Baking bread, singing sad songs and crying. I may be a mess over here, but I just ate some hot, fresh bread so I'm ready to handle my errands now.
Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
Saturday, November 17, 2012
I'll get right on that.
See!?! Here it is, 6:30 am. Does the VA have jobs where people can work from home? Or what about just a job with a changing schedule? I know that this daily monotony is helpful for the diabetes, but I miss my school schedule when most time was mine and everything changed every few months. Of course, being a student meant being broke and raking in debt, but how awesome was it to get a spring break? I want to go to school for a living, have an interesting schedule that changes often, but keep my VA pay and benefits. If somebody could get that going for me, I'd really appreciate it. While you're at it, I'd like a million dollars. And a house just outside of town that has bay windows and secret passageways. And a goat. I've always wanted a goat.
At work, towards the end of a phone call, I'll ask the person if there is anything else they need. Some folks respond with, "The winning numbers to the lottery, heh heh heh!" I used to laugh and say me too, but now I just say "Ok, I'll get right on that," all serious like it's a med refill.
I feel like I should stay in this job for at least a year before reaching for something more difficult, but the daily grind is an accurate description. I'm sure the recent changes aren't helping my outlook. I wanted this job for many reasons, but a big part was providing stability for Ant. Now it's just for me, and we know how good I am at putting myself first. I am probably just expressing anger and grief from that loss in all areas of my life.
Chris's dad called last night to check on me and to offer an ear anytime I need one. :) He said the same thing many others have: that Chris will likely be helped more by me not helping, that he needs to see me taking care of my own needs. That is very hard, especially with Ant in the picture. Chris's dad reiterated how much he appreciates me- as the entire family often does- but encouraged me to protect my peace of mind by not handing Chris everything he asks for. Now that there is a separation between us, I see how I was unable to withstand the pressure. I don't really have to resist him now, because he recognizes what he was doing before and either doesn't ask or retracts the request. We are both trying to stand on our own.
Why does that make me cry?
Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
Friday, November 16, 2012
Nobody likes a super clean house, anyway.
Now that I've made a mess, it's time to kick back and watch a movie.
I can't believe it's already 9. I checked several errands off my to do list, then came home and started working on my desk and bookshelf and excess binder nonsense. I was doing well until I opened the file box full of old, old things. I have a huge pile of paper to shred. I was talking to Dad and he was giggling at memories of me helping him organize when I was always such a messy kid. Yes, well, as you can see, I am still a fan of yanking everything out first. There is plenty to do tomorrow, but I'm already ready for bed, so I'll be up at 6:30. Ugh. Stupid weekday schedule.
Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
Now you can have that conversation with Dad, Tracy.
When I was somewhere around 13, somewhere around when spending every other weekend at Dad's had almost become routine- because we were still on Donaldson and Dad was in Hamilton- I was reminded on a Friday evening that it was a Dad weekend and I had moments to pack. I was mad and I was sure that the schedule was wrong- weren't we just there last weekend? I didn't want to go, but it had less to do with Dad than the upheaval. I decided to take my dollhouse furniture along and while Dad was certainly waiting downstairs- I didn't know or care- I threw miniatures from the dollhouse into a box.
I threw each item into the box: things I loved, things I liked to look at set up in their little rooms, exact, perfect. Some things I had even made: a length of yarn coiled in dried glue was a braided rug; a straightened paper clip woven through two long strips of fabric made curtains. I threw them all one by one from the rooms where they belonged into a box to take with me to Dad's. It was ridiculous to take all these miniatures on a weekend trip- and I knew it- but I did not care. I didn't toss them into the box, but hurled them. And then, of course, something broke.
It was the tall gumball machine. Suddenly there were tons of tiny, multi-colored balls and bits of broken glass scattered all over the box and its contents. An instant, freezing combination of Why did you do that? and What now? Standing still, staring at the box, wishing hard for one moment earlier, wishing to go back a lot further than that...
...a moment of only breath...
...then continuing to fill the box. Still throwing things in, but lightly, filling in the empty spaces. I put the lid on and went to Dad's.
Later, after Little Caesar's or driving Tracy to ballet or whatever we did, I unpacked my box of dollhouse furniture on Dad's coffee table. I set up the rooms with no house, just furniture arranged on an imaginary floor plan. I shook off the tiny gumballs into the box until everything was out and I carefully threw out the glass.
Then I looked at this pile of tiny beads in the bottom of the box: this confetti, these sprinkles, and got an idea. I had clay, I don't remember why, and I found some little shallow clear plastic lids from something and turned them upside down. I made tiny donuts and topped them with multi-colored sprinkles. Then I made skinny roped pretzels and dotted them with the white ones to look like salt, and I showed off my tiny trays of food and felt proud.
Now it's at least 20 years later and I finally understand why I loved my dollhouse so much at an age when I should have outgrown it. I think about the work my dad put into that dollhouse: he fixed the porch and put in real tile, linoleum, and carpet; he cut doors between the rooms so the people who lived there didn't have to risk their lives by climbing out around the edge of the wall. I think about how I never did know where that gumball machine belonged. Mostly, though, I think that I am an optimist.
I threw each item into the box: things I loved, things I liked to look at set up in their little rooms, exact, perfect. Some things I had even made: a length of yarn coiled in dried glue was a braided rug; a straightened paper clip woven through two long strips of fabric made curtains. I threw them all one by one from the rooms where they belonged into a box to take with me to Dad's. It was ridiculous to take all these miniatures on a weekend trip- and I knew it- but I did not care. I didn't toss them into the box, but hurled them. And then, of course, something broke.
It was the tall gumball machine. Suddenly there were tons of tiny, multi-colored balls and bits of broken glass scattered all over the box and its contents. An instant, freezing combination of Why did you do that? and What now? Standing still, staring at the box, wishing hard for one moment earlier, wishing to go back a lot further than that...
...a moment of only breath...
...then continuing to fill the box. Still throwing things in, but lightly, filling in the empty spaces. I put the lid on and went to Dad's.
Later, after Little Caesar's or driving Tracy to ballet or whatever we did, I unpacked my box of dollhouse furniture on Dad's coffee table. I set up the rooms with no house, just furniture arranged on an imaginary floor plan. I shook off the tiny gumballs into the box until everything was out and I carefully threw out the glass.
Then I looked at this pile of tiny beads in the bottom of the box: this confetti, these sprinkles, and got an idea. I had clay, I don't remember why, and I found some little shallow clear plastic lids from something and turned them upside down. I made tiny donuts and topped them with multi-colored sprinkles. Then I made skinny roped pretzels and dotted them with the white ones to look like salt, and I showed off my tiny trays of food and felt proud.
Now it's at least 20 years later and I finally understand why I loved my dollhouse so much at an age when I should have outgrown it. I think about the work my dad put into that dollhouse: he fixed the porch and put in real tile, linoleum, and carpet; he cut doors between the rooms so the people who lived there didn't have to risk their lives by climbing out around the edge of the wall. I think about how I never did know where that gumball machine belonged. Mostly, though, I think that I am an optimist.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Busy Bee
Just had my first conversation with my weight loss coach over the phone. This is one of the options for follow up care after the diabetes class. I would wonder if I wasn't trying to do too much if all these self-help exercises didn't complement each other so well, dammit. I'm in the middle of switching back to a larger purse so I can accommodate the notebook I'm going to be keeping track of my food in. I'm going to tie it to my kit.
I did some yoga and aerobic exercises on the Wii this evening, but only after I finished off the mac n cheese. I also cleaned the kitchen, scooped the catbox, vacuumed, and paid some bills. Then my blood sugar crashed, so my weight loss coach called while I was chowing down. I tried to explain that it was just a coincidence that I was eating and why I was still chewing in his ear. He was nice, though- and I think he made a Frasier reference. Whaaaaaaat!
Ok, back to work. I need to fold laundry, prep tomorrow's lunch, play with the cat, take out the trash, get the other load out of the dryer, fold that, then brush Riley's other side because she fell asleep while I was brushing her last night. Or maybe I did.
Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)