Aah, Family!

I have a dysfunctional family. We are not the type to put the "fun" in dysfunctional either. In fact, we are more of the "dis" kind. Everything is negative, insults fly, badmouthing pervades conversation. I thought maybe, just maybe, I had escaped that when I stopped talking to my mother, but as it turns out, my sister has the crazy too. Why have I chosen to procreate?

I'm not even going to to into the details of where this is all coming from. Just know that any rational conversation that ever existed in this world began and ended in someone else's family. Here are just a few examples (some of these are going back quite a ways, but the impact is oh-so-everlasting!)

Mom (in an attempt to compliment me on weight loss): What's that swishing noise, because I don't see your knees rubbing together anymore?!

Mom (upon hearing of my decision to change professional goals): You're ruining your potential.

Sister (on New Year's Day): I think you are pulling away from our side of the family. It's always been a tradition to call at midnight and instead you went to bed. That really sucks! Not only had I lost my phone, but I was in bed by 10:30 on New Year's Eve because I was exhausted from my egg implanting in my uterus

Mom (about my relationship with my sister): I resent the fact that you and your sister are so close.

Sister (on Target stores, specifically Super Target): So if a regular Target has one door, and a Greatland Target has two doors, a Super Target must have three.
Me: Nope, just two.
Sister: But that doesn't make any sense. It should have three.
Me: But it doesn't
Sister: But it should.

Mom (after sending me a resume of a guy she wanted to set me up with even after I had announced that I was not only seeing someone,but in love - who I coincidentally married!): I just thought you'd like to see how much you had in common. I didn't know you were so serious about this other guy.

Need I go on?

The Buck Starts Here

I have been trying to think of something worthwhile to write about and to be honest, I have been so tired lately that even the thought of thinking about it was taxing. I decided I could no longer allow boobs to define my blog though, therefore I will offer my mundane, daily incites to entertain the one, possibly two people who read this.

I should note at this time that I fully intend to further discuss some of the traumas that have made me who I am today, as intended when I started this thing. But, please understand that I am pooped and adding mental pooped to physical pooped is an all together new level of pooped!

I've decided that part of the reason I am so tired is because I do a hell of a lot more than a lot of people where I work. We, like every other industry in the country, are experiencing some financial "set-backs." I've been rather easy-going about most of it, knowing that I am relatively young with little say, in addition to the fact that I really can't do anything about it. If there is one thing I've learned, it's to only worry about the things I can control (wisdom that did NOT come easily, and unfortunately was acquired through many tough lessons). However, today, I became slightly embittered. I sat down and reflected on all of the things I have not complained about versus all of the things I have a right to complain about. I then began to think about all of the people who do complain and really don't deserve to. I mean, I am not going to point fingers and say that I am in a worse situation than anyone else. The economy has effected us all, and it is not my business to ask each person about their level of impact. However, today I really began to wonder what I am worth - in the literal and abstract sense.

There are studies out there that talk about how much a stay-at-home parent would make if they earned a wage equivalent to the sum of all of the jobs they do. I don't think I am necessarily looking for that kind of price tag, but I think it would be interesting to figure out my hourly wage, how much I am "supposed" to work (does 9-5 exist in anything other than a song?), and how much I actually work. I don't think my level of satisfaction would be any different - I love my job - but I do wonder if the people who are in charge of my salary, and everyone else's for that matter, really comprehend what a deal they are getting? Do they see worth beyond dollar signs or am I the one with the wrong definition?

I don't intend to harp on this for too long. Bitter is not becoming. But I do wish people would recognize that there are some of us out there who don't necessarily care what we are getting paid. We do what we do because we want to and whatever we make is enough as long as we can make ends meet. I just want someone to say "good job" every once in a while so that when salary cuts or freezes occur, we feel less like a number and more like an asset. I want to know that I'm valued, because hell, I am a lot of bang for the buck!

T & A

A friend's sister wrote a very funny blog post on the size and shape of her butt. Specifically, how said butt looked in yoga pants. I cannot quite say that I have ever noticed the quadri-butt on myself or even really cared about what my butt looks like (other than in my younger days when I would search for the perfect "butt jeans" for those rare occasions when I actually went out in search of a mate). I can, however, comment on the ridiculous size and nature of my boobs as of late.

I have never really been into my boobs all that much. Some women love their own, I actually was ready to wage war against them at a young age considering they began to define me in fourth grade. Yes, I was the girl who developed early. I really had no choice in the matter - my mother was quite buxom and that was after reduction surgery at 17. We all know that I am short in adulthood, so there I was at the ripe old age of 9, standing about 4'3" tall, and sporting a "training" bra that began with the letter C, yet continued to climb the alphabet ladder as if I was sponsoring that season of Sesame Street.

I was never a fat child or person, but a few years ago, I really took control of my weight and health and shed some pounds. Much to my fancy, I actually went down a cup size! Oh, you can't even imagine! I went from a DD to a D, but now I could buy bras with "skinny" straps (in D-cup language, that means about 1/2 inch in width). It was short-lived, but it was amazing!

Let's go back a moment, shall we? After I graduated from college, I worked retail for a year or two. Not my favorite gig, but it paid the bills. Through a strange series of events, I wound up working at a plus-size women's clothing store. Being petite, I was hated by most of the women who shopped there. I do recall, though, a few times when women would comment on how little, yet, eh em, disproportionate I was. Maybe it was something we could bond over. Regardless, I remember one woman in particular commented on the possibility of my chest size going down after I had children. What! That could really happen? She assured me that it had happened to her with each of her two children, essentially dropping a cup size with each one. Thank God!

LIAR!

I don't know who she was or where she is now, but I am 14 weeks pregnant and I'm pretty sure both of my breasts independently have their own gravitational pull and will soon begin to orbit. I mean, this is ridiculous! In the short time I have been pregnant, I have gone up 2 cup sizes. One would think that would put me at an F, but no! Oddly enough, I have stayed at the same letter, only it has exponentially multiplied. DDD! Did you know that existed? I certainly did not. Skinny straps can kiss my skinny ass, because I could easily use the shoulder straps on this thing as a travel pillow.

To add insult to injury, one of them was particularly itchy yesterday. I could not figure out why, so I had my husband take a look in case there was a rash or something forming in the undercarriage . He asked me what he was looking for and I told him whatever it was that was making me itch so. This may be TMI, but he took one look at my nipple, and said "I'm not sure if I see anything, but that one looks angry." Thanks.

And so my plague continues. I have no idea if these things will get any bigger, but if they do, I'm pretty sure I will begin to resemble a cartoon.

Anyone?

Can someone please tell me who this beast inside of me is? It's not the kid. I mean it could be, but I have a feeling that at all of 3 inches long, with a melon half the size of its body, it's more than likely not the monster that rears its ugly head at random times throughout the day.

All of a sudden, BAM! There it is! I'm grumpy and bossy, and if I don't get my way, I get louder and more demanding.

I know what I want, you are not helping, leave me alone!

Who is this? Why does this horrific manifestation of my hormones or pheromones or whatever, moan at such inappropriate times? I can't even say that the beast is justified all the time, but there it is. It's like a lion, tiger, and bear all rolled into one 4'10" package.

What's even worse is that I recognize when it's happening. You would think that means I could contain it or control it, or at least try to change it, but no. I'd rather unleash it on whoever or whatever happens to be it's chosen target.

Does anyone know how to deal with this or, at least how to stop it without rallying the pitchfork-wielding, torch-lighting townsfolk?

He's no Mr. Clean

I've always prescribed to the school of "why make your bed if you're just going to get it all messy later." I'm not a slob, I just tend to make more of a fuss over rooms that are more likely to be frequented by guests. Being married, my bedroom is not one of those rooms. I do, however, love the feeling of a freshly made bed, with clean sheets right out of the dryer, and a comforter you could bounce quarters off of. I get that same level of satisfaction from newly mopped floors, a sparkling bathtub, a range that does not remind me of my past week's menu, and newly reorganized closets. My husband, I've decided, does not.

For the last week or so he has been sick with what I've deemed a nasty cold. Add to that my 7 week bout with morning - eh em, all day - sickness, and cleaning hasn't exactly been a priority. Until now. For this weekend, we are having company. Tomorrow is my former roommate from college. Needless to say, she knows how I live. No need to fuss. Sunday, though, is my husband's entire immediate family. All 5 of 6 of them. Oddly enough, with all of my neuroses, feeling as though I have to impress my in-laws with a spotless house is not one of them. However, if you recall, my mother-in-law is currently undergoing chemotherapy and really shouldn't be exposed to sick people or germs - like my hubby. Needless to say, the disinfecting began today.

In my current state of being, I'm not supposed to use any harsh chemicals. So, I delegated all surface cleaning to my husband, and I took on the task of putting things away, dusting, and vacuuming. Normally, these chores are switched, but everything is ass-backwards now anyway.

For most of the morning, I slaved away in the living room and bathroom. I Swiffered, folded blankets, reorganized my medicine cabinet (I even threw away expired vitamins!), and tortured my dog with the root of all evil, a.k.a. the vaccum. In the end, my portion of the house was spic-and-span! That oh-so-clean feeling was just oozing out of my pores.

And then my husband came in from walking the dog and tromped all over my newly mopped floors with his dirty shoes. Not only did he leave footprints, but he left half-footprints once he realized he was messing up the floors and began walking on his tip-toes. His "ah-ha" face was quite precious actually, but come on!

I know that the moral of the story is not that I shoulnd't clean. I am, however, back to not making my bed.

And, I'm spent.

I'm tired and cranky. I'm not fit to be around anyone, except maybe my dog. Though, I'm pretty sure my sour mood has even turned her off.

The source of my foul disposition? Any number of things I suppose:

- My husband actually acquiescing and going to the doctor but duly deciding NOT to take the prescribed medication needed to get better.

- Said husband changing his mind and asking me to pick up said medication 2 days after going to the doctor only to deal with the pharmacy check-out girl from Planet Molasses.

- Having to reach down into my pants in public to yank up my underwear because as comfortable as the "hidden" belly portion of my maternity jeans is, it somehow repels my Haynes.

- Washing dishes only to consume enough food for a small country so that the number of clean plates and utensils in the drying rack is now rivaled by the ever-growing pile in the "dirty side."

- Walking the dog in ridiculously cold weather every 2 hours because she is seemingly making "poop-butt," yet alas no poop.

- Attempting to take a nap to remedy my foul mood only to lay in bed staring at the insides of my eyelids for 40 minutes before realizing sleep was not an option and then getting out of bed to wallow in my now sleep-deprived, misery.

Any number of things.

Today needs to be over.

Another year...

I don't like my mother. There are several reasons why, topping the list with emotionally abusive most of my life. Like a true abuser, she will never see this or admit to it. In the end, all her manipulation and narcissism has gotten her is a semi-estranged daughter with the psychological antidote to a toxic relationship.

Tomorrow is her birthday.

The process of not talking to her has been a multi-step endeavor. At first it was easy. Sure, she would call all the time and beg me to tell her what she did wrong. That was surprisingly a no-brainer because of how annoying her 35/day message habit got. Then came the guilt. Maybe she wasn't that bad. Maybe she deserved an answer. Maybe she could be a normal person. I would then break my vow of silence and call her, only to hang-up the phone in tears - the cycle continued.

Prior to finding out I was pregnant, I hadn't talked to her for 4 months. Pretty good, huh? She, of course, knows nothing about my depression or any of the plethora of epiphanies I've had over the last 3 years- well except for the one about feeling better when I don't talk to her. Although, I'm not even sure she completely understands that either. Anyway, when I found out I was pregnant, I called. I kept the conversation short and decided that maybe, just maybe, I would call her with occasional updates. As long as we didn't have to talk about anything related to us or any one of her past lives (I'm pretty sure she has multiple personalities), we would be fine.

I again called her on the day of my 8 week doctor's appointment. In typical mom-fashion, she took this as her invitation back into my life. I can see how she would have interpreted it that way, but I certainly did not leave an RSVP date or number. So, she called. And then she called again. And again. I did not answer the phone any of these times. Her messages were always something about "just checking in" or "saw something baby and thought of you". My personal favorite though was a message about a life-long family friend who has a son 6 days older than I am and just happens to also be expecting a baby. She just could not believe all of the parallels in our lives. He lives in a totally different state, completed a military tour of duty in Afghanistan, and is not married. Tons of parallels. (Note the sarcasm)

A few days before I went to visit my sister and niece for my niece's fifth birthday, the phone rang. Of course, I have caller ID, but I figured I'd have to see her that weekend anyway, so I may as well see what she had to say. According to her, she was calling to find out if I was coming. As if! She sees my sister pretty much every other day. I know it came up. I played along though, and told her my plans for the weekend. Good. Done. Next.

The weekend of my niece's birthday was ______________ (madlib adjective). If you've been following the blog, you know that there was very little sleep involved. Pregnant ladies need sleep. I was also still dealing with the tail-end of morning sickness (renamed all day sickness if you're like me). Interacting with mom was not a high priority on my list. Not to mention the fact that I was not there to see her.

Thirty-six hours after we arrived, we were getting ready to leave. As I'm saying my goodbyes, it happened. The women in my family have this amazing ability to make their top lip disappear when they are angry or annoyed, and there was no lip to be found on my mother at that moment. You would think it difficult to talk without a top lip, but she managed to squeeze out the words, May I speak to you in the other room please?

Yeah, 'cause that wasn't a trap! My reply was simple: No, we are leaving now. She didn't like that.

She managed to yell out something to the effect of me being "abominable" toward her all weekend. Again, not there to see her. I didn't take the bait. I said goodbye, walked out of the house, and got in my car and drove away. If you think I'm an animal for acting this way, please understand and trust that any other action would have resulted in a horrible screaming match that would not only have taken place in front of my 5 year old niece, but also lasted somewhere in the one to two hour range. Leaving was the right decision. That was a week and a half ago. I've since had a doctor's appointment and not called. The cycle continues.

But her birthday is tomorrow.

I'm sure I'll call. I'm sure she'll cry. And secretly, when the call is over and no one is around, I'm sure I'll cry too. While it's often easier for me to talk about this relationship with humor, as with most jeering there is a painful element of truth behind all of the jokes. Never in a million years did I think this would be my life. But it is. I won't be celebrating my mother's birthday with her and I'm not even sure how sincere I'll be when I say "happy birthday." However, I do know that I find more and more meaning in the phrase "another year older, another year wiser."

I wonder if whoever said it knew they were talking about two people.

Loss of Innocence

My best friend is currently involved in a long-term relationship. Not just long-term like we'll see where this goes, but long-term as in this is it. As with every relationship, there are ups and downs. And as many of us know, when you are preparing to spend the rest of your life with someone, the downs can sometimes overpower the ups. In my personal experience, there were many times when it would have been easier to just give up. Fortunately, I never did, but I can recall one too many phone calls where my end of the conversation was apathetic at best, waiting for him to say just the right thing (or wrong thing depending on how you look at it) to make me end it. Don't get me wrong. I love my husband and never doubted my feelings - I simply doubted my stamina.

Whether or not this was your experience as well, this is what my best friend is going through.

Relationships are hard. Learning to communicate with someone from another planet is harder. Put the two together - oh! and add a few hundred miles in between - and seeds of doubt will inevitably plant themselves. What always kept me going, even during those phone calls, was that there was never another option. Sure I could think about it and, as I said, wait for him to say that one thing that would push me over the edge, but the truth is it never came because there wasn't anything he could say. We loved each other. Distance was an issue, but not a dealbreaker. Fights were bound to happen, but they always taught us how better to talk to one another. And doubt? As far as I'm concerned, you don't care enough about something or someone if you never once question if it's worth it. How else will you be able to answer yes?

So back to my bff and the real point to this post. He, too, is doing the long-distance thing with his girlfriend, but that is no where near their most difficult challenge. He is of mixed race and she is not. In this day and age, it shouldn't matter. They have common values, goals, and above all, see beyond the skin color to the person inside. Isn't that what our parents always taught us? (Maybe not and I'm sorry if that's how you grew up) Turns out, even if this is what your parents always taught you, their opinion may change once you bring home a person of a different color. Sure, that's what you should believe, just not what you practice.

For many of us, disappointment in our parents begins at an early age. For whatever reason, we learn in our youth that the dynamic duo is not so dynamic. However, some don't find this out until well into adulthood. And then it happens. Your world is turned upside down. You don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore. You begin to question everything they've ever taught you. And even worse, you begin to question what you've learned. Lucky for me, my parents obligingly took care of this growing pain sometime prior to or during adolescence. But for my best friend's girlfriend, the hurt is just beginning.

I only know the trials associated with a mixed-race relationship second-hand. My best friend, in his infinite confidence, sweares he will win over his future in-laws. But the world has changed now. From this point on, his girlfriend will have doubt. She will question. She will wonder if it's worth it.

And hopefully, she will always answer, yes!

Daylight Savings

Every year, twice a year, when daylight savings occurs, my husband reminds me of a radio broadcast he heard. I don't know the particular station, but it was one of those talk radio shows where the DJs incessantly babble about politics and sports and think their opinions are worth gold. The topic on this particular day was the issue of the government changing the week of daylight savings. Apparently (remember-this is a second-hand story) a crotchety old woman called in and very boldly stated:

Daylight savings is burning my grass!

The implication was that the longer the government "allowed" the sun to be out, the more susceptible her precious grass was to the adverse effects of photosynthesis. What!?

My husband laughs hysterically every time he tells this story.

It's now a little after 9 am. My husband has a cold and is not yet out of bed. I've already changed all the clocks in the house so I don't think he will realize what day it is for a few hours yet. Somehow, though, I just know that we will be in the car today heading somewhere, listening to the radio, and he will erupt into spontaneous laughter at the thought of that poor woman's preposterous announcement.

I guess you could say I look forward to daylight savings every year.

Psych!

After being diagnosed with depression, I started the humiliating search for a psychiatrist and psychologist. I now know that there is nothing to be ashamed of, but at the time, it was mortifying. There was something wrong with me that no one could see. I had no physical scars, I had no physical symptoms. Yet, somehow I hurt all the time - enough to warrant the expertise of two health care professionals.

I should also clarify at this time that a psychologist is a psychotherapist - someone who uses non-chemical, discussion based methods to treat various psychological issues. A psychiatrist is a medical doctor who specializes in psychological illnesses. S/he can prescribe and regulate medication. In other words, the former treats by talking it out, the latter works to balance the chemicals in your body. My depression was so severe that it was necessary to work with both.

Normally, I would be skeptical of using insurance recommended providers. But, remember, I was highly embarrassed by the whole situation and the thought of having to justify why a different, non-network mental health specialist should be approved was no where near my list of things to do. I don't remember the exact order in which I called, but I do recall filling out a lot of paper work.

The papers I got from the psychiatrist were brutal. Why did I feel this way? How long had it been? Did I want to kill myself? (Not in the literal sense, but I might consider it now that ALL of my skeletons are permanently recorded in ink). I took my time and spent a few days with it, especially because there was a post-it at the top that said to bring the papers with me on the day of my appointment. Phew!! I didn't have to worry about the mailman steam-opening the document to look at all of my problems. Clearly, not a rational thought. Considering the circumstances, though, you would have had a hard time convincing me that that wasn't part of his master plan.

The appointment was set, the papers were filled out, and then the phone call came.

Hi, this is Doctor X's office. Normally, this would be a confirmation for your appointment tomorrow. However, we have not received your paperwork and will have to reschedule until we have those papers at least 24 hours in advance of your appointment.

The rest of the message contained contact information (which I will get to!), but all I heard was a loud explosion in my brain. But what about the post-it? How was this possible?

I listened to the message again to get the phone number and office hours. As it turned out, this particular office had the ridiculous policy of only answering their phones between 9:00am and noon, unless it was a medical emergency, and in that case call 911 or the nearest hospital. This was going well. Luckily, they also listed their hours. If I left at that precise moment and defied all traffic regulations, I could get there in time. And that is what I did.

I honestly don't remember if I had the papers with me or not, but I do remember ripping the receptionist a new one as tears streamed down my face. Why would someone write that post-it if it was office policy? What kind of doctor's office doesn't answer their phones? I don't remember the lady being nice. She claimed that the person who sent the papers out was new and that must have been the reason for the "mishap." I had another word for it.

In the end, I was able to keep my appointment. I have no recollection of that what-so-ever. I don't know if it was just that horrible, or I was so focused on other things that I didn't take the time to breathe it in. All I know is that I walked out of there with a prescription for an anti-depressant. I didn't ask what it was or what the side effects were. I just couldn't imagine how this drug was going to change the way I felt, when really, I felt - numb.

If only...

If only life were as simple as my dog makes it look.

She has this toy. It's a chipmunk. I bought it for her because she loves chasing chipmunks outside and I figured it'd be harmless fun to watch her get hours of enjoyment out of tossing this small plush animal and then pouncing on it, only to chew on its face until the tennis ball in the corner looks like it will provide more entertainment.

I want that.

I suppose if I wanted to, I could make my husband feed me. I don't need to be taken on walks. I can manage to make it to the bathroom on my own, but maybe a little encouragement when I go would be nice. I deserve treats every now and then, and toys (age appropriate) are always a nice surprise. So what is it that she has that I want if I can, in fact, have all of the same things?

I'm not really sure what the lesson to be learned is, but her life seems so simple. If only mine were...