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Wednesday, January 29, 2014

ThurWedMonTuesFri-day

That realization that comes when you don't accurately remember what day of the week it is...that can go one of two ways.

One is the good way.  When you think it is, say, Tuesday, and it is actually Wednesday.  That is so fucking awesome.  That feeling rivals right up there with, like, the birth of my children and winning the lottery. 

One is the terrible, awful, no good, very bad way.  The day when you think it is Thursday, and it is only Wednesday.  Or worse...think it is Friday and it is only Thursday.  If it is, say, Monday and you think it is Friday...well, you should just go back to bed for the week and start anew next week cause you are surely as fucked as a rabbit in a dingo pack.

There are those weeks that go by so slowly that you are positive that you have aged about 50 years during them.  These kind of weeks I like to refer to as "punishment for every thing both me and my ancestors, and my friend's ancestors too, have done wrong".  Then there are weeks that just fly by.  Unfortunately, usually the weekends then fly by too and that leaves you with the terrible, awful, no good, very bad experience I mention above.  This experience is what I refer to as the "oh, you deserve to be happy for a minute but wait what's this you once stole a pencil top eraser when you were 8 from the quiet boy who sat next to you so now you are going to PAY!!!" work week.

The longer I work and am an adult, the more my need to be independently wealthy grows. 

The less likely it is for this to happen as well.  I mean, I am a therapist and work at a mental health agency.  As long as there is #economicviolence it is unlikely I will be independently wealthy. 

I continue to be the rabbit.  Not sure if I want to be a dingo.  Maybe Bugs Bunny, though.  That hare was HAWT.  I mean, he had some serious swag and was able to avoid the hunters.  Usually involved him dressing in drag and appropriating biblical references to mean the opposite of what they were intended to, but really I'm OK with that if it means that the days of the week lose their progressive positivity and all become wonderful, fun moments in time.

Eh, who am I kidding?  I'd be bored out of my mind within a week.  Bring on the Mondays!

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Scared

For some unknown reason, I felt it necessary today to inform Charlie that she has to go to the doctor's tomorrow for a check up.  Perhaps I have a contact high from all of the pot smokers in our chemical dependency groups at work.  Or maybe I am just finally officially  losing it.  Any parent of a child knows that you don't tell a kid when they are going to the doctor's before, oh, 20 minutes after the appointment is over.  You get the question:

Am I going to get a shot?

Now before today, this question was not one posed by Charlie.  She was still oblivious enough to life to equate doctor with shots.  Unfortunately, since I am either Satan's right hand man or the best parent ever, depending on where you fall on the whole immunization argument, the last visit to the doctor was to get her a flu shot.  So really, this was a.) a valid concern, and b.) probably age appropriate since she is starting to form memories.

Shit.  Guess I can't hide the dead bodies in front of her anymore. (Insert frownie face here.)

At any rate, I had a decision to make here.  I could choose to parent responsibly and tell her the truth.  Or I could lie through my teeth and just bribe her with lots of chocolate to get her to the office without feeling like I came out of a cage fight: bruised, battered, and emotionally broken.

I opted to be semi-responsible and told her what I know.  Or don't know, since I don't have the immunization schedule memorized.  It would take up space in my brain that I need for other important things.  Like random quotes from Monty Python and the recipe for Brandy Slush.  I have no clue if that child is going to get poked tomorrow.  I could look it up, but that will cut into important time pinning things on Pinterest that I will never attempt to make.

I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was afraid.  She had that tension about her, that uncertainty.  I took her hand and told her something that I have told all of my children:

"Tomorrow at the doctor's...I will hold your hand and when you are scared, you squeeze it and I will tell you I love you."

This was something I had picked up years ago, from some touchy-feely article about a woman who's mother used to tell her something similar.  It ended with her holding her mother's hand as she was dying of cancer and saying the same thing.  It was a lovely story about how life came full circle, etc., etc.

Don't worry; I am not dying of cancer.  Heaven doesn't want me and Hell is afraid of me.

For some reason, that sentiment has stuck with me all these years.  It is not minimizing what the other person is going through.  It is acknowledging that it sucks.  That there is precious little that can be done about it.

It offers the one thing that I can do:  Be there.  Be a physical presence.  And love you, and tell you so.

Charlie looked skeptical about this.  I could see that in her eyes too.  So simple.  Every time I squeeze?  You'll tell me you love me?  We practiced in bed tonight, her lying under the 10 (not exaggerating) blankets clutching Doggie in one arm and my hand with hers.  She would squeeze.  "I love you".  Squeeze.  "I love you."  Over and over again.  The rhythm began to soothe her.  It was something she could control.  If she choose not to squeeze, I said nothing.  It was all about her and her needs.

I told her, "Being brave does not mean you are not scared.  It means doing what you have to do."  She nodded sleepily and rolled to her side.  So trusting that it would be OK.  She had what she needed.

When do our needs start to become so complex?  How many of our hurts can be solved by a simple interaction like that?  Squeeze.  "I love you".  If only life were that simple.

For a moment, I was seriously jealous.  I want my life fixed that easily.  Squeeze.  "I love you."  Problem solved.  But why can't it be?  What stops it from being fixed that easily?  There is not much that can't be fixed, soothed, or resolved by the knowledge that I love and am loved.

It is far too easy to forget that.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Lucky

I have the craziest luck sometimes.

I decided to start out 2014 with a raging sinus infection and ear infections in both ears. This developed after spending less than 18 hours in a house with wood burning heat and no nasal spray for me to use. And also because Sjogrens disease is a fucker and dries out my respiratory tract, and 'cause the meds I am taking lower my immune system.   All of this caused a sinus infection bad enough to make one side of my nasal cavity swell almost shut and to give me ear infections that make the doc say "ew. Nasty." when she looks in my ears.  I like to do the new year up right, yo.

Back to luck. The weather gods also elected to be fuckers and yesterday dropped a shit ton of snow. I no longer have a four wheel drive vehicle cause I finally gave in to the need for a kid hauler where I can separate into different rows as needed. Great for maintaining my sanity and reducing alcohol consumption; bad for getting out of 6 inches of snow plus drifts.  Basically, I was not able to go to the doctor yesterday.

Today I called and got an appointment as we were shoveled out. I was relieved as I was about to take some Sudafed and that shit makes me feel so on edge...totally understand the whole crank but thing. I hopped into the van and out to the appointment. It was a half an hour away...but no big deal, right?  I mean if I was gonna have to go to Urgent Care that is about 30 minutes to drive, right?  Same distance?  Go to the doc, get the prescription, and swing into the drugstore on my way home. Be back in time for lunch, right?

Wrong.

I am going down a hill when the car starts to drive weird. I'm all "WTF?" And look at my gauges. Nothing wrong. Then I look up and see low air pressure. So I pull over and get out. Low air pressure my ass!  How about a completely fucking flat tire?  Now is not the time for mildly put warnings, van!  Why weren't you screaming "pull over dumbass yo tire flat!"

So I try to call AAA.  Line is busy. Ok understandable with the weather and all.  Call every other person I know who could change the tire for me. Nope. Now before you get all "why didn't you change it yourself?"  you should know it is also -3 at this time. Plus there is snow in the ground and I am a big old wuss.  Plus I am sick and all I want to do at this point was get home and take a nap.

I finally (after about 30 minutes on hold and after asking my hubby to come out) speak to someone and she says someone will be out in about an hour.  Awesome!  Charles arrives and gets to work. Even better!  I can get home and nap!  Yay!

Or not.

The spare tire won't release. Charles wiggles and jiggles. We consult and re-consult the owner's manual.  The fucking tire will not come off of whatever is holding it into the bottom of the van.

By now I am freezing and, with the urgency that only people who have given birth know, I have to pee. I get into the truck Charles brought along, but because I am a bit of an environmentalist at heart, I don't turn it on. I do get a call from AAA that says someone will be there in 15 minutes. Yay!

Thirty go by.  I call again and am given a new ETA. Apparently what my infection-riddled ears heard as 15 was actually 50.  Ok, still they should be here soon right?

Wrong.

Another hour. I call again.

The tow truck broke.the.fuck.down.

I really wish I was making this up.

By now I have to pee to the point where it is literally all I can think about. Like the panic attack I was trying to have when they told me about the tow truck breaking was overshadowed by the intense pressure on my bladder. I decide I am going to have to pee on the side of the road.

Good thing I did because it was another 2 hours before they got there. Bad thing was...I peed so long, hard, and much that it was splashing up on my jeans and I reeked of urine by the time the towing company got there.

At this point I did not even care. It is like that point after delivering a child...you have no modesty. You'd show your vagina to anyone if you thought they'd get you out of the situation you were in. When that man finally arrived, I climbed right up into his warm truck.

And cranked the heat. Screw the environment; I was cold!

Happy New Year!  Hope this is not a taste of the year to come!!!