Archive for the ‘O discordia!’ Category

My best of times, worst of times Mother’s Day.

May 15, 2017

Mother’s Day is never an easy day for me.

I’m filled with gratitude for this amazing village that surrounds me, helping me to be the best me – as they step in to designate hit for me when needed – and helping to raise my girlies for me. I have great sisters (birth sisters and accumulated sisters), cousins, friends, and the best dang stepmom I could have dreamed of. So many people help keep us upright and I am blessed!

But even with all of that happy, there’s the reality of my own mom. Mother’s Day goes in both directions. And my mom is…not how I remember my mom. But I still need to honor Mom as she is. I called her and let her talk for as long as she could. I talked to her about what was going on with us, and she didn’t have much to add from her end. But I know it meant a lot to her to hear from us. Kim and Rhi were there, so I felt like I was, too. Talking – even when she’s obviously having a bad spell – is good for her.

But it wrecked me. Seeing Mom be Not-Mom is always a gutpunch. On Mother’s Day, even more so.

So.

But let’s rewind. The girls and I were having an epic, wonderful weekend. We had a dance party on Friday night, and then after we wore ourselves out with wii-dancing, we played board games and talked and talked and talked. Everyone got along and it was great!

Saturday was the same. The girls went on errands with me without complaining, we went summer clothes shopping for Gracie (who has outgrown all of her clothes since spring), and Bee found a thing or two. She had more that she had picked out, but when I would point out that they wanted $20 for a tank top, she decided herself that it was ridiculous. Watching her carefully weight wants and needs, and the spending of my money, it was glorious!

After shopping, Bee knocked out her project and did it with minimal fuss. Gracie ran out grocery shopping with me, like she does, and I only had minimal grumbling when I made her. She put away the groceries when I got back while I helped Bee finish her project. Bee even wielded the hot glue gun all by herself! And the project was AMAZING:

Bee made the house and lined up the cotton and grapes. It was my idea to do a beginning, middle, and end slide on a rolling paper background, wrapped around two pencils to wind and unwind the paper scenes. (I am so frickin proud of my idea to mount the pencils on push pins that I super-glued to the base. The pencils went onto the push pins with the eraser. That way the bottom was attached firmly, but the pencils could still twirl. Genius, right?!) And then Saturday night the girls kept asking to do something as a family! Something as a family! Please? So we watched movies and had make-up tutorials that we re-enacted on ourselves. Don’t ask me how late I let them stay up! Because they weren’t arguing and we were having fun all together.

And then actual Mother’s Day showed up. Bee decorated all my usual seats with scarves, to make it fancy. The girls got ready for church and gave me a million hugs and told me how much they loved me. It was lovely.

After church, they came home and we opened cards and…no gifts. The cards were nice – don’t get me wrong! But – and here’s where I feel like a horrible person who’s a little materialistic, but let me explain how it’s not – I know I shouldn’t take how my Ex sees my value as a mom by him helping the girls get me a gift for Mother’s Day, but I do. I know he appreciates me – we get along so much better now and we’re honest to god friends, like I was at one point afraid we never would be. I’m close with his new wife, the girls’ stepmom. We call ourselves sister wives! ha! But I can’t say the lack of gifts didn’t hurt a little. I felt like I wasn’t worth the effort. My sister Kim helped the girls get me something, just in case, and it was lovely. Bee picked out a season of Victoria, that she and I could bond over together. (Kim’s right – time period costuming is definitely in our future!) And Gracie got me a bouquet of roses that she arranged.

But, after Gracie arranged the flowers and I got big hugs after church….everything went downhill in a hurry. The girls bickered all afternoon. They entrenched themselves in the living room and turned into zombies, playing Minecraft. I had to do laundry. I had to load the dishwasher. No one wanted to do anything fun with me. My afternoon of watching Victoria wasn’t realized. They were busy. No one wanted anything to do with me. I had my heartbreaking conversation with my mom and the girls had their turns talking with her. And then they went back to…not me. Which, I could have handled in small portions. I don’t expect every single moment to be devoted to me. I just wanted some sort of acknowledgment that it was Mother’s Day and I mattered. That they liked spending time with me. Without me asking. Just one activity together. Like the rest of the weekend!

Dinner was more of the same. Bee asked if she had to make dinner. Why couldn’t I do it. (Sigh.) They watched me set the table. I finished first and rather sit and talk to them at the table while they ate, I just got up and left. I shut my door. You’d think they’d realize I was hurt. They definitely got it when I came out, hours later, and was crying. I had to clear up the leftovers. The girls went right back to Minecrafting in the same seats they had been in since they got home from church. I told them through tears how hurt I was and how they had ruined my day, since they only came to talk to me when they were complaining and tattling about their sister.

So, no. Mother’s Day wasn’t my favorite. So many things went wrong. And no one took any trouble to make it right.

I could have kept quiet. I could have just sighed and hoped next year would be better. But I decided to write about it because this is the truth of what happened. It might hurt some people’s feelings. I don’t mean it to. I just needed to write it out, to purge my hurt feelings.

And maybe things will be better.

Exhaustion.

May 2, 2017

That thing when you get back from vacation and you know that reality is going to smack you in the face and (other than seeing your oldest girl-child again), it’s going to suck. But then it really happens and not only are you dealing with sucky reality, but you’re sick?

Yeah. That.

Double sucky.

I’ve gone through approximately two boxes of tissues in two days and I’m about to commandeer the nice ones, with lotion in the them. Anything to make my nose stop hurting.

This all started the day before I left San Antonio, and I thought it might have been a reaction to the new allergens in a new city, but now everything’s the same, except for my rather unique stopped-up-ed-ness, and I’m ready for that to leave me now. Although It could have been worse and I could have been sick (or allergic to the air or whatever it is) the entire time I was there. Infecting everyone – or exposing them to germapalooza – would have been worse, definitely.

So I’ll take my mountain of tissues and emails and laundry and play poor pitiful mama for a few days and see how far that gets me. And when that’s not very far, at least I know there’s a weekend right around the corner for me to sleep through.

Huzzah? Huzzah.

 

How I made it through my week.

April 18, 2017

It’s been a tough week. Losing a pet is always difficult, but losing one so suddenly, and under such suspicious circumstances is even worse.

I feel like I’ve done it all. I’ve lost a pup-pup to old age; I’ve lost one to divorce; I’ve lost a dog suddenly to an accident; I’ve lost a dog to a sudden medical issue; and I’ve lost a dog who’s run away. And having been through that, this one seems worse. Maybe because the kids are old enough to have invested everything in their dog, and now she’s gone. Maybe because she was the good luck token we got days before the Red Sox won their most recent championship. (Okay, not really that. But maybe.) Maybe every single loss feels like the worst one.

You know, I’m kinda leaning towards that theory.

My friends and family, though – they’re awesome. I think they get it. I know they do. I am surrounded by dog people, and even though who aren’t devoted to pup-pups, they got how devastated I was. And so this happened:

Sympathy cards, encouragement cards, wine, chocolate, extra time with the girls, all kinds of flowers (!) [and thank god no one pranked me with hydrangeas because this just wasn’t the time], and then that photo. My cousin Kene (who, by the way, was the one who came up with the suggestion to name her Fenway) sent me a print of the red seat at Fenway Park. It marks the spot in the Lower Bleachers section in Right Field where the longest homerun – hit by Ted Williams, naturally – landed, clocking in at 502 feet. It was an incredibly thoughtful and personal gift. The girls and I are going to frame it and hang it up, making my home a little more like home Boston, and a great way to remember my pup-pup.

All of it has been very much appreciated. You all have been so sweet and so patient. Fenway was a very good dog, and she will not be forgotten.

Still nope.

April 12, 2017

Last night I came home to an empty house. No spazz-monkey waiting for me when I walked in the door. Quiet. Just quiet.

Last night as I was shutting down the house, I moved around the kitchen on autopilot, filling Fenway’s bowls with water and food for the morning. And then it hit me that I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t have to. No one was going to be impatient for their breakfast.

One of these days the loss won’t hit me like a soccer punch to the gut. But not today.

FenJules_2015

Fenway and Julie. This pic is all sunshine and love!

A good, good dog.

April 10, 2017

I don’t know how to write about it. Probably because I’m stewing in so much guilt still.

Someone – I think the neighbor kids, while retrieving their dog, but I can’t be sure – left the gate open. When I let Fenway out, not knowing, my sweet, mischievous pup-pup found the open gate, and then escaped. Fenway loves a good adventure.

I tried finding Fenway, driving along the streets, hoping I could tempt her into the car because my goofy dog thinks every car goes to the vet. But I didn’t find her until it was too late. She was hit by a car.

And telling the girls… well…let’s just say we’re never getting a dog again so I never have to go through the particular heartache with them. So many tears! It broke my heart. I can’t even handle my babies with that much grief.

She was a good dog. Yes, you were, Fenway! Who’s a good dog?! She loved hearing that; I can guarantee you her tail is wagging, wherever she is. (And probably there’s a little pee on the carpet.)

Superbowl4

Spring must be here, because everything is attacking me again.

April 3, 2017

Spring is violent. Possibly everywhere, but spring is especially violent here in Tejas.

When I first moved here, I had to adjust to the rabid pollen that attacked me at every breath. The first few years, my poor nose would stuff up just after Valentine’s Day, and wouldn’t relent until after Easter. That level of sinus congestion was violent. My mood was violent after so many sleep deprived nights. Hell, even the raw, red, drippy end of my nose looked violent.

Spring weather is obviously violent here. Every time I think I’ve acclimated a little, I’m reminded just how much of a non-native I really am. One storm system, I’ll be all nonchalant and muster nothing more than a half-hearted hope that I make it home from my errands after work before it gets too bad; the next tornado watch with a tor:con north of 3 means I have to take a personal day and sometimes I even have to take the girls out of school for a made-up doctor’s appointment, because who takes the kids out of school early because of the weather radar?! So after I’m all, okay maybe I can handle this, and being the kind of person who walks out into the back yard to get a better look because it’s not too close yet, then I get a close call like last week and I’m terrified again of how very violent spring is here. Yeah, I’ll be hiding in the closet for awhile.

Then there are the birds, attacking me from left and right. I always loved bluebirds. I mean, maybe not as much as Disney loved them, but I had a real strong affinity. Maybe you remember the story about the bluebirds who set up their cute little nest last year in a corner of the overhang that covers the front stoop? I was all BABY BIRDS!, until I realized that baby birds meant mama birds. Mama birds who like to protect their babies – violently, if need be. Mama birds who will ZOOM! at your head with their razor-sharp beaks and clawing talons. Mama birds who make you slam the door shut before they eat your face off. Violently. So: guess who I opened my front door to find on Saturday?

And lastly (please, God, let it be “lastly”), there are my favorite feral pets, The Ants. My feral ants, also called sugar ants, that can’t be smooshed because they’ll send a distress signal to the hive, causing it to split and multiply. Ants, teeny, tiny, microscopic ants that will make you paranoid about everything, always. Ants that I woke up to find on Sunday morning, crawling out of an electrical outlet and into my sugar jar. I had some of the nuclear poison needed to eradicate my “pets”, which I used to quarantine the outlet they’d made their homebase, but the directions said to let the ants traipse the poison back to their home, in order to kill every last one. I don’t know if I can wait that long. I just need them gone. Now.

So, yes, from all of the violent goings on, I figure it must be spring time in Tejas. Huzzah.

 

Dear Weather Gods: We were kidding about the bottle of Jack Daniels.

March 29, 2017

I knew it was going to storm. It was one of those days when Texans complain about the humidity…and they’re actually right. Usually the humidity they complain about is the kind that makes me shrug a shoulder and “meh,” at them and get the stink eye in return. I’m from a state where humidity and moisture content are ridiculous. It’s like yesterday afternoon, but all the time. A sit-down-in-the-wooden-kitchen-chair-and-have-to-peel-yourself-out-of-it kind of humidity. The air was hot and muggy and not moving anywhere. It felt like tornado weather.

It wasn’t supposed to start until later in the evening, but the line fired up early. It was slow as molasses, though, so really all the meant was that I could look at it every so often as I refreshed all the weather radars and shut off all the NOAA alerts for counties that didn’t even include mine. I eventually convinced myself to go to bed. I was going to be exhausted if I didn’t. Especially if things fired up during the night.

Go ahead and guess what happened.

My heart flew through my chest and up out of my throat every time that NOAA weather radio went off. I’d make sure it wasn’t a tornado, I’d check to see if it was headed my way. Then I’d shut off the lights (if I’d bothered), try to slow my heart rate, and lie back down. Sometimes it would happen three or four times in a row. After time 10 or 12 in about a 5 minute span, I decided that maybe I should just stay up until the line of storms passed. I still had more than half of my night’s sleep ahead of me, and with my insomnia issues, I knew 4 hours would be manageable.

That was when when got our first tornado warning.

I started flying through the house, finding sneakers, grabbing a twin mattress for the closet, convincing the dog to come with me. I took the NOAA radio with me. I took my lap top with me. I cursed myself for cancelling cable – and then changed my mind when I saw I could watch my news station live as long as my internet held out. Mostly, I kept telling the weather gods that Kim and I hadn’t really meant it when we said we were going to chuck a bottle of booze at the next twister in memory of Bill Paxton. Because the tornado the weathermen had issued the warning for? It was headed straight for my house.

There’s nothing quite like that moment, when you realize the exits or mile markers on the highways include your exit (less than a mile from your house), or when they name your intersection on the news, or casually intone the “radar-indicated rotation” is headed straight for the park that you can see two lots over from your back yard. Then the lights start flickering, and your hands shake a little bit more. You start listening for the roar, worrying over it, sure your heart will explode. You wonder if the sweat you’re producing is a symptom of a heart attack – surely it can’t be healthy.

It was the longest half hour of my life. The tornado warning was allowed to expire. Good gravy, that was close! I texted with the girls and made sure they were okay. I checked on Jeff – the other tornado in the area passed by just a couple hundred feet from his house; he watched the power flashes as the transformers blew.

I stayed awake for a few minutes, getting back to “normal” and seeing if I could ever sleep again. I didn’t think I would fall asleep, but I crashed hard, trying to figure out what was going on when my alarm clock went off.

As scary as that was, it hit me again as I drove out of the neighborhood and nearly ended up in the tree that was lying across the road – there were trees and street lights lying helter skelter, a goodish number of them across the road. A yard or two over from my house. That’s a little too close.

Good luck getting me to sleep the next night we have storms in our forecast. Good luck trying to get me to sleep at all.

Don’t worry: I’m still swimming.

March 25, 2017

I’ve been having quite a time of it lately. I don’t know how it works for you, but when I’m wrestling with something – an idea, a problem, demons, ghosts, tweenagers, break-ups, and the worst of them all, feelings – well, I shut down. I go into power-save mode so I can ensure that I have energy for the most important things. I feed the kids. Supervise homework. Buy groceries. Go to Beauty in the Beast. Force myself to go to work. The girls know I’ve been…not my best. They think I’m sick. [And, honestly, on top of everything else, I have been sick. I made them draw blood to see if I had listeria because of the constant stomach issues and the fact that I’d eaten some of the recalled Sargento cheese. Why you play me like that, cheese?]

Depression isn’t an easy thing. Yes, that’s the most obvious statement I could possibly have made, but here’s the thing: saying it out loud helps. Writing it helps me even more, given my affinity for writerly occupations. Writing is my oxygen. Writing and reading, they’re one of my best measurements to gauge my mental health and overall well-being. This past week (and maybe longer? I don’t know, honestly, how wide this pond has stretched) I haven’t been able to post because I haven’t been able to write. I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile. When I did think of something, I couldn’t imagine that it would hold any value for any one reading it. Why post useless material? But I persisted. I sat every morning and tried to think of anything of value; things that would necessitate more than three sentences to sum things up. Because I wouldn’t let myself just throw my hands in the air (metaphorically; my depression sucks all energy out of me and I couldn’t even throw my hands in the air in exasperation in my head). I made myself type things out, start stories I didn’t like, just to go through the motions. To fucking do something. I have a couple dozen drafts from last week. I might have written something, but I couldn’t post it. I wasn’t close to swimming to shore, but at least I was treading water. When you’re in the muck as bad as I was, “just” treading water is amazing. It’s a gold star. Getting your mind to loosen the grip on the thoughts of uselessness, panic, anxiety, and general despair…it’s exhausting, but also rewarding because a tiny voice is in there telling you that you made a bit of progress. There’s hope. I was still swimming. Or, trying to anyway.

Gracie kept asking for blog posts. A few book club partners asked if they had missed my Thursday reviews. I imagine Kathy is probably one step from boarding a plane and showing up on my doorstep. But other than that, it’s been quiet. Either everyone is giving me space. Or they have been busy and don’t notice. Maybe I’m barely a ripple in their pond.

But that’s okay. Them, waiting it out. It’s what I needed. I don’t know why I was moved to finally write a post tonight. I don’t know why I wanted to explain all of a sudden. I’m not embarrassed by my conditions. Depression and anxiety are heavily stigmatized in our society, and that’s not right. You can’t seek help if you’re afraid to say what’s wrong. If you’re afraid to admit even to yourself what’s wrong. There’s nothing wrong with being depressed. It’s not your fault if you are. Tell yourself what’s wrong. Tell someone else what’s wrong (if you can). And seek self-care and let others care for you, too.

I’m doing better. I kept swimming (just keep swimming – Dory gives the best advice). I know that I have a wonderful village standing by, ready to throw in a life preserver if I need it. I know that things will get better. It won’t always be like this; it won’t always feel like this. I’m okay, guys. I’m writing. And in just a few seconds, I’ll hit the publish button. I’m back. Ish, but hey! I’m here!

Oh, trust me – it would be justifiable homicide.

March 15, 2017

I was thinking of how many people would be mad at me – my cousins, my friends, my siblings (well, one of them), my girls, myself (…eh)… And so I didn’t open the gate. I grabbed that dog by the collar and I started the trek across the grass, through the mud, flung open the gate (with my hand very firmly on the dog’s collar), and marched him over to the neighbor’s house. For the fifth time in three days.

Everyone on Facebook has heard the complaints already. My neighbor means well. He does. He tries to be a good neighbor, a good father, and an honorable man. The problem is… well, there are a few of them. There’s a language barrier, which makes any interaction with him a struggle. He works two or three jobs to provide for his large, extended family who live with him. He spoils his two sons (ages 7 & 9 maybe?) rotten so that they’re absolute brats when he’s not around (uh, which is any time between 6a and 10p, because two jobs). So, yeah, a few problems. The latest of which is that they have too many dogs and not enough f*@)s to give.

The first dog the family has is not a favorite in our end of the neighborhood. It’s allowed to roam freely and it will charge and nip you (or just plain terrorize you) if my neighbor isn’t out. And the boys? I mentioned how terrible they are; they don’t care to make the beagle/Jack Russel terrier mix stay in their yard while they play. So I was a little leery when I found out about the second dog, a pit bull/rhinoceros mix who is so sweet, but so huge! and likes to jump on you from behind and smother you in puppy kisses.

I found out about the second puppy, Brownie, the last time I had to go yell at the neighbor for leaving the dog(s) out all night and letting them whine under my bedroom window for two hours at 2 a.m. [That’s also when I saw my neighbor hit his son for leaving the gate open and letting the dog get out at night. Which, uh, no thanks.] I really got to know Brownie, though, when neighbor caught me one day when I came home from work. Sidestory! I had just put down the garage and heard someone banging on the garage door just before it finished sliding all the way down. Who does that?! Creepers and serial killers, that’s who! The “knocking” continued, so I went into the house, stepped around a frenzied Fenway, looked out the front window and didn’t see anyone. Because they were already knocking on my front door. The peephole (god bless peepholes) said it was my neighbor, so I went out and we struggled through a conversation (the man speaks three languages, I’m not knocking him; it’s just painful) about replacing the fence on our shared side of the yard. I knew it was something I was going to have to do after I got my taxes back – that fence is beyond rotten. Slats are missing. We’ve patched the holes as best we can to keep the dogs away from each other. And his kids like to throw things through the missing parts because: brats. So I had unlatched the gate and we were walking back there and talking and Brownie was with him, unleashed, just jumping on the two of us and trying to love on everything. And marking his territory everywhere. Pooping in my yard. You know. Neighbor dude mentioned how the puppy was eating everything in his house and wasn’t training up really well, but his boys loved him. I noted how friendly the dog was cried a little on the inside because all we needed was another problem dog.

And problem dog he was. Thank GOD the sweet pup-pup was as loving as he was. If he was mean, I’d probs be dead or mangled by now. Because that dang thing can wiggle through some pretty small holes, which is a doggy miracle, given the size of the thing. He immediately started busting into our yard, trying to get to Fenway. Or see what there was to see. Or just because – who knows. I just know that half the times I looked up into our yard, there would be Brownie. At first I just coaxed him back through the holes left by the missing fence slats. Neighbor and I kept replacing them, or jimmying together some temporary fix that we thought patched the fence good enough to prevent jailbreaks. But there would be that dang dog again. Brownie would come up to me when I went outside to “fix” it – eventually. He might dance up and dart away a few times, wanting to give me some puppy kisses, but knowing I was going to send him away. If I wasn’t so frustrated, I woulda laughed at how obviously torn the puppy was.

I kinda lost my patience after this weekend, though. Five jailbreaks in three days. FIVE. The dog was tearing my screens trying to see in the house, chewing on my patio furniture, and pooping on the patio! (The poop ended up over the fence on top of the neighbor’s a/c unit. I don’t know how. Honestly. ish.) I was all done being a good neighbor.

I started bringing the dog to their front door, thinking that would emphasize to them how often this was happening. Then I put the dog on a leash to give them an idea that they could let their dog out on a leash. In fact, when the boys answered the door, I started making that suggestion. “You guys need to get this under control, or maybe use a leash.” And then, “Tell your dad that he needs to hurry up and fix the fence, or you’ll have to use a leash for the dog every time because this is getting ridiculous.” That was the time the boys slammed the door in my face as soon as they had the puppy. And I might have yelled through the door exactly what I thought of that response when I was being pretty cool about the dang dog. I thought about telling my neighbor about the door being slammed in my face, but since he had hit the boys before for not listening to him, I didn’t want to be a party to whatever fallout would happen if he knew his kids had disrespected me that way. But I did plenty of fuming.

This is when everyone started telling me to start documenting the problem, or maybe call animal control. But I hated to do that. My neighbor genuinely is a good guy. He’s just not there because he’s trying to live the American Dream and you need a lot of paychecks to do that when you’re making what we’re making. He’s a guy who patched my roof once and has offered 2938209348 times since then to help with it again. He always waves and would help with any problem I had. When I went over to complain about his dog, he thought I was talking about the stray dog that had attacked him, and so he took a butcher knife because he thought he was coming out to rescue me. Neighbor is a good guy – just absent and not able to easily communicate when he is there. So I don’t think he’s manipulating the situation or trying to take advantage of me. The neighbors would judge me if I called the cops on one of us (we’re a tight-knit community and we try to handle our problems inside the family first), even though I’m sure they’d understand once I explained. So I don’t think Neighbor was banking on me not breaking the code, either. I think he just doesn’t know how often it’s happening because he’s not there and his bratty boys aren’t telling him.

I was already past the point of caring how mad anyone got because I was done. I had had a long day at work, I didn’t need to chase down and drag the neighbor’s dog back to his house twice. I wanted to unwind and go to bed in peace. But I couldn’t, because the doorbell rang at 9 p.m. I stared at the door, jaw agape, wondering what the heck. I had just started shutting down the house for the night, but the lights where still on so they could see someone was up. That doesn’t obligate me to answer the door, but I had a sneaky suspicion that it was the neighbors. I had heard a noise outside and did a quick scan, but didn’t see Brownie. Then again, it was pitch black. Which also meant I couldn’t see who was at the door without putting on the porch lights. I couldn’t put on porch lights without them knowing I was up. The doorbell had run again and knocking had started while I tried to decide what to do. Finally I decided that if I didn’t answer and it was the neighbors looking for their dog, they’d probably just open my gate and come on in. Which, after I opened the door, saw it was one of the boys, and let him through the house to go get the dog from the yard, I found out is exactly what happened. But no dog. I hoped that the dog had escaped and was running around the neighborhood, never to be found (yes, I’m a bad person going to hell), but after I ushered the neighbors out of my house and my yard, I heard them out in their front and back yards yelling and shrieking and whistling – but mostly shrieking – for more than thirty minutes. Yes, Spring Break week, but who lets their kids be that loud outside after 9p on a weeknight?!

So I’m done. Done, done, done. I haven’t quite figured out what that means, but for sure there’s going to be a firm discussion with my neighbor. And I’m going to hand him one of my extra leashes, because I’m pretty sure he’ll follow through on that plan. But something has to be done. If the fence can’t be fixed right now, then maybe they need a run for their dog. I’ll tell him that the last thing I want to do is create hard feelings by calling animal control to report the dog when it’s gotten loose, but the situation has gotten out of control.

Like I said – justifiable homicide. The problem is, at this point I’m not sure if I’m more upset with the dog, the neighbor, or those two bratty boys!

Spring break is broken.

March 13, 2017

I don’t know if I can write when I’m this tired. And, you guys, I am exhausted, no matter how you say it. Tarrrrd, as you’d hear down here. Tie-yid, as you’d hear back home.  Mmmphmph, as you’d hear muffled against my pillow.

I knew taking such a late nap yesterday was a mistake. The problem was, I was so exhausted yesterday that I nearly as dangerous behind the wheel, and I knew I wanted Lebanese food later. So I need a nap. At 2 p.m. On a Sunday, without a day off behind it to buffer any wonky sleep patterns I created.

Guess what I created?

Wonky sleep patterns for the win.

It didn’t help that we sprang? sprung? sproohovened? forward, further breaking my sleeping habits. [Confession: my habits weren’t all that habitual. The delayed-sleep/early-wake insomniac will step aside now.] So, yes, I needed a nap yesterday at 3 p.m. clock time. Which was, uh, 2 p.m. body time. Not terrible, but not great. And, like I said, utterly exhausted. So I let myself lie down for just a few minutes. At 4-friggin-thirty, I got up. And I was tired again for bed at 8, so I didn’t think I’d done that much damage. Until I watched the clock tick by without any sleep. How can a person be that. tired. and not fall asleep? It baffles me.

I finally fell asleep about midnight. And woke up every thirty minutes or so. I’m sure that was incredibly restorative. At 3 a.m., my body could feel me mocking the sleep I was getting and decided to give up the ghost. There’s just a certain feeling that some not-sleeping has wherein it lacks the optimism that other not-sleep still maintains. In other words, sometimes I still hope I can fall back asleep, and sometimes I just know with absolute certainty that I won’t.

Last night – this morning – I knew I wouldn’t. And so I got up, popped on some bad TV, and gave myself an hour. An hour would still give myself two hours of sleeeeepy time after I went back to bed. It would be cool. That wasn’t too mean. Right? Except it took me a while before I fell back asleep and then when my alarm finally went off, I cried a little bit. And by “a little bit”, I mean that I thought about chucking my alarm across the room and calling in sick…

But I didn’t do that. I shut off the alarm clock, dragged myself through the motions of getting dressed, and then decided (the one morning I feel like breakfast) to forego it because I had time for either a nap or McDonald’s. The nap won.

I wish I could go ahead and skip coffee for another nap. That would be just what I needed. Just the ticket to get my spring break back on track. Because adulting for spring break? not how I think it’s supposed to be done.