I just had one.
I have long been a proponent of the golden rule. I think it can pretty much all be boiled down to treating others like we want to be treated -- how much better would the world be if we all practiced this?
I don't know why or how, but I just saw the golden rule on another website and read it as "treat yourself like you treat others." I know that I am kinder, more compassionate, more encouraging, and quicker to cut others slack than I do for myself. Perhaps if I can try to remember to treat myself the way I treat others -- hell, the way others DO treat me -- I'll make even more progress.
Monday, August 31, 2009
It's time to get serious
Once and for all. I've about had it with myself. I had a melt-down of epic proportions (yes, another one: shut up) last Monday that was something of a wake-up call. I was shocked at how bad it was, at how miserable I was, at how nasty I was to myself. Someone said to me years ago that I shouldn't be mean to myself because there are enough other people in the world who will do that for me. While sad, it is true. That good old cliche stands: if I can't love myself, why would anyone else? (I think that is why sometimes I find it so damned baffling that Chebbar loves me the way he does.)
I deserve to be comfortable in my skin. I deserve to like the way I look in my clothes (or at least try to) instead of feeling like a hippo in a tutu. Being comfortable and liking the way I look in clothes is NOT dependent on the number on the tag -- no one sees it, so who cares?!? CUT THEM OFF! I want to be HEALTHY. I want to be FIT. I want to have energy. I want to be able to jog up the stairs again. I want to do the Couch to 5K program. I want to be around to spend many, many more years with Chebbar.
And so, I started writing a list. It's a long one, so feel free to scroll down if you're so inclined. I don't mind, I promise. ;)
If you think this might be for you, join me! If you just want to watch from afar, that's cool, too. :)
Oh, and as a reward, I've promised myself a boudoir-type photo shoot once I get to a place where I'm comfortable with me. But shhh! That's between you, me, and the rest of the internet. ;)
I deserve to be comfortable in my skin. I deserve to like the way I look in my clothes (or at least try to) instead of feeling like a hippo in a tutu. Being comfortable and liking the way I look in clothes is NOT dependent on the number on the tag -- no one sees it, so who cares?!? CUT THEM OFF! I want to be HEALTHY. I want to be FIT. I want to have energy. I want to be able to jog up the stairs again. I want to do the Couch to 5K program. I want to be around to spend many, many more years with Chebbar.
And so, I started writing a list. It's a long one, so feel free to scroll down if you're so inclined. I don't mind, I promise. ;)
- I am going to drink 6-8 glasses of water per day, drinking them consistently throughout the day so as to not get dehydrated, INCLUDING WEEKENDS
- I am not going to drink pop during the week (unless I'm getting a caffeine fix for a headache)
- I am going to strive for 5 days of activity per week, but will be happy with 3
- I am NOT going to beat myself up if I skip a workout and/or do an easier one than planned
- I am going to take the stairs unless I have a large load
- I am going to be mindful of what I'm choosing to eat
- I am going to be mindful of how much I'm eating
- I am going to be mindful of when I'm eating -- bored? upset? hungry?
- I am going to be mindful of when I'm full
- I am going to chew a piece of gum in order to curb the after-meal sweet tooth
- I will have a glass of water and wait 15 minutes before giving in to a craving
- I will allow myself one treat per day if I feel the need
- I will not beat myself up if I slip and have more than one
- I will make healthy choices whenever/wherever possible
- I am going to floss & brush my teeth before bed
- I am going to moisturize my skin after showers & baths
- I am going to exfoliate & apply a face mask every 3 days or so
- I am going to STOP PICKING my skin
- I am going to take care of my feet with regular pedicures & applications of lotion
- I am going to be kinder to myself
- I am going to be gentler to myself
- I am going to cut myself some slack
- I am going to appreciate my body, at the very least for staying upright and continuing to move
- I am not going to see a slip-up as the end of the world: instead, it will be an opportunity for a new beginning
- I am going to do my best to not slip into the pit of self-loathing
- I am going to actively pursue learning how to love myself
- I am going to actively pursue recognizing my good qualities
- I am going to actively pursue realizing, recognizing, and accepting that I am a good person (and that it doesn't make me vain to do so)
- I am going to make a conscious effort to stop negative self-talk the moment I realize I'm doing it
- I am going to stop (potentially) offending or hurting Chebbar by not questioning his love or anything else he says to/about me, by taking what he says at face-value, and accepting that he's not just telling me what he thinks I want to hear
If you think this might be for you, join me! If you just want to watch from afar, that's cool, too. :)
Oh, and as a reward, I've promised myself a boudoir-type photo shoot once I get to a place where I'm comfortable with me. But shhh! That's between you, me, and the rest of the internet. ;)
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Have I told you about the last time I peed my pants?
I was 16.
No, not 16 months. 16 YEARS. Long, boring story short, I had to have an ultrasound done because the doctor thought I had a cyst on my ovary. Like every expectant woman, I was instructed to drink eight glasses of water an hour before the test. I dutifully chugged the water, thinking that it wasn't THAT bad: what were all those pregnant women complaining about, anyhow?
Oh, I know. It's called karma, kids. She kicked my ass.
After about half an hour, I started feeling rather uncomfortable. When my grandmonster arrived to drive me and Mom to the hospital (I have NO recollection as to why Mom didn't drive us herself, but thank jeebus we had an extra body), I was in so much pain I was doubled over. By the time we got to the hospital (maybe a ten minute drive), I was in tears because it hurt. So. Bad.
Mom had to check me in because I couldn't speak through the tears and the hiccups and the sobs and the snot. That is, until the receptionist held out a paper cup and asked if I could go "just this much."
*SNORT*
I managed to straighten up enough to look her in the eye and tell her that if I started, I wasn't gonna stop. She told me to "just try." I <strike>killed her with my eyes</strike> took the cup and hobbled to the washroom that faced into the waiting room. The waiting room that held three other people.
Just as I got to the door, SPLOOSH.
My bladder had betrayed me and emptied itself all over myself and the floor in front of my mother, my grandmother, the receptionist, and three strangers. I slammed the door shut, flipped the lock, and proceeded to sob my angst-ridden teenage heart out.
While my world was in the process of ending (o hai, melodrama!), I got to listen to my mother attempt to stifle her screaming laughter as she asked me where to find me a change of clothes at home. I stayed locked in the bathroom for the time it took her to drive home, find me another pair of shorts, and drive back. I then had to deal with the incomprehensible fear of having to come back until it was determined that they could squeeze me in.
This time, they told me to only drink FOUR glasses of water. Please not that number: it's important, I swear.
When the ultrasound tech called my name, I all but bounded into the room -- I felt GRRREAT! I hopped up on the bed and laid there as she poked and prodded with the wand. She hemmed and hawed to herself before explaining that, if the bladder is too full, it will obstruct their view. She then fearfully asked if I could go "just this much" (a cup).
Sure! No problem! My bladder isn't so full that it's squeezing itself out my nose! I hopped off the table, did my business in the bathroom, and trotted back out. She was able to view what she needed (no cyst), and that was that.
I was told to drink the standard eight glasses, which I expelled. I was told to drink four glasses, which was too much. MY TEENY, TINY LITTLE BLADDER ONLY NEEDED THREE GLASSES OF WATER, AND I HAD CONSUMED DAMN-NEAR THREE TIMES THAT! It's little bloody wonder I peed myself! Geesh.
The next time I had an ultrasound (looking for endo, that time), I drank four glasses on my way to the hospital and was just fine.
(*I* ended up diagnosing the pain as mittelschmerz when I was about 25, after seeing three different doctors and having two ultrasounds done. Stoopid doctors. Sometimes the simplest answer really is the correct one.)
No, not 16 months. 16 YEARS. Long, boring story short, I had to have an ultrasound done because the doctor thought I had a cyst on my ovary. Like every expectant woman, I was instructed to drink eight glasses of water an hour before the test. I dutifully chugged the water, thinking that it wasn't THAT bad: what were all those pregnant women complaining about, anyhow?
Oh, I know. It's called karma, kids. She kicked my ass.
After about half an hour, I started feeling rather uncomfortable. When my grandmonster arrived to drive me and Mom to the hospital (I have NO recollection as to why Mom didn't drive us herself, but thank jeebus we had an extra body), I was in so much pain I was doubled over. By the time we got to the hospital (maybe a ten minute drive), I was in tears because it hurt. So. Bad.
Mom had to check me in because I couldn't speak through the tears and the hiccups and the sobs and the snot. That is, until the receptionist held out a paper cup and asked if I could go "just this much."
*SNORT*
I managed to straighten up enough to look her in the eye and tell her that if I started, I wasn't gonna stop. She told me to "just try." I <strike>killed her with my eyes</strike> took the cup and hobbled to the washroom that faced into the waiting room. The waiting room that held three other people.
Just as I got to the door, SPLOOSH.
My bladder had betrayed me and emptied itself all over myself and the floor in front of my mother, my grandmother, the receptionist, and three strangers. I slammed the door shut, flipped the lock, and proceeded to sob my angst-ridden teenage heart out.
While my world was in the process of ending (o hai, melodrama!), I got to listen to my mother attempt to stifle her screaming laughter as she asked me where to find me a change of clothes at home. I stayed locked in the bathroom for the time it took her to drive home, find me another pair of shorts, and drive back. I then had to deal with the incomprehensible fear of having to come back until it was determined that they could squeeze me in.
This time, they told me to only drink FOUR glasses of water. Please not that number: it's important, I swear.
When the ultrasound tech called my name, I all but bounded into the room -- I felt GRRREAT! I hopped up on the bed and laid there as she poked and prodded with the wand. She hemmed and hawed to herself before explaining that, if the bladder is too full, it will obstruct their view. She then fearfully asked if I could go "just this much" (a cup).
Sure! No problem! My bladder isn't so full that it's squeezing itself out my nose! I hopped off the table, did my business in the bathroom, and trotted back out. She was able to view what she needed (no cyst), and that was that.
I was told to drink the standard eight glasses, which I expelled. I was told to drink four glasses, which was too much. MY TEENY, TINY LITTLE BLADDER ONLY NEEDED THREE GLASSES OF WATER, AND I HAD CONSUMED DAMN-NEAR THREE TIMES THAT! It's little bloody wonder I peed myself! Geesh.
The next time I had an ultrasound (looking for endo, that time), I drank four glasses on my way to the hospital and was just fine.
(*I* ended up diagnosing the pain as mittelschmerz when I was about 25, after seeing three different doctors and having two ultrasounds done. Stoopid doctors. Sometimes the simplest answer really is the correct one.)
Monday, August 24, 2009
You guys will NEVER guess who had another crazy-assed dream!
ME!!1!one!
Friday I was talking to the wife of one of the owners and the subject of children came up. I did my usual not-sure-we-want-any song and dance, followed by my if-it-happens-it-happens; if-it-doesn't-it-doesn't jig, and that was the end of that.
Or so I thought.
Friday night I dreamt that I was whoops!pregnant. Chebbar and I were both understandably freaked. the. fuck. out. However, we eventually calmed down, doing the whole "guess it was meant to happen" thing. Enough time passed that we grew more comfortable with the idea and eventually were excited about impending parenthood.
Then I miscarried.
Yeah. This one kind of did my head in, too. I'm actually still making that nose-wrinkled scrunchy face as I type -- it's still unsettling. :(
Friday I was talking to the wife of one of the owners and the subject of children came up. I did my usual not-sure-we-want-any song and dance, followed by my if-it-happens-it-happens; if-it-doesn't-it-doesn't jig, and that was the end of that.
Or so I thought.
Friday night I dreamt that I was whoops!pregnant. Chebbar and I were both understandably freaked. the. fuck. out. However, we eventually calmed down, doing the whole "guess it was meant to happen" thing. Enough time passed that we grew more comfortable with the idea and eventually were excited about impending parenthood.
Then I miscarried.
Yeah. This one kind of did my head in, too. I'm actually still making that nose-wrinkled scrunchy face as I type -- it's still unsettling. :(
Friday, August 21, 2009
Glad that's over
Yesterday was... odd. Weird. Uncomfortable. Stabby-making.
It started with a phone call from Chebbar after his job interview. He started out with a surprise! invitation of sorts for our already full-to-the-brim Sunday (in case you hadn't sussed it out yet, I'm an anal-retentive control freak who likes schedules and routines and order *eye roll*). He's going to be busy tonight and tomorrow helping my step-dad; we have a birthday dinner tomorrow night; and we were supposed to do grocery shopping and then go out of town to visit his family on Sunday: now he wants to spend Sunday night with the boys?!? Nice! I was still trying to wrap my (sometimes slow to catch up) brain around that one when he started telling me about the job interview. It went well, and we discussed some things, but the conversation in general left me feeling annoyed. As the day went on, I was getting increasingly teeth-gnashy, to the point that I had worked myself into a lather by quitting time.
On the drive home (with the assistance of a much-needed Momma-calm-me-down phone call), I realized that I was being ridiculous. First and foremost, hello selfish asshole. He's busy tonight and tomorrow because he's helping YOUR step-dad. Granted, you had nothing to do with this arrangement, but still. YOUR FAMILY. All of Sunday's activities could be fit in, and if that meant taking two cars so I can come home if it starts getting late, no biggie! Besides, when was the last time he had a Risk-playing geek-fest night with the boys? March? Suck it up, Princess. As far as the job thing, we're fine and we're going to BE fine. Stop. Borrowing. Trouble. Dammit.
I got all my Princess Pissypants crap out before I got home, which was a huge relief in itself. Of course, when I realized that this was hormone-drive (*cough*monthly visitor arrives next week*cough*), I was even more relieved. Just glad it didn't last longer than one day. I hate the irrational bullshit.
It started with a phone call from Chebbar after his job interview. He started out with a surprise! invitation of sorts for our already full-to-the-brim Sunday (in case you hadn't sussed it out yet, I'm an anal-retentive control freak who likes schedules and routines and order *eye roll*). He's going to be busy tonight and tomorrow helping my step-dad; we have a birthday dinner tomorrow night; and we were supposed to do grocery shopping and then go out of town to visit his family on Sunday: now he wants to spend Sunday night with the boys?!? Nice! I was still trying to wrap my (sometimes slow to catch up) brain around that one when he started telling me about the job interview. It went well, and we discussed some things, but the conversation in general left me feeling annoyed. As the day went on, I was getting increasingly teeth-gnashy, to the point that I had worked myself into a lather by quitting time.
On the drive home (with the assistance of a much-needed Momma-calm-me-down phone call), I realized that I was being ridiculous. First and foremost, hello selfish asshole. He's busy tonight and tomorrow because he's helping YOUR step-dad. Granted, you had nothing to do with this arrangement, but still. YOUR FAMILY. All of Sunday's activities could be fit in, and if that meant taking two cars so I can come home if it starts getting late, no biggie! Besides, when was the last time he had a Risk-playing geek-fest night with the boys? March? Suck it up, Princess. As far as the job thing, we're fine and we're going to BE fine. Stop. Borrowing. Trouble. Dammit.
I got all my Princess Pissypants crap out before I got home, which was a huge relief in itself. Of course, when I realized that this was hormone-drive (*cough*monthly visitor arrives next week*cough*), I was even more relieved. Just glad it didn't last longer than one day. I hate the irrational bullshit.
When the pills are not enough
The following post is brought to you by the amazing Danielle-Lee of A Little Left of Lost, the number 5, and the letter Q:
"On several occasions over the past few weeks, I have read or heard people complaining that they can't be absolutely and completely honest on their blogs, for a variety of reasons. Maybe your mom reads your blog. Or your grandmother. Or you have co-workers or clients who have found your blog. Maybe your spouse doesn't like you telling "strangers" about the concerns you may have in your marriage. Whatever it may be, I'm pretty sure at some point you have been afraid to post something. And who can blame you? Who wants your grandmother to know you are testing & reviewing a dildo? Who wants your co-worker or boss to read about how stabby you get in the office?
Whatever it is, it would be nice to rant, bitch, complain, vent, get it out already, without the negative consequences. It would be great to get some feedback from other smart people out there, without worrying about losing readers (or your job).
Thus, The "When pills aren't enough" Sessions! (As in, "I took a pill to calm my ass down, but I'm still stressing/pissed/panicking." And I can't take credit for the name; Holly is fabulous with stuff like that.)
Basically, this is how it works:
* You send me an email dlwinkler (at)msn (dot)com telling me you want to participate. Go ahead and give me the link to your blog as well. Let me know if there is anything you do not want posted on your blog (such as sexual content).
* Then you email me your post. It can be about ANYTHING. Nothing is off-limits here.
* I will send your post to another participating blogger to be posted on their blog next Tuesday, September 1st. We will all post the guest posts that day.
* If you wish to have an under-the-radar, sneaky pen name for your post, go right ahead. Just put it in the email. If you want your blog to be linked on your post, let me know.
* Here's the great part: It's a round-robin sorta thing, so if your guest post goes on Participant #1's blog, Participant #1's guest post will not go on your blog, but on Participant #2's blog. That way, no one that normally reads your blog (like your mother or your nosy secretary) will be able to find your guest post!
Am I fabulously smart or what? (Don't everyone answer that all at once){She really is fabulously smart, yo.}
So! Pretty please send email to dlwinkler (at)msn (dot)com if you are interested in participating! I will need your guest post by Sunday night, August 30th.
**You may see this post on several people's blogs today. Just trying to spread the word. Feel free to do the same!!**"
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Well, when you put it THAT way
Chebbar has a job interview in about half an hour. YAAAAAY!
Or, yaaaaay. When he called yesterday to tell me, he posed a what if: what if he didn't like it? I didn't follow at first, so he went on to explain that if he were to get the job and either not work out (so they let him go), or really dislike it (so he leaves), there will be no more EI (which STILL hasn't kicked in, by the way -- unless his first cheque is in our account tomorrow, we're going to have to dip into savings (and yes, I *do* realize how lucky we are to even HAVE savings to dip into, but this claim was actually opened in March, so he wasn't supposed to have to wait the initial two weeks when he was laid off five weeks ago)). IF either of those two scenarios played out, he'd be in the same job-hunting boat (which, hi! five weeks since he was laid off + three dozen resumes sent out = O.N.E. job interview) without the benefit of EI payments.
That's kinda scary, yo.
(Oh, and another thing? He keeps saying things in regards to EI that he quantifies with "I'm pretty sure" statements, even after I have repeatedly suggested he GO IN AND TALK TO SOMEONE to get confirmation. "Pretty sure" isn't sure enough when we're talking about our financial future. :-S )
Or, yaaaaay. When he called yesterday to tell me, he posed a what if: what if he didn't like it? I didn't follow at first, so he went on to explain that if he were to get the job and either not work out (so they let him go), or really dislike it (so he leaves), there will be no more EI (which STILL hasn't kicked in, by the way -- unless his first cheque is in our account tomorrow, we're going to have to dip into savings (and yes, I *do* realize how lucky we are to even HAVE savings to dip into, but this claim was actually opened in March, so he wasn't supposed to have to wait the initial two weeks when he was laid off five weeks ago)). IF either of those two scenarios played out, he'd be in the same job-hunting boat (which, hi! five weeks since he was laid off + three dozen resumes sent out = O.N.E. job interview) without the benefit of EI payments.
That's kinda scary, yo.
(Oh, and another thing? He keeps saying things in regards to EI that he quantifies with "I'm pretty sure" statements, even after I have repeatedly suggested he GO IN AND TALK TO SOMEONE to get confirmation. "Pretty sure" isn't sure enough when we're talking about our financial future. :-S )
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Seeing yourself
I realized yesterday why I hate having my picture taken.
As I sat in the shampoo chair waiting for my hairdresser, I gazed across the salon into the mirror directly across from me. I was greeted with an image of a woman whose head looked too small for her body (because her body is too big for her head); whose meaty arms wrapped around a large uniboob chest; whose turkey drumstick thighs filled the seat of the chair.
I was startled. Don't get me wrong: I know I'm not a toothpick, nor will I ever be (and I'm okay with that). However, I seem to have the opposite problem of some people. In my mind's eye, I am thinner than I am in reality. When I look down at my arms, they don't look that flabby. When I look down at my thighs, they look a lot more slender. When I look at my ass... *snort* Who are we kidding? I avoid that angle at all costs. I am not as heavy in my head as I am in actuality. Now, I know this could be a bad thing because I could be lulled into thinking I don't have work to do. Or, it could be looked at as denial on my part. On the flip side, if you're a believer in The Secret-type visualization, this could prove helpful -- I've read more than one article that will promote visualizing yourself thinner/more fit/happier as a tip for making progress.
When I see myself in the mirror at home, I'm either able to stay in the "I'm not THAT big" mindset (okay, if I look in the above-the-chest mirrors in the bathrooms), and if I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, I'm able to look at myself objectively. But when I see myself in public, I finally *see* myself as others must see me. And I don't like it. I hate that I'm likely judged on my appearance almost as much as I hate that I care what strangers think of me.
I don't like having my picture taken because it forces me to step outside of my bubble and SEE myself. Plus, there's that whole photographic evidence thing -- seeing the current state of my body embarrasses me. I'm currently contemplating taking a picture of myself every day, but I don't know what the purpose would be. My first thought is shaming myself into waking up, but how effective is that going to be? My second thought is more along the lines of gauging progress and hopefully keeping myself motivated in order to see that progress, but I don't know much staying power doing something I despise (me + camera) will have.
I'm not even sure why I'm sharing this. I just found it interesting to realize how/why I see myself differently and why I have such an aversion to cameras.
As I sat in the shampoo chair waiting for my hairdresser, I gazed across the salon into the mirror directly across from me. I was greeted with an image of a woman whose head looked too small for her body (because her body is too big for her head); whose meaty arms wrapped around a large uniboob chest; whose turkey drumstick thighs filled the seat of the chair.
I was startled. Don't get me wrong: I know I'm not a toothpick, nor will I ever be (and I'm okay with that). However, I seem to have the opposite problem of some people. In my mind's eye, I am thinner than I am in reality. When I look down at my arms, they don't look that flabby. When I look down at my thighs, they look a lot more slender. When I look at my ass... *snort* Who are we kidding? I avoid that angle at all costs. I am not as heavy in my head as I am in actuality. Now, I know this could be a bad thing because I could be lulled into thinking I don't have work to do. Or, it could be looked at as denial on my part. On the flip side, if you're a believer in The Secret-type visualization, this could prove helpful -- I've read more than one article that will promote visualizing yourself thinner/more fit/happier as a tip for making progress.
When I see myself in the mirror at home, I'm either able to stay in the "I'm not THAT big" mindset (okay, if I look in the above-the-chest mirrors in the bathrooms), and if I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, I'm able to look at myself objectively. But when I see myself in public, I finally *see* myself as others must see me. And I don't like it. I hate that I'm likely judged on my appearance almost as much as I hate that I care what strangers think of me.
I don't like having my picture taken because it forces me to step outside of my bubble and SEE myself. Plus, there's that whole photographic evidence thing -- seeing the current state of my body embarrasses me. I'm currently contemplating taking a picture of myself every day, but I don't know what the purpose would be. My first thought is shaming myself into waking up, but how effective is that going to be? My second thought is more along the lines of gauging progress and hopefully keeping myself motivated in order to see that progress, but I don't know much staying power doing something I despise (me + camera) will have.
I'm not even sure why I'm sharing this. I just found it interesting to realize how/why I see myself differently and why I have such an aversion to cameras.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Back to school! Sort of...
Chebbar had decided that he wanted to go back to school to get an accounting certificate. Apparently this is something he's wanted to do since high school, as he's always been good with numbers and enjoyed math. Unfortunately, likely many boys I knew way back when, he slacked off in grade 12 and missed graduating by one whopping credit. After deciding that he wanted to go back to school, he knew he'd have to get on the equivalency exam, so we headed off to Chapters to buy him a GED study guide (after I ordered the wrong one from Amazon -- but Amazon? EX.CELL.ENT. customer service. So impressed!). Because he is currently out of work, there is a chance that EI will (partially?) fund his retraining, but he'll have to go in to talk to someone to get more information. The accounting program only accepts new applicants in the fall, so he'll have to wait until NEXT September (sucks), but there are a couple of prerequisite courses he could potentially take in January, so I suggested that he also make an appointment with a course advisor at the university to see what he might need to do before he applies.
He had been doing the diagnostic exams here and there, discussing how he found each subject. When he got to the math section, I was going to caution him not to beat himself up or automatically assume he couldn't do it if he didn't do as well as he expected: this was the first time in almost 14 years that he had used that learning. However, I didn't want to put ideas in his head that might not be there, so I kept my mouth shut. He did find the section difficult, *just* finishing the last question as time ran out. He told me that he had a really hard time with it and that he was surprised that it didn't come back as easily as he thought it would. That was all he'd said, so I thought that was that.
Boy, was I wrong.
Friday night we went for a walk before dinner. His words started to flow as we walked. He started by telling me he was going to apply for a job on Monday that he had specifically told me he wasn't going to bother with because it was too far from home (another job in the same field as his last one, one that would likely snap him up in a heartbeat and restore our income to close to what it was). I was completely puzzled by this change, so asked him what brought it about. He went on to tell me that he wasn't sure he was cut out for school and that even if he was able to successfully complete the program, there was no guarantee that he'd be able to find work in that field. He also talked about how he'd likely have to go down to part time work while he's in school and didn't like the idea of the affect on our income.
My response was difficult to formulate because I hate to say anything remotely close to criticism when he's already down on himself, but I chose my words carefully and told him what it seemed like he needed to hear. He never gives himself enough credit, ever. He sells himself short and assumes he'll fail before he even starts (sound familiar? *cough*). That I can only imagine how overwhelming it must be to realize how much work will be involved in going to school. That we'll make it work money-wise: things will be tight and there won't be much extra, but it's only a year and a half, and the ultimate payoff would be worth it. That I was behind him 100%, no matter what he chose to do because I knew he'd make the best decision for him (and us, by extension, because he always seems to take us/me into consideration). And then I dropped it -- boy, was THAT hard! lol
We didn't really talk about it again until Sunday when he wrote the final diagnostic test. If he wants to write in September, his application had to be in by this Friday. It seemed that he had already resigned himself to potentially having to put it off until the November test date if his scores weren't up to snuff and he needed more time to study. When he finished, he asked me if I could mark it for him. As I made my way through each section, the grin on my face grew. His scores landed in the "good" category in every single section, except for the math portion. Do you know what he got?
EXCELLENT.
I was *so* proud of him. I had no doubt that he would do well, but it was such a relief to have "proof," as it were, as opposed to blind (biased) faith. He didn't really say much, just smiled in a bashful way, until he came to me later and thanked me for believing in him even when he couldn't believe in himself. "That's what we do for each other," I replied.
I'm so proud of him. I know he'll kick ass at this if he decides to go through with it. I just have to keep reminding him of that. :)
ETA: I can't believe I forgot! He scored 80% on the diagnostic test. Not bad considering he's been out of high school for 14 years, hey? *is proud*
He had been doing the diagnostic exams here and there, discussing how he found each subject. When he got to the math section, I was going to caution him not to beat himself up or automatically assume he couldn't do it if he didn't do as well as he expected: this was the first time in almost 14 years that he had used that learning. However, I didn't want to put ideas in his head that might not be there, so I kept my mouth shut. He did find the section difficult, *just* finishing the last question as time ran out. He told me that he had a really hard time with it and that he was surprised that it didn't come back as easily as he thought it would. That was all he'd said, so I thought that was that.
Boy, was I wrong.
Friday night we went for a walk before dinner. His words started to flow as we walked. He started by telling me he was going to apply for a job on Monday that he had specifically told me he wasn't going to bother with because it was too far from home (another job in the same field as his last one, one that would likely snap him up in a heartbeat and restore our income to close to what it was). I was completely puzzled by this change, so asked him what brought it about. He went on to tell me that he wasn't sure he was cut out for school and that even if he was able to successfully complete the program, there was no guarantee that he'd be able to find work in that field. He also talked about how he'd likely have to go down to part time work while he's in school and didn't like the idea of the affect on our income.
My response was difficult to formulate because I hate to say anything remotely close to criticism when he's already down on himself, but I chose my words carefully and told him what it seemed like he needed to hear. He never gives himself enough credit, ever. He sells himself short and assumes he'll fail before he even starts (sound familiar? *cough*). That I can only imagine how overwhelming it must be to realize how much work will be involved in going to school. That we'll make it work money-wise: things will be tight and there won't be much extra, but it's only a year and a half, and the ultimate payoff would be worth it. That I was behind him 100%, no matter what he chose to do because I knew he'd make the best decision for him (and us, by extension, because he always seems to take us/me into consideration). And then I dropped it -- boy, was THAT hard! lol
We didn't really talk about it again until Sunday when he wrote the final diagnostic test. If he wants to write in September, his application had to be in by this Friday. It seemed that he had already resigned himself to potentially having to put it off until the November test date if his scores weren't up to snuff and he needed more time to study. When he finished, he asked me if I could mark it for him. As I made my way through each section, the grin on my face grew. His scores landed in the "good" category in every single section, except for the math portion. Do you know what he got?
EXCELLENT.
I was *so* proud of him. I had no doubt that he would do well, but it was such a relief to have "proof," as it were, as opposed to blind (biased) faith. He didn't really say much, just smiled in a bashful way, until he came to me later and thanked me for believing in him even when he couldn't believe in himself. "That's what we do for each other," I replied.
I'm so proud of him. I know he'll kick ass at this if he decides to go through with it. I just have to keep reminding him of that. :)
ETA: I can't believe I forgot! He scored 80% on the diagnostic test. Not bad considering he's been out of high school for 14 years, hey? *is proud*
Monday, August 17, 2009
Someone hand me a cluepon
For the past little while, I have been pondering some new clothes. Not many, mind you: I am loath to spend money on larger sizes when I want so desperately to get into better shape. However, I'm uncomfortable unless I'm in freaking yoga pants and hello? can't wear those to work (well, I probably could, but that's not exactly professional, now is it?). I was thinking of a couple of pairs of pants and maybe a few shirts to tide me over because what I *do* wear is rotated so often that I haaaaaaaaaate it all. Of course, the icing on the woe-is-me cake is that only one of us is currently employed (and the other's EI payments haven't kicked in yet, so we'll be making up the difference from our savings if we don't have a cheque by the end of the week) and I really don't want to spend ANY money. But I feel (and probably look) like a stuffed sausage.
Last night, I stepped on the scale. I am a full 20 pounds heavier than my heaviest weight.
Well, DUH! When I lost the 25 pounds forever and a half ago and in trying to make room in the closet before Chebbar moved in, I got rid of all the "fat" clothes. I'm currently wearing the (only one size) smaller (but that's at least one, if not two sizes too small now) wardrobe I had accumulated two years ago. If your math skills are as good as mine (*cough*calculator*cough*), I'm squeezing FORTY-FIVE extra pounds into those clothes! It's little bloody wonder I'm uncomfortable! I feel like such a doofus for not having done the math and figured this out sooner.
So, as much as I don't want to, I think I'm going to have to see if I can hit some clearance racks (and ignore the sizes on the damned tags). Not only do I need to feel more comfortable physically, I also know that seeing myself looking like a stuffed sausage isn't good for the old being nice to myself mindset -- or, perhaps seeing myself in clothing that fits well and is flattering and comfortable will change my self perception a bit.
I do need to figure out how to find more motivation and/or energy, though. Ever since I got a "real" job, work outs have had to take place after work: considering I'll shower the night before in order to get an extra 15 minutes of sleep in the morning, getting up at 5am to work out just isn't going to happen. Unfortunately, by the time I get home from work, I'm so exhausted (mostly mentally, and mostly because of the commute: I've noticed that ever since I started driving *with* rush-hour traffic (even though the length of the commute is the same), I'm wasted when I get home) I can't even think straight and all I want to do is sit my ass on the couch. I will look for any excuse to skip a work out, and ANY excuse will do. I have to figure out a way to keep myself going, but I haven't figured out what yet.
Last night, I stepped on the scale. I am a full 20 pounds heavier than my heaviest weight.
Well, DUH! When I lost the 25 pounds forever and a half ago and in trying to make room in the closet before Chebbar moved in, I got rid of all the "fat" clothes. I'm currently wearing the (only one size) smaller (but that's at least one, if not two sizes too small now) wardrobe I had accumulated two years ago. If your math skills are as good as mine (*cough*calculator*cough*), I'm squeezing FORTY-FIVE extra pounds into those clothes! It's little bloody wonder I'm uncomfortable! I feel like such a doofus for not having done the math and figured this out sooner.
So, as much as I don't want to, I think I'm going to have to see if I can hit some clearance racks (and ignore the sizes on the damned tags). Not only do I need to feel more comfortable physically, I also know that seeing myself looking like a stuffed sausage isn't good for the old being nice to myself mindset -- or, perhaps seeing myself in clothing that fits well and is flattering and comfortable will change my self perception a bit.
I do need to figure out how to find more motivation and/or energy, though. Ever since I got a "real" job, work outs have had to take place after work: considering I'll shower the night before in order to get an extra 15 minutes of sleep in the morning, getting up at 5am to work out just isn't going to happen. Unfortunately, by the time I get home from work, I'm so exhausted (mostly mentally, and mostly because of the commute: I've noticed that ever since I started driving *with* rush-hour traffic (even though the length of the commute is the same), I'm wasted when I get home) I can't even think straight and all I want to do is sit my ass on the couch. I will look for any excuse to skip a work out, and ANY excuse will do. I have to figure out a way to keep myself going, but I haven't figured out what yet.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
How do you learn to love yourself?
We had a weird conversation a little while ago that took an unexpected turn and ended with me sitting on the lid of the toilet in tears while Chebbar sat on the counter looking like he wanted to be swallowed by the floor. Long snot-filled story short, he gently suggested that I need to learn to love myself, offering to be my rock of support and the strong foundation on which to build that love.
But I don't know how to do that. I don't know where to start. I don't even know where or how to begin when, for the most part (well, when I allow myself to go to that dark, insecure place), I cannot fathom why Chebbar would love ME. If I can't see in myself the positive attributes that others see, how the hell am I supposed to figure out how to love myself (or what to love about myself)?
I mean, if you force me to sit down and write that tired old list of five things I like about myself, I can bullshit my way through with the reliable standards: "I'm a good listener," and "I like my smile." However, if I'm completely honest, I'm totally grasping at straws and using pat answers that could apply to 95% of the population -- I'm telling you what I think you want to hear. I've never been good at tooting my own horn. I have a hard time accepting praise. And heaven forbid you try to pay me a compliment! *eye roll*
I know I need to do this. I know that I can only benefit from facing this colossal task. But I also know that my ridiculously high standards (for myself) and my abject fear of failure are going to hamper my attempts. I'm scared to even try. I mean, what kind of a loser would it make me if I can't ever love myself? Of all the things to be unable to complete, this would probably do my head in.
Thoughts? Suggestions? Opinions? Reality checks? Any feedback will be greatly appreciated.
But I don't know how to do that. I don't know where to start. I don't even know where or how to begin when, for the most part (well, when I allow myself to go to that dark, insecure place), I cannot fathom why Chebbar would love ME. If I can't see in myself the positive attributes that others see, how the hell am I supposed to figure out how to love myself (or what to love about myself)?
I mean, if you force me to sit down and write that tired old list of five things I like about myself, I can bullshit my way through with the reliable standards: "I'm a good listener," and "I like my smile." However, if I'm completely honest, I'm totally grasping at straws and using pat answers that could apply to 95% of the population -- I'm telling you what I think you want to hear. I've never been good at tooting my own horn. I have a hard time accepting praise. And heaven forbid you try to pay me a compliment! *eye roll*
I know I need to do this. I know that I can only benefit from facing this colossal task. But I also know that my ridiculously high standards (for myself) and my abject fear of failure are going to hamper my attempts. I'm scared to even try. I mean, what kind of a loser would it make me if I can't ever love myself? Of all the things to be unable to complete, this would probably do my head in.
Thoughts? Suggestions? Opinions? Reality checks? Any feedback will be greatly appreciated.
More random thoughts
- That's it. I'm wearing a sports bra tomorrow. I've been uncomfortable and twitchy for two days in a row, and enough is enough. Think I can get away with sweats to go with the sports bra? Hehehe
- I hate that one week every month my BC pills make my bewbs hurt like a mofo. And it's definitely the pill because they don't ache like this when I'm not on it. Damned responsible sex anyhow!
- I'm really worried that we're not going to have enough work and that they'll have to let me go with little to no notice. With Chebbar already on EI (and his cheques haven't started coming in yet, TYVM), this would be disastrous for us. I feel like I should start looking for a new job, but I don't want to jump the gun because I *like* it here and I don't *want* to leave. *heavy sigh*
- If I don't get Pearl Jam tickets tomorrow (or Friday, if the presale sells out), I'm probably going to cry. Yes, for serious.
- I sure love my interwebs friends. <3
- I need new clothes, but I don't want to buy new clothes: a) hello, TOO FAT! I don't want to have to buy bigger sizes, dammit! and b) can't afford it (well, really shouldn't -- point #3).
Sunday, August 9, 2009
When you let yourself go
I think I've become one of those women. You know, the ones guys complain about? The kind who lets herself go after "landing a man"? The kind I may not have mocked, but dismissed out of hand that I'd ever have anything in common with? As much as I'd like to claim otherwise, on the surface, that's exactly what I've done.
Since meeting Chebbar (or, more precisely, since he moved in), I've allowed my self-care to fall by the wayside. Before Chebbar (BC), I worked out at least three times a week and ate a hell of a lot better than I had when I still lived at home: with some minor changes and major determination, I lost 25 pounds s l o w l y (nine months slowly). After Chebbar (AC), welllll, not so much: because he worked shift work, any opportunity to spend time with him was justification for skipping a workout; as well, many of our dates centered around restaurant meals (his bad habit). Needless to say, I gained all that weight and then some back in about the same amount of time.
BC, I never left the house without my hair done, makeup on, and dressed nicely: the only way I'd be caught dead in public in sweats was if I went grocery shopping at 8am on a Saturday morning. AC, I rarely hesitate to spend the weekend in yoga pants with no makeup on, chucking a hat on my head if we're going somewhere. (In my defence, if we're going out with friends or out for dinner -- not just general weekend errand-running -- I will dress appropriately.)
BC, I moisturized. I flossed. I brushed my teeth before bed. I took care of my nails. I paid attention to my feet. AC, well, not so much.
I hate to admit it, but when I was single, I had nothing better to do than work out obsessively and watch what I ate like a hawk. I had no reason to go out for lunch or dinner. I had excessive time on my hands to do boring maintenance like flossing and moisturizing. And I hate to admit this because it's rather embarrassing, but my Prissy Little Princess habit of not leaving the house done to the teeth was not for me, but to attract male attention.
I realize that this is likely going to simply sound like I'm trying to excuse my "bad" behaviour, but I haven't stopped those things now that I have a man. It's not that I don't care: his loving and acceptance of me has helped me finally be comfortable with myself.
That being said, I'd like to improve on these things for *me*: if they make our relationship better, that's just gravy. Working out gives me more energy and makes me feel better in my own skin. This could improve our relationship. As well, getting dressed (hair, makeup, etc) before we leave the house also makes me feel a little better about myself. As I've mentioned before, me being a little nicer to myself could also improve our relationship. As far as the flossing/moisturizing/mani-pedicuring, well, that's all just for me. But that's okay!
I don't want to lose myself in/because of my relationship. I don't want to let myself go because I'm in a relationship. If I allow myself to be complacent with my status quo, I run the risk of growing complacent in my relationship. I don't want us to suffer because I've become lazy. I think taking care of myself will help me/keep me motivated/inspire me to take care of my relationship, and that could never be a bad thing. So, starting tonight (starting yet again), I'm going to start taking care of myself.
I'm starting with my feet. :)
Since meeting Chebbar (or, more precisely, since he moved in), I've allowed my self-care to fall by the wayside. Before Chebbar (BC), I worked out at least three times a week and ate a hell of a lot better than I had when I still lived at home: with some minor changes and major determination, I lost 25 pounds s l o w l y (nine months slowly). After Chebbar (AC), welllll, not so much: because he worked shift work, any opportunity to spend time with him was justification for skipping a workout; as well, many of our dates centered around restaurant meals (his bad habit). Needless to say, I gained all that weight and then some back in about the same amount of time.
BC, I never left the house without my hair done, makeup on, and dressed nicely: the only way I'd be caught dead in public in sweats was if I went grocery shopping at 8am on a Saturday morning. AC, I rarely hesitate to spend the weekend in yoga pants with no makeup on, chucking a hat on my head if we're going somewhere. (In my defence, if we're going out with friends or out for dinner -- not just general weekend errand-running -- I will dress appropriately.)
BC, I moisturized. I flossed. I brushed my teeth before bed. I took care of my nails. I paid attention to my feet. AC, well, not so much.
I hate to admit it, but when I was single, I had nothing better to do than work out obsessively and watch what I ate like a hawk. I had no reason to go out for lunch or dinner. I had excessive time on my hands to do boring maintenance like flossing and moisturizing. And I hate to admit this because it's rather embarrassing, but my Prissy Little Princess habit of not leaving the house done to the teeth was not for me, but to attract male attention.
I realize that this is likely going to simply sound like I'm trying to excuse my "bad" behaviour, but I haven't stopped those things now that I have a man. It's not that I don't care: his loving and acceptance of me has helped me finally be comfortable with myself.
That being said, I'd like to improve on these things for *me*: if they make our relationship better, that's just gravy. Working out gives me more energy and makes me feel better in my own skin. This could improve our relationship. As well, getting dressed (hair, makeup, etc) before we leave the house also makes me feel a little better about myself. As I've mentioned before, me being a little nicer to myself could also improve our relationship. As far as the flossing/moisturizing/mani-pedicuring, well, that's all just for me. But that's okay!
I don't want to lose myself in/because of my relationship. I don't want to let myself go because I'm in a relationship. If I allow myself to be complacent with my status quo, I run the risk of growing complacent in my relationship. I don't want us to suffer because I've become lazy. I think taking care of myself will help me/keep me motivated/inspire me to take care of my relationship, and that could never be a bad thing. So, starting tonight (starting yet again), I'm going to start taking care of myself.
I'm starting with my feet. :)
Have I told you how lucky I am?
I have one hell of a guy. While he's looking for work, he has decided that it's "his job" to cook and clean, since I did it for him while he was working (his words, not mine). And if that weren't enough, while we were grocery shopping yesterday, he asked me what type of potted flowers I preferred. When I pointed out that we have no where to plant flowers, he persisted. After a couple of rounds of back and forth, I realized what he was doing.
He chose a potted flower to take up to the cemetery, to my great grandparents that he never got to meet.
As we drove home, I thanked him for thinking of them. He turned to me and said, "I think of them every time we pass the flowers in the grocery store."
<3
He chose a potted flower to take up to the cemetery, to my great grandparents that he never got to meet.
As we drove home, I thanked him for thinking of them. He turned to me and said, "I think of them every time we pass the flowers in the grocery store."
<3
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Dear So-and-So
Kat at 3 Bedroom Bungalow does "Dear So-and-So" posts in which she pens (keys?) missives to people she would like to "share" something with. As well, my lovely friend Danielle from A Little Left of Lost recently did a similar post. I'm using 'em both for inspiration. (Plus, I need to get this crap off my chest.) ;)
****************************************************
Dear Family,
I have to tell you that it stings more than just a little to hear that you are "afraid" to tell me about [enter issue du jour here] -- for it to be implied that I'm a flip show who is going to lose it if you relay a message or tell me about something that happens is rather insulting. I'm NOT a flip show. I'm NOT gonna lose my shit because you simply passed along information. I also don't appreciate being treated like spun glass who will implode if you give me bad news. I'm a hell of a lot stronger than you give me credit for. And if you have somehow confused an expression of upset as an "attack" against you, the messenger, a) give me some credit and b) don't take shit so personally. Buck up, grow a pair, own your shit, and tell me what you need to tell me.
Love,
I Can Handle It, Dammit
****************************************************
Dear Long Lost Half-Brother (in name/by blood only),
I don't know you. I was only around you every other weekend for the two years we lived in the same town; during those two years, you were doing some tough growing up and were... a difficult child. Needless to say, we were not close when my family moved away when I was 12. I didn't see you again until you showed up with The Donor unannounced at my place of work when I was 21. You weren't quite a man, but I certainly didn't recognize you as the 8-year old I last saw. When you asked me for a hug, I felt extremely uncomfortable because it was like having a stranger make the same request; at the same time, I felt put on the spot and like I had to because, well, you are, technically speaking, my brother.
Not long after your visit, I wrote the letter in which I told our "father" that I did not want him in my life, as he couldn't be bothered to include me in his for the majority of my 21 years. This most likely has played a large role in the contact (or lack thereof) between you and I.
I have had messages from you and your brother (my adopted brother) over the years, usually when you're looking for monetary help. I would not be the least bit offended if you called me a bitch for not returning those calls. I'm okay with the decision I made because I was young and living pay cheque to pay cheque: I had a hard enough time supporting myself without trying to bail out people who really were no more than strangers to me.
About a year ago, your mother sent me a message on facebook chastising me for not having a relationship with you. This is the same woman who allowed her son (our "brother") to hit, punch, kick, bite, scratch me and pull my hair. The same woman who sent my father into the bedroom to paddle MY backside with a spatula because HER son made me cry. The same woman who locked us out on the balcony so she could get ready for work, who threatened me when I knocked on the patio door because I had to pee.
Needless to say, her unsolicited "advice" went unheeded and her ass was blocked. I'm honestly not sure why, but I blocked you at the same time. At least, I thought I had.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago when a facebook friend request from you landed in my inbox -- just the request: no message in the request itself and no seperate message. I declined the request and blocked you like I thought I had already done. Then I noticed that you had become "friends" with Sis. Huh. I had no clue how you would even know who she was, considering she has a different last name than I do and she was TWO when we lived in the same town.
A week or so after that, Mom informed me that you had sent Sis a message asking her to get me to contact you. You didn't send ME this message: you sent it to someone you know even LESS than me (and I know the timeline: you sent her the message before I blocked you -- you didn't even TRY to communicate with me first). Sis was understandably upset at the prospect of putting herself in the middle of an uncomfortable and awkward situation.
Then you sent her ANOTHER message asking why she wasn't "talking" to you anymore and how you hoped you could "still be friends." You went on to whine about how much you MISS me and how much you LOVE me. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, dude? First off, she hadn't BEEN talking to you -- she gave a very short, pat response to your initial message and that was all. Secondly, you never WERE friends. Third, how the hell could you possibly say you miss me and love me? You don't even KNOW me! In damn near twenty years, you've seen me for three highly uncomfortable minutes. Even before that, we were a part of each other's lives for a grand total of 52 weekends. 104 days. Give me a break.
You also contacted Bro. Bro was smart enough to ignore you, though. It has since come to light that my estranged aunt -- my mother's sister: no relation to you and/or The Donor -- told you to contact them. The estranged aunt who has had nothing to do with me (or Bro for that matter) in more than 15 years. The estranged aunt who is no relation of yours, not even by marriage anymore, who you call "Auntie." Why didn't you try to contact me through our GRANDPARENTS? I know that whole side of the family knows we're in touch.
It sounds as thought you're hurting for family or a connection of some sort. Unfortunately, this is coming from out of left field and my cynical side is calling bullshit. I can't shake the feeling that you have an ulterior motive. I'm suspicious and skeptical. I'm not interested.
Signed,
Leave My Family Alone, Dammit
****************************************************
Dear "Aunt" (and I use that term loosely),
You have not spoken to me since berating me via my answering machine when I was 17, telling me that I needed to stop dumping my problems on Granny Dearest because it was stressing her out (contrary to everything SHE had told me, including AFTER your pissy phone call). This call was two years after you had stormed out of our house in the middle of Sis's 5th birthday party over a bullshit misunderstanding. Other than that, you have had ZERO contact with me in 14 years. (This stems from the fact that you've had nothing to do with my mother -- your sister -- for as long, but it's pretty damned immature that you couldn't be bothered to keep in touch with your nieces and nephew who had NOTHING to do with your pissy display, even though you had other avenues of contact.)
That being said, you DO NOT get to contact Sis and ask her to do you favours on your behalf regarding me. DO. NOT. This may be a completely foreign concept to you, as you obviously have zero regard for your own sister, but you have NO RIGHT expecting Sis to put herself in the middle. You have no business asking for anything relating to me, ESPECIALLY without going through me to get what you want.
You've made it crystal clear that you want nothing to do with me (*ahem* blocking me on facebook? What deluded fantasy world are you living in that you think I would contact you? Seriously?), so piss off.
No Love,
Your Ex-Niece
****************************************************
Dear Granny Dearest,
Listen here, woman. You also made it painfully clear that you wanted nothing to do with me when you told me to my face eight years ago that you "wrote [me] off" when you wrote my mother off. Again, you have no business asking for anything relating to me. And you, too, have no right asking Sis to put herself in the middle. Besides, do you really think you'll be fooling anyone at the family reunion by showing up with a current picture of me, when you made sure to run around with your wounded fictional tale of woe? At the very least, they know we don't have a relationship. Worst case scenario, they believed your bullshit. Best case scenario, they know the truth. Any way you slice it, no one's going to believe *I* would give you ANYTHING, never mind a picture (which, as both sibs pointed out, if you KNEW me, you'd know I avoid pictures at all costs).
Signed,
FOAD
****************************************************
Dear Family,
I have to tell you that it stings more than just a little to hear that you are "afraid" to tell me about [enter issue du jour here] -- for it to be implied that I'm a flip show who is going to lose it if you relay a message or tell me about something that happens is rather insulting. I'm NOT a flip show. I'm NOT gonna lose my shit because you simply passed along information. I also don't appreciate being treated like spun glass who will implode if you give me bad news. I'm a hell of a lot stronger than you give me credit for. And if you have somehow confused an expression of upset as an "attack" against you, the messenger, a) give me some credit and b) don't take shit so personally. Buck up, grow a pair, own your shit, and tell me what you need to tell me.
Love,
I Can Handle It, Dammit
****************************************************
Dear Long Lost Half-Brother (in name/by blood only),
I don't know you. I was only around you every other weekend for the two years we lived in the same town; during those two years, you were doing some tough growing up and were... a difficult child. Needless to say, we were not close when my family moved away when I was 12. I didn't see you again until you showed up with The Donor unannounced at my place of work when I was 21. You weren't quite a man, but I certainly didn't recognize you as the 8-year old I last saw. When you asked me for a hug, I felt extremely uncomfortable because it was like having a stranger make the same request; at the same time, I felt put on the spot and like I had to because, well, you are, technically speaking, my brother.
Not long after your visit, I wrote the letter in which I told our "father" that I did not want him in my life, as he couldn't be bothered to include me in his for the majority of my 21 years. This most likely has played a large role in the contact (or lack thereof) between you and I.
I have had messages from you and your brother (my adopted brother) over the years, usually when you're looking for monetary help. I would not be the least bit offended if you called me a bitch for not returning those calls. I'm okay with the decision I made because I was young and living pay cheque to pay cheque: I had a hard enough time supporting myself without trying to bail out people who really were no more than strangers to me.
About a year ago, your mother sent me a message on facebook chastising me for not having a relationship with you. This is the same woman who allowed her son (our "brother") to hit, punch, kick, bite, scratch me and pull my hair. The same woman who sent my father into the bedroom to paddle MY backside with a spatula because HER son made me cry. The same woman who locked us out on the balcony so she could get ready for work, who threatened me when I knocked on the patio door because I had to pee.
Needless to say, her unsolicited "advice" went unheeded and her ass was blocked. I'm honestly not sure why, but I blocked you at the same time. At least, I thought I had.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago when a facebook friend request from you landed in my inbox -- just the request: no message in the request itself and no seperate message. I declined the request and blocked you like I thought I had already done. Then I noticed that you had become "friends" with Sis. Huh. I had no clue how you would even know who she was, considering she has a different last name than I do and she was TWO when we lived in the same town.
A week or so after that, Mom informed me that you had sent Sis a message asking her to get me to contact you. You didn't send ME this message: you sent it to someone you know even LESS than me (and I know the timeline: you sent her the message before I blocked you -- you didn't even TRY to communicate with me first). Sis was understandably upset at the prospect of putting herself in the middle of an uncomfortable and awkward situation.
Then you sent her ANOTHER message asking why she wasn't "talking" to you anymore and how you hoped you could "still be friends." You went on to whine about how much you MISS me and how much you LOVE me. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, dude? First off, she hadn't BEEN talking to you -- she gave a very short, pat response to your initial message and that was all. Secondly, you never WERE friends. Third, how the hell could you possibly say you miss me and love me? You don't even KNOW me! In damn near twenty years, you've seen me for three highly uncomfortable minutes. Even before that, we were a part of each other's lives for a grand total of 52 weekends. 104 days. Give me a break.
You also contacted Bro. Bro was smart enough to ignore you, though. It has since come to light that my estranged aunt -- my mother's sister: no relation to you and/or The Donor -- told you to contact them. The estranged aunt who has had nothing to do with me (or Bro for that matter) in more than 15 years. The estranged aunt who is no relation of yours, not even by marriage anymore, who you call "Auntie." Why didn't you try to contact me through our GRANDPARENTS? I know that whole side of the family knows we're in touch.
It sounds as thought you're hurting for family or a connection of some sort. Unfortunately, this is coming from out of left field and my cynical side is calling bullshit. I can't shake the feeling that you have an ulterior motive. I'm suspicious and skeptical. I'm not interested.
Signed,
Leave My Family Alone, Dammit
****************************************************
Dear "Aunt" (and I use that term loosely),
You have not spoken to me since berating me via my answering machine when I was 17, telling me that I needed to stop dumping my problems on Granny Dearest because it was stressing her out (contrary to everything SHE had told me, including AFTER your pissy phone call). This call was two years after you had stormed out of our house in the middle of Sis's 5th birthday party over a bullshit misunderstanding. Other than that, you have had ZERO contact with me in 14 years. (This stems from the fact that you've had nothing to do with my mother -- your sister -- for as long, but it's pretty damned immature that you couldn't be bothered to keep in touch with your nieces and nephew who had NOTHING to do with your pissy display, even though you had other avenues of contact.)
That being said, you DO NOT get to contact Sis and ask her to do you favours on your behalf regarding me. DO. NOT. This may be a completely foreign concept to you, as you obviously have zero regard for your own sister, but you have NO RIGHT expecting Sis to put herself in the middle. You have no business asking for anything relating to me, ESPECIALLY without going through me to get what you want.
You've made it crystal clear that you want nothing to do with me (*ahem* blocking me on facebook? What deluded fantasy world are you living in that you think I would contact you? Seriously?), so piss off.
No Love,
Your Ex-Niece
****************************************************
Dear Granny Dearest,
Listen here, woman. You also made it painfully clear that you wanted nothing to do with me when you told me to my face eight years ago that you "wrote [me] off" when you wrote my mother off. Again, you have no business asking for anything relating to me. And you, too, have no right asking Sis to put herself in the middle. Besides, do you really think you'll be fooling anyone at the family reunion by showing up with a current picture of me, when you made sure to run around with your wounded fictional tale of woe? At the very least, they know we don't have a relationship. Worst case scenario, they believed your bullshit. Best case scenario, they know the truth. Any way you slice it, no one's going to believe *I* would give you ANYTHING, never mind a picture (which, as both sibs pointed out, if you KNEW me, you'd know I avoid pictures at all costs).
Signed,
FOAD
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
*gnashes teeth*
My pwecious widdle routine was disrupted last night and I'm paying for it today. At least, I think that's what caused this fuckton of fail. We ended up at my parents' unexpectedly last night so Chebbar could help Pops move some stuff. We didn't get home until almost 9:30 and I still had to have a shower (normally at that time I've already settled onto the couch with Kermit the Laptop and my Sleepy Time Tea). I didn't get to bed much later than usual, but felt rushed.
Then there was The Misunderstanding.
I bought an iTouch on Saturday with birthday money (yes, my birthday was in April: shaddup). Chebbar had enjoyed playing with the odd time I let it out of my hand; Saturday night, he brought it to bed and played it until 1am (I swear the only reason he turned it off is because the battery died). Even though I could have just kept my damned eyes shut, I kept cracking my lids to look for the tell-tale glow. Obviously, this hindered my ability to mind my own business and go to sleep.
So far, the Oregon Trail app is the only one we've purchased (I'm cheap: all the other apps are freebies). Chebbar has been playing it quite a bit since we finally figured out how to get the damned app on the iTouch (I was stuck in that "your account information has changed: please go to the iTunes store and update your account" loop that was annoying me to the point of wanting to throw the damned thing on Monday night). We went to bed last night and I was too tired to read, so I told him I was going to have to turn the light off. He responded that he didn't mind because he had his own light -- I thought he was being goofy and was referring to the (bright) lights on his CPAP machine.
I honestly think I was asleep; I'm not sure what might have woken me up. However, I opened my eyes at 11pm to this relatively bright glow in the bedroom. He was playing the bloody iTouch! I got ridiculously mad because a) I figured that's what woke me up even though he had the volume off (what can I say? I'm not exactly SANE when sleep (or not sleeping, as the case may be) is involved); b) I thought he'd either snuck it into the bedroom or gone out to the living room to retrieve it after he thought I was asleep (simply because I was still thinking the light show earlier was his CPAP machine -- DURRRRRRR). So at 11pm I was wide awake because I was inordinately pissed off and totally blaming him.
Needless to say, my sleep was NOT restful last night. I tossed and turned until AT LEAST 12:40am (last time I looked at the clock), and between that time and when the alarm went off at 6:20am, sleep was fitful at best. (Totally almost typed "beat" there. Even my subconscious thinks I'm a bitch. lol)
I woke up positively foul this morning. I glared at Chebbar's sleeping form. He woke up as I was getting ready and I was on the defensive immediately, pretty much looking for a fight. When it appeared that he was going to stay in bed instead of walking me down to the car as he usually does if he wakes up in time, well, I probably *did* gnash my teeth. The poor guy looked so baffled -- that's a fine good morning, no? Guess he slept like shit, too. That sound you just heard? Guilt crashing down around me, cuz that's how I roll.
He did end up walking me down to the car and I did the long, slow blink during my commute and I'm a total hose beast.
Then there was The Misunderstanding.
I bought an iTouch on Saturday with birthday money (yes, my birthday was in April: shaddup). Chebbar had enjoyed playing with the odd time I let it out of my hand; Saturday night, he brought it to bed and played it until 1am (I swear the only reason he turned it off is because the battery died). Even though I could have just kept my damned eyes shut, I kept cracking my lids to look for the tell-tale glow. Obviously, this hindered my ability to mind my own business and go to sleep.
So far, the Oregon Trail app is the only one we've purchased (I'm cheap: all the other apps are freebies). Chebbar has been playing it quite a bit since we finally figured out how to get the damned app on the iTouch (I was stuck in that "your account information has changed: please go to the iTunes store and update your account" loop that was annoying me to the point of wanting to throw the damned thing on Monday night). We went to bed last night and I was too tired to read, so I told him I was going to have to turn the light off. He responded that he didn't mind because he had his own light -- I thought he was being goofy and was referring to the (bright) lights on his CPAP machine.
I honestly think I was asleep; I'm not sure what might have woken me up. However, I opened my eyes at 11pm to this relatively bright glow in the bedroom. He was playing the bloody iTouch! I got ridiculously mad because a) I figured that's what woke me up even though he had the volume off (what can I say? I'm not exactly SANE when sleep (or not sleeping, as the case may be) is involved); b) I thought he'd either snuck it into the bedroom or gone out to the living room to retrieve it after he thought I was asleep (simply because I was still thinking the light show earlier was his CPAP machine -- DURRRRRRR). So at 11pm I was wide awake because I was inordinately pissed off and totally blaming him.
Needless to say, my sleep was NOT restful last night. I tossed and turned until AT LEAST 12:40am (last time I looked at the clock), and between that time and when the alarm went off at 6:20am, sleep was fitful at best. (Totally almost typed "beat" there. Even my subconscious thinks I'm a bitch. lol)
I woke up positively foul this morning. I glared at Chebbar's sleeping form. He woke up as I was getting ready and I was on the defensive immediately, pretty much looking for a fight. When it appeared that he was going to stay in bed instead of walking me down to the car as he usually does if he wakes up in time, well, I probably *did* gnash my teeth. The poor guy looked so baffled -- that's a fine good morning, no? Guess he slept like shit, too. That sound you just heard? Guilt crashing down around me, cuz that's how I roll.
He did end up walking me down to the car and I did the long, slow blink during my commute and I'm a total hose beast.
Monday, August 3, 2009
I'm struggling. Again.
When life feels like it's perilously close to spinning out of control, it manifests itself in other ways. Generally speaking, when something beyond my control is bothering me, I tend to focus intensely on things I can control. And usually these are things that normally I pay no mind.
Two weeks ago, Chebbar was laid off. This time last year, he was also laid off (however, he was on month nine and coming to the end of his EI benefits when he was called back); at the beginning of May, I found out I was going to be out of a job at the same time his EI benefits came to an end. This sparked many months of stressed-induced insomnia on my part. As more jobs were applied for and more interviews had with no job offers, the possibility of us both being out of work at the same time almost did my head in. Fast forward a year, and I *thought* I'd been handling it okay. Seems my subconscious had other ideas.
Today is a stat holiday. I was enjoying my lazy day, only feeling half-assed guilty -- the past two days were relatively busy, and, as this is basically a bonus weekend day, it felt good to still be in my PJs at 2pm. But then something changed and all of a sudden I was looking around me with a critical eye, finding fault in everything. I haven't scrubbed the bathrooms in three weeks. The Rubbermaid totes I started to fill to go in the storage locker are still sitting by the chair. This weekend's receipts are sitting in a pile beside the computer. There are four stacks of CDs on the coffee table that I need to go through. There is yet another mountain of paperwork covering the end table.
None of these things is new: they've been like this for probably two weeks (and before that, it was another set of "things" to bother me for another stretch of time). As I watched myself clean the bathroom mirror, I felt myself getting worked up to near hysteria regarding the list above and wondering when/how/why I had allowed this to happen. I felt completely swamped by all the things I "needed" to get done, even though none of them are huge tasks, nor will they be life-altering if they sit for another day (week!) or two. I also started criticizing myself for being such a shitty housekeeper: I don't remember the last time I cleaned the baseboards; I haven't washed the walls since I moved in; I still haven't taken care of the grout on the tub.
I'm not sure how I got here. It used to be that I *never* let it get messy -- at least not longer than overnight. The bathrooms were scrubbed *at least* once every two weeks. My toilets NEVER looked that dingy. The paper mountains, well, that's always been an issue for me: I need a better system for dealing with it other than chucking it onto the end table.
However.
That was before I met Chebbar. That was before I had someone to spend my spare time with. That was before I had something better to do. That was, really, before I had gotten a life. Part of me says "hey, if it doesn't bother him, why let it bother you? It's not like he's giving you grief because there's paper all over the living room, or disgusted because you didn't scrub the toilet today." But that part of me is waging quite a battle against the anal-retentive gotta-have-it-just-right part of me that gnashing her teeth and tearing her hair out over the lack of order.
I've been told in the past that I'm going to have to learn to relinquish *some* control over *some* things. Perhaps this is it? I would prefer to try to find a happy medium instead.
Two weeks ago, Chebbar was laid off. This time last year, he was also laid off (however, he was on month nine and coming to the end of his EI benefits when he was called back); at the beginning of May, I found out I was going to be out of a job at the same time his EI benefits came to an end. This sparked many months of stressed-induced insomnia on my part. As more jobs were applied for and more interviews had with no job offers, the possibility of us both being out of work at the same time almost did my head in. Fast forward a year, and I *thought* I'd been handling it okay. Seems my subconscious had other ideas.
Today is a stat holiday. I was enjoying my lazy day, only feeling half-assed guilty -- the past two days were relatively busy, and, as this is basically a bonus weekend day, it felt good to still be in my PJs at 2pm. But then something changed and all of a sudden I was looking around me with a critical eye, finding fault in everything. I haven't scrubbed the bathrooms in three weeks. The Rubbermaid totes I started to fill to go in the storage locker are still sitting by the chair. This weekend's receipts are sitting in a pile beside the computer. There are four stacks of CDs on the coffee table that I need to go through. There is yet another mountain of paperwork covering the end table.
None of these things is new: they've been like this for probably two weeks (and before that, it was another set of "things" to bother me for another stretch of time). As I watched myself clean the bathroom mirror, I felt myself getting worked up to near hysteria regarding the list above and wondering when/how/why I had allowed this to happen. I felt completely swamped by all the things I "needed" to get done, even though none of them are huge tasks, nor will they be life-altering if they sit for another day (week!) or two. I also started criticizing myself for being such a shitty housekeeper: I don't remember the last time I cleaned the baseboards; I haven't washed the walls since I moved in; I still haven't taken care of the grout on the tub.
I'm not sure how I got here. It used to be that I *never* let it get messy -- at least not longer than overnight. The bathrooms were scrubbed *at least* once every two weeks. My toilets NEVER looked that dingy. The paper mountains, well, that's always been an issue for me: I need a better system for dealing with it other than chucking it onto the end table.
However.
That was before I met Chebbar. That was before I had someone to spend my spare time with. That was before I had something better to do. That was, really, before I had gotten a life. Part of me says "hey, if it doesn't bother him, why let it bother you? It's not like he's giving you grief because there's paper all over the living room, or disgusted because you didn't scrub the toilet today." But that part of me is waging quite a battle against the anal-retentive gotta-have-it-just-right part of me that gnashing her teeth and tearing her hair out over the lack of order.
I've been told in the past that I'm going to have to learn to relinquish *some* control over *some* things. Perhaps this is it? I would prefer to try to find a happy medium instead.
And THAT is why I don't post my contact info on facebook
A few weeks ago, we were returning home from a friend's get-together around 11:30. Chebbar noticed a guy walking up the street and exclaimed, "Hey, that's Fred Smith! I went to school with him!" (This wouldn't be so remarkable aside from the fact that they went to school in another town AND Fred had moved to a different province: to see him in the tiny town we live in was something of a surprise.)
[enter U-turn in the middle of the street]
He rolled down the window and hollered at the guy, who didn't recognize him at all until Chebbar stated his name (hehe). They caught up for a bit, and it turns out that Fred lives around the corner from us. He had been walking every where for a week because he was waiting on a buddy to help him swap the engine in his car (as in, up on blocks in the driveway). Chebbar told him to give him a call, telling him that his phone number should be on his facebook page. As we drove away, I turned to look at him, a note of disbelief in my voice when I asked if he *really* had his phone number on FACEBOOK?!?
A-yup. Oh, and "what's the big deal? It's just my phone number."
Chebbar hasn't seen this guy since high school because they... took different routes. Fred liked to hang with people who fancied themselves... tough guys. They spent their weekends at bars getting drunk and picking fights (not Chebbar's scene whatsoever).
Fast-forward to last weekend when Chebbar got a phone call at 11pm from a number he didn't recognize. It was Fred. He was just calling to give Chebbar his phone number (or looking for someone to party with). Oh, and his car still wasn't on the road...
This morning, Chebbar noticed he had a missed call that came in at 12:30am. As he listened to the message, he started to laugh,sputtering, "Yeah, right." It seems that Fred had a "chick" over who couldn't drive (have I mentioned we live kitty-corner to a bar?) and he wondered if Chebbar could give her a ride home. Yeah, his buddy still hasn't gotten around to helping him put the engine in his car...
I looked him in the eye and asked him what his thoughts were on posting his phone number on facebook now. I got an eye roll.
ETA: Regarding the Diva Cup issue in this postt, I realized after writing it that I have NO MORE TAMPONS. As in, do or die in the next three weeks to ensure I had that sucker down pat before FLOrence Henderson's next visit.
Yeah, I panicked. I panicked so bad that when I saw that my brand was 3 for $9.99 at Safeway, I bought three boxes. I'm probably good for another six months. I'm such a chicken shit. lol
[enter U-turn in the middle of the street]
He rolled down the window and hollered at the guy, who didn't recognize him at all until Chebbar stated his name (hehe). They caught up for a bit, and it turns out that Fred lives around the corner from us. He had been walking every where for a week because he was waiting on a buddy to help him swap the engine in his car (as in, up on blocks in the driveway). Chebbar told him to give him a call, telling him that his phone number should be on his facebook page. As we drove away, I turned to look at him, a note of disbelief in my voice when I asked if he *really* had his phone number on FACEBOOK?!?
A-yup. Oh, and "what's the big deal? It's just my phone number."
Chebbar hasn't seen this guy since high school because they... took different routes. Fred liked to hang with people who fancied themselves... tough guys. They spent their weekends at bars getting drunk and picking fights (not Chebbar's scene whatsoever).
Fast-forward to last weekend when Chebbar got a phone call at 11pm from a number he didn't recognize. It was Fred. He was just calling to give Chebbar his phone number (or looking for someone to party with). Oh, and his car still wasn't on the road...
This morning, Chebbar noticed he had a missed call that came in at 12:30am. As he listened to the message, he started to laugh,sputtering, "Yeah, right." It seems that Fred had a "chick" over who couldn't drive (have I mentioned we live kitty-corner to a bar?) and he wondered if Chebbar could give her a ride home. Yeah, his buddy still hasn't gotten around to helping him put the engine in his car...
I looked him in the eye and asked him what his thoughts were on posting his phone number on facebook now. I got an eye roll.
ETA: Regarding the Diva Cup issue in this postt, I realized after writing it that I have NO MORE TAMPONS. As in, do or die in the next three weeks to ensure I had that sucker down pat before FLOrence Henderson's next visit.
Yeah, I panicked. I panicked so bad that when I saw that my brand was 3 for $9.99 at Safeway, I bought three boxes. I'm probably good for another six months. I'm such a chicken shit. lol
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