So the last post, Mr. W and I were basically done.  Finished.  *sniff* Over.  Long story short, I begged and pleaded, we agreed to give it another go, had fabulous make-up sex, and were happy again.   But then that evil wedding monster started climbing back out of its hole and gnawing at our ankles.  Money, stress.  Stress, money.  Planning, planning, planning.  MELTDOWN!  After 2 anxiety attacks in less than a week, Mr. W was ready to commit me, or at the very least heavily medicate me!

Last night we agreed to call the whole thing off.  We would attempt to get some of the money back that we’d put in, but were ok if it didn’t work out that way.  Better to have our sanity and each other than to sink even more money into something we may not both survive to even see.  (I’m being a little dramatic here…a little…)  The biggest problem was the $800 in non-refundable, non-transferable plane fare that his mom just shelled out for the trip here.  She’s not as much in a place to be just “ok” with losing that kind of money.  But, we intended to pay her back, re-compensate anyone else who put any significant amount of money into this whole fiasco, and call it a day.  And then, somewhere down the line, when the stars align and the moon is full and Earth is in the shadow of Mars on the third Saturday of an even month…  we would elope.  Or rather, Mr. W’s version of eloping which includes all four kids, my mom to take care of the kids, probably his mom because she’s always wanted to go to Vegas, my dad because, hey, LA is just right there, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.  Can you say “lots of money?”  So not the point.  But that was to be discussed at a later, more suitable (i.e. less stressful) time.

Then it hit me:

We probably aren’t going to get a refund on the venue or the photographer.  Mom-n-fam’s plane tickets are lost without use on THAT weekend (damn Delta and their jacked up policies to steal money…), and neither of us really want to break the news to our families.  Why not reduce our evil wedding monster with a guest list of over 100 people back to a small, informal, family only affair that we both had pictured in the back of our minds to begin with.  Damn wedding industry and their manipulative, more-is-better-and-less-is-crap ways!  So I put it to Mr. W………………and he smiled again!  All planning can be done by the end of next week.  There is a kitchen at the venue, so we can cook a family style meal, set up 2 or 3 tables (instead of 14, plus buffet tables, plus DJ table…..) and have a small ceremony in the garden with our $100 minister.  I get my fancy pictures.  He gets the Wal-Mart special paper plates.  Our families get to meet, and we all get to smile together.  We don’t lose the money, and we don’t lose our minds (or each other) in the process.  Case closed.  Happy again. 

Now I just have to figure out how to tell all our friends…damn wedding industry and their etiquette and “things to do.”  Stupid “Save-the-Date” cards!

I do not want to be here, Sam-I-Am. 

I had a fabulous weekend.  Starting Thursday, I had a much needed bonding evening with the girls over a margarita before heading home.  Friday brought a night out with more folks from work, soothing some of those rough edges that exist between us on any normal day.  Saturday was my “birthday” of sorts…Mr. W took me on a dinner cruise on the Potomac, followed by a romantic evening in a fancy hotel…The Mandarin Oriental.  Beautiful.  It was a wonderful evening all around.  Sunday, we headed home and opted for dinner out and a movie with the older kids:  Inception.  Really good movie.  So why am I crying in the ladies room?

Well, Monday was strained.  Sunday’s dinner, and probably the mass quantities of alcohol I consumed from Thursday onward, left my belly a little “unhappy.”  It’s actually still a little unhappy.  So I stayed home, with Mr. W (his every-other-Monday off) and the two older kids.  We ran errands, went to lunch, discovered Mr. W has high cholesterol and a fatty liver, and began getting “short” around 4 or 5 pm.  But we maintained.  The kids went back to their mom’s, so I thought maybe this would be an opportunity (empty house) to continue the wonderfully frisky trend that the weekend prompted.  No such luck…we ended up going to bed mad, although I’m not sure what about, and waking up even worse.  Long story short, the car ride to work this morning had us both shouting, me in tears, and us splitting up…sorta…I think. 

But it’s not that simple.  Our lives are so intertwined that we can’t just “break up.”  We are dependant on each other in every facet of life.  We share everything, and I really do mean everything.  We have kids to think about.  We have a 2 year lease on a house neither of us can afford alone.  We share bills, food, childcare, everything.  Well, everything, it seems, except what’s important. 

We fight, a lot.  We don’t communicate.  Most days we would probably both agree we don’t know each other at all.  So why are we together?  Well, there’s love.  I do love my Mr. W.  With all my heart and should, I love him.  I wouldn’t have let myself get so tied up if I didn’t.  He wouldn’t be my home if I didn’t.  (For as long as I can remember, “home” was my parents’ home…until Mr. W.  I would get ridiculously home sick within months of visiting, and would visit at least twice a year, every year, since I left in 1999.  But now, when I think of “home,” I think of him.)  But love doesn’t seem to be enough.

I asked him this morning if he wanted to be done.  He said yes.  I said I was going to leave.  He didn’t say no.  I told him I loved him.  He stayed quiet.  And then I got hit by a bus:

Him: You must have known this was coming. 

Me: What? Why?

Him: Well, why haven’t you sent out the invitations to the wedding yet?  You must have known this was coming since you haven’t sent them out.

Me: (granted, in hysterics)  WHAT?  I haven’t sent them because you are supposed to send them 6 weeks before the wedding.  If you don’t want to marry me, why didn’t you just tell me.  If you don’t love me, why don’t you just tell me.  If you don’t want this anymore, WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST TELL ME?! 

Him: Oh.

Somehow that said it all.  He was expecting this?  He was waiting for this?  He had an inkling this was going to happen?  Why not say something?  WTF?  Was he just waiting for me to?  I can’t even begin to understand this.  “Hey, there’s a bus coming, but she probably knows that, so I’ll just watch while it runs her down.”  Fan-fucking-tastic.  Obviously, if you read my blog, you know I’ve got baggage.  You know I’m nuts.  You know I’m a bitch and raving lunatic at times.  Apparently he does not.  Apparently he thought I was a Stepford.  Apparently all the apologies in the world will never be enough.  Apparently my insanity has driven another one away.  2 years 6 months.  Yep, that’s about right.  So what the hell do I do now?  I can’t leave.  I can’t stay.  Money is lost, and will continue to be.  I’m lost, and will continue to be.  So what happens now?  What happens when I get home?  What happens when he gets home?  What happens tomorrow?  I can’t concentrate.  I can’t think.  I can’t function.

And crying alone in the ladies room is just so damned cliche!

This may be my last at-work written blog post for awhile, well at least this will be the last week I’m able to blog at work.  Not that I’ve been writing much lately anyway, but…

I’ve been ridiculously busy, with the ever impending wedding and the total lack of preparation on my part, with my multiple tasks with “yesterday,” or completely non-existent, deadlines, with a house that, 2 months after we moved in, is still in no way, shape, or form organized…or even completely unpacked, and with a new, short-ish notice transfer to a different department that I still haven’t gotten a straight answer on when it’s actually supposed to happen. 

While I am totally stoked about the transfer (it gives me multiple opportunities for learning new things, expanding my skill set, and therefore resume, and a promise of a pretty decent raise in the nearrrrrrr-ish future), I am not totally stoked about my office-mates’ reactions to my move.  Not everyone, mind you.  My actual friends are truly happy for me.  They share at least somewhat in my excitement, and at the very least support me in this whole thing.  My actual friends are, as always, wonderful.  But then there are those who I thought were my friends.  Silly me! 

Friend.  How do you define it?   Dictionary.com says:

Well, in regards to my current work-mates, 1 and 2 just go out the door.  3 is iffy on any given day.  4 is passable, and 5, well, let’s just leave 5 out of this.  In all honesty, I wouldn’t have previously called all of my work-mates “friends,” otherwise why would I refer to them as “work-mates?”  But I did previously call many of them friends, and those are the ones whose recent attitude, reaction, whatever is bothering me the most.  Are we really that far removed?  Is this comraderie that we share really that shallow?  Or is it simply petty immaturity?  Or maybe I’m being ridiculously oversensitive…NO!  That’s not even a possibility! 

Let me explain.  On-again-off-again friendships around here happen often.  Whatever.  It’s the nature of the beast.  But suddenly, coincidentally coinciding directly with the news of my move, I’m getting a severe case of the cold shoulders everywhere I turn.  There is no polite conversation.  There is no “how was your weekend.”  There isn’t even eye contact.  And I swear whenever I walk into a room, out to the smoke pit, towards an area where any group or individual is hovering, said group or individual scatters at my presence.  What the F is that about?  Really?  I’m going to a different office so now you have NOTHING to say to me?  We can’t be pseudo-friends?  You can’t even manage a polite “hello”?  I give up.

I’ve decided I’m past the point of caring…but really I’m not.  Not even a little.  It hurts, people.  These are people I’ve spend the most time with over the last 3 or so years.  These are the people I’ve had actual conversations with on a daily basis (til now).  Most of these people I thought I could depend on in a pinch, call if I was in trouble, reach out to for help…but yeah, apparently not so much.  I don’t make friends easily.  I don’t open up often.  I don’t trust many.  And for anyone that I consider a friend or that I open up to or trust, even a little, to suddenly, inexplicably just cut off all interaction…it feels like a punch to the gut.  And there are multiples of them. 

Ah, well…this too shall pass, right?  Moving on and moving up and all that other happy horse-shit.  No biggie.  I’m a big girl and I’ve lived through much worse in  my life than a few hurt feelings.  Hmmm…maybe there’s still time to save some money on the headcount for the wedding….

“Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart and the senses.” — Lao Tzu

“The heart has reasons that reason cannot understand.” — Jacques Benigne Bossuel

 

def. Splendor: –verb (used with object)  to make splendid by decorating lavishly; adorn.

The hearts are strange things.  I say “hearts” because there really are two, at least.  There’s the physical heart, with all its functioning and definable purpose.  And then there is the metaphorical heart, full of hidden agendas and feelings.  They are two very separate entities, but are still somehow so closely tied that they are often mistaken as one.  But it’s the solitary, metaphorical heart’s power which holds the physical under its whims so effectively it seems as though it’s the physical heart’s doing in the first place.

Love.  So totally owned by the metaphorical heart.  The physical has absolutely no functioning reason to get involved.  It’s far too busy pumping X amount of blood through the body every Y amount of time, there is no room for feelings and metaphors.  It’s kind of like math and literature.  Logic and emotion.  Science and religion, if you will.  But love, in all its mysterious glory fills us up so much, metaphorically of course, that we physically feel something, and mistake the two hearts for one.  The flutter at the sound of his voice.  The skip at the sight of her.  The heat we feel under our skin.  Even the easily measurable increase in our pulse screams that this is a physical reaction by our stoic and indifferent central organ.  But, really?  Is it any wonder that there is so much intertwining confusion of the origins of these physical and emotional feelings? 

Love itself is a frustratingly confounded endeavor, and yet we strive for it, believe in it whole-heart-edly, yearn for it with all our being.  But what is it?  How many people have gone into a relationship believing it’s love, and yet coming out the other end believing it never really was?  How often is it said: “I’ve never really been in love,” and yet equally said: “I’ve been in love so many times”?  Love is neither measurable nor quantifiable, yet we insist on giving it a solid body with which to represent itself.  We try to quantify our love as “so much”  or grant it a time measurement of “always and forever.”  But what measures are those?  Non-measures.  Fake numbers.  Even the “imaginary” numbers we learned about in algebra hold more real value than any sort of measurement we tout in the name of love.  Yet we give credit to our physical heart and all its well functioning logic, as the metaphorical heart sits back and grins while pulling the strings of our lives. 

And then there is the pain of love lost.  The burning in the chest, where the physical heart resides.  The fast or hard beats of the physical heart.  The shortness of breath, again in the chest.  The loss of blood to the head or limbs, brought on by a malfunctioning heart perhaps?  Not at all, but as someone who has felt these very symptoms, I can attest to the all-encompassing power of the metaphorical heart and to it’s complete control over the physical body.  It’s not logical.  It’s not a scientifically sound argument that something that doesn’t even exist except in the “hearts” and minds of we humans to have such a profound physical effect on us.  And yet it does. 

So this metaphorical heart.  This invisible force that drives us to feel emotions, and especially to yearn for, seek out, feel and dread love, all at the same time.  What is it?  What gives it its power?  Why do we, as logical, soundminded, intelligent beings allow something so intangible hold such utter control over us?  Because the heart wants what the heart wants?  But as a non-entity, how can it want? 

But it does, and we do, and a-round-and-round we go!  Wanting, desiring, yearning, searching, reaching, loving, hurting, hating, and even dying in the name of love.  What silly animals we are!  But is there a choice in it?  Is it an unbidden torture we endure, or is it a self-inflicted condition which we happily maintain?  Either way, I for one don’t think I would ever step away, if the ability existed.  Of course, my hearts are “full of love” at the moment, so I may not be the best source of reason. 

The boy is gone for the summer.  My heart feels as empty as our new big house, my heartbeat echoing in my chest in tune with the leftover echoes of little running feet across the hardwood floor.  I feel empty, no less than empty.  I feel almost like I don’t exist at all.  Is it possible to exist when your heart is 4 states away? 

I go to bed with a pounding headache.  Not enough water?  Too much sun?  I can only hope that is the case.  And then, as I lay there, a familiar sensation washes over me.  I used to be scared of it when I was young, but now I savor it as feeling something physical that is stronger than the emotions that are wracking my heart and mind.  It starts with mild vertigo, spinning, tilting.  I’ve never felt it standing up, but I’m sure the result would be me crashing to the ground.  As the bed tilts around me, I shut my eyes tight and ride it out, savoring each sensation almost as if I’m on a carnival ride.  As the vertigo subsides, new feelings sweep over me.  I read once in some magazine that it’s known as “Alice in Wonderland Syndrome.”  I always loved that story.  I feel parts of my body begin to grow, while others shrink down to twigs.  This was the scariest part as a child.  I used to look at each growing or shrinking body part while trying to convince myself that my eyes were wrong.  I used to move each body part in an attempt to regain my sense of appropriate dimension.  It never worked.  Terrifying may be a better description.  But now, I find myself concentrating on the sensations, marveling.  I feel my head swell to three, maybe four times normal size, inflating like a balloon.  My arms shrink down to shriveled up pencils protruding from my normal-sized shoulders.  My hands become the hands of a giant with ridiculously long, skinny fingers.  Then everything reverses.  The terror is long gone, and I’m left with wonderment of the power of my mind over logic and physical truth as I drift off to sleep, knowing I’ll wake with a migraine. 

If only my dreams would actually take me down that rabbit hole…it would be a nice escape from the emptiness at least.

I am really, entirely unhappy with being the token “skinny girl” for all other’s comparison.  Really?!  Does it have to come up everyday?  Do all insecurities have to be compared to me in a way that makes me both ashamed of my looks/body/whatever, while also ashamed of my own insecurities?  Yes, I said it.  I have insecurities.  Amazing, I know. 

Yes, I am generally easy on the eyes.  Yes, I am moderately thin-ish.  Yes, I am mildly intelligent.  Should I be ashamed?  Should I feel bad?  And what do I do when compared to others in that, “oh you can wear anything,” or, “you can eat anything,” or, “it’s all so easy for you.”  Am I supposed to thank them or apologize, or maybe some jacked up combination of both…but then which comes first?  Ladies, there is no genuine compliment in the statement: You are so skinny.  Really.  Not a drop. 

Everyone has insecurities.  Everyone.  Whatever you see when you look at me, I probably don’t.  Unfortunately, because those around me feel the need to push their insecurities on me in some unfair comparison, I am not allowed to talk about my insecurities in 0pen public.  And I know it’s not just me.  I’m willing to bet anyone blessed with something has to deal with similar comparisons and guilt.

But what are my insecurities?

I’m out of shape, severely.  Mostly due to my recent struggle with Lyme disease, but also because I’m lazy.  I know it.  I deal with it daily when I’m winded going up the stairs, when I can open a bottle, when I’m so tired I want to collapse, when I can’t run or do a sit up or lift a heavy object.  And I’m insecure about it.

I have small boobs.  They’re deflated and odd and just small.  Skinny girls tend to, but not all.  It sucks.  I wouldn’t dream of wearing a bra without padding.  And even then, on my more bloaty days, my tummy still sticks out further than the girls.  I’m insecure about that too.

Speaking of my tummy…I float somewhere between a size 4 and size 8 (depending on the brand and cut), but usually settle on a size 6 and a longer than normal shirt to cover the inevitable muffin-top situation.  Oh, and you don’t see that particular pleasant feature on me because I spend most of my time holding my breath and/or sucking in my gut.  Yeah, I’m insecure about that too.

My hair rarely cooperates.  My skin rebels like a teenager.  I have wrinkly hands and rough feet.  I have varicose AND spider veins, increasingly, on my legs.  I normally have dark circles under my eyes and less than white teeth.  My upper arm flab lets me do the “double wave” thing that is oh so pleasant to watch…so I just don’t extend my arms very often in any sort of wavy motion.  And I can’t find a decent razor to save my life, so there are bumps and missed spots and ingrowns galore, all the time. 

I realize I don’t have as much to complain about as some.  I realize I’m blessed in many ways.  I realize that most people don’t even see a third of the imperfections we see in ourselves.  I can handle my own quite solitary brooding in the mirror each night.  What I can’t handle is the barrage of backwards-ass compliments that do nothing but throw others’ insecurities in my face while making my own feel unworthy and petty.  I don’t thank you and I’m not sorry!  I love all my friends dearly.  I adore the ladies I work with.  Strangers, I could mostly give two shits about.  But I will do anything to lift the spirits of those around me.  I see all of your beauty.  I envy those things that make you sparkle and shine, but I refuse to deny you the right to revel in it.  No one should be made to feel bad about the things they don’t have; but also, no one should be made to feel bad for what they do have, so just stop already!

I have been desperately trying to map out some sort of career path for myself, oh, for the last 23 years or so, and so far? I have no idea!  In my younger days it was a teacher (of course), the president, a marine biologist.  I’ve dabbled more than once in the idea of being a cop or deputy sheriff.  In high school, when I actually gave some small amount of thought to my future (not very often), I vaguely remember an interest in psychology.  In college, I went down the ROTC path and wanted to be a pilot…oops, can’t due to my vision, so ok, how about a flight surgeon: the doctor in the Air Force who treats those on flying status.  But then I got pregnant, dropped out of college, had an abortion, went into a deep depression and enlisted in the Air Force instead, which brought me to my first real career direction: Air Traffic Controller.  Awesome job!  But various life choices have left me in a place that doesn’t suit Air Traffic Control well, military or civilian. 

Since separating, I’ve been falling  back on my military training as my “this is what I can do” thing.  The problem is, ATC training prepares you to be a controller…and not much else.  It’s not really a transferable skill set.  Sure, in college I did early childhood learning and data entry for an insurance company.  Since the Air Force, I spent a little over a year doing background investigations for a county public safety office (another fun interesting job).  But now I’m back in an ATC-ish job with a little light engineering and data processing on the side, and no expansion potential.  While the job is easy, and occasionally mildly rewarding, I’ve been struggling with the question: “is this really where I want to be?”  And I think I’ve determined the answer is a resounding “NO!”

But what do I want to do “when I grow up?”

My answer changes every month or so, it seems.  A year and a half ago when I was contracted to do some photography work, I thought, “this is it!  This is my in to a career I’ll really love!”  Yeah, no work since or besides that one job.  And would I really want to be a professional photographer?  Well, yes and no.  I would a la Ansel Adams.  Taking pictures of what I want, how I want, and selling them by the dozen to faceless masses?  That works for me.  Portrait work or anything that involves more than minimal interaction with actual people?  Not so much.  I don’t play well with others and it shows.  I’ve considered getting a math degree, but really, what do you do with that?  A physics or other science degree, but a research scientists (I would totally love that) gets paid basically nothing, and that’s if you can get in with a company like NASA (double love!).  Stay at home mom sounds better and better every day, but even with our recent jump in income, our equal jump in spending (yeah, we’re kind of retarded that way) has made that a total pipe dream.  So what to do?

First step is education, right?  I’ve achieved my Bachelor’s degree, albeit in a kind of BS way (no pun intended), but it doesn’t get me anything except a pretty piece of paper and a pat on the back.  So on to my Masters…but in what?  The smart choice is some sort of Management; Project Management, Business Management, Choose-Your-Own Management.  There are so many to choose from, but one problem is true to all: I would end up being a manager.  Did I mention I don’t play well with others?  While I can lead others, I am almost positive I don’t want to.  I like to be more hands on, more involved, and I like to work solo.  Depending on others is definitely not a strong suit with me.  Gee, don’t I just sound like a peach to work with?  So while I have achieved a BS BS degree, I really have no where to take it.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not totally BS.  It did educate me in the multiple facets of my current job, and after all, that is the goal of education, right?  To educate?  But it doesn’t move me forward.  It doesn’t open any doors of opportunity.  I learned stuff and got a feather in my hat.  Sweet.  Now what?

With a little bit of self-exploration (not that kind, you perv!), I think I may need to work on a second Bachelor’s rather than a Master’s, at least for now.  But options are limited by college offerings: must be all or mostly distance/online learning; by work intensity: I’m still working full time, commuting 1 1/2 hours a day total, and have two kids to worry about…oh, and I tend to go through lazy periods; and by financial feasibility: why spend the time and money on a degree that I can’t use to get a job after and that doesn’t even remotely apply to my current job? 

Top of the list at this very moment? Graphic Design.  Ok, so I may not be 100% familiar with all that Graphic Design is, but I think I would enjoy it.  And, ok, so I have no certainty at all that I will be able to find a decent paying job after, but I think I would enjoy it.  And, ok, so I’m only actually 60% sure that I would even enjoy working in that industry, but I think I would enjoy it.  I have a small amount of talent in design and art.  I enjoy artistic creation in almost all mediums.  And in an ideal world, I could work at home, with my family, on my beautiful Mac, and life would be all sunshine and roses…theoretically.  So I sent away for information from the Art Institute of America, and we shall see.  But, if any of you readers out there have some sort of experience or insight in this area of the career world that you are just dying to share…please feel free!  I could definitely use it. 

And in the meantime…more soul searching, self exploration, dreaming and hoping, while plodding along in this thing called my life until some sort of answer comes my way.  *sigh* and ho-hum.

The older I get, the less significant time seems to become.  Or more significant, depending on how you define significance.  There are seemingly fewer minutes in the day.  There are seemingly fewer days in the year.  I remember when the two months of summer break felt like a decade and the school year felt like a lifetime.  But now, with only two short weeks left in the boy’s kindergarten year, it seems like only yesterday we had our first meeting with his new teacher.  Like only a week ago, he was gone to his dad’s for the summer.  And in the blink of an eye, he will be back there again for this summer.  Part of me, I suppose the more selfish part, is looking forward to his (and my) vacation.  I will still see the girl as normal, but I won’t have child or children around every day.  That part of me looks forward to me time.  That part of me looks forward for the opportunity to do what I want, rather than what is expected of me.  That part of me looks forward to shucking off a good portion of responsibility, even if it is only for a short while.  But the rest of me dreads his departure as one might dread the amputation of a limb.  As I dread each and every time I have to say goodbye to one of my children.  More often with the girl, but in no way less painful.  You’d think I would have gotten used to the idea by now.  I’ve been saying temporary goodbyes to one or both of my children since the boy was a year old and his father “decided” to be a father.  Granted, there isn’t the stream of tears that once followed his departure, even if only for a weekend.  At least not an outward display of them.  But there is still the inconsolable pain of loss in my heart.  Thankfully this gradual shortening of time does make their times away seem slightly less “significant,” if not any less painful. 

But really, why does time shorten as years on the planet lenghten?  I remember when an 8 hour day was more than sufficient to finish any project I decided to take on.  In my mind it still is.  But in reality, 8 hours is a drop in the bucket.  In reality, I can lose an entire 8 hours to researching the compatibility of Rock Band and Guitar Hero games and equipment.  Or more recently, researching wedding invitations and photographers, only to not find a suitable option for either.  Apparently time has a cruel sense of humor.  The older I get, the more I have to accomplish, or alternately, the more I take on.  And the less time I seem to have.  Does this time-warp phenomenon only exist in my life, or is it universally true?  I could have sworn it was only 10am five minutes ago.  Only now I look at my clock and realize I have less than an hour left at work.  Where did the day go? 

It might be different if I accomplished something every now and again.  Or even if I just sat, but had incredibly prolific thoughts all day.  But no.  I simply maintain.  I maintain a household, barely.  I maintain a couple children, most of the time.  I maintain a functioning body and mind, sort of.  Even my maintaining is lacking in accomplishment, and I swear it’s because I just don’t have the time to do it right!  10 years ago, I could get things done, done well, and still have time to party all night and do it all again in the morning.  15 years ago I could write an impressive 10 page report in a couple hours.  And 20 years ago, days seemed like they would never end. 

Today?  Today I accomplished nothing.  Today I will feel hurried and tired all day.  Today the sun will go down before I realize the time.  Today I will go to bed exhausted, far to late, and dread tomorrow as I fall asleep.  And in two weeks I will have all the time in the world, yet will accomplish nothing with it.  And two months later, the boy will come home. The school year will start anew.  And life will keep on trucking at far to fast a pace, leaving me gasping for breath until the end.  How very depressing it all is.

Some people feel they must, or rather, have a very real need it seems to butt in where they don’t belong or are not wanted, or both.  Why?  Here are a couple key hints: when someone says “that’s not what I was talking about” and then goes back to their conversation totally leaving you and your unwelcome comment our of it, back off!  When someone says “I’ve got this” while holding up their hand in the international sign for stop talking and go away, give some serious thought to doing just that.  If someone seems to be a perfectly functioning human being probably fully capable of accomplishing some inane duty or another, leave them alone and later, if warranted by some momentous mistake, you may revel in their inabilities and ignorance.  Silently.  In your own head.  All in all, if you find yourself spontaneously drawn to events or conversations without invitation halfway through the progression of said event or conversation and are not typically met with sighs of relief or expressions of joy at your mere presence, reconsider opening your mouth at all, except maybe to eat or drink.  All necessary communication can be effectively achieved with occasional head nodding.  Thanks.

I had a detailed post done two days ago explaining all this, but when I was a spell-check away from publishing, my computer shit itself and all was lost.  Hrumph.  Yeah, it’s been that kind of week. Month. Year?  Bear with me as I try to recap…

Moving, wedding, teenagers, the boy and the girl, too many projects at work, finances, Mr. W…I think that was all.  You know, basically everything that encompasses my everyday!  No biggie.

We move in 9 days.  We aren’t packed.  I packed 9 boxes in the last two days and besides the boxes sitting in there, you wouldn’t know it.  We don’t have a truck.  We don’t have definite moving help.  We don’t have someone to rent our house.  WTF?!  And I’m about 3 inches from blowing up on someone about it.  Someone being Mr. W unfortunately as he is pretty good at being a target of opportunity.  Not that he’s totally innocent, but still, I’m holding back.  Things promise to be better, much better once we move…and as much as I want to believe promises, part of me is always skeptical.

The wedding is in just over 100 days.  We don’t have a DJ.  We don’t have invitations.  We don’t have tables, chairs, a tent, or any other rental stuff.  We don’t have garments except for my dress and shoes, which is unwearable until it’s tailored.  And we are slacking on the desire to have a wedding at all.  (Talk of doing the elope thing has been flung around lately) What do we have? A minister and a location.  Sweet.  September 25th promises to be number 3 on my “best day ever” list when all is said and done, but that’s not for another 100 plus days.

Teenagers…need I say more?  I love them, but they are teens, and teens bring drama.  I think it may be part of their lifeblood.  I remember my teen years vividly (well, the ones that aren’t clouded by chemicals anyway…) and I have hold no grudge to any other teen…but still.  And the little ones, again, need I say more?  The girl got Lyme from me so now I am forced to watch her go through what I did and feel nothing but pure, unadulterated guilt for “infecting” her.  And the boy, well, one more month until the end of the school year, which means a summer away with his dad. 

Work is work is work.  And finances are finances.  I spread myself too thin in both areas and then suffer the wrath of my own decisions after.  I could kick my own ass for it, but really, what good would that do? 

And Mr. W…relates to all of the above.  Stress is contagious, but when we both have it, it only multiplies exponentially.  I long for my loving man who is just so overtired these days that he seems to be in hibernation…permanently. 

I passed by his old apaprtment the other day, and ever since have been reminiscing on our time there.  It was small and humble, but I have nothing but fond memories of those four walls.  We got to know each other there.  We fell in love there.  We had “our” time there.  Yes, we had fights and heartbreaks and even broke up more than a couple times, but there were far more wonderful days, and nights, in those spaces.  And I miss them so.  We were genuinely excited by, and about each other there.  We held each other up.  We cared and loved and were one. 

Today I picked up a package from the post office.  When the lady brought it to me, she had a giant grin on her face and asked if it was a diploma or some other equally exciting document.  I told her I hoped so, and then ripped open the package right there while she gave me an impromptu drum roll.    And it was!  As the lady at the post office applauded and showered me with congratulatory praise, I opened my official Bachelor of Science diploma, beaming, I’m sure!  Yea!  I brought it to work to show off, and my dear, dear friend and maid of honor, C, has been announcing it wherever we go, bringing out smiles and praise and congratulations from all around me.  Finally getting hold of Mr. W, I gave him my wonderful news, to which I was first ignored, then given a half ass, forced, not even trying to show any emotion at all (unless boredom is an emotion) “yea, you got your diploma.” Period**.  Hmmm….if I hadn’t already been choking back tears for days and therefore mastered the art, I’m sure that would have brought on quite the waterworks.  Nice.  Well, at least my less than personal friend co-workers are happy for me. 

**His excuse? “You graduated months ago and haven’t been excited or brought it up until today.”  Well today I got my Pretty Piece of Paper!  My countless hours, thousands of dollars, and days off my life due to stress have amounted to something concrete, finally.  Excuse my hopes for some small amount of validation.  *Sigh*