be patient. You want the baby to be done."
Done? As in fully-cooked? I'm not baking a roast here. And yes, I do want her fully developed. I didn't start being impatient until well after I hit "full-term." I can handle six more days. I can't handle weeks. In plural. I have been patient for 39 weeks - that is a record for me. Patience is a virtue, but not one I posess.
* "You'll miss being pregnant."
I will miss feeling Baby Girl move. I will miss feeling like she's all mine - that we have some sort of "all girls" secret club. But I am relatively confident that I will NOT miss being pregnant. I won't miss having a meltdown because stretchmarks and zits (the first of pregnancy) hit on the same day (39 weeks exactly - I wasn't nuts when I started willing her here LAST week) or because I've already worn the three pairs of pants that fit TWICE in the last week. I won't miss not being able to breathe. I won't miss feeling like everything is "off limits" because I am pregnant. I won't miss the not feeling good for a single 24-hour period since before Christmas.
* "You haven't had the baby YET?!"
Actually, I have. I just loved being pregnant so much I invested in a fat suit and waddle by the end of the day because I'm practicing my runway modeling spoof. Really. I know I live in a new place, but I PROMISE I don't look like this in my other life.
Yes, patience be darned, I'm never going to be any more ready than I am now or any less nervous about screwing Baby Girl up. Bring on the contractions, let's get this show on the road.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Save Me From the Voices!
Update to Slowly Going Insane ...
The fans are staying for another 72 hours.
72 hours of torturous noise.
72 hours of hugging the monster-sized fan between my knees every time I visit the little girl's room and having to shut them all down before showering (I tried to do it without shutting them down on Saturday - VERY VERY BAD IDEA! It's like showering in a hurricane, and about as destructive).
72 hours of sharing a counter and half a sink with the "petite" fan on my bathroom counter.
72 hours of holing up in the den with Himself, where there is some form of entertainment (his computer, my scrapbooking) and the fan noise isn't so bad.
72 hours before I can clean the kitchen/bathroom and their respective floors after having nasty water spread all over them.
In 72 hours (for a total of 144 hours), I might well be insane. Either that or VERY prepared to handle a noisy, wailing infant. At least she will be cute and not have "Disaster Recovery" printed on her side.
My mind has wandered into the "Hmmm....how can we make this torture on the upstairs neighbors as well?" field. Bad, Sara, bad. I think I might be hearing voices ... Maybe the fans keep them up at night too.
The fans are staying for another 72 hours.
72 hours of torturous noise.
72 hours of hugging the monster-sized fan between my knees every time I visit the little girl's room and having to shut them all down before showering (I tried to do it without shutting them down on Saturday - VERY VERY BAD IDEA! It's like showering in a hurricane, and about as destructive).
72 hours of sharing a counter and half a sink with the "petite" fan on my bathroom counter.
72 hours of holing up in the den with Himself, where there is some form of entertainment (his computer, my scrapbooking) and the fan noise isn't so bad.
72 hours before I can clean the kitchen/bathroom and their respective floors after having nasty water spread all over them.
In 72 hours (for a total of 144 hours), I might well be insane. Either that or VERY prepared to handle a noisy, wailing infant. At least she will be cute and not have "Disaster Recovery" printed on her side.
My mind has wandered into the "Hmmm....how can we make this torture on the upstairs neighbors as well?" field. Bad, Sara, bad. I think I might be hearing voices ... Maybe the fans keep them up at night too.
Sleep is Entirely Overrated...
...Or at least that's what I'm telling myself these days.
For the past several days, I have awakened on the half hour every hour after midnight. No matter what I do prior to going to bed, I can't seem to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time.
Last night was no different. Rather, maybe it was - because I just couldn't sleep, period.
First it was Baby Girl - who has already commenced to get me to lie in bed and worry. Last night it was about her sluggish, sporadically-spaced movements (or lack of them). I even sent Himself out to buy Orange Juice at oh-dark-thirty (yes, on a Sunday), to kick-start her into hyperactive mode. (Side note: this is the FIRST time the entire pregancy where I have sent Himself to buy ANYTHING that I "must have now," so he has got off rather easily).
Himself returned with the OJ, and I retired with a book (on my left side, of course). Baby Girl, who had been drugged the night before with a Tylenol PM and worn out due to my excessive nesting, was having nothing of it. She stubbornly refused to do anything more than make her presence known with a few hiccups and two well-placed, painful kicks in the ribs.
Second, I could not get comfortable, no matter how many pillows, body parts belonging to Himself or new positions I tried. It didn't help matters when Himself, in a stupor, rolled over almost on top of me, prompting me to a state of full alert in under two seconds, at which point I muttered, "You're squishing the baby." Himself muttered something about me taking up all the bed, rolled back over and went back to sleep.
I tossed and turned (as well as one can toss and turn when feeling like a beached whale). About 3:30 a.m., I got up. I thought I should put the OJ in the fridge. Unfortunately, I had failed to put the lid on tight. I got to the end of the bed before disaster struck, dispensing OJ onto the carpet. I groaned. I got some water and a beach towel (the only thing I could find with no lights) and sat on the floor, attempting to mop up the sticky wet stain I couldn't even see. Himself slept grandly on. Finally, after the towel would absorb no more, I rattled around the Hobbit Hole, trying to decide what to do.
The darn fans made such a racket, I wanted to scream. The living room, bathroom and kitchen were out of the question. There is no comfortable furniture in Baby Girl's room (well, the rocker is comfortable, but it is full of books that need shelving) or the den, so reading was out. Finally, I settled on scrapbooking. I had set up shop yesterday afternoon when Himself and I were hiding out from the fans, so I switched on the lamp and began a two-hour scrapbooking session.
At 5:30, I decided I should try and get some sleep. I vetoed any thoughts of getting up at 6 a.m. to exercise, so I gleefully shut off the alarm and tried to sleep. Himself wiggled over to hold me. Baby Girl decided that now was a good time to reassure Mom that she was indeed alive and well in her cramped quarters. For a minute, the fans sounded a little like over zealous white noise.
I slept for an hour and ten minutes. A record!
For the past several days, I have awakened on the half hour every hour after midnight. No matter what I do prior to going to bed, I can't seem to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time.
Last night was no different. Rather, maybe it was - because I just couldn't sleep, period.
First it was Baby Girl - who has already commenced to get me to lie in bed and worry. Last night it was about her sluggish, sporadically-spaced movements (or lack of them). I even sent Himself out to buy Orange Juice at oh-dark-thirty (yes, on a Sunday), to kick-start her into hyperactive mode. (Side note: this is the FIRST time the entire pregancy where I have sent Himself to buy ANYTHING that I "must have now," so he has got off rather easily).
Himself returned with the OJ, and I retired with a book (on my left side, of course). Baby Girl, who had been drugged the night before with a Tylenol PM and worn out due to my excessive nesting, was having nothing of it. She stubbornly refused to do anything more than make her presence known with a few hiccups and two well-placed, painful kicks in the ribs.
Second, I could not get comfortable, no matter how many pillows, body parts belonging to Himself or new positions I tried. It didn't help matters when Himself, in a stupor, rolled over almost on top of me, prompting me to a state of full alert in under two seconds, at which point I muttered, "You're squishing the baby." Himself muttered something about me taking up all the bed, rolled back over and went back to sleep.
I tossed and turned (as well as one can toss and turn when feeling like a beached whale). About 3:30 a.m., I got up. I thought I should put the OJ in the fridge. Unfortunately, I had failed to put the lid on tight. I got to the end of the bed before disaster struck, dispensing OJ onto the carpet. I groaned. I got some water and a beach towel (the only thing I could find with no lights) and sat on the floor, attempting to mop up the sticky wet stain I couldn't even see. Himself slept grandly on. Finally, after the towel would absorb no more, I rattled around the Hobbit Hole, trying to decide what to do.
The darn fans made such a racket, I wanted to scream. The living room, bathroom and kitchen were out of the question. There is no comfortable furniture in Baby Girl's room (well, the rocker is comfortable, but it is full of books that need shelving) or the den, so reading was out. Finally, I settled on scrapbooking. I had set up shop yesterday afternoon when Himself and I were hiding out from the fans, so I switched on the lamp and began a two-hour scrapbooking session.
At 5:30, I decided I should try and get some sleep. I vetoed any thoughts of getting up at 6 a.m. to exercise, so I gleefully shut off the alarm and tried to sleep. Himself wiggled over to hold me. Baby Girl decided that now was a good time to reassure Mom that she was indeed alive and well in her cramped quarters. For a minute, the fans sounded a little like over zealous white noise.
I slept for an hour and ten minutes. A record!
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Slow Trip to Insanity
Anyone who knows me really well knows I cannot stand chaos or chaotic noises. I'm not sure if it's because my migraines or my anxiety are triggered by chaos, but whatever it is, it is the fastest way to put me on edge and torture me to the brink of insanity.
I absolutely cannot stand the sound of the dishwasher (run only at night or while we're at work), air conditioner (a bonus to living in the Hobbit Hole - we get the air, but don't have to listen to the actual air conditioner run), etc. Loud, reptetitive noises drive me crazy.
The Hobbit Hole is being dried out, which means there are large, industrial-sized fans in our quaint abode that have to run for 72 hours straight. Guess what kind of noise? You've got it. Guess who hardly slept last night? (Granted, our bedroom is MUCH quieter than the rest of the house, but you can still hear those monster machines working, no matter how many pillows are over your head). Guess who is trying to work on a talk for church with the constant cadence of industrial wind in the background? (Fortunately, the den also has doors, but those darn machines are just on the other side)
I can't even escape to the bathroom for peace, because I have to hug one of those monsters between my knees to use the facility.
Slowly, I am going insane, and it hasn't even been 24 hours yet.
I absolutely cannot stand the sound of the dishwasher (run only at night or while we're at work), air conditioner (a bonus to living in the Hobbit Hole - we get the air, but don't have to listen to the actual air conditioner run), etc. Loud, reptetitive noises drive me crazy.
The Hobbit Hole is being dried out, which means there are large, industrial-sized fans in our quaint abode that have to run for 72 hours straight. Guess what kind of noise? You've got it. Guess who hardly slept last night? (Granted, our bedroom is MUCH quieter than the rest of the house, but you can still hear those monster machines working, no matter how many pillows are over your head). Guess who is trying to work on a talk for church with the constant cadence of industrial wind in the background? (Fortunately, the den also has doors, but those darn machines are just on the other side)
I can't even escape to the bathroom for peace, because I have to hug one of those monsters between my knees to use the facility.
Slowly, I am going insane, and it hasn't even been 24 hours yet.
Monday, July 23, 2007
The Alpengeist Hangover Syndrome
There is a roller coaster, which I both loved and hated, at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg: The Alpengeist. It is a modern engineering marvel, one I don't want to ponder too much, because I'm pretty sure it defied all the laws of physics I ever managed to learn and a great deal that I didn't. It goes upside down and sideways and not once, after leaving the platform, do one's feet ever touch anything solid. They just dangle there, looking goofy.
I was horrified when I went four years ago and my brother suggested we go on it. I looked at him as if he'd asked me to jump off a cliff (effectively, I felt the outcome would be the same). I flatly refused. I don't like heights, feeling out of control or being scared. He went. Several times. Raved at how much fun it was. I said I would only go if the husband of the friends we were with would go, knowing he was even more terrified than I was. Somehow, his wife brainwashed him into going. He lived, therefore I had to go. I sat in the seat with trepidation and screwed my eyes shut. The ride was about the worst thing of my life, but the adrenaline rush from going in all sorts of unnatural directions with your feet flapping freely in the breeze scrambled my brain cells, and I went again.
That time, I made the mistake of opening my eyes when my brother delightedly yelled, "look!" (Temporary lapse in sanity - one should never immediately follow orders of a younger brother). I opened them realized that the sky was below me. I think I probably screamed. I definitely shut my eyes again. I rode the Alpengeist several more times, still due to the scrambled brain cells. I did not open my eyes again. I got off, for the last time feeling a bit hung over from the adrenaline rush, weary, emotionally exhausted, my heart racing and wondering if my temporary insanity would become permanent.
That post-near-death-roller-coaster experience about describes my weekend - I drug myself into work this morning, feeling rather bedragled, as if I'd just stumbled off the Alpengeist for the fourth or fifth time. Strung out, emotionally exhausted, heart racing, terrible pounding headache. Feeling hung over and out of sorts - just like after one's insides have been scrambled by ridiculous roller coasters.
It was the best of weekends. It was the worst of weekends. All rolled into one. Delightful discoveries, good friends, bonding with nature, moments of absolute frustration and hair pulling (pulling of my own hair, lest one wonders if I've descended into the netherworld of girl fights), exasperation, resignation and blessed silence - all rolled into one.
I think Monday has never looked so good.
I was horrified when I went four years ago and my brother suggested we go on it. I looked at him as if he'd asked me to jump off a cliff (effectively, I felt the outcome would be the same). I flatly refused. I don't like heights, feeling out of control or being scared. He went. Several times. Raved at how much fun it was. I said I would only go if the husband of the friends we were with would go, knowing he was even more terrified than I was. Somehow, his wife brainwashed him into going. He lived, therefore I had to go. I sat in the seat with trepidation and screwed my eyes shut. The ride was about the worst thing of my life, but the adrenaline rush from going in all sorts of unnatural directions with your feet flapping freely in the breeze scrambled my brain cells, and I went again.
That time, I made the mistake of opening my eyes when my brother delightedly yelled, "look!" (Temporary lapse in sanity - one should never immediately follow orders of a younger brother). I opened them realized that the sky was below me. I think I probably screamed. I definitely shut my eyes again. I rode the Alpengeist several more times, still due to the scrambled brain cells. I did not open my eyes again. I got off, for the last time feeling a bit hung over from the adrenaline rush, weary, emotionally exhausted, my heart racing and wondering if my temporary insanity would become permanent.
That post-near-death-roller-coaster experience about describes my weekend - I drug myself into work this morning, feeling rather bedragled, as if I'd just stumbled off the Alpengeist for the fourth or fifth time. Strung out, emotionally exhausted, heart racing, terrible pounding headache. Feeling hung over and out of sorts - just like after one's insides have been scrambled by ridiculous roller coasters.
It was the best of weekends. It was the worst of weekends. All rolled into one. Delightful discoveries, good friends, bonding with nature, moments of absolute frustration and hair pulling (pulling of my own hair, lest one wonders if I've descended into the netherworld of girl fights), exasperation, resignation and blessed silence - all rolled into one.
I think Monday has never looked so good.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Appliance Exorcism
Yesterday was a bad day.
I should just end it there - what bizarre need do I have to blog about my mostly horrible, no-good, very bad day? Yet, here I am. It only started out bad because I woke up exhausted. I should have known and just crawled back into bed, pulled the pillow over my head and waited it out. Instead, I chose to venture into the world. The morning, in all fairness, wasn't so bad (if one excuses the fact that I had to force myself to stay awake in church).
The afternoon rectified any sort of good the morning had going for it. The plan was to walk to the Hobbit Hole from church (it is two houses away, a luxury I will be reveling in until the first snow), fix lunch (frozen or boxed food - blech), start a batch of laundry and work on unboxing things until the laundry finished.
I heated up the oven (after figuring out how to operate a non-digital oven), put lunch in and went to start the laundry in my brand-new washing machine. Ten seconds into the cycle I hear, "BANG BANG RATTLE RATTLE BANG BANG" - noises that one should not ever hear from ANY washing machine, let alone one that has been out of the packing crate less than a week.
I peered in the bathroom, hoping it was somehting else. The washer looked possessed. So possessed, it frightened me and I hid.
It stopped making the horrific racket ... for about 2 minutes. Then again, "BANG BANG RATTLE RATTLE BANG BANG SILENCE." It was the silence at the end that caused me to come out of hiding. I cautiously peered around the bathroom door. The washer WAS possesed - it, an inanimate object, had managed to move itself clear out of the alcove and across the bathroom floor, blocking all hope I had of using the bathroom (which was becoming an urgent necessity). It had moved so far, it had unplugged itself (hence the eery silence). Of course, since the thing weighs 250 lbs, there was no hope of me removing it from its present location either.
I fled in a state of near hysteria. I called Himself (not generally useful in times of mechanical crisis, but used to my increasingly frequent bouts of pregnancy-induced insanity). I told him the problem, then disolved into an alarming amount of tears. That scared me - I am an angry crier, not an emotional crier. Between disgustingly undignified sniffles, I let every other thing that was wrong escape, launching into an emotional soliloquy. "I have not felt so completely an utterly helpless in recent memory. I had no idea who to call to rectify the possessed washing machine. It wasn't something I could even to attempt while pregnant. And on the subject of pregnancy - I sobbed about not being able to accomplish much at a time, because the bending/moving/up and down exhausted and pained me. I couldn't lift anything. For some reason, I'm incapable of spending a night in the Hobbit Hole alone. I am completely dependent on everyone, which meant being completely incapable of anything, since I didn't know anyone..." and so the conversation went (stopping here to avoid embarrassing myself even further).
Himself wisely suggested I call my father, who knows a thing or two about everything. Knowing he was likely already on the road back home, I still called him, starting the conversation with, "I have a huge problem."
Fortunately, they weren't on the road, they were having a late lunch at my uncle's. Dad promised arrival within the next 90 minutes (after lunch and the almost hour drive to the Hobbit Hole). Exhausted, I rescued my now overdone (but thankfully not burnt) meal from the oven, sat down to eat it and woke up an hour and a half later, having not even finished my lunch.
The parentals arrived, the washing machine was excised of any mischievious spirits (ie the shipping bolts, which we had somehow missed in the set-up, were removed), we spent an hour re-leveling the washer and dryer (we had to pull the dryer out to fix the washer) and we put the laundry on rinse and spin to finish the cycle.
Holding our breath, Dad and I sat and watched the entire 18-minute cycle, not daring to hope the washer hadn't been completely ruined. It didn't make any horrible noises, but it didn't spin very fast either, even on high spin. At the end, the lightweight clothes were completely soaked. The only good thing is the bolts wouldn't have damaged the spin, so if today's after-work washing adventure doesn't produce clothes not drenched in water, I will have to call GE to have them patiently explain why I'm an idiot and clearly am doing something wrong.
The parentals needed to begin the 4.5-hour journey home. I needed some sort of sleep to calm my frazzled nerves. Failing to accomplish anything, I left. I left the wet laundry in the washer, the lunch dishes rinsed off in the sink and fled to the Hoopty (which, to add to the bad weekend, I discovered on Saturday needed 4 new tires and new rims).
Remember the post on Friday? The one about fearing I'd become completely dependent? It's happened. Already. Less than a week into my Hobbit Hole saga and already I'm incapable of just about everything. On top of it, I am an emotionally fragile wreck. (I'm praying that the emotional part is just pregancy hormones - though one would think they would have stabilized by now).
I ended up crawling into bed early last night - too tired to face any more issues. I return to do battle with the washing machine this evening. Wish me luck.
I should just end it there - what bizarre need do I have to blog about my mostly horrible, no-good, very bad day? Yet, here I am. It only started out bad because I woke up exhausted. I should have known and just crawled back into bed, pulled the pillow over my head and waited it out. Instead, I chose to venture into the world. The morning, in all fairness, wasn't so bad (if one excuses the fact that I had to force myself to stay awake in church).
The afternoon rectified any sort of good the morning had going for it. The plan was to walk to the Hobbit Hole from church (it is two houses away, a luxury I will be reveling in until the first snow), fix lunch (frozen or boxed food - blech), start a batch of laundry and work on unboxing things until the laundry finished.
I heated up the oven (after figuring out how to operate a non-digital oven), put lunch in and went to start the laundry in my brand-new washing machine. Ten seconds into the cycle I hear, "BANG BANG RATTLE RATTLE BANG BANG" - noises that one should not ever hear from ANY washing machine, let alone one that has been out of the packing crate less than a week.
I peered in the bathroom, hoping it was somehting else. The washer looked possessed. So possessed, it frightened me and I hid.
It stopped making the horrific racket ... for about 2 minutes. Then again, "BANG BANG RATTLE RATTLE BANG BANG SILENCE." It was the silence at the end that caused me to come out of hiding. I cautiously peered around the bathroom door. The washer WAS possesed - it, an inanimate object, had managed to move itself clear out of the alcove and across the bathroom floor, blocking all hope I had of using the bathroom (which was becoming an urgent necessity). It had moved so far, it had unplugged itself (hence the eery silence). Of course, since the thing weighs 250 lbs, there was no hope of me removing it from its present location either.
I fled in a state of near hysteria. I called Himself (not generally useful in times of mechanical crisis, but used to my increasingly frequent bouts of pregnancy-induced insanity). I told him the problem, then disolved into an alarming amount of tears. That scared me - I am an angry crier, not an emotional crier. Between disgustingly undignified sniffles, I let every other thing that was wrong escape, launching into an emotional soliloquy. "I have not felt so completely an utterly helpless in recent memory. I had no idea who to call to rectify the possessed washing machine. It wasn't something I could even to attempt while pregnant. And on the subject of pregnancy - I sobbed about not being able to accomplish much at a time, because the bending/moving/up and down exhausted and pained me. I couldn't lift anything. For some reason, I'm incapable of spending a night in the Hobbit Hole alone. I am completely dependent on everyone, which meant being completely incapable of anything, since I didn't know anyone..." and so the conversation went (stopping here to avoid embarrassing myself even further).
Himself wisely suggested I call my father, who knows a thing or two about everything. Knowing he was likely already on the road back home, I still called him, starting the conversation with, "I have a huge problem."
Fortunately, they weren't on the road, they were having a late lunch at my uncle's. Dad promised arrival within the next 90 minutes (after lunch and the almost hour drive to the Hobbit Hole). Exhausted, I rescued my now overdone (but thankfully not burnt) meal from the oven, sat down to eat it and woke up an hour and a half later, having not even finished my lunch.
The parentals arrived, the washing machine was excised of any mischievious spirits (ie the shipping bolts, which we had somehow missed in the set-up, were removed), we spent an hour re-leveling the washer and dryer (we had to pull the dryer out to fix the washer) and we put the laundry on rinse and spin to finish the cycle.
Holding our breath, Dad and I sat and watched the entire 18-minute cycle, not daring to hope the washer hadn't been completely ruined. It didn't make any horrible noises, but it didn't spin very fast either, even on high spin. At the end, the lightweight clothes were completely soaked. The only good thing is the bolts wouldn't have damaged the spin, so if today's after-work washing adventure doesn't produce clothes not drenched in water, I will have to call GE to have them patiently explain why I'm an idiot and clearly am doing something wrong.
The parentals needed to begin the 4.5-hour journey home. I needed some sort of sleep to calm my frazzled nerves. Failing to accomplish anything, I left. I left the wet laundry in the washer, the lunch dishes rinsed off in the sink and fled to the Hoopty (which, to add to the bad weekend, I discovered on Saturday needed 4 new tires and new rims).
Remember the post on Friday? The one about fearing I'd become completely dependent? It's happened. Already. Less than a week into my Hobbit Hole saga and already I'm incapable of just about everything. On top of it, I am an emotionally fragile wreck. (I'm praying that the emotional part is just pregancy hormones - though one would think they would have stabilized by now).
I ended up crawling into bed early last night - too tired to face any more issues. I return to do battle with the washing machine this evening. Wish me luck.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Maybe in Another Life
In the past week, I have booked and re-booked 5 airline tickets (for three different people), two hotel rooms, three rental cars and a rental truck. In the past 10 days I have spent an iadmissable amount at the mechanic and purchased a washer and dryer (I really feel old now - I own an appliance), as well as $80 in clothes I sort of needed (maternity things, purchased now rather than later due to changed schedules), $50 in road trip food, $70 in groceries for the in-laws who don't apparently eat unless we come to visit and an as-yet-undetermined amount for a stay at a teeny little hospital in a teeny little town in what I am sure is approaching the middle of nowhere.
I have also "moved." I use the term lightly as "moving" meant flying to a new city, 2,200 miles away and going to work (after finding something moderately suitable to wear for my first day, given my collection of vacation clothes and growing belly). I have no home, I have no church congregation, I have not a clue what I'm doing at work (yet), I know almost no one.
Then I remembered that Baby Girl arrives in approximately 14 weeks. And my nearly complete "must have" list dropped to nothing, when I realized moving meant returning everything a very generous friend had loaned us.
I think that was the last straw.
I find myself completely overwhelmed, stressed, anxious, grumpy, hormonal and ready to throw my hands in the air and concede to a life of digging myself out of this grand idea.
It's no wonder. Experts say that one should, ideally (key word here), only experience one major life event at time. Well, I got to counting our life events that will occur in the span of 4 months:
-New baby
-New jobs
-Moving 2,200 miles
-Close relative diagnosed with terminal cancer
-Major financial purchase (I'm counting the washer/dryer and the car repairs - since they are combined more than I've spent on anything other than a car in my life)
Someone re-convince me this really is a good idea ...
I have also "moved." I use the term lightly as "moving" meant flying to a new city, 2,200 miles away and going to work (after finding something moderately suitable to wear for my first day, given my collection of vacation clothes and growing belly). I have no home, I have no church congregation, I have not a clue what I'm doing at work (yet), I know almost no one.
Then I remembered that Baby Girl arrives in approximately 14 weeks. And my nearly complete "must have" list dropped to nothing, when I realized moving meant returning everything a very generous friend had loaned us.
I think that was the last straw.
I find myself completely overwhelmed, stressed, anxious, grumpy, hormonal and ready to throw my hands in the air and concede to a life of digging myself out of this grand idea.
It's no wonder. Experts say that one should, ideally (key word here), only experience one major life event at time. Well, I got to counting our life events that will occur in the span of 4 months:
-New baby
-New jobs
-Moving 2,200 miles
-Close relative diagnosed with terminal cancer
-Major financial purchase (I'm counting the washer/dryer and the car repairs - since they are combined more than I've spent on anything other than a car in my life)
Someone re-convince me this really is a good idea ...
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