Some thoughts

1. Don't you hate it when, after contorting your body into all SORTS of interesting positions, after applying three coats (base coat, first coat, and second coat because we all know how much difference a second coat can make), after waiting hours for it to dry lest your toes stick to your bed sheets, you realize why that polish was relegated to the back of the bathroom cupboard?  Indoors, this red is okay.  In direct sunlight, it's god awful.  I'm too embarrassed to even take a picture to PROVE how awful it is. 

2. And don't you hate it when, even though it's so bad you can't stand looking at your own feet, you know you won't change said god awful polish because of all the body contorting and multiple coats and bed sheet sticking avoidance?  Yeah, being lazy is its own reward.

3. We tidied around the house yesterday, with me focusing on the mountain of clothing on the dresser (it was so bad, I found three shirts I assumed were in the laundry -- nope: clean, just hidden, you slob!).  After I unearthed the surface of the dresser, Chebbar found my degree that had been sitting there for months.  First he asked innocently enough how the heck you'd even hang something like that (pointing to the hanger on the back of the frame).  When he "casually" asked where I would put it if I were to hang it on the wall, I knew he what he was up to, so I replied with "No where.  It doesn't need to be hung up."  He rolled his eyes at me and left the room, only to return with the hammer and a nail.  Seeing the error of my ways when he went for the wall by the door, I hurriedly told him to hang it in the office!  Hang it in the office!

BANGBANGBANG

Too late.  I'm going to have to take a picture of THAT, simply for placement shits 'n giggles

The sentiment behind it was sweet (he silenced my protestations of "took too long to finish" and "not doing anything with it" by telling me that I should be proud of the accomplishment itself), but all I can do is shudder at the asymmetry of its placement.  It's enough to do my OCD head in, I swear.

4. I wore a pair of Chebbar's shorts when we ran errands yesterday.  Granted, on me they fall below my knee, but I digress.  I don't know whether to be jazzed that I have another pair of summer bottoms, or spaz that I fit his drawers (although, to be fair, I know he's not exactly impressed that they're too small for him now, too).

5. I have a Diva Cup.  I bought it MONTHS ago (seriously -- last year sometime).  It is still sitting in its box underneath the bathroom sink. 

In theory, I love the idea: environmentally friendly, no more waste, no more bleached cotton stuffed up the hooha, $$$ savings, etc.  That being said, I'm a little, erm, squeamish with the whole, ah, "application."  It's not even the insertion that squicks me out; it's the whole mind-fuck of how you remove and empty it -- I can't imagine doing that without getting, uh, messy.  Plus, I don't know that I'd know my cervix if I met it on the street, so placement could be just a tad on the tricky side.

However, I promised myself that I'd give it a shot once I was low on tampons.  I have one box left in the closet.  I have two, maybe three more months to screw up the courage to stick that thing where the sun don't shine.  For added incentive, Mr. Memory Like an Elephant (aka Mr. You're Not Gonna Liiiiiiike Thaaaaat!!!! or Mr. You're Not Gonna Uuuuuuuse Thaaaaat!!!!) has "innocently" asked if that was my cup-thingy a number of times.  He pays attention, dammit!


Okay.  That is all.

Nooooo! Ya think?!?

Guess who has two thumbs and had another weird-ass dream last night?

THIS GIRL! *eye roll*

It was actually rather disconcerting and left me feeling rather anxious, which is likely why I feel so damned cranky this morning. But I digress (as usual). I dreamt that Chebbar, Sis, and I were walking to the parents’. We had missed dinner, so we decided to stop at McPuke’s on the way (in my dream, things weren’t where they normally are). Sis and I were too busy chatting to notice that we had passed McPuke’s and that Chebbar had led us to the next four-way stop, insisting that it was “this way,” when clearly it was down the hill. He seemed very confused and agitated, which concerned me because he’s usually the calm, collected one. All of a sudden, he grabbed his chest, looked at me in astonishment, and said “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

I called 911 with my cell phone; instead of staying put, we continued on to the parents’ (not that I remember this: we were just THERE). He was sitting in Pop’s blue recliner (which does not reside in their home anymore, FYI) looking dazed, but unconcerned. In the meantime, I stood at the living room window where I could see all the traffic coming up the road (the house and its location were wrong in Dreamland, too). Every car that passed that wasn’t an ambulance only served to freak me out more, while everyone around me told me to calm down, that everything was fine.

I ignored them all, muttering about how long it was taking. I was rather surprised to see that only five minutes had passed since I called 911. At that point, Dad showed up (in his old car) and blocked the driveway, which elicited much yelling about moving on my part. The ambulance materialized at that exact moment and, having nowhere to park, drove forward. Of course, I thought they were leaving, so I spazzed some more.

Next thing I knew, I was hovering over Chebbar as three children -- I swear, they looked to be about 16 –- walked in, with one boy leading a BLIND girl toward Chebbar where she groped around trying to find his wrist to take his pulse. I stood there dumbfounded before a guy in wildly printed MC Hammer-type pants walked in, assuring the room at large that it was “cool”: apparently the children were work experience students. Oh, great.

My mom had been there telling me to stop freaking out one minute, then was calling from Costco the next, asking if anyone needed anything (she even went so far as to demand I ask the work experience kiddies if they wanted anything). The very next second she was walking through the door with a six-pack of Magic Bags.

And then I woke up.

Now, dreaming that your loved one –- one who is marginally overweight, could eat a little better, and could stand to be more active –- has a heart attack seems pretty awful. Of course, being the nerd that I am, the first thing I did when I got to work was to search the meaning through one of those dream interpretation websites. Apparently “to dream that you have a heart attack, refers to a lack of support and acceptance. Perhaps you also feel a loss of love.” Or, it could signify a “Loss of love or security. Need for someone to care for you.” Huh. Interesting.

Hmm... Most of the major players were there: Mom, Pop, Dad, Sis, the people who are supposed to help us (paramedics). They were all laid back and taking everything in stride as I hung one step above complete melt-down. The overwhelming message from ALL of them was to calm down because everything was going to be okay.

Here I thought I was doing so well with this whole lay-off thing, that I had everything under control and was coping well, especially considering the mess I went through last summer when Chebbar wasn’t working and I was facing the end of my job. Obviously my subconscious found it necessary to give me a not-so-subtle reminder of who is REALLY in charge around here, and I guess I wasn’t really buying my repetitions of “everything’s going to be fine.” Heh.

Hey, brain? POINT TAKEN! Now, piss off: I want no more health scare dreams about Chebbar, capisce?

So many stories of where I've been

Part one here and part two here.

I'm not sure I ever heard the ins-and-outs of what happened between the running away and the wedding, or if I've just forgotten the details (I have this strange tendency to forget EVERYTHING unless it's something I find personally significant (and even then I seem to have a pretty sketchy system of determining of what is significant enough to retain), or until someone reminds me, at which point I can recall it).

I do know that my 16-year old mother was given an ultimatum: get married, give the baby up for adoption, or have an abortion, because she wasn't living under their roof with a baby. Abortion wasn't an option for my mom, and she knew with every fiber of her being that she wouldn't be able to bear to part with a baby if she carried it for nine months. So, she chose the only option she felt she had and agreed to marry a man seven years her senior. A man she had nothing in common with. A man she didn't really like so much anymore. A man who had pressured her into having sex with him.

There was much hullabaloo involved in the wedding that cost my grandparents $10,000+, an enormous sum in a tiny little logging town in 1977. On her father's arm, my mother cried all the way down the aisle. Not because she was overcome with the emotion of the day: these were not tears of happiness. They were tears of fear, of regret, of desperately wanting to turn and run the other way. She had an inkling of what she was getting herself into and wanted no part of that future.

Yet again, my grandfather did nothing.

Life as a pregnant 16-year old wife wasn't too bad for Mom (well, during the week, anyhow: my father was at logging camp during the week and only came home on weekends). All of a sudden, she found herself free from the terror she had endured for so long. Unfortunately, married life wasn't all roses. Mom found herself married to an overgrown child who would waste hours on a Saturday watching cartoons. He was more interested in drinking and building model planes than buying diapers and groceries. And so on.

She lasted about a year and a half before leaving him and moving home. Yes, living under their roof with a baby. Mostly because my grandmother doted on me. I was her little princess! A little doll to dress up and parade around! Plus, I was just one additional way to rub my mother's nose in the fact that Mommy Dearest didn't like her. It gives me a small, vindictive measure of satisfaction that they wasted $10,000 on a sham wedding.

Mom and I lived with the grandparents briefly before everyone moved "home." Shortly thereafter, Mom met the man I called Dad for the majority of my life. He wasn't a fantastic man and he didn't treat my mother like gold, but he treated better than she was used to and seemed to embrace me instead of casting Mom aside for having baggage. My parents' divorce and the subsequent custody battle were ugly. My father (I cannot begin to express how much it calls me to refer to him as "my father"; in fact, I'm going to refer to him from here on out as I do in real life -- The Donor) acted despicably and used the abuse Mom suffered at the hands of her mother as "proof" that she was an unfit parent who was doomed to do the same to me. Luckily Mom had a decent support system between Dad, a good friend, and a great lawyer.

As it turns out, the great lawyer wasn't really much of a necessity. You see, sometimes even cocky men start to doubt themselves. However, most of them are probably smart enough not to shoot themselves in the foot. The Donor travelled to our home town under the pretense of visiting me: the arrangement was that he would spend the weekend with me at his aunt's house (she lived in the same town) and return me to Mom on Sunday night. Imagine her fear when, after he failed to bring me home, she called his aunt's house, only to hear a very surprised woman say that he had never arranged to stay there. He headed back to his home town right after he left Mom's. In effect, he kidnapped me.

Mom was sick with worry and afraid to take on his whole family in order to get me back. The Donor, while not a large man, comes from a family of large (in both height and weight) men (and women -- damned genetics anyhow! somehow I ended up "blessed" with my maternal height and my paternal girth) who were all loggers. Who take a shining to large, angry dogs. She drove up to That Other Place with Dad, her good friend, and her lawyer, where they were met by the local police. They waited until midday Monday before descending on my (paternal) grandparent's house because they knew all the men would be at camp.

When they got through the door, Mom was relieved to see that I was okay. Well, if by "okay" you mean still wearing the same pajamas I had been on the Friday night. I hadn't been given a bath in three days and had developed ringworm around the thumb I sucked. Needless to say, after Mom's lawyer pointed out how stupid The Donor's stunt was, he very quietly dropped the custody case.

And then life takes an unexpected turn

We were talking about looking for a house. We were making plans and making progress. We were hopeful. We were excited.

Then, the phone rang.

Well, sort of. Chebbar hadn't turned his cell phone on yet (we don't have a land line), as he hadn't been up long (graveyard shift) by the time I got home from work on Tuesday night. When he did, he found a message from his dad stating he had bad news and needed Chebbar to call him right away. Oh, shit.

Chebbar left the room to wander as he is wont to do while on the phone, so I drifted into the kitchen, my stomach in knots. Was it Nana? Was she back in the hospital? Oh god, worse? I idly picked up my cell phone and saw that I had missed a call, too. Chebbar's dad. Shit. I knew it couldn't be good if he would try me when he was unable to get ahold of Chebbar.

I paced opposite circles to Chebbar, trying to give him space while attempting to walk off my own nervous energy. Eventually he ended the call. When he came into the living room and sunk heavily into my great grandfather's rocking chair, hands between his knees, I knew it was bad. I sat down, too.

"Well, that was dad. He just came from negotiations [their contract was up for renewal awhile ago, but still hasn't been finalized]. Management fired Foreman and got rid of Office Chick. And when we go in for our shift tonight? They're laying us off."

He glanced at me, a look of fear in his eyes. I think he was worried about how I was going to take it -- at least, I chose to view it that way as opposed to accepting the possibility that he might be scared of what we're going to do. I sat there, stunned but not, my gaze flitting unseeingly around the room. I couldn't speak. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to say the wrong thing. I didn't want to launch into the what-are-we-gonna-do lament.

It's only because he has an inside track that he was given a heads-up before he went to work. Management found it completely acceptable to let these twelve guys walk in completely unaware of what was to befall them. They're down from four shifts to one in a little more than two years. They were told that the lay-off is expected to be at least a year. The beshitted economy has come into our home and tried to rip it apart, much like most of the rest of the planet.

I was (mostly) okay with this. As okay as could be expected, I guess. Chebbar has a plan. He's talked about benefits (we're covered for three months and can purchase an additional three after that), updating his resume, and utilizing the resources available to him. He's a hard worker with an excellent work ethic: I have no doubt he'll find something.

However.

To rub salt in the wound, I had to go and ask my bosses what the likelihood of my hours being cut and/or me being laid off was because I had heard snippets here and there of work being slow and possibly needing to let some guys go. I was met with a trio of deer-in-the-headlight looks, all of them clearly uncomfortable with having to commit to anything verbally. Which I know they can't. I know there are no guarantees. I know there is no crystal ball for anyone to peer into to glean the future.

I was told not to worry "for a few months, at least."

That? Not reassuring. I knew that we would be okay bills-wise with Chebbar even temporarily on unemployment. If both of us were to end up on unemployment at the same time, it could get ugly. Things will be tight. Things will have to be cut.

But at the end of the day, fact of the matter is that we WILL be okay. Everything happens for a reason. It all works out the way it's supposed to in its own time.

The trick is having patience and remembering that we'll be fine.

Too damned logical

I had a bit of a melt-down after work last night. When I got home from work, Chebbar and I were discussing all manner of things -- going for a walk, loading the car up with garage sale crap to take to Mom's, dinner, how to prepare dinner, how we (read: I) didn't get enough vegetables to get us through the week's dinners, his job, my job, house selling/buying/hunting. All of a sudden, I was sitting on the kitchen floor in tears. I tried to reign it in and regain control, but I ended up telling Chebbar I'd be right back and escaped to the bathroom.

A short while later, he poked his head in the door to find me sitting on the toilet lid, leaning over the counter, crying into my folded arms. All he did was silently reach out to gather me into his arms and hug me, but that turned the crying into sobbing. I couldn't explain it. I couldn't articulate what was making me cry. I couldn't express the feeling of being utterly and completely overwhelmed. I still don't know what, exactly, my issue was. All I know is that I hate not having a reason for being so bloody upset.

An hour or so later, as we lazed on the couch, I sheepishly admitted to Chebbar that I felt better. He looked at me and told me the reason didn't matter: if I felt better, that was all that mattered.

God, I love that man.

Oh, my aching head!

I went to the doctor yesterday. Why? I don't know.

I say "why" because by 5:01pm (read: office closed for the weekend, rendering me unable to cancel the requisite (penalty fee-less) 24-hours in advance), my headache had all but disappeared. Huh. Kinda like the car + mechanic = what noise. Go figure.

I kept the appointment mostly due to pressure from Chebbar and The Mom. That being said, neither could come up with a reason to keep the appointment other than the fact that I had a headache for a week. However, at that point, a) I had pretty much figured out the cause (medication overuse headache, anyone?) and b) it was pretty much gone. Details schmetails!

Needless to say, I felt like a bit of a tool sitting there explaining that I had a god-awful headache for a week, but I figured out why and it was gone now. *eye roll* Basically, she confirmed my innertubez learning and confirmed that basically the only way out of a rebound headache is cold turkey and that it would be best to avoid pain relievers when at all possible. She also suggested I start tracking my headaches (which I've been doing since that doozy took up residence inside my skull) to see if a pattern emerges -- sleep, weather, food, hormones, stress, etc. Then she sent me on my way. Aside from the fact that she told me she isn't worried about anything serious *causing* my headaches, it was pretty much a waste of time. But, whatevs. At least those bossy people who love me are satisfied.

Currently, my head is achy. It's really more of that shitastic pressure I (believe I) talked about in the previous post. The only difference between today and this past weekend is that, instead of coming in short waves, it's been constant since I got up. And seeing as how I'm trying my damnedest to stay away from my little green liqui-preciousssssss, I'm hitting the water bottle/Tiger Balm/(one measly can of) Diet Coke. Yeah. Not working.

Again? My fault.

I've forgotten my allergy pills three doses in a row. Oh, and guess what?!? All I have on me is Benedryl which, while it will likely help, will make me sleepy, and I have to hit the highway in less than three hours. (Have I mentioned that the drive home lately has been making me so bone-tired that I've caught myself doing that slowwww blink more than once? In a car? Hurtling down the road at 110+ km/hr? Yeah.)

I'm tired and cranky and my head feels like it's gonna asplode, and all I can do is laugh. What else is there? Crying?

Jonesing for a fix

Last Thursday I woke up with a headache. It's still with me. The best part? In all likelihood, it's my fault: I did this to myself. Looking back, it was likely a migraine, but my reaction to it came back to bite me in the ass. Hard.

Come Saturday morning, both the pain and the pressure were bad enough that I had a full-on snot-fest melt down because I was exhausted and tired of the pain. I ended up buying a bottle of 222's (acetaminophen with codeine and caffeine -- available over the counter at the pharmacy). I was taking two of those plus my allergy medication every four hours. I kept that up until a massive headache woke me at 4:30am Wednesday morning. The combination of the pain and lack of sleep was enough for me to call in sick so I could go to the doctor. My doctor was unavailable (of course), so I went to a walk-in clinic where I was given a prescription antihistamine that would help me sleep at night (?!?). I took two more 222's at 12:30, and starting watching the clock for my next dose around 1pm.

When I realized what I was doing, I started doing the math: I had taken approximately three dozen pills in four days. Holy shit. I decided then and there that I would tough it out as much as possible, telling myself that I'm not a fan of putting "stuff" in my body unnecessarily (liar liar pants on fire! you do this ALL. THE. TIME. with ibuprofen and acetaminophen and the like! you just don't do it consistently every four hours!). I called my doctor's office back and made an appointment for next Thursday (that was the soonest I could get in).

Well. If I thought Wednesday was bad, I had no CLUE what I was in for yesterday. The pain and pressure was intense. It wasn't even that it was worse than it had been: I was almost starting to feel claustrophobic because I couldn't shake the fog that had engulfed my head.

I had heard of rebound headaches before I started Googling around the intarwebz -- occurring daily; waking you (in the morning); hurt worse at the beginning; persist throughout the day -- went "huh," and promptly put the thought out of my mind (likely because it hit a little too close to home). I would say that, not only was this week-long headache a rebounder, but likely the majority of my headaches are as well.

Even as I read more and more information, I was still sitting here going "but I don't take MORE than directed... that often. I just take it too regularly." On the drive home from work, with nothing but the radio to distract me from my (painful) thoughts, I started to panic as I recalled my prescription pill-popping grandmother and my won't-take-prescription-pills-but-won't-hesitate-to-take-OTC-meds mother. I was doing the same thing.

I read an article that stated many people don't think they can become "addicted" to non-prescription pills, assuming that since they can get them over the counter (hell, straight off the shelf without even speaking to a pharmacist) they're safe -- that they can't become dependent on them. *raises hand* I never would have thought that a couple of ibuprofen could be
problematic.

Fact of the matter is that they can be, and they are, for me. I was scared as I stood in the kitchen and told Chebbar about my suspicions, as I shakily confessed that all I could think was that I just need one ibuprofen -- not because the pain was any worse, but simply because I knew it would give me relief, no matter how temporary.

Need

The thought over-rode everything last night, as I made dinner; as I sat in the bathtub; as I lay on the couch, one ice pack on the back of my neck and another across my forehead. I need an ibuprofen, -- just one! -- so I can get to sleep. I need an ibuprofen -- just one! -- so I can get through work tomorrow. I need an ibuprofen -- just one! -- so I can deal with all the errands and running around we have to do on Saturday. I need an ibuprofen -- just one! -- so I can grin and bear it and get through the barbecue with our friends on Sunday.

It scared the hell out of me. It made me realize that I'm human and susceptible and fallible and imperfect. Shit, I've never so much as smoked pot (I've ingested it, but that's another funny story for a different day), not because I'm morally opposed to it or anything: the concept of having no idea how I will react to it and no control over what happens is beyond my comfort zone. To realize that (to some degree) I'm addicted to bloody ibuprofen of all things is just a tad embarrassing for the consummate perfectionist. I mean, obviously there are worse things to become dependent on (and aside from the brutal pain yesterday that has subsided to a dull roar today, the "detox" has been a cake walk) and I realize I'm lucky that it's *just* ibuprofen, but c'mon.

Somehow, because I was caught in the false sense of security of "safe" drugs, I overlooked the fact that there is a history of pill dependency in my family. Somehow, because I didn't want to admit there was a problem -- either with the amount/frequency of pills I was taking, or the number of headaches I've been getting -- I buried my head in the sand like an ostrich and denied it all. Somehow, because I'm a jackass to the nth degree, I smugly believed that *I* could never have a problem like that.

I'm still scared. I'm scared of the damage I may have done to my body, both in the past week, and in the past 10+ years of regular headaches (and more regular shakes of that bottle). I'm scared of what this means for my headache future: will I get more? less? the same? I'm scared of what will happen when/if I do find myself in a place where I need to take it again: will I be able to stop at just one (dose), or am I doomed to a life of suffering because the risk is too large?

Again, while I'm so very thankful it was something relatively minor like ibuprofen, I'm ashamed and embarrassed to admit that I let it get to this point, other people need to be aware of this and how easy it is to fall into a cycle of "I just have to take something" because I certainly had no idea.

bwtdejgc2f

Excited. Hopeful. Scared shitless.

What are three words to describe home ownership?

My apologies in advance if this is disjointed and all over the place: my mind is racing a million miles an hour and I'm having trouble keeping up.

Chebbar came home from work last night full of plans and ideas and suggestions. He feels that, if we keep on track with debt repayment, there's no reason we can't start looking for a house in February! I have no idea where February came from, but okay! lol As he said, we keep talking about it and talking about, and I keep looking at properties on MLS, but we're not *doing* anything about it (I'm not sure just what he thinks we should/could/would be doing about it at this stage of the game, but at least he's on board). He was a veritable rush of verbal diarrhea as thoughts flowed from his mouth, talking about paying off this and RRSP loans for that and appointments with our account manager and so on and so forth.

I tried valiantly not to get caught up in his excitement, but it was hard: so many of my friends -- both online and offline -- are currently selling/looking/buying, and I've been bitten by the bug. We have made comments here and there ("when WE buy a house... " "when WE move... " "we HAVE to HAVE... "), and this past weekend, we did it a lot, with me stating wistfully at one point that I can't wait until we have a house of our own.

However, while he is focused on the mechanics in buying a house, I'm focused on selling the condo. I would guess that our attention is split because we're coming at this from different perspectives: he wasn't in the picture when I bought the condo, so he's focused on buying his first property, while I'm damn-near apoplectic at the process of selling my first property. He's thinking of money-making potential, while I'm thinking of the costs involved: renos, closing costs, taxes, etc. I have no clue where to start -- real estate agent, or account manager at the bank? Where the hell do we even look for reliable information to do some of the research ourselves? I know we want to BUY in this market, but do we *really* want to try to sell right now (unfortunately (in this instance only -- it's been a god-send for the past three blissfully quiet years) the building is owner-occupied, so we can't rent the condo out until the market recovers)? Really?!?

At the end of the day, I can't wait to not have neighbours right underneath us. I can't wait until we don't have to worry about Chebbar's car being dinged in the parking lot. I can't wait until we can do deck repairs as soon as necessary, instead of having to wait for some other entity to arbitrarily decide if we can go ahead. I can't wait until we can have central air/a hot tub/a pool/a garden/parties, etc (after we win the lottery, obvs).

So, yeah. This time next year, we could be in a house of our very own. Hopefully.

Too Much Information!

This morning as I drove into work, I was doing my typical man-with-the-remote surfing of the radio dial when I caught a snippet of a local(ish) station's morning show hosts discussing a topic that straddled the line of Too Much Information and relationship do-overs. One of the hosts was discussing a particularly disastrous bikini-line laser session that left her burned and blistered. After sharing (read: showing) with her husband, he hasn't been able to get the mental image of her mangled (and I quote) "sacred place" out of his head, stating that he wished she had never shown him.

They went on to relate an anecdote shared before I tuned in, in which a man was terribly, horribly scarred for life after watching his wife give birth. Again with the sacred place.

Seriously? Women are expected to push babies the size of watermelons out of cooters the size of lemons, and the menfolk are gonna go all sissy and cry about it being traumatizing? Ferreal?

A woman called in, stating that she didn't believe anything was "too much information," and that her and her husband shared "everything," only to have the Host of the Broken Hoo-Ha mock her by accusing her of having the perfect relationship. The caller then proceeded to try to defend her position. At that point, I changed the station (and not just because I have the attention span of a gnat).

When I was young (and stupid), I'd buy Cosmo magazines, nodding my head sagely as I read the articles outlining what to NEV.ER. do in front of your boyfriend. You know, things like NEV.ER. being completely undressed in front of him (to leave a little something to the imagination, doncha know); and like NEV.ER. peeing with the door open (Oh Em Gee! We don't want him to know you have bodily functions!!! *gasp*); and like NEV.ER. being one of the guys when hanging with the guys (who knew guys could be threatened by a girl who drinks beer and tells dirty jokes?). Shit: did you know you should NEV.ER. send a text message that is more than two sentences in length? Or that you should NEV.ER. wear any lingerie that might take more than 2.6 seconds for him to remove? How am I going to keep all this straight? *whimpers*

Give. Me. A. Break.

We do EVERYTHING together/in front of each other. Probably to an unhealthy degree, sure, but it works for us. Granted, in the beginning, it was pretty damned difficult to get over myself in front of Chebbar because a) hello: self esteem issues, and b) o hai, I'm a prude! However, it almost seemed to bond us further to a certain degree when I was finally able to pee with the bathroom door open -- like some new level of trust had been established (certainly that a new level of comfort had been attained). It's been a hard road and I still have my moments, but there IS no such thing as over-sharing or TMI with us. And while sometimes it weirds me out, mostly I'm grateful that I don't have to hide behind some kind of prissy, phony act because I'm scared to show Chebbar the real me.

What about you? What do you think is too much? Is there a moment in your relationship you'd do over in the sharing department if you could?

Ugh

Yesterday I had a headache from the time I got up at 6:20am until almost 9:30 last night. Needless to say, I didn't bother trying to do the Tae-Bo workout that I missed Wednesday (Canada Day). Now I'm torn between pushing it and doing it both today and tomorrow to ensure three sessions this week, and giving myself a break after today like common sense would dictate (with the inception of things like the 30-Day Shred, when did the school of thought that muscles need time between work outs to recover fall by the wayside? Is that "wrong" now, or do people just disregard it?).

Of course, as is my M.O., I'm beating myself up over the fact that, what started out as another good week, took a header down the shitter. Instead of viewing it as one or two bad days (hell, even one bad week), I see this week as a complete write-off (and will continue to view it that way, even if I *do* end up Tae-Bo-ing today and tomorrow).

How do you get past the all-or-nothing mentality? That every misstep is an utter failure? How do you cut yourself some slack? I'm having a hard time being nice to myself right now...