Confessions of a Mad Woman

Don’t men drive you crazy sometimes? Whether you are in love with them, living with them, married or not, female or not, don’t they just drive you crazy? As a person married to one for twenty years I will tell you it has been one of the biggest tests in my life to stay with my husband.

The other day I actually sprayed his toothbrush with Windex while I was cleaning the bathroom.  It was completely immature, but it gave me great pleasure.  He had hurt my feelings, I was mad, but I was too proud to say anything so I did something so incredibly passive aggressive it should go down in the books.  Anyway, Windex isn’t that poisonous is it?

I contemplated swishing the toothbrush around in the toilet, but that seemed too clichéd.  On the second pass at the sink I felt a pang of guilt so I entertained the idea of rinsing it under the water, but instead I sprayed it again.

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Exasperation

I am exasperated. Nothing earth shattering, just irritated…generally irritated.

First off, I have the most annoying of annoying co-workers that I need to punch in his throat.  The fantasy just isn’t cutting it anymore.

I want to eat carbs!  I’m going to die if I don’t have a piece of bread today!  If I have to have another fat free yogurt or a grilled chicken breast I’ll end up face down on the kitchen floor sobbing.

I finally love exercising. That scares and sickens me…

Every evening for the last four years (a coincidence, I think not) I’ve had a glass or two of wine.  It’s become a boring habit.  What other vice can I possibly replace the wine with?  Cigarettes? Tried it, doesn’t work.  Meth? Too vain.  Sex? John couldn’t handle that much of me (wink)! Exercise? Already doing it.  Whiskey?  I’ll try it, but I’m not happy about it.

Just as I was getting to the stage of venom dripping from my keyboard, my  family life crept in again in the form of my favorite son, Tristan.  He came into the room and sat down right next to me with his laptop.  I did move to the other side of the couch, but he had already cramped my style.  Then there came John  and he flipped on the tv to watch the game.  I put my headphones on and tried to crawl back into the bitchy little cave I’d constructed.  It didn’t work, couldn’t get my vibe back.

I have a feeling this mood is not over. Oh no, it is definitely is not over.

Epic Spills

During my life I have experienced many detrimental spills.

“Oh my God!” You exclaim,”What a sorry uneventful life you must have endured to remember spills!”

Well, my memories are scattered at best.  I don’t have any idea why I can remember the smell of a certain event and my thought pattern during it, but cannot recall going to a party two weeks ago.  It is very frustrating to say the least.  I feel dumb a lot of the time.

With my co-workers and friends I can usually get away with them believing I do remember the event I was a key player in.  I have to be careful not to say “I don’t remember” too often.  When I do have to say it, I can only allow them to give me a limited number of details. After it looks like I might have a grasp on the forgotten event, I lie and agree that I do indeed remember.  It’s a miracle that I’ve made it so far in life with my mask still in place.

Crazy never stops when you are saddled with a history of Bipolar II.  It feels like my memory capacity has been eaten away by some sort of casuistic chemical caused by this condition.

Hey, wait a minute! How did I get so side tracked from my lifetime of epic spills?

The first one I can remember when I was four in England.  Back then they let small children go down to the shops and buy loaves of bread.  I took a loaf from the shelf, grabbing the wrong end.  All of the bread fell out onto the floor.  The shop people were very nice about it but, that was it for me.  I didn’t shop again until I was six!

On Saturday mornings when I was a little older my sister and I would go to the local department store to hang around and get items for my mom.  Hair color was on the list on this particular Saturday.  In a strange coincidence the bottom of that box also gave out and the dark brown hair dye bottle hit the ground and shattered!  Mortified is the best way to explain my eight year old feelings.

26 years ago Emily spilled red artificial colored juice on the carpet that cost me my deposit on an apartment.

While visiting home one summer my husband fell asleep with a very dark beer on a futon. We had to shamefully explain what happened to my dad.  I don’t remember replacing it.  Did we?  No memory of that…means nothing.

Tristan kicked my glass of red wine on our new $1300 pillow top mattress.  Of course, it was my side.  To this day I still sleep on a brown stained corner.

Last year my phone was plugged into the truck and as I reached to answer it I caught a very full Starbucks with the cord and spilled an entire Grande vanilla late on me, the seat and the floor of John’s new truck. Yes, the same one as in the aforementioned parking garage.

This morning Allison was rolling around on the floor doing something flexible with her legs in the air and my terminator like vision zoomed in on a half-filled glass of wine across the room on a side table.

“Watch that glass!” I yelled and finally avoided another epic spill.

Actually, I’m not a big woman…

Last summer my “sleep” doctor said to me, “You are not a big woman, but you could stand to lose 5 to 10 lbs.”

But weight (Freudian slip) …a triumph!  I have lost 13 pounds since August.  Why is this significant?

Well, other than I may be looking a little bit “hot”*, it gives me some comfort that maybe my new life on medication is finally working and maybe I will be alright after all. An awful lot of maybes in that last sentence.

What am I doing you ask?  I know it’s unconventional…diet and exercise.  It’s a new feeling for me to be in control of anything.  I don’t think I’ve ever experienced control before anywhere or in any way. Yeah for drugs!

* Parentheses and an asterisk must be used by me for the word “hot” because I am 47 and still haven’t quite adjusted to this word that has been substituted for the more appropriately descriptive “good looking”.

Romance is Not Dead: It’s Just Hacking up a Lung

The other night John was supposed to be home early(ish) so we could go out for a drink.

He called around 8 to say he wouldn’t be home until 9 and then called at 9 to say he wouldn’t be home until around 10. That was alright, I said I would be here anyway, but it was too late to go out. I put Allison to bed and Tristan went downstairs to watch a movie or something.

John came home shortly after 10 and I was all ready for bed sitting there watching Survivor and drinking a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I love them, it is more like a dessert than a drink so since I am watching my calories, it is better to drink than to eat. Even though they say you shouldn’t drink your calories, I don’t care, I just love a Mikes’ Hard Lemonade at the end of the day. As you can see why I am still needing to lose that 10 lbs., my body is carrying around 10 lbs. of rationalized fat!

John seemed to be in a better mood than the situation warranted. He came into the room with a grin on his face and a black plastic bag. For some reason I thought it was maybe a stuffed raccoon at first, I don’t know why. Well, yes, I guess I do know why. He’s done this before, but with pheasant tails, an old stole made out of ferrets (and their faces), a long horn’s skull and just a bunch of various pieces of fur. They weren’t for me personally and I wasn’t sure this was either until he said with a grin, “I’ve got something for you”.

He began the story, when a story begins “I was in a bar in Cheyenne” the rest can’t be good. There is always a story, it can’t be “I picked something nice up for you”.

John says, “I was in a bar and these ladies were having a lingerie sale”.

“In the bar?” I say. He is very sensitive so I have to choose my words and tone carefully.

He laughs pulling out a black and purple corset thing with big bows on the hips.

I’m having a really hard time hiding my dismay, because I can smell it from where I am sitting, and, of course, I can see it. It has been in a bar for god knows how many hours and obviously the bar didn’t have a “no smoking ban”!

“I love it!” he says.

“Then why don’t YOU wear it?” I think.

“I’m going to have to wash it before I can wear it you know.”

“No you don’t, I don’t mind”, I think at this point his mind is seriously on that old one way track, and I have to put my foot down.

“No, I really have to wash it”

“How are you going to wash it?,” he asks.

“I suppose on the delicate cycle on cold.”

“No, I mean so the kids won’t see it.”

He thinks that Tristan is more involved in our laundry than he really is and Allison is pretty much oblivious to almost anything that is not hers. Needless to say I will not be setting the alarm for 2 am to do a clandestine delicate laundry run.

Parknaphobia – JUSTIFIED!

I hope you read my blog entry about my parknaphobia a few months back.  I hope when you read it you believed I had some basis for this phobia and it was not just made up or the paranoid delusions of a crazy person.

Well, if you did think I was crazy (wouldn’t blame you a bit) I have been vindicated because once again I have been involved in a parking incident.

I was at friend’s house where there was a party going on next door parking was limited on the street.   As I have said, if I am in a confident mood I can parallel park with ease.  This time I was and parallel parked. I stayed with my friend for awhile and when I got to my car it was completely blocked in by a couple of very large pick up trucks.

I walked up to my car and past a few men crowded around a little hibachi grill fire laughing and speaking in Spanish.   As I got to my car I realized there were a few beer cans on my back bumper.  I smiled and tried to be at ease, you know casual and “fun”.

Still smiling, I motioned to the cans and said, “Can I have one?”

Not speaking English, they stared at me blankly and smiled removing the cans.  So my little attempt to sound cool and non-nonchalant failed miserably, again.

I got in my car and began to back up. One of the men signaled to me with the universal hand waiving that he would help me pull out.  As I went forward, I cranked the wheel and then backward about six inches and he would use the universal downward fist motion for me to stop.  I know this language because my husband uses “Ho!” and his father uses “Whoa” and I use “Stop” (go figure).

I was fully concentrating on the gentleman’s fist.  I went backward, stop and forward stop about six times before something caught my eye; it was a man I could see in my side view mirror that I was getting awfully close to with my back bumper.  While I was noticing this, of course, I was not looking at the fist and backed into the pick up behind me!  God, those damn split seconds!!!

This then roused all the men to yell the universal “Ohhhh!”  That exclamation has no language barriers.

The man waived me off like it was no big deal.  I was tempted to peel out of there without checking for damage, but what kind of person would I be then?  I did get out and look.  My fiberglass bumper was a mere graze to that diesel’s steel winch.

I thanked the man and said goodbye.  Then I peeled off vowing never to park again!!

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Catholic Facebook

I was looking through Facebook the other night. Bored with it, I decided to bring up my old catholic elementary school. Sensing any danger here?

I don’t know why I have to torture myself. The other day I took a picture of my stomach because I wanted to look at it every time I was debating whether to exercise or not. Now I’m sure you are saying to yourself, she doesn’t sound Catholic at all.

I describe myself as a “jaded ex-catholic”. I really have to take that hint of pride out of my voice when I say that. If you have been what I have been through at the hands of the nuns and students of my old school it’s easy to feel self-righteous.

Back to Facebook, I was amazed that the school actually had 99 likes if any at all. They must have forced the “out to pasture” old nuns to “like” them.

It took and is taking all my strength not to post “YOU RUINED MY LIFE, YOU BASTARDS!” Harsh you say? You have no idea the venomous hate I have for that sanctuary of God.

I went through their page and shuddered when I found photos of the playground/parking lot and the front of the school. I definitely have some PTSD. My upper lip broke out in a sweat when I clicked on the website to find the list of faculty members. I was expecting to see Sister Sean Joseph, Sister Rosemary or Sister John Vienna staring back at me. I wasn’t thinking rationally. The nuns were obviously dead after 30 years, remembering that made me feel better.

After a few more minutes of this, I had a revelation, as if a voice whispered to me saying “You don’t have to keep looking at this!” and I clicked out.

(thanks, God)