#100

I can’t see today. I don’t live in today. I live in a perpetual tomorrow, spinning through my life so fast that I rarely see where I am and only where I am going. Worry rushes at me like waves of a tsunami and it seems if I just go fast enough, I can beat it. Get there first? I don’t know.

The medicine seems to be helping. I am, more subdued, maybe. The worry doesn’t keep my heart in my throat right now, and I can sort of stand still if I really think about it.

I still talk too much, and I think most of that is my personality and nothing can be done about it unless I’m shot with a dart gun or comatose. It is just what I do. Words spill from my mouth, anything I see, anything I think, anything I’m reminded of – shared with anyone, everyone that will listen. It isn’t that I like the attention, because I would prefer to sit in front of this monitor and let the internet buffer my words for all of you to read. I would be perfectly happy with sharing with the thousands of you who don’t see me, but – alas, at work I can not run off to the internet to share anything, everything I think so I try my best and control what I can and share with, oh, almost everyone. It is hard because no one wants to be a chatty-cathy. I just like people – I put myself out there to a fault. I want to be your friend. I want to be everyone’s friend, and sometimes I just am friends, even if another person isn’t friends back. I realize most of them don’t really like me – save a few friends from my job at the domestic violence shelter; I never get invited places, included, asked out, called. I sort of divide my acquaintances into people who enjoy me/people who don’t mind me so much/ people who I annoy. It works out that way and so, for the most part, around the latter two I can control myself… kind of. I used to be mostly silent, but then decided that I am who I am. I accept you for who you are. I love you for who you are. And if you can’t love me back, shame on you.

I bought this ring for myself, from this amazing jewelry designer on Etsy.

“Exuberance is beauty.” – William Blake

The inscription wraps around my finger, as a gift and a reminder to myself, not too worry so much about my acceptance from others. I’m okay.

Growth Spurt

It is unreal the mounds of baby clothes I am shoving away into totes in the garage because I can no longer shove Violet’s chubby little hams into them. I go into the closet to grab a nightgown or a dress that she hasn’t worn yet, and I think, Oh no that is way to BIG for my baby, but alas – it fits. A few items were transfered directly from closet to tote with tags still attached.

I have to admit I am a little mortified at how quickly time is going by. My tiny little girl is emerging into a real baby with a true personality. She is sweet, silly, and easy going with a fierce temper – and it looks like she will be an independent one. The minutes are just flying by and I can’t help but wanting to put everything on hold and just bask in this wonderful time in our lives.

***

My mom called me the other day to tell me she was eating at a restaurant in Dallas and thought she saw my ex, but he looked so different. I had her describe him to me. Long dark hair, hat, tattoos. Yup, that was him. He was eating with a couple, probably his younger brother and his wife.

“Do you think it would be inappropriate for me to go talk to him?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Please don’t Just leave him alone. He could be with a girl or something.”

“Ok, I will then. I will call you right back.”

I sat there mortified for a good ten minutes until I got a text message that said. YUP IT’S HIM WILL CALL IN TEN MINUTES. He gave my mom directions to her conference, and was – as usual – friendly and polite. Funny how moments like that make me want to know what is going on in his life. I should call. We are friends on Facebook, I should message him. But, I won’t.

What would you do?

Two down…. one to go

In the past few days I have accomplished two feats that I am most afraid of, and on Sunday I will accomplish the third (mind you the plane doesn’t plummet to the earth). Yesterday was the psychiatrist and today was the dentist. I’ll start with the latter first.

My family had this dentist, Dr. White, that everyone had gone to for umpteen billion years. It was like a big deal for my Grandparents to take me to the family dentist. By, the time it was my turn to go the guy was like ninety years old and had curly gray hour sprouting from random places on his face. I was eight. The whole office reeked of stuffiness and white collar Houston from the moment you opened the mustard yellow door which was certainly stylish in, I don’t know, 1973. Anyway, I was sitting in the chair with my grandfather proudly beaming at us both from the chair in the corner – cause, like I said it was a BIG DEAL to take their granddaughter to the family dentist. Dr. White said I needed a baby tooth pulled, but at my pleading he promised PROMISED PROMISED to TELL me before he ripped my tooth out. He reaches in my mouth to do something and instead yanks my tooth from my gums. And I bit him. I BIT the family dentist. I bit the family dentist. My Pop-Pot was mortified, the dentist was angry, and I felt betrayed. He promised and I trusted him, and I was appalled that my family couldn’t understand. And now, I hate hate hate dentists. My bio-mom once dated a dentist, a wealthy snobbish guy who made funny noises when he peed. I hated him too. And today I went to the dentist. I had to, I had a cavity. I keep my teeth very clean for the sole reason that I don’t want to go to the dentist, but alas- number eighteen got away from me and I had to go get it filled. And geez, it wasn’t so bad. And I totally made it out of there without biting anybody.

Number two, which was yesterday – was the psychiatrist who said 1. I am not crazy. 2. He doesn’t know what is wrong with me, yet. 3. Here are some meds to slow you down. The meds should keep my mind from running a roller coaster at all hours, and have very few risks or side affects. Score. And thanks to those who were thinking of me.

***

In other news, I leave for Guatemala early, early early Sunday morning. I am doing my best to get the house in order for my week long absence. My sister leaves for Texas the morning I return. School starts that next Monday for her. She has been here for over three months, and I am both dreading and looking forward to this change. I love my sister, and will miss her dearly. But, there is this chasm of tension between us right now mostly related to her unhealthy relationship with her friend, L. She seems to want to be home to be with L and L’s son, and I resent feeling as though she just doesn’t want to be here ALL THE TIME. I don’t think there is really anything I can do or say about it, I just hope in time she makes new friends/moves on, and things can be back to normal. She is a wonderful aunt to my daughter and is a good person all around and I will miss her set of hands and her presence in my home.

All I got

The blinking cursor is all I got right now.  No, really – I can’t catch one thought long enough to type it into the screen.

Tomorrow is my much anticipated doctor’s appointment.  I feel the need to prove to them that I am indeed crazy enough to warrant a decent supportive intervention plan.  And meds.  I honestly feel like my downfall in the past has been cruising on in there without claw marks on my face or wrapped in a straight jacket – it’s like I am too high functioning to be crazy. 

I spent the afternoon feeling restless and guilty for being restless, and holding the baby, and feeling guilty while holding the baby and being restless. 

I think I just lost myself on that last one.

Comic

I am now down not only too my pre-pregnancy weight but maybe a little lower.  And I can wear those jeans, you know those jeans – small jeans that you have that fit, but only like on a good day, all the time.  I don’t know whether I have an issue with not having something to work for or what the hell my problem is, but since I buttoned those jeans I have been eating Carmel Hershey Kisses for breakfast, and macaroni and cheese, and Hershey Nuggets, and tiramisu icecream, AND Mint Chocolate cookie ice cream because I mean, come on, how can you eat JUST ONE.  I don’t know what it is – maybe it’s that I feel the need to sabatoge my hard work, maybe it is that I am convinced convinced convinced my plane to Guatemala is going to crash so might as well eat ALL my favorites like my last meal kinda shit, or maybe it is that there is no good honest advice about sex after childbirth on the internet.

There isn’t.  I don’t know I think that might be the culprit.

It’s like people scoot around all the really important questions.  I should take my time.  NO SHIT.  I should realize it will feel different.  NO SHIT.  But, I mean the nitty gritty of doing the do after baby – someone throw me a freaking bone here.  Is this like the unmentionalbe of the blogging kingdom.  Are there limits to what we can discuss?

I mean really folks, cause my husband’s penis has threatened to move on out of there in protest and start up a stand up comedy routine to deal with the pain. 

He totally said that.  Not me.

Stuff

I go through these periods every once in awhile when I get preoccupied with stuff.  Not brands, or clothes, or popular things – but little trinkets, odds and ends, or sentimental letters and words.  I will obsessively search for and collect dozens of cards for my husband, or socks and bows for my daughter, drawer pulls, nail caps for the cats paws, all sorts of odds and ends.  I will spend hours on Etsy, or eBay, in thrift-shops, and garage sales, and in resale stores.  I normally restrain myself pretty well, and might pick up one or two items, and then the phase goes as fast as it comes in.  And then I spend weeks going through all the stuff I HAD to accommodate all the stuff I just GOT.  I could never be a minimalist.  Occasionally I like minimalist designs or minamalist clothes, but mostly because it is so easy to pair those items with other stuff.  And in college, I dated a guy that only had two pieces of furniture in his room.  He was always throwing away things and kept a very minimalnumber of possessions.  And I was always buying him stuff because I just felt so empty and naked when I was over there.  I would lay awake in the vast expanse that was his bedroom, with his mattress on the floor and his desk – nothing else save a toilet seat attached to a wall, and I just felt so…. alone.  I like to be surrounded by little things that make me feel happy and good.  Funny pictures, art, my favorite photographs, trivets I have picked up in odd places, a coin I bought that used to belong to an old whore house.  You know, stuff like that.  Maybe it is wrong, but it makes me feel cozy and happy and reminded of things I enjoy.  I am in the middle of a stuff phase.

***

One of my dearest friends is eighteen weeks pregnant, and she just found it she is carrying a girl.  She had really been hoping for a boy, and I was trying to explain to her how wonderful having a girl is.  How sweet they are, what it feels like when she smiles and grins and starts to laugh.  I wanted to explain that no matter what your preconceived notions are that when they plop that slippery baby on your tummy after birth that it all goes out the window.  I tried to explain that feeling to her, the complete contentment.  But, I couldn’t.  There are no words.  I just can’t wait until her sweet baby girl is born and she calls me and she knows too.  I am so excited for that day!

 

Madcap #2

Sometimes life is simultaneously too busy and yet too boring to have anything significant to say.  My mind is still running at warp speed and I am trying to make it to the 12th with it one piece.  Somehow I ended up working 56 hours this week.  Brutal.  And this week the baby started joining me at work.  I give the first day an A-.  Not too shabby.

In other random and insignificant news:

HUSBAND LENDS A HAND: Edition 1

The husband has been trying to help me out around the house.  Yesterday when he took Violet’s diaper off and SHE peed on our bed, he stripped the sheets and left them in a pile in the hall.  He also volunteered to cook dinner.  Here is our burned chicken.  He ALSO picked me flowers, and left them in by the bed.

THE KITTY KINGDOM: EDITION I

The three legged cat checking out his new tree house.  I was a little apprehensive getting this because I didn’t know if it was too difficult for his handicapped.  But, he triumphed and is now KING of the tree house.

I AM A NERD: EDITION 9079872938

Here she is modeling her new bib/cape.  This is right before we spun her around the house shrieking SUPER BABY at the top of our lungs.

What are YOU guys doing this weekend?

Social Dork

THE BABY SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT!

REPEAT: THE BABY SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT.

Yes, that is what I said.  I should say it again for clarification : THE BABY SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT.

And I didn’t sleep at all, since I was convinced something MUST be wrong and spent most of the night hovered over her peacefully sleeping body.

Today reminded me of how socially inept I am.  I talk too much, say too little.  It is like my mouth opens and a jumbled pile of words falls out.  Then I spend the remainder of the day thinking about what I said over and over and over again.  Like, HELLO???? WHO does this?

cat piss in my sheets

I collect pets. It’s what I do. They are time consuming and expensive, and a pain in my rump, but I love them. So I do it. And I keep collecting them. Because that’s what collectors do, right?

Last night a furry, whisker wearing, meowing member of my collection PISSED on my bed. Three giant circles of cat urine ON MY BED. The same bed I SLEEP IN. That’s it. Puking is acceptable, peeing on a wet towel hastily thrown on the floor might be overlooked, scratching the same corner of my favorite chair over and over and over again will get you a kitty time out. But PISSING ON MY BED?!?! GAME OVER!

The problem is discovering the culprit, since there are four whiskered critters under my roof.

Boudreaux? It’s possible, although I have never caught him peeing in the house before though.

Morris? Not likely, he is too scared to pee on my bed.

Wyatt? Not likely, they poor three legged guy has a hard enough time getting into chairs.

Fritz? Very likely. But, still not sure.

Until the guily part is discovered, three of said suspects are living in the garage – the three legged cat might die should I inflict this punishment, so he is granted a reprieve and is confined to the guest bathroom.

After the pee stained bedding was succesfully packed into the washing machine I sat holding Violet, I may or may not have been watching Britney Spears: The Price of Fame, and this rotten smell kept wafting in the air and catching me off guard. It wasn’t the couch cushions, it wasn’t the diaper, and yet it seemed to be coming from the baby. In the fold inside the bigger fold in her neck was a nasty smelly festering yeast infection. IN MY BABIES NECK. This whole parenting thing = TOTAL F’ING NOSE DIVE INTO THE MOUNTAIN. I am sure when they passed the baby into our car at the hospital curb they expected us to take care of this kind of thing. My God there is stuff GROWING on her.

So I gave her a bath, and then ate the whole bag of croutons I made yesterday.

the almighty internet magic eight ball

The other day a ‘friend request’ popped up on Facebook from a former lover/boyfriend/friend from my youth. A person who I lost touch with several years ago, and I honestly didn’t think would ever want to connect with me again. So, there it is, sandwiched in a list with an old high school friend and college roommate, his name staring ominously from the screen. Friends? Sure.

Not many of my googling obsessions have established Facebook accounts, MySpace profiles, blogs, or Flickr albums; accounts that would allow me to glance into their lives like a US Weekly. For the most part, the internet magic eight ball has revealed very little, except for my younger BROTHER’s MySpace account where he has added two YEARS to his age.  (My younger brother and his sudden anguished youth phase is an entirely different post).

Until now the only person I had ever obsessively searched for was a girl from junior high, LaShonda, who repeatedly chanted “Fat Katie” at me in the junior high locker rooms and threatened to pull down my pants in the cafeteria. I am not sure what prompted the incidents, I just remember my mother teaching me how to punch and put someone in a headlock in the backyard. Then she ran through scenarios with me that ended with me saying “Oh yeah – I will show you,” and “Don’t pick on me.” (Seriously – whose mother does this???) When she picked me up from school the next day, she pulled me down the hall and made me CONFRONT THE GIRL. Then told her, in front of the entire EIGHTH GRADE, that I could defend myself. Thanks Mom. LaShonda never bothered me again – but she sure as hell wasn’t afraid of me. She was afraid of my mom. For the life of me I can’t figure out how my mother got three very non-confrontational, non-aggressive daughters when she was the scary parent yelling at me to push people on the soccer field.

Sorry, I digress.

Last night, after choosing to “accept” my old friend into my online network, I typed LaShonda’s name into the FIND FRIENDS field and hit search, and finally, there she was, once again glaring at me, this time from my Magitronic computer screen. A Facebook profile, conveniently left ‘public’, with a curvy petite girl with silver hoop earrings and a grimace. Turns out she lives in Houston and works at a call center. I clicked through the pictures of her posing on a car, with friends, at a restaurant, and I had to fight back the desire to leave an anonymous yet menacing message on her ‘wall’. Something about lobbing her face off, or drenching her in stinky eggs would have been appropriate. I can hold a grudge like nobody’s business.

While relaying the LaShonda incident to an old junior high friend we got to talking about googling her exes. I have to admit I had never tried it, but decided to get right on it and was grossly disappointed. First, I am friends with two of them – so that seems pointless. Two, the other one is seriously much too dense to use the internet and his name is so common it would probably illicit a million and one hits and it is even more likely he probably has number attached to the back end of it because he is in jail for drinking and driving, poaching, public intoxication, assault, evading arrest, or some other heinous crime that the idiot would and HAS committed.

So then I did it.

JACKPOT!

I had the picture posted, but decided it was too tacky. And took it off.

THEN I added it again, because hell – this is MY blog and I can be tacky if I want to. It’s all about self expression right, and maybe my expression is a little tacky.

(And if you think I am too tacky, then shoot me an email and let me explain that this guy caused me to need corrective dentistry. And let me also tell you that he used a portion of my college fund to fund his nicotine addiction, and let me tell you that he repeatedly slept with other people, and if you emailed me I might also mention that I will forever be self conscious about my legs, and my chest, and my tummy, and my thighs because of this man. I deserve to be tacky. Maybe not so bitter though.)

It’s his flipping mug shot! And there were THREE OTHERS! He has a whole rap sheet of complaints. I am embarrassed to say I don’t feel sorry for the guy one stinking bit and have a sick sense of satisfaction from this entire discovery.

Anyway, who do you Google? And have you ever topped MY discovery?

P.S. Would it be unethical for me to post this on hot or not? Just curious.