By the way, to be fair, I DO recognize that my feelings aren't facts. That my reality may not be real. So I don't ACT upon things. Nor am I mad at anyone, or taking this to the grave with me.
I was merely commenting on how I was feeling about certain people.
Not "everyone" - not "everybody".
Trust me, if I need someone to listen I can find them.
I was merely expressing my discontent with a few people.
Who by now I should know better about.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies…
And the final "Draft" that I found today. After this, posts will be real time...
June 3 2010 | Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies…
I think but I don’t want to admit it, nor do I want it confirmed, that I’m not the person I supposed myself to be. If you ask me, I think I haven’t complained…too much. But now, my fear is that I must be complaining all the time.
It’s relative, I suppose. I am – unhappy – the majority of minutes in each hour. Not depressed per se, not lackluster, not morose, distraught, confused, dismayed. I am…unhappy. As in “not happy”. So if I am unhappy 46 minutes out of 60, and I talk to you for 5, and I spend less then 2.1/2 of those minutes bitching, I think to a degree I’m not really telling you how I feel. Because the amount of time I am unhappy is completely disproportionate to the time I spend expressing it. So if we were weighting averages….
I haven’t blogged.
I don’t call you.
I don’t complain.
Not because I’m noble. Not because I’m a martyr. Not because I think you don’t care.
But because when I do try and talk about it, I get shut down.
Or dismissed.
I came home from a perfect lovely dinner party in tears tonight. Not because anything went wrong, or because I think I’m incapable of engendering affection, or that I felt maligned. Not for any of the reasons that being pregnant, or sensitive, or even insecure would allow for.
Moreso because someone said something – casually – tritely – innocently. And it threw me. I talked to my husband, trying to articulate the feelings. Then I went to bed at 5am. Not “over” what was said, but because it took me about that much time to watch tv, to sort out my feelings, and to just sit for a bit and think.
And here’s I guess what was bothering me. And I had to think, really think about who reads this BEFORE I wrote it, and the one person who overlaps, I trust would not share this.
I got today – in the mail – a handicapped placard. Albeit temporary. But still. It expires in November. I joked about it gleefully, I laugh at my own joy in it. Where to go? What to do? Perhaps I’ll go to Kohls, to Market Basket, to a Red Sox game. Anyplace where I can park with relish and wild abandonment.
And my friends laughed with me. We traded silly anecdotes about parking – the how, the where. And one said, quite innocently, that she had mentioned it to her husband – way back when, when I first applied, and he replied something along the lines of “You’re kidding me, are you kidding me??”
What does that MEAN, exactly?
Because in her retelling, and in my knowing her husband, I’m not certain it was “You're kidding, s it that dangerous?” And I suspect it’s more along the lines of “You’re kidding, bit of a drama queen much?” But maybe not. And I’ll never know because I can’t ask her about it, because she, like so many, instead chooses to…and I’m not sure this is accurate either, “comfort me?” when I discuss anything about this.
So you know what, I don’t say anything.
Because if I say “Im big”
I get “Oh I was huge pregnant”
If I say “my feet hurt”
I get, ‘Oh I had sciatica”
If I say “It’s hard to walk”
I get “Oh but aren’t you lucky to be standing, weren’t you in the hospital with Ellie at this time before?”
Yes. Yes you are right. Yes, thank you for the reminder that I should not complain. That I should be grateful. That you’ve been here too. Thank you. Because our pregnancies, our lives, are so similar.
I haven’t spoken to you, to anyone, not because I am brave, but because I am pathetic. And angry. And its unproductive. But in anger, and sadness, and frustration, I am going to here. Because really, if I never say it outloud, I’ll miss the chance to express it.
For starters, to answer that specific comment:
Yes. Yes I applied for a handicapped placard. Why? Because someone placed a stitch in my cervix at 13 weeks so I wouldn’t spontaneously funnel. Because they thought my pregnancy was fucking dangerous. It continues to be. I can’t go to the pool, sit in a tub, crouch in the bath with my child. I can’t walk too far because the weight of TWINS puts pressure on it. I can’t have sex, have an orgasm, have a decent shit, for fear of tearing, rupturing, dislodging it. I have a fucking STITCH in my fucking CERVIX because someone in their infinite wisdom decided that there was the chance I could deliver two fucking babies early and they’d die. So yes, I have a stitch, which renders me somewhat immobile. So yuck it the fuck up with your husband about why I have a handicap placard. That a doctor signed for. That the state agreed with. Because THEY know it’s dangerous for me to walk around, but I guess you don’t.
Why am I so angry? Oh shit, I don't know. Because I am tired of trying to convince people that it's dangerous and high risk while at the same time trying to express that it's being expertly managed and I'm doing fantastic.
I said this before. It's like living in an area with landminds.
Am I good? Well, a bomb didn't go off today. That doesn't mean that one won't go off tomorrow.
One friend said - and I can't figure out if she was trying to comfort me, distract me, or just shut me the fuck up..."Oh all pregnancies feel like you are living over a landmine. All mothers worry that something could happen every day"
To be fair that is true.
But worring about premature labor when you have no history, no symptoms, no cause, no history... is significantly less realistic then worrying about it when you ARE at risk for it. Double risk.
I'm not just sayting to you "Holy cow, I worry"
I'm saying to you, in all seriousness "I live with fear and worry daily. And it's taxing. To me, to my family. On all of us. I'm managing but it's both a surreal state of being, and stressful."
So when someone replies "Oh yeah, I felt that way too" I find it difficult to hear it as empathy. It feels...dismissive.
I have also heard:
“oh but you are at least standing up”
Yes. I am. I am standing. Barely. I get up each day and have breakfast. I panic that I am late because I can’t run up and down stairs for the myriad things you get last minute taking a child out. I twinge as I boost her into her car seat. “is today the day?” Is today the day I did too much? Will my actions today lead to premature labor?” I drive to her school and park way UP the ramp. Father then any mother and child before or after me. Because I need to be close to the door. People think it’s because I’m pregnant. That’s not why. Pregnant you can walk.So not only do I block cars but I'm humiliated. Because not everyone knows "my history" So instead I just look like a hypochondriac who feels she needs special access because my husband managed to do what every OTHER husband also managed to do. Knock up his wife.
I have thought, but only attempted saying outloud once:
"I hate that Doug and I can't go for a walk / that I cant take Ellie for a walk / that I can't walk to the park"
Because generally the response is: "Oh I was so tired every night. Even if you weren't supposed to take it easy, you probably wouldn't want to go for a walk."
And again. Ok., I get it. You were pregnant and so am I. Same.
Yet again, I feel shut down. I want to express to you how sad I feel around this loss. The loss of freedom, or choice. My inability to parent the way I want to. That my weekends stretch before me because even a festival, a park, a zoo is out of the question. I am trading a year of my life, a year, for these children. It is a high price.
I have gained weight. I am big. I say "OMG, you should SEE me, I am so SO BIG!
I am.
But you reply:
“Oh no you’re not. You aren’t fat…”
Did I say I was fat? Did you hear me say fat? I’m big. BIG. Measuring 34 weeks at 26. I’m big. And saying I’m not? Shuts me down. So I’m a XL and I’m not big? Really? Because I feel big. My hips are dislocated. I have psd. I can’t open my legs. I need help getting up from peeing. I have no strength and almost 50 lbs on a 62 inch frame. I hurt all the time. ALL the time. I have shooting pains in the soles of my feet. I cannot walk upstairs properly. I believe my belly button has herniated. I put 45lbs on a 5’2” frame in under 5 months with no exercise, no walks, no stretching, no strength. So if I’m not big and this is all so so normal what that tells me is, I'm a whiner. Because for me, again, I'm amazed. And it's shocking. Because therea re two TWO people inside me. And occasionally, just occasionally, I want to marvel at it outloud. Because really, I have never seen anyone - god's truth - in person that got this big. At THIS gestational age. So I mention it to you and you say "No, you aren't that big" Ok. Color me sheepish and embarrased then. For being an attention seeker. I must be a fucking whiner. I must be a complete narcissist. Because apparently everyone ELSE gets this big at 25 weeks and I missed it. My noting it is just me seeking attention. I’m not big at ALL. Oh. Ok. I’ll just suck it up then. Sorry I mentioned it. Besides you are right. I saw all of you when you were pregnant and you know what, I remember you at 25 weeks. You weren’t big either.
“oh you’ll lose weight once you have the babies. You won’t have time to eat.”
Ah. Ok. So I eat a lot then. That’s how I gained all this weight. Just a big ol eatin machine. I didn’t eat all this on, in fact. To be fair, I can barely eat. Heartburn. Nausea.Oh you had that too? Right. I forget.
And my ass itching? That’s common too. Because of the weekly progesterone shots. The shots? What are they for? To keep my cervix from opening. Do they hurt? Meh. Scale of 1-10? 3 maybe. Hurt? No. Burn? Painful? Itching? Yes. I should sit in the tub? Can’t.
Listen, this isn’t me being bitter about not getting attention.
This is me wondering why, when I GOT pregnant, and you offered to help, why you won’t allow me to discuss my fears or concerns or even share in my astonishment. Because the OTHER fact is, I never have been this pregnant before. I never stood UP with the first one. I was in the hospital this time last time. I never bought maternity clothes, thought about streollers, rooms, gender, space idssues, carseats, designed a room, had a shower. I never wore a harness, or had heartburn. I didn't even gain a lot of weight. I never did any of this. It IS all new. As are twins.
Im glad you are here to keep me in check.
I need to realize that there’s totally nothing unique about being high risk and carrying twins. Please don't allow me to marvel at the fact that I am…enormous. Because two people are, in fact, living inside me. And I have a whole team of people who think it’s…amazing. And dangerous. And discussable.
But not you, friend. You won’t allow me to talk about it.
I have no fucking idea why so I can only assume it’s because I’m a huge fucking boring whiner.I’m a fucking rampant narcissist.
So really, why bother.
I’ll just sit here and shut up and not call, not connect, not blog, not talk at all.
So I’ll just sit quietly until it passes.
And then we can resume our artificial conversations that are meaningless.
I just can’t wait.
Thanks for “being there” for me.
June 3 2010 | Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies…
I think but I don’t want to admit it, nor do I want it confirmed, that I’m not the person I supposed myself to be. If you ask me, I think I haven’t complained…too much. But now, my fear is that I must be complaining all the time.
It’s relative, I suppose. I am – unhappy – the majority of minutes in each hour. Not depressed per se, not lackluster, not morose, distraught, confused, dismayed. I am…unhappy. As in “not happy”. So if I am unhappy 46 minutes out of 60, and I talk to you for 5, and I spend less then 2.1/2 of those minutes bitching, I think to a degree I’m not really telling you how I feel. Because the amount of time I am unhappy is completely disproportionate to the time I spend expressing it. So if we were weighting averages….
I haven’t blogged.
I don’t call you.
I don’t complain.
Not because I’m noble. Not because I’m a martyr. Not because I think you don’t care.
But because when I do try and talk about it, I get shut down.
Or dismissed.
I came home from a perfect lovely dinner party in tears tonight. Not because anything went wrong, or because I think I’m incapable of engendering affection, or that I felt maligned. Not for any of the reasons that being pregnant, or sensitive, or even insecure would allow for.
Moreso because someone said something – casually – tritely – innocently. And it threw me. I talked to my husband, trying to articulate the feelings. Then I went to bed at 5am. Not “over” what was said, but because it took me about that much time to watch tv, to sort out my feelings, and to just sit for a bit and think.
And here’s I guess what was bothering me. And I had to think, really think about who reads this BEFORE I wrote it, and the one person who overlaps, I trust would not share this.
I got today – in the mail – a handicapped placard. Albeit temporary. But still. It expires in November. I joked about it gleefully, I laugh at my own joy in it. Where to go? What to do? Perhaps I’ll go to Kohls, to Market Basket, to a Red Sox game. Anyplace where I can park with relish and wild abandonment.
And my friends laughed with me. We traded silly anecdotes about parking – the how, the where. And one said, quite innocently, that she had mentioned it to her husband – way back when, when I first applied, and he replied something along the lines of “You’re kidding me, are you kidding me??”
What does that MEAN, exactly?
Because in her retelling, and in my knowing her husband, I’m not certain it was “You're kidding, s it that dangerous?” And I suspect it’s more along the lines of “You’re kidding, bit of a drama queen much?” But maybe not. And I’ll never know because I can’t ask her about it, because she, like so many, instead chooses to…and I’m not sure this is accurate either, “comfort me?” when I discuss anything about this.
So you know what, I don’t say anything.
Because if I say “Im big”
I get “Oh I was huge pregnant”
If I say “my feet hurt”
I get, ‘Oh I had sciatica”
If I say “It’s hard to walk”
I get “Oh but aren’t you lucky to be standing, weren’t you in the hospital with Ellie at this time before?”
Yes. Yes you are right. Yes, thank you for the reminder that I should not complain. That I should be grateful. That you’ve been here too. Thank you. Because our pregnancies, our lives, are so similar.
I haven’t spoken to you, to anyone, not because I am brave, but because I am pathetic. And angry. And its unproductive. But in anger, and sadness, and frustration, I am going to here. Because really, if I never say it outloud, I’ll miss the chance to express it.
For starters, to answer that specific comment:
Yes. Yes I applied for a handicapped placard. Why? Because someone placed a stitch in my cervix at 13 weeks so I wouldn’t spontaneously funnel. Because they thought my pregnancy was fucking dangerous. It continues to be. I can’t go to the pool, sit in a tub, crouch in the bath with my child. I can’t walk too far because the weight of TWINS puts pressure on it. I can’t have sex, have an orgasm, have a decent shit, for fear of tearing, rupturing, dislodging it. I have a fucking STITCH in my fucking CERVIX because someone in their infinite wisdom decided that there was the chance I could deliver two fucking babies early and they’d die. So yes, I have a stitch, which renders me somewhat immobile. So yuck it the fuck up with your husband about why I have a handicap placard. That a doctor signed for. That the state agreed with. Because THEY know it’s dangerous for me to walk around, but I guess you don’t.
Why am I so angry? Oh shit, I don't know. Because I am tired of trying to convince people that it's dangerous and high risk while at the same time trying to express that it's being expertly managed and I'm doing fantastic.
I said this before. It's like living in an area with landminds.
Am I good? Well, a bomb didn't go off today. That doesn't mean that one won't go off tomorrow.
One friend said - and I can't figure out if she was trying to comfort me, distract me, or just shut me the fuck up..."Oh all pregnancies feel like you are living over a landmine. All mothers worry that something could happen every day"
To be fair that is true.
But worring about premature labor when you have no history, no symptoms, no cause, no history... is significantly less realistic then worrying about it when you ARE at risk for it. Double risk.
I'm not just sayting to you "Holy cow, I worry"
I'm saying to you, in all seriousness "I live with fear and worry daily. And it's taxing. To me, to my family. On all of us. I'm managing but it's both a surreal state of being, and stressful."
So when someone replies "Oh yeah, I felt that way too" I find it difficult to hear it as empathy. It feels...dismissive.
I have also heard:
“oh but you are at least standing up”
Yes. I am. I am standing. Barely. I get up each day and have breakfast. I panic that I am late because I can’t run up and down stairs for the myriad things you get last minute taking a child out. I twinge as I boost her into her car seat. “is today the day?” Is today the day I did too much? Will my actions today lead to premature labor?” I drive to her school and park way UP the ramp. Father then any mother and child before or after me. Because I need to be close to the door. People think it’s because I’m pregnant. That’s not why. Pregnant you can walk.So not only do I block cars but I'm humiliated. Because not everyone knows "my history" So instead I just look like a hypochondriac who feels she needs special access because my husband managed to do what every OTHER husband also managed to do. Knock up his wife.
I have thought, but only attempted saying outloud once:
"I hate that Doug and I can't go for a walk / that I cant take Ellie for a walk / that I can't walk to the park"
Because generally the response is: "Oh I was so tired every night. Even if you weren't supposed to take it easy, you probably wouldn't want to go for a walk."
And again. Ok., I get it. You were pregnant and so am I. Same.
Yet again, I feel shut down. I want to express to you how sad I feel around this loss. The loss of freedom, or choice. My inability to parent the way I want to. That my weekends stretch before me because even a festival, a park, a zoo is out of the question. I am trading a year of my life, a year, for these children. It is a high price.
I have gained weight. I am big. I say "OMG, you should SEE me, I am so SO BIG!
I am.
But you reply:
“Oh no you’re not. You aren’t fat…”
Did I say I was fat? Did you hear me say fat? I’m big. BIG. Measuring 34 weeks at 26. I’m big. And saying I’m not? Shuts me down. So I’m a XL and I’m not big? Really? Because I feel big. My hips are dislocated. I have psd. I can’t open my legs. I need help getting up from peeing. I have no strength and almost 50 lbs on a 62 inch frame. I hurt all the time. ALL the time. I have shooting pains in the soles of my feet. I cannot walk upstairs properly. I believe my belly button has herniated. I put 45lbs on a 5’2” frame in under 5 months with no exercise, no walks, no stretching, no strength. So if I’m not big and this is all so so normal what that tells me is, I'm a whiner. Because for me, again, I'm amazed. And it's shocking. Because therea re two TWO people inside me. And occasionally, just occasionally, I want to marvel at it outloud. Because really, I have never seen anyone - god's truth - in person that got this big. At THIS gestational age. So I mention it to you and you say "No, you aren't that big" Ok. Color me sheepish and embarrased then. For being an attention seeker. I must be a fucking whiner. I must be a complete narcissist. Because apparently everyone ELSE gets this big at 25 weeks and I missed it. My noting it is just me seeking attention. I’m not big at ALL. Oh. Ok. I’ll just suck it up then. Sorry I mentioned it. Besides you are right. I saw all of you when you were pregnant and you know what, I remember you at 25 weeks. You weren’t big either.
“oh you’ll lose weight once you have the babies. You won’t have time to eat.”
Ah. Ok. So I eat a lot then. That’s how I gained all this weight. Just a big ol eatin machine. I didn’t eat all this on, in fact. To be fair, I can barely eat. Heartburn. Nausea.Oh you had that too? Right. I forget.
And my ass itching? That’s common too. Because of the weekly progesterone shots. The shots? What are they for? To keep my cervix from opening. Do they hurt? Meh. Scale of 1-10? 3 maybe. Hurt? No. Burn? Painful? Itching? Yes. I should sit in the tub? Can’t.
Listen, this isn’t me being bitter about not getting attention.
This is me wondering why, when I GOT pregnant, and you offered to help, why you won’t allow me to discuss my fears or concerns or even share in my astonishment. Because the OTHER fact is, I never have been this pregnant before. I never stood UP with the first one. I was in the hospital this time last time. I never bought maternity clothes, thought about streollers, rooms, gender, space idssues, carseats, designed a room, had a shower. I never wore a harness, or had heartburn. I didn't even gain a lot of weight. I never did any of this. It IS all new. As are twins.
Im glad you are here to keep me in check.
I need to realize that there’s totally nothing unique about being high risk and carrying twins. Please don't allow me to marvel at the fact that I am…enormous. Because two people are, in fact, living inside me. And I have a whole team of people who think it’s…amazing. And dangerous. And discussable.
But not you, friend. You won’t allow me to talk about it.
I have no fucking idea why so I can only assume it’s because I’m a huge fucking boring whiner.I’m a fucking rampant narcissist.
So really, why bother.
I’ll just sit here and shut up and not call, not connect, not blog, not talk at all.
So I’ll just sit quietly until it passes.
And then we can resume our artificial conversations that are meaningless.
I just can’t wait.
Thanks for “being there” for me.
Drafts
I have a list of posts in DRAFT that I never finished, edited or published. They are:
3/24/2010 |Twenty Weeks, Maternity Clothes & Tuna Fish
Yet it's blank. I do believe this is The Last Time I Ate Tuna and there was some discussion of it.The next post was Untitled and was dated 4/23/2010 although I could have written it today.
4/23/2010 | Untitled
A change of choice, a change I invited - but one far more complicated then I expected. There is the change in body, in size. The changes in ability - to lift, to walk. The changes in stamina - to nap, to work. The changes in application - may I do this, can I do that? The daily headaches, the pelvic pain, the rib separation, the muscle atrophy. The onset of gestational diabetes and the online, oft chastising advice to exercise it off, with my actual doctors saying not to exercise at all. Friends. Friends who offer to help, to be there, to support - who are only being called upon to sympathize, yet want to compartmentalize symptoms into something logical that makes sense to them. Something familiar, yet invalidating. So frustrating. Yes, you have been pregnant. We are not so different. You were tired too? You had pain? Surely we are the same.
Because I have pain too. and yet, the hours that we are not talking? The hours you don't see me? The hours I don't blog. What do you think those are like? Do you picture me laying in bed, watching television? Do you picture me sitting, feet up. Toddling into the kitchen for bon bons and juice? What do you imagine?
Are you imagining my driving weekly to a specialist, spending myriad hours at the hospital? Are you picturing me at home, sitting on the floor, parceling items out for goodwill wishing for someone to come lift the bags into my car? Are you picturing me surrounded by paid for help that is waiting for direction with little initiative, sighing at the tasks I assign them? Are you picturing the phone ringing, with two mothers constantly complaining that at 60 (and at 50, and at 40) their lives were unhappy and why am I not making time for them? Are you picturing my arguing with my husband, who thinks emptying a closet is redundant, as is painting a house, because somehow, after having twins, I am going to rise up like a phoenix from the ashes and get it all done? Do you picture me online house hunting, planning the inevitable move? Do you question why? Why is this necessary? Surely. Because I am either going to do it now... or later. But no one else is going to do it.
Then on 4/26, I think I had read one two many FB posts on "What's wrong with...my state, my country, my spouse..."
4/26/2010 | More Notes From The Land Of "I'm Perfect"
If you really really don't like the state you live in; if you bitch about the traffic, the politics, the weather, the people, the infrastructure, the policies, your rights, your services, your opportunities, the cost of living there, and the myriad OTHER things that annoy you, I have a simple solution.
Move.
Around 5/5 I placed an ad on Craigslist asking for help moving some yard stuff. By 5/6/2010 I was updating you all on my fantasy follow up post...
5/6/2101 | **UPDATE**
OK, thank you all for your responses now let's get realistic. I was seeking someone move three things. Things a 5 foot tall housewife moved in the first place. Things I can't move today due to a minor surgery. Things that I normally throw in the back of my soccer mom teeny SUV.
Now lets talk about the ad. It said WAKEFIELD" So...hmmm..ok. A pit pass in Wakefield is $25. Say you are a landscaper, ... you drive by, you grab the 1 trash barrel , the tiny bale of hay, and the twigs (now bagged). It takes you six minutes max including chit chat and off you go. The $20 pays for an annual pass. Ish. Actually the pass is now $25 but still. Close, right? Not a bad deal.
So while I appreciate the guy that lived on the south shore quoting me $100 plus dollars, I need to ask you to really THINK about this before you hit respond. I was offering $20 for 5 minutes of your time... on a day you were doing work IN TOWN, already driving to our local pit. I'm not looking to refinance your house or to have your crew landscape my acres of pastoral farmland. I'm not looking for an affair, an illegal dump, you to teach me how to compost my refuse, or a lesson in economics. Unless you are already billing out at $240 an hour, $20 was a fair offer. And if it wasn't "enough" why on gods green earth did you click on the link? Honestly? Really? Thanks anyway. I'll flag someone down tomorrow. And you, my friends, you are ruining my faith in mankind.
On May 31, I had uncovered a draft of one titled POSTCARDS. That one I'll hit "publish" on and by done with...
5/31/2010 | Postcards
3/24/2010 |Twenty Weeks, Maternity Clothes & Tuna Fish
Yet it's blank. I do believe this is The Last Time I Ate Tuna and there was some discussion of it.The next post was Untitled and was dated 4/23/2010 although I could have written it today.
4/23/2010 | Untitled
A change of choice, a change I invited - but one far more complicated then I expected. There is the change in body, in size. The changes in ability - to lift, to walk. The changes in stamina - to nap, to work. The changes in application - may I do this, can I do that? The daily headaches, the pelvic pain, the rib separation, the muscle atrophy. The onset of gestational diabetes and the online, oft chastising advice to exercise it off, with my actual doctors saying not to exercise at all. Friends. Friends who offer to help, to be there, to support - who are only being called upon to sympathize, yet want to compartmentalize symptoms into something logical that makes sense to them. Something familiar, yet invalidating. So frustrating. Yes, you have been pregnant. We are not so different. You were tired too? You had pain? Surely we are the same.
Because I have pain too. and yet, the hours that we are not talking? The hours you don't see me? The hours I don't blog. What do you think those are like? Do you picture me laying in bed, watching television? Do you picture me sitting, feet up. Toddling into the kitchen for bon bons and juice? What do you imagine?
Are you imagining my driving weekly to a specialist, spending myriad hours at the hospital? Are you picturing me at home, sitting on the floor, parceling items out for goodwill wishing for someone to come lift the bags into my car? Are you picturing me surrounded by paid for help that is waiting for direction with little initiative, sighing at the tasks I assign them? Are you picturing the phone ringing, with two mothers constantly complaining that at 60 (and at 50, and at 40) their lives were unhappy and why am I not making time for them? Are you picturing my arguing with my husband, who thinks emptying a closet is redundant, as is painting a house, because somehow, after having twins, I am going to rise up like a phoenix from the ashes and get it all done? Do you picture me online house hunting, planning the inevitable move? Do you question why? Why is this necessary? Surely. Because I am either going to do it now... or later. But no one else is going to do it.
Then on 4/26, I think I had read one two many FB posts on "What's wrong with...my state, my country, my spouse..."
4/26/2010 | More Notes From The Land Of "I'm Perfect"
If you really really don't like the state you live in; if you bitch about the traffic, the politics, the weather, the people, the infrastructure, the policies, your rights, your services, your opportunities, the cost of living there, and the myriad OTHER things that annoy you, I have a simple solution.
Move.
Around 5/5 I placed an ad on Craigslist asking for help moving some yard stuff. By 5/6/2010 I was updating you all on my fantasy follow up post...
5/6/2101 | **UPDATE**
OK, thank you all for your responses now let's get realistic. I was seeking someone move three things. Things a 5 foot tall housewife moved in the first place. Things I can't move today due to a minor surgery. Things that I normally throw in the back of my soccer mom teeny SUV.
Now lets talk about the ad. It said WAKEFIELD" So...hmmm..ok. A pit pass in Wakefield is $25. Say you are a landscaper, ... you drive by, you grab the 1 trash barrel , the tiny bale of hay, and the twigs (now bagged). It takes you six minutes max including chit chat and off you go. The $20 pays for an annual pass. Ish. Actually the pass is now $25 but still. Close, right? Not a bad deal.
So while I appreciate the guy that lived on the south shore quoting me $100 plus dollars, I need to ask you to really THINK about this before you hit respond. I was offering $20 for 5 minutes of your time... on a day you were doing work IN TOWN, already driving to our local pit. I'm not looking to refinance your house or to have your crew landscape my acres of pastoral farmland. I'm not looking for an affair, an illegal dump, you to teach me how to compost my refuse, or a lesson in economics. Unless you are already billing out at $240 an hour, $20 was a fair offer. And if it wasn't "enough" why on gods green earth did you click on the link? Honestly? Really? Thanks anyway. I'll flag someone down tomorrow. And you, my friends, you are ruining my faith in mankind.
On May 31, I had uncovered a draft of one titled POSTCARDS. That one I'll hit "publish" on and by done with...
5/31/2010 | Postcards
my postcards
Hmmm, this was a draft from a few weeks ago...but sure, why not?
I'll post it as is with the caveat that it's dated.
*********************
5/31/2010 | postcards
Remember that book / blog that was so popular? The one where people submit anonymous postcards with deep dark secrets? I haven't blogged, facebooked, returned calls lately - because really, I'm feeling foul. Foul as in sick, and foul as in tempered. But more foul as sick. Having said that, human friends appear to be forgiving so I guess I'm allowed to resume relationships with low penalties. But really, I'm so black and bitter I think its best to lay low...
MY POSTCARDS
the other day my husband cut himself on the hose box. he was trying to recoil the hose with zero finesse and caught a finger in the locking mechanism. it bled a lot. i pretended to feel bad and helped him douse it with hydrogen peroxide... but secretly, he had it coming to him.
despite the fact that I respect almost all of my friends that do it, I still think breast feeding is grossly overrated. unless it's to save money, or sleep better, or you really like it personally then i think its smart.
my daughters preschool teacher continues to promote a relationship between one other girl and mine in her class. she comments to me daily that there is a great affection between the two. for all intents and purposes, the girls an idiot, has no redeeming value, and her parents are only slightly higher on the evolutionary chain then apes. i think less of her teacher for even allowing the child to be schooled there.
every time we play "marry, boff or kill" my husband and i kill the same neighbor.
although I don't mind gaining weight to support the twin beasties, i'm quite embarrassed to be so large.
i wish my daughter could keep her binky longer. i told her that the binky fairy was coming someday but not today - then i lost all her binks within the last week and now she thinks the fairy came already. my husband says to just allow her to think so but i'm sad anyway.
my dads wife brought over a pair of jeans she insisted were my three year old daughters that I left at their party. I told her repeatedly that we didn't leave jeans, or undies for that matter... but she brought them by anyway and dropped them off. a pair of size 14 girls shorts. i question her brain power at times.
i "like" very many people but overall, somedays? would be fine moving and creating an entirely different set of friends. for three years I've found the same people false. i don't know why I continue to wish for more. maybe because THEY seem so content with each other i assume something must be wrong with me.
I'll post it as is with the caveat that it's dated.
*********************
5/31/2010 | postcards
Remember that book / blog that was so popular? The one where people submit anonymous postcards with deep dark secrets? I haven't blogged, facebooked, returned calls lately - because really, I'm feeling foul. Foul as in sick, and foul as in tempered. But more foul as sick. Having said that, human friends appear to be forgiving so I guess I'm allowed to resume relationships with low penalties. But really, I'm so black and bitter I think its best to lay low...
MY POSTCARDS
the other day my husband cut himself on the hose box. he was trying to recoil the hose with zero finesse and caught a finger in the locking mechanism. it bled a lot. i pretended to feel bad and helped him douse it with hydrogen peroxide... but secretly, he had it coming to him.
despite the fact that I respect almost all of my friends that do it, I still think breast feeding is grossly overrated. unless it's to save money, or sleep better, or you really like it personally then i think its smart.
my daughters preschool teacher continues to promote a relationship between one other girl and mine in her class. she comments to me daily that there is a great affection between the two. for all intents and purposes, the girls an idiot, has no redeeming value, and her parents are only slightly higher on the evolutionary chain then apes. i think less of her teacher for even allowing the child to be schooled there.
every time we play "marry, boff or kill" my husband and i kill the same neighbor.
although I don't mind gaining weight to support the twin beasties, i'm quite embarrassed to be so large.
i wish my daughter could keep her binky longer. i told her that the binky fairy was coming someday but not today - then i lost all her binks within the last week and now she thinks the fairy came already. my husband says to just allow her to think so but i'm sad anyway.
my dads wife brought over a pair of jeans she insisted were my three year old daughters that I left at their party. I told her repeatedly that we didn't leave jeans, or undies for that matter... but she brought them by anyway and dropped them off. a pair of size 14 girls shorts. i question her brain power at times.
i "like" very many people but overall, somedays? would be fine moving and creating an entirely different set of friends. for three years I've found the same people false. i don't know why I continue to wish for more. maybe because THEY seem so content with each other i assume something must be wrong with me.
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