You know when someone gives you a lecture, and it's meant to be a pep talk....to pump you up to do better....but all it does it make you feel defeated?
No?
Well that's me today. Someone that probably meant well decided I needed this talk. She is totally right by the way. Not that I needed the talk. I didn't. In fact, it was probably the last thing I needed. I'm overwhelmed enough as it is. I'm tired, and sore and buried so deep in life that I'm struggling fruitlessly to just scrape away enough to see the light ahead.
Then came this "talk".
She was right about several things that she said....not all, but several....but it didn't have the desired effect.
Now....I'm just done. Fuck it.
She meant it to fire me up to try harder and do better. I don't want to try anymore. I don't want to do any of it, let alone do it better.
We bought a house. It's a huge fixer upper. Every day I get up, get my 11 year old on the bus, then go get myself ready for work. Then I wake the baby up, feed him, change him and get him ready to go to my mother's house. Then I get my ass to work. I work as many hours as I can manage to. Then I go out to my new house and work there as much as I can without pissing off my sitter. On the weekends I have to try to find a babysitter so I can go over there and work some more.
I have barely begun to pack. We have pushed back our moving date twice now.
I have so much to do, and no time to do it, and in there somewhere I have to find time to buy groceries, cook dinner, take care of my dogs and horses and kids.
I'm completely burned out and exhausted.
Last week, my boss went on vacation. I busted my ass trying to hold together the loose ties that he left in his wake, just trying to keep things going while he was gone.
Now I get this lecture about being focused on work while I'm at work, and I just want to slap her.
I just want to say, fuck it. The house can sit there empty for as long as it takes to get it done. We can move one fucking box at a time, because that's all the time and energy I have for packing.
I'm already to the point where I can't do this anymore, and then I get a lecture.
Sigh.....I need a nap.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Monday, January 20, 2014
Misadventures in Painting
Thursday morning I threw my back out. That's a very vague concept...throwing out one's back. The specifics involve a disc that hates me and every now and then decides to get angry and cause me a lot of pain in my lower back.
It's never a good story either. The first time I injured my back I was taking off my pants. I bent down to slide my pants down my legs and couldn't stand up. The second time....I coughed. I was sick and the cough threw my upper body forward a fraction of an inch, and my back screamed at me.
This time I bent down just a little to lower my son into his exersaucer.
The pain involved in this tiny movement is amazing. What it means for me is probably a week of being unable to do much of anything. Sitting hurts. Walking hurts. I can't actually stand up totally straight. I can't bend over. I can't lift much. Getting out of bed in the morning takes several minutes....and hurts.
None of which is conducive to remodeling a house that we were planning to move into next weekend. I was sanding the floors, and meant to continue to do so this week....but that's out of the question now.
About the only thing I can actually do right now is paint. There is a lot of painting to do, so that's fine. The main priority is painting the kids' rooms so we don't have to move all of their crap around to paint after we move in.
So on Sunday I was painting my son's room. I had put two coats on the walls and it had dried. I was moving around the room taking tape off of the trim and putting new tape on the walls so I could paint the trim.
When I had started sanding the floor in his room, I removed the floor register so I could sand around it. I hadn't put it back yet because I wasn't done sanding in there.
I had put down a clear plastic drop cloth to keep the paint off the floor (I'm a horrible, messy, slob of a painter). You know where this is going now I'm sure.....
So I had walked past the 6" x 10" or so hole in the floor at least 5 times by now, and had said to myself "Don't fall in the hole...."
I'm a terrible listener.
I go to pull the tape off the trim near the closet and stepped directly in the hole in the floor. My leg instantly plummeted into the basement and stopped when my thigh got wedged in the hole about halfway to my Hoo-hah. There was this big, metallic crash as the ducting that lets heat flow into his room fell to the basement floor.
So I'm sitting there....thigh deep in a hole in the floor.....with terrible back pain. I hauled myself out of the hole and plopped my ass down on the floor. It hurt. A lot. There was sheet metal stapled inside the hole in the floor.....it's no longer there.
So I'm sitting on the floor.....crying. Crying because it hurt. Crying because my back hurts more now. Crying because I can't believe I put my foot through the register. Crying because I can't do anything else but paint this stupid room.
As if on queue.....my husband walks in.
"How's the painting going?.....Why are you on the floor? ....Are you crying?....Why are you crying?"
So I tell him the story.....his response?
"Fuck!! You mean if I'd walked down here two minutes earlier I would have witnessed that?! Damn it!!"
I will be posting the details of his funeral later.
It's never a good story either. The first time I injured my back I was taking off my pants. I bent down to slide my pants down my legs and couldn't stand up. The second time....I coughed. I was sick and the cough threw my upper body forward a fraction of an inch, and my back screamed at me.
This time I bent down just a little to lower my son into his exersaucer.
The pain involved in this tiny movement is amazing. What it means for me is probably a week of being unable to do much of anything. Sitting hurts. Walking hurts. I can't actually stand up totally straight. I can't bend over. I can't lift much. Getting out of bed in the morning takes several minutes....and hurts.
None of which is conducive to remodeling a house that we were planning to move into next weekend. I was sanding the floors, and meant to continue to do so this week....but that's out of the question now.
About the only thing I can actually do right now is paint. There is a lot of painting to do, so that's fine. The main priority is painting the kids' rooms so we don't have to move all of their crap around to paint after we move in.
So on Sunday I was painting my son's room. I had put two coats on the walls and it had dried. I was moving around the room taking tape off of the trim and putting new tape on the walls so I could paint the trim.
When I had started sanding the floor in his room, I removed the floor register so I could sand around it. I hadn't put it back yet because I wasn't done sanding in there.
I had put down a clear plastic drop cloth to keep the paint off the floor (I'm a horrible, messy, slob of a painter). You know where this is going now I'm sure.....
So I had walked past the 6" x 10" or so hole in the floor at least 5 times by now, and had said to myself "Don't fall in the hole...."
I'm a terrible listener.
I go to pull the tape off the trim near the closet and stepped directly in the hole in the floor. My leg instantly plummeted into the basement and stopped when my thigh got wedged in the hole about halfway to my Hoo-hah. There was this big, metallic crash as the ducting that lets heat flow into his room fell to the basement floor.
So I'm sitting there....thigh deep in a hole in the floor.....with terrible back pain. I hauled myself out of the hole and plopped my ass down on the floor. It hurt. A lot. There was sheet metal stapled inside the hole in the floor.....it's no longer there.
So I'm sitting on the floor.....crying. Crying because it hurt. Crying because my back hurts more now. Crying because I can't believe I put my foot through the register. Crying because I can't do anything else but paint this stupid room.
As if on queue.....my husband walks in.
"How's the painting going?.....Why are you on the floor? ....Are you crying?....Why are you crying?"
So I tell him the story.....his response?
"Fuck!! You mean if I'd walked down here two minutes earlier I would have witnessed that?! Damn it!!"
I will be posting the details of his funeral later.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
The Husband on Menstruation
Warning....Graphic Language and Gross Descriptions....
There.....warned you.
I didn't have my period for 9 months. That tends to happen when you're pregnant. It was great. Then I popped out a kid, and bled like a sacrificial bull for six fucking weeks. I'm breast feeding...which is considered a viable form of birth control. You aren't supposed to get your period...or ovulate....while you're breastfeeding. If that is how it went for you.....fuck off.
A month after I stopped bleeding all over the place from child birth, I got my fucking period. My best friend, who had a baby 9 days before I did, still hasn't had a visit from Aunt Flo and our children are 8 months old. I hate her.
I had a bilateral tubal ligation (tubes tied) the day after my son was born. If that right there doesn't tell you how fantastic my pregnancy was.....
I had been on birth control my whole life. Or at least I'd been forgetting to take my birth control my whole life anyway. Regardless of the frequency of the stuff, I was doped up on artificial hormones more often than not for the last 15 years or so.
Armed with my fancy new tubal ligation, I no longer need to take pills to keep from having any more darling little pooping, crying, snotting love muffins. So.....my first few periods after the boy was born were.....interesting. Apparently those hormones were all that was keeping my uterus from hemorrhaging all over the place. Like dying Niagara Falls red. And I wasn't expecting it. My cycle had always been pretty consistent. So when I was changing feminine hygiene products every two hours, I was a little taken aback. I didn't throw out the paper pillows they call pads at the hospital...thank god.
My husband has a dickhead's view of a woman's menstruation. It is definitely brought on by Satan, and should be avoided at all costs. Which is ironic, as he definitely gets his period more often than I do.
Earlier this week, I got my period overnight. These are the events that followed:
My husband brought the baby in our bed around 7:00am, waking me up.
I had to pee.
I announced that I had to pee so that Husband was aware it was his job to keep the baby alive.
I went into the bathroom and discovered that I had made a bit of a mess.
I finished my business and stripped off my now stained pajamas and jumped in the shower.
My dear husband walked into the bathroom, holding the baby, just as I had stepped out of the shower and was drying off.
Husband: "I thought you were just going to the bathroom?"
Me: "I bled all over myself."
Husband: "I know....you got it on the bed."
Me: "Oh, well if you knew.....ugh...never mind...I will take care of that in a minute."
Husband: "Well hurry up, I have stuff to do."
Me: "....................."
Me: "Honey, what would you do if I got blood on you?"
Husband: "Probably die."
Me: "And then immediately shower to wash it off of you."
Husband: "No, I think I would burn my skin off instead."
Me: "Ok well....fuck off...I'll be out in a minute."
He means it. He thinks it's battery acid and would kill him on contact. If I didn't have better things to do I would chase him around the house with a used tampon. I imagine it would sound a lot like Goofy falling off a cliff.
Picture Courtesy of Red Wombat Studio
There.....warned you.
I didn't have my period for 9 months. That tends to happen when you're pregnant. It was great. Then I popped out a kid, and bled like a sacrificial bull for six fucking weeks. I'm breast feeding...which is considered a viable form of birth control. You aren't supposed to get your period...or ovulate....while you're breastfeeding. If that is how it went for you.....fuck off.
A month after I stopped bleeding all over the place from child birth, I got my fucking period. My best friend, who had a baby 9 days before I did, still hasn't had a visit from Aunt Flo and our children are 8 months old. I hate her.
I had a bilateral tubal ligation (tubes tied) the day after my son was born. If that right there doesn't tell you how fantastic my pregnancy was.....
I had been on birth control my whole life. Or at least I'd been forgetting to take my birth control my whole life anyway. Regardless of the frequency of the stuff, I was doped up on artificial hormones more often than not for the last 15 years or so.
Armed with my fancy new tubal ligation, I no longer need to take pills to keep from having any more darling little pooping, crying, snotting love muffins. So.....my first few periods after the boy was born were.....interesting. Apparently those hormones were all that was keeping my uterus from hemorrhaging all over the place. Like dying Niagara Falls red. And I wasn't expecting it. My cycle had always been pretty consistent. So when I was changing feminine hygiene products every two hours, I was a little taken aback. I didn't throw out the paper pillows they call pads at the hospital...thank god.
My husband has a dickhead's view of a woman's menstruation. It is definitely brought on by Satan, and should be avoided at all costs. Which is ironic, as he definitely gets his period more often than I do.
Earlier this week, I got my period overnight. These are the events that followed:
My husband brought the baby in our bed around 7:00am, waking me up.
I had to pee.
I announced that I had to pee so that Husband was aware it was his job to keep the baby alive.
I went into the bathroom and discovered that I had made a bit of a mess.
I finished my business and stripped off my now stained pajamas and jumped in the shower.
My dear husband walked into the bathroom, holding the baby, just as I had stepped out of the shower and was drying off.
Husband: "I thought you were just going to the bathroom?"
Me: "I bled all over myself."
Husband: "I know....you got it on the bed."
Me: "Oh, well if you knew.....ugh...never mind...I will take care of that in a minute."
Husband: "Well hurry up, I have stuff to do."
Me: "....................."
Me: "Honey, what would you do if I got blood on you?"
Husband: "Probably die."
Me: "And then immediately shower to wash it off of you."
Husband: "No, I think I would burn my skin off instead."
Me: "Ok well....fuck off...I'll be out in a minute."
He means it. He thinks it's battery acid and would kill him on contact. If I didn't have better things to do I would chase him around the house with a used tampon. I imagine it would sound a lot like Goofy falling off a cliff.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Shit My Kid Says....Part Deux
"Mom....My boobs hurt."
Yeah....I bet they do....you little.....
My daughter is 11, and officially hitting puberty. It started about a year ago. Well, to be fair, it probably started 2 years ago when I noticed that the 10 year old should probably start wearing training bras. You see....she's a little husky. I was too. At 10 I totally had little fat girl boobs, and to this day I curse my mother for not slapping a bra on me. I absolutely blame her for my less than perky state.
So she has been wearing a bra for a couple of years now. She has been getting progressively bitchier for about a year. To the point where, I swear, if she opens her mouth again I'm going to duct tape it closed...and throw her in her room until she comes to terms with her hormones in about 5 years.
I was a wretched teenager. I can't believe that my mother let me live. I used to blat that my mother was abusive when I was a teenager. Now, I see that she was the absolute image of self control. I deserved every one of those swats she gave me for being a wretched bitch. (Except maybe one.....oh ok, all of them.)
My daughter is going to be every bit as bad as I was....perhaps worse. She and I already have an antagonistic relationship. We are so alike that we butt heads constantly. I can't let it go and neither can she. Now that there are hormones involved, and my patience is already thin because I have a fucking teenager and an almost toddler at the same time, I might have to pack her off to boarding school for her health.
About 6 months ago, she and I were at the doctor's office. It was a hot day, and she was wearing a sleeveless shirt. She lifted up her arm to fix her pony tail....and the bush of hair that peeked out from her armpit was right in my face.
I said "Honey....when we get home I'm going to teach you how to shave your armpits."
This lesson was interesting...and came with a threat to her life if I caught her shaving her legs, and a warning that if she shaved that little blond peach fuzz on her upper lip she would end up looking like her Aunt Sybil.
Tangent: My mother never taught me these things. I didn't even know arm pits should be shaved until I was about 13 and a teenage boy (go ahead a cringe...it's ok) commented on my hairy state. He wasn't discreet about it. (Ewww! Shave your pits!!) The first time I shaved my legs....on my own, with no instruction....I did it with my dad's razor and sliced my legs to ribbons, followed by the worst razor burn known to woman kind.
When she started crying for no reason 2 months ago, I showed her where to find the panty liners and sent her teacher a warning email.
Last week, she says to me......you know what, never mind. It involved her unmentionables, and funny as it was, I still don't feel right talking about her lady parts on the Internet.
The point being that the arm pits weren't alone.
So when she told me last night that her boobs hurt......I showed her where the panty liners were again.
We live with my husband (who is not her father) and a male roommate. God forbid the poor girl have to ask my husband what to do if she gets her aunt flo while I'm not home. Poor girl. Poor, poor Husband. He can't even tolerate the fact that I bleed regularly (an entire post devoted to this will be published tomorrow)....I don't think he would handle that conversation well.
So I'm just sitting back, waiting to teach her how to remove blood stains from sheets and underwear. It's going to be any second now. In a text book somewhere on pre-menstrual teenagers is a picture of my daughter.....any time now. I wonder if it was that obvious with me.
Yeah....I bet they do....you little.....
My daughter is 11, and officially hitting puberty. It started about a year ago. Well, to be fair, it probably started 2 years ago when I noticed that the 10 year old should probably start wearing training bras. You see....she's a little husky. I was too. At 10 I totally had little fat girl boobs, and to this day I curse my mother for not slapping a bra on me. I absolutely blame her for my less than perky state.
So she has been wearing a bra for a couple of years now. She has been getting progressively bitchier for about a year. To the point where, I swear, if she opens her mouth again I'm going to duct tape it closed...and throw her in her room until she comes to terms with her hormones in about 5 years.
I was a wretched teenager. I can't believe that my mother let me live. I used to blat that my mother was abusive when I was a teenager. Now, I see that she was the absolute image of self control. I deserved every one of those swats she gave me for being a wretched bitch. (Except maybe one.....oh ok, all of them.)
My daughter is going to be every bit as bad as I was....perhaps worse. She and I already have an antagonistic relationship. We are so alike that we butt heads constantly. I can't let it go and neither can she. Now that there are hormones involved, and my patience is already thin because I have a fucking teenager and an almost toddler at the same time, I might have to pack her off to boarding school for her health.
About 6 months ago, she and I were at the doctor's office. It was a hot day, and she was wearing a sleeveless shirt. She lifted up her arm to fix her pony tail....and the bush of hair that peeked out from her armpit was right in my face.
I said "Honey....when we get home I'm going to teach you how to shave your armpits."
This lesson was interesting...and came with a threat to her life if I caught her shaving her legs, and a warning that if she shaved that little blond peach fuzz on her upper lip she would end up looking like her Aunt Sybil.
Tangent: My mother never taught me these things. I didn't even know arm pits should be shaved until I was about 13 and a teenage boy (go ahead a cringe...it's ok) commented on my hairy state. He wasn't discreet about it. (Ewww! Shave your pits!!) The first time I shaved my legs....on my own, with no instruction....I did it with my dad's razor and sliced my legs to ribbons, followed by the worst razor burn known to woman kind.
When she started crying for no reason 2 months ago, I showed her where to find the panty liners and sent her teacher a warning email.
Last week, she says to me......you know what, never mind. It involved her unmentionables, and funny as it was, I still don't feel right talking about her lady parts on the Internet.
The point being that the arm pits weren't alone.
So when she told me last night that her boobs hurt......I showed her where the panty liners were again.
We live with my husband (who is not her father) and a male roommate. God forbid the poor girl have to ask my husband what to do if she gets her aunt flo while I'm not home. Poor girl. Poor, poor Husband. He can't even tolerate the fact that I bleed regularly (an entire post devoted to this will be published tomorrow)....I don't think he would handle that conversation well.
So I'm just sitting back, waiting to teach her how to remove blood stains from sheets and underwear. It's going to be any second now. In a text book somewhere on pre-menstrual teenagers is a picture of my daughter.....any time now. I wonder if it was that obvious with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
