Today was a day that might have been better spent in bed. Despite gaining an hour to sleep, I really didn't want to get out of bed this morning. A cat who can't tell time woke me for good. After getting her claw stuck in my pinky.
The place we normally go to for breakfast was packed. A line to even get into the parking lot. I really really had my heart set on their french toast. We went somewhere else, and the little old woman in front of me at the buffet took every single strawberry muffin (the only reason, IMO, to go to Eat & Park for breakfast anymore).
Our plan for the day was to drive down to WV to do some holiday shopping. We went to an "outdoors" store, partially to equip Matt for hunting season, partially to see if I could find anything for my dad or brother. I ended up hiding near the aquarium, after overhearing a man say that he was "stocking up in case the election goes the wrong way next week." Talk about sticking out like a sore thumb.
We decided to try the outlet mall after that, attempting to salvage our shopping afternoon. I found a nice jacket for my brother at Columbia. A really great deal even. Stopped by my parents' house and find out that my mom bought my brother the identical jacket last year. Went back, returned it.
Stupid stuff. The bathroom at the restaurant we stopped at was completely out of toilet paper. I had wanted pizza with my parents' but couldn't contend with the Steelers game and my mom feeling a bit off. It just seemed like the world was conspiring against me, a sign I should have stayed in bed.
But I talked to my dad for a bit, while helping him with a computer issue. And you know what? Today was a bad day for me. But compared to so many people, it was nothing. We have power, we have gas. Our streets, our basement, not flooded. Despite the ailments of my grandmothers, most of my family has their health. My biggest issues were that I couldn't have the french toast I wanted, and that I had to find something else to buy my brother for Christmas.
I'm blessed. I need to remember that. I'm so so very very blessed.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Tricks and Treats
This was our worst Trick or Treat turnout in the history of living in this house. It breaks my heart, truly.
Four kids. Two of whom probably shouldn't count, because they're friends' kids, and we'd see them in costume anyway.
Our street just isn't cut out for Trick or Treat. A quasi dead-end with houses on just one side. No one else gives out candy. There just isn't good ROI for the kids. The two we did have come live at the bottom of the hill and were on their way to better streets. I just happened to be on the porch when they went past. (For reference, when we lived in our apartment, two blocks away, we had hundreds of kids and ran out of candy.)
Every year I think "this is the candy for the teenagers who aren't in costume, this is the candy for the adorable little kids." We didn't even get teenagers this year. Every year I get my hopes up, buy really good candy or make goody bags, and every year I'm disappointed.
So what this means this year is that we have twenty bags of Butterfinger coated pretzel twists, and sixteen full size candy bars, that will haunt me. They'll call my name from the other room until one by one, Matt eats them. I'll have one or two, I'll admit that to myself now, but I'm not going to eat them out of self pity. Or to make myself feel better after a bad day.
I need to figure out the fine line between tricking myself, and treating myself. And that the answer to my happiness isn't coated in Butterfingers.
Four kids. Two of whom probably shouldn't count, because they're friends' kids, and we'd see them in costume anyway.
Our street just isn't cut out for Trick or Treat. A quasi dead-end with houses on just one side. No one else gives out candy. There just isn't good ROI for the kids. The two we did have come live at the bottom of the hill and were on their way to better streets. I just happened to be on the porch when they went past. (For reference, when we lived in our apartment, two blocks away, we had hundreds of kids and ran out of candy.)
Every year I think "this is the candy for the teenagers who aren't in costume, this is the candy for the adorable little kids." We didn't even get teenagers this year. Every year I get my hopes up, buy really good candy or make goody bags, and every year I'm disappointed.
So what this means this year is that we have twenty bags of Butterfinger coated pretzel twists, and sixteen full size candy bars, that will haunt me. They'll call my name from the other room until one by one, Matt eats them. I'll have one or two, I'll admit that to myself now, but I'm not going to eat them out of self pity. Or to make myself feel better after a bad day.
I need to figure out the fine line between tricking myself, and treating myself. And that the answer to my happiness isn't coated in Butterfingers.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Baby You Can Drive My Car
From the moment my dad taught me to drive, I've always loved it. The freedom, the control, it's a perfect blend. Even in my crappiest of cars, it's something I took to immediately.
Last Friday I had a bit of an accident. My current commute involves a lot of construction, and a significant portion of it is through "state minimum width" roads. As in the roads cannot be any narrower, legally.
I'm no fan of driving in the dark. The lights of other cars blind me, but surprisingly that's getting better. My astigmatism, according to my doctor, is actually improving. She predicts in the next year or so it will be gone, and that will only improve my night driving. Weird. But a few too many years in the future to help me now.
So a large truck, speeding across the bridge, was over the line into my lane. The choice was to be sideswiped, or to veer into the construction cones. I smacked a cone with my passenger mirror. The mirror, thank god, folded into the window. But the decorative cap flew off and smacked the window. It startled me so badly that I screamed. And am stunned the window didn't crack. The cap, knowing my luck, either shattered or bounced off into the river. Either way, not a great way to start the morning.
I spent a lot of time on Friday working through the problem, calling the service, then parts, then body shop, of our dealership. All great guys. All of whom made it clear, one way or another, that they'd have rather talked to my husband.
My mistake, mine to fix. My father raised me to take care of myself, to drive, to parallel park, to not need to be taken care of. (That I'm incredibly well taken care of is truly just a fluke. I think many people are surprised that I didn't end up a crazy, single, cat lady.) So some frustration. At one point I actually said "I'm confident that the only part missing is the cap, but if it makes you feel better, I'll pretend to take this fax home to my husband, and I'll call you back in the morning."
Other things happened on Friday. Stressful work things, a trust betrayal, a computer fluke, enough that I could feel the anxiety, physically, coursing through my veins.
One of my tells, when I'm truly drunk, is that the sugar in alcohol makes my cheeks hurt and my teeth numb. Which explains the text I sent Yvette that night. "I can't feel my teeth." My coping skills are crap.
I left work early and went to the body shop this afternoon. Stomped in on my highest heels, offered my hand to the manager, and introduced myself. They put on the cap, I paid my bill, it's a done deal. I don't need penis in order to take care of my car.
No point to any of this really. I just get frustrated. I truly, truly love to drive. There are two parts of my commute, that perhaps once a month there's a perfect confluence of events that I can open up my car and make her do what she's meant to. It's beautiful. Those moments are too few and far between. I need to find more of those moments. On and off the road.
Last Friday I had a bit of an accident. My current commute involves a lot of construction, and a significant portion of it is through "state minimum width" roads. As in the roads cannot be any narrower, legally.
I'm no fan of driving in the dark. The lights of other cars blind me, but surprisingly that's getting better. My astigmatism, according to my doctor, is actually improving. She predicts in the next year or so it will be gone, and that will only improve my night driving. Weird. But a few too many years in the future to help me now.
So a large truck, speeding across the bridge, was over the line into my lane. The choice was to be sideswiped, or to veer into the construction cones. I smacked a cone with my passenger mirror. The mirror, thank god, folded into the window. But the decorative cap flew off and smacked the window. It startled me so badly that I screamed. And am stunned the window didn't crack. The cap, knowing my luck, either shattered or bounced off into the river. Either way, not a great way to start the morning.
I spent a lot of time on Friday working through the problem, calling the service, then parts, then body shop, of our dealership. All great guys. All of whom made it clear, one way or another, that they'd have rather talked to my husband.
My mistake, mine to fix. My father raised me to take care of myself, to drive, to parallel park, to not need to be taken care of. (That I'm incredibly well taken care of is truly just a fluke. I think many people are surprised that I didn't end up a crazy, single, cat lady.) So some frustration. At one point I actually said "I'm confident that the only part missing is the cap, but if it makes you feel better, I'll pretend to take this fax home to my husband, and I'll call you back in the morning."
Other things happened on Friday. Stressful work things, a trust betrayal, a computer fluke, enough that I could feel the anxiety, physically, coursing through my veins.
One of my tells, when I'm truly drunk, is that the sugar in alcohol makes my cheeks hurt and my teeth numb. Which explains the text I sent Yvette that night. "I can't feel my teeth." My coping skills are crap.
I left work early and went to the body shop this afternoon. Stomped in on my highest heels, offered my hand to the manager, and introduced myself. They put on the cap, I paid my bill, it's a done deal. I don't need penis in order to take care of my car.
No point to any of this really. I just get frustrated. I truly, truly love to drive. There are two parts of my commute, that perhaps once a month there's a perfect confluence of events that I can open up my car and make her do what she's meant to. It's beautiful. Those moments are too few and far between. I need to find more of those moments. On and off the road.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
November!
I have to admit to myself, and well, I guess to the ten of you who know about this blog, that October was a mess for me. It is usually my favorite month, the month of my birthday and Halloween, the month I look forward to the most every year. Instead it was my month of crashing not just off the wagon, but careening solidly into some self loathing behaviors. The month of stress and depression and illness. So, with a sudden spur of the moment decision I've decided to try to blog every day this month, and see if I can write my way back to sanity. HA. Considering I was thinking about doing NaNoWrMo, this has to be a less crazy option. Right?
Some things I've been pondering lately on my car rides to and from work -
* What is the difference between looking at people of the opposite sex, and checking them out? Serious question, I'm genuinely not sure that I can tell the difference.
* Why is it that after so long, I've discovered high heels again and love the way I walk in them? It's a solid stompy stride, and I almost feel like I've found a part of me that's been missing since we lived in New York. Why didn't I do this sooner?
* When will I remember that no candy or sugar actually will ever taste as good as the fantasy craving of it does?
* Am I emotionally going to be able to go back to the gym? Or will my horrible self esteem and my struggle with my attitudes, fears, and assumptions about other women sabotage me?
* Why is it that no matter how often I tell myself that I'm blessed, that so many other people are struggling with much, much worse things than I am, do the little voices in my head tell me otherwise?
* Why the hell am I so attracted to Marcus Mumford?
* Don't I really have a lot of other better things to do than watching the back catalogue of Law & Order: Criminal Intent on Netflix?
* When am I going to quit letting my husband's family tie me up in knots?
* What the hell am I going to get my Mom/Brother/Father/Matt for Christmas?
Some things I've been pondering lately on my car rides to and from work -
* What is the difference between looking at people of the opposite sex, and checking them out? Serious question, I'm genuinely not sure that I can tell the difference.
* Why is it that after so long, I've discovered high heels again and love the way I walk in them? It's a solid stompy stride, and I almost feel like I've found a part of me that's been missing since we lived in New York. Why didn't I do this sooner?
* When will I remember that no candy or sugar actually will ever taste as good as the fantasy craving of it does?
* Am I emotionally going to be able to go back to the gym? Or will my horrible self esteem and my struggle with my attitudes, fears, and assumptions about other women sabotage me?
* Why is it that no matter how often I tell myself that I'm blessed, that so many other people are struggling with much, much worse things than I am, do the little voices in my head tell me otherwise?
* Why the hell am I so attracted to Marcus Mumford?
* Don't I really have a lot of other better things to do than watching the back catalogue of Law & Order: Criminal Intent on Netflix?
* When am I going to quit letting my husband's family tie me up in knots?
* What the hell am I going to get my Mom/Brother/Father/Matt for Christmas?
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