And the walls came crumbling down

Perhaps from my last entry, you have deduced that I am on a downward slide. If so, you would be entirely correct. I ran out of Z0l0ft over the weekend and am on day 2 of complete withdrawal. I am quickly losing the ability to function at all and the world is looking surprisingly bleak. Let's hit the low points:

1. I am not at all nauseous today. Not at all. Moderately crampy too. Convinced that this pregnancy is over.
2. Nothing I do will ever change my current circumstances. I will always be a failure. And, despite my track record, I will always work really hard only to cause cataclysmic destruction and failure.
3. I am stupid no matter how many degrees I have.
4. I can't pay my rent, no matter how many jobs I have, because see above.
5. No matter how much I know about my mental illness and the importance of maintaining my meds, I will always allow myself to run out of meds and then consider myself a total failure in everything with any importance.
6. I will take everything personally, blame everything on myself, realize that I am depressed and then still slice open my arms in attempt at healing. Now that makes so much sense doesn't it?

I could just keep going, but I think we get the point.

Fuck my classes, my committments, and my clients. I'm going home.

You know you're crazy when...

You know that you're crazy when...

• you throw a mug full of old coffee at your husband, it breaks against the wall, and then you feel bad because you liked that mug.
• pulling your hair out feels good.
• digging your nails into your own arms brings relief.
• you want to put your husband's head through a wall because he did exactly what you asked him to do.
• turning left in front of an oncoming-semi sounds like a good time.
• you call your therapist and wish her a good vacation week because she will need all the rest she can get before your next appointment with her.
• you write a list of reasons why you are crazy.

Feel free to add your own to my list in the comments.

Pity Party in Progress-You may want to skip this post.

I had high hopes for today. The plan was to go to school, attend all 3 classes, do the readings, and participate in life itself. It was a nice plan. So for those of you who have just about had it with reading my pitiful whining, you may want to navigate away from this page. The weekend's hope and reason has since faded away into oblivion.

Coming through the breezeway, I was playing the theme from Rocky in my head. Battered and bruised, I was determined to come back to life. I made it through my first class this morning without shedding a single tear. As I exited the lecture hall, that's when it happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a fellow l@w student who is about 6 months pregnant. And, like a grisly accident, I simply could not look away. I found myself staring at her belly. After a few moments of visual torture, I was on the verge of hysterical crying. My carrell is near the stacks, so I buried myself in the nearest hidden corner and sobbed. I did manage to get to my second class, but I still have no idea what we talked about in that lecture. Now, I have to figure out how to make it to 2:30 for the last lecture.

Here it comes, the whining (complete with all the overused phrases of self pity)...

Why me? Why not her? Why does every single thing in my life need to be so fucking hard? Let's review... In the beginning, I had a father with untreated Bipolar I. Under his rule, I was not permitted to wear pants, not allowed to cut my hair, and suffered enough beatings at his hand to make me the most fearful and yet devoted daddy's girl ever known. At 7 years old, my dear father died suddenly of a heart attack. No father for me. At 7 years old, I became a substitute parent for my 2, and later 3, younger sisters. At 7 years old, I assumed more adult roles than should ever be placed upon a child of that age. I cooked dinners, cleaned the house, helped with homework, and protected my sisters from my mother's frequent rages. No childhood for me. At 12 years old, my mother married my step-father. They had a child together...as if I didn't have enough to do. And to add to the fun, my step-father's OCD made my life a living hell. At 17 years old, I went off to college where I thought I could escape from my family. A year later, my mother sent my 15 year old sister to live with me because she couldn't handle her anymore. That lasted just long enough to obliterate my second year of college. At 24, I married a drug addict, because I'm an idiot. At 26, on April 1st no less, he announced he was in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. Around the same time, I was diagnosed with bipolar II. Somewhere in there, I made about 3 weak suicide attempts. I became a cutter, and have the disgusting scars to prove it. At 27, I was forced into bankruptcy by the debt left to me in the divorce and the mounting medical bills. At 32, I endured what I believe to be the first of many miscarriages. A few days later, I discover I contracted chlamydia from the first husband.

Now, in the big world, there are millions of people with a history much more tragic than mine. Even in the blogging world, there are worse tales. But somehow, this doesn't make me feel any better. I am so tired, beaten, bruised from this life. I am not smart enough to finish this horror called l@w school. I only got a Ph.Duh. because my advisor feels sorry for me. I am a sham, a failure, a loser. Because, in all of this badness, I have had good things. I went to college afterall. I remarried to the best husband ever.

But it's the loss that's killing me. No father, no Pooter, no credit, no future. I am really sorry for the pathetic tone of this post, and how ungrateful I sound. I feel frozen in my losses, as if Spring thaw will never come. Did I mention we got 5 inches of snow last night, and it's still falling? I am tired of crying.

My mother-in-law

I love my mother-in-law (hereinafter MIL) but sometimes I don't like her. A few weeks ago, Husband was supposed to go up to his mom's house and set up her computer along with her internet service. We live 2 hours away, so a visit requires gas and gas requires money. We have absolutely no money. The weekend he was scheduled to go up was the same weekend as my D&C so he postponed the visit until the following weekend (just this past weekend, actually).

Because I didn't want to be alone all day on a Saturday and without a car, I decided to go with him to MIL's house. Our plan was to be at her house for a few hours, just long enough for him to set up her computer, and then we would proceed to a large park called Mendon Ponds for the afternoon before heading home. When Husband and I first dated, we would go to Mendon Ponds with the Jack Russell Terrier and walk the trails. It's a lovely place, and I tend to feel peaceful when I visit the ponds. We even went so far as to call MIL and let her know of our plans so that she wouldn't expect us to stay for the day. It was a good plan.

Husband told his mom that the subject of my miscarriage was off limits and requested that she not bring it up. When we arrived, Husband went right to work on her computer. I was stuck talking to MIL, despite the fact that I was attempting to read my casebook for school. She proceeded to go on and on about Husband's 2 cousins, both of them are 3 years old. Great, just what I want to talk about...children. Then, as she walked away, she threw in that one of those 3 year olds plus his older brother would be coming over for the day. Perfect. And, that we would be coloring Easter eggs together. Wow, it just gets better and better.

Just as Husband is finishing up, she tells me that dinner will be ready at 3pm. Dinner? No sooner do I find out that she has slated us for dinner, does Husband's sister show up. Clearly this dinner thing had been planned from the beginning and she had not warned or even asked Husband whether he wanted to stay. Once dinner was done, I thought, well, we still have some daylight to go to the ponds. When I go to look for Husband so we can round up the dogs and head out, I discover him in MIL's driveway surrounded by parts excavated from his sister's car door. In fact, he had taken the whole thing apart to fix her window. I was in shock.

It was quite clear from that point, that we would not be going to the ponds, and that MIL had no intention of allowing us to stick to the plan we had told her about. We had been ambushed once again by my MIL. Fuck.

The kicker is that I was angry with myself for expecting things to be different than they are. I went in expecting to follow our plan when in the past such plans have always been summarily ignored by MIL and Husband. What was I thinking? I know better than to expect what I cannot have, and yet I expect it anyway.

I want to take a long walk off a short pier. I want to play in traffic. I want to go to war. Anything that would provide a method of self destruction. I am so tired of me. When I look forward at the minutes I have to fill, I just want to leave them empty.

Let it grow

Once upon a time, I was a very very high maintenance woman, in the aesthetic sense. I am still pretty high maintenance in every other sense, but aesthetics fell to the side right around the time my boobs did.

My 3 sisters are high fashion extremists. They all fret constantly over all manners of their epidermis including their weight, the color of their hair, the quantity of their body hair, their nails and their make-up. Once I left California, all of this stuff just didn't seem important anymore. Granted I live in the land of granola, but I think there is more to it than that. Admittedly, when I go back to California to torture myself with family, I regain the self conscious feeling over my looks. Suddenly I am not so confident about my choice to go natural. Of course, it doesn't help that my mother never fails to mention how good my hair would look with some highlights. And my sister Anne asks me if I want her to wax my eyebrows. Then, Beth slyly asks if she can try some of her make-up on me. And when I put on a pair of shorts, Carrie rolls her eyes and makes gagging sounds upon seeing my hairy legs. So the grand support of the sisterhood doesn't do much for my confidence.

And then they start in about questions about their own looks. "Should I dye my hair? Should I have my lips done? Do I need botox? I need a boob job. I need a breast reduction. Perhaps I should have eyeliner tattooed on my eyelids. I need laser surgery for my wrinkles. My fake nails are coming off, I MUST get in to see my manicurist." It goes on and on and on.

I am thinking about all of this for multiple reasons. The Oneliner has a fabulous post about her va-ja-ja and the fear of the chewbaca look. I have never, even in my most high maintenance of Cali days, considered a waxing. But now that frequent cooter appointments loom ahead I have started to think about some pretty landscaping down there. At the very end of my previous marriage, the boy started hinting that perhaps a full waxing might be nice on me. That should have been my first indication that he was keenly attracted to very young women, like his 19 year old girlfriend for instance. My current husband seems to be a bit repulsed by the adolescent look of a hairless cooter, and I am so grateful for that.

But now, I keep thinking, do I really want my doctor to be scared of going near the wild and overgrown landscape I have going on? Am I the only one not getting a good mowing? And the fact that I don't shave my legs adds to the concern. So now, I am starting to think like my sisters a bit, but only from the waste down. Is it time for a good waxing to clear the brush? Do I need a pedicure before every pelvic exam? My toes are not attractive even with a good pedicure though, so do I really want to draw attention to them with colored nail polish. Funny that when I go au naturale at the beach or an allowing spa resort, I don't even consider it, but put me in a doctor's office only half clothed and I get self conscious.

Faking it.

This is a significantly revised version of the earlier post.

I have Seinfeld on the brain today. While I patiently (yeah, right) wait for code egg white, I have invested a lot of time in watching all the old Seinfeld episodes via DVD. The show always sparks controversial discussions in our house. My all time favorite is the episode titled "The Mango", and it doesn't have all that much to do with mangoes actually. For those who don't have every Seinfeld episode cataloged in their head, the episode concerns a discussion of faking it. Specifically, women faking an 0r.g.@sm during ahem, you know. (Desperately trying to deter goo.gl.ers from finding me using some of these words.) There's a great scene where Elaine reveals to Jerry that she had faked it every time they were together.

This episode sparked some continued thought regarding another blogger's post that discussed what it meant to be a woman. There was some exchange regarding not feeling like a full woman if you couldn't either get pregnant and stay pregnant at all or even yield a child without intervention. I found it so interesting that so many women said they never thought that was what defined Womanhood until they found that they were in that position. Suddenly, it changed they way they defined their gender. While, I am not about to go into what is right or wrong about that thought, I still find it incredibly pertinent here because of the discussion I then had with Husband.

I told him about what I had been reading and then asked whether men feel the same if their boys (sperm) are challenged in some way to make conception more difficult. Would his status as a man feel threatened? (I'm aware that I'm not asking a man who has actually experienced male factor infertility so far, but I thought his response may tell me something anyway). He was quick to say that he would not likely feel any less of a man if he was deemed fertility challenged.

After some rumination, it became clear to me that males qualify their manhood not by making a baby, but, let's be honest here, by being able to enjoy a good "O". Alternatively, women, at times (I know, I know, I can't lump everyone together here, but stay with me on this one), assess their womanhood by their ability to successfully reproduce. Not ground breaking conclusions, but I find it intriguing nonetheless. So if we go back to the faking it issue, I can't help but make connections. You see, I have noticed that while men can and will grieve intensely about the loss of a fetus, women tend to carry a much greater grief (sorry guys, but I am just calling it like I see it). And while women can easily have great sex without the big "O", that seems to be the requisite goal in sex for most men.

I am sure that I have opened up a big can of "WTF?" with this post, but I am really curious what you all think. Are my generalizations way off? Do you have another theory? Any fakers out there? This is one more reason I love to blog. I get to talk about all the stuff that I wish people would discuss in the open.

Just because you're paranoid...

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not watching you." -Kurt Cobain

Warning: lots of discussion about bacteria, vaginas, and various forms of bodily excretions.

Sometime ago, I blogged about bleeding in between periods all of a sudden. Well, actually, it's just during and after sex. Some of my blogger buddies as well as pretty much everyone else I told said "that's normal, no worries". I worried anyway. I had never had this problem before, and now that we were trying to conceive it became an issue.

Granted, I am hyper-paranoid. While off my meds, worrying has been taken on as a new art form for me. I really, really need my meds, so any thought of extending my stay here in Crazyville (due to an inability to conceive) is quite literally terrifying. It's not just an uncomfortable way of living, as so many seem to believe. It's a constant fight to stay alive. I wish I was exaggerating. Lately, I just want to curl up into the tightest ball and fade away into oblivion. I don't want to freak you all out with the "S" word though. That's not quite where I am at, and believe me I would know, as I have visited before. No, I just want everything to go away, especially me. Laziness keeps me from being proactive on this idea though. So please don't worry or send an ambulance. I will survive to post again, I promise.

Back to being paranoid. I finally landed an appointment with a new OB/GYN for yesterday. Initially, I thought I was being ridiculous for going to see the doctor for such a little thing; I was sure he would laugh me right out of his office when I told him that we had been trying for only a few months. He never laughed and took me quite seriously. Once I listed all of my symptoms, he was quick to confirm that I do in fact have a valid concern. I am sure that some of you know the result, but I will outline it anyway because who can resist writing about sex, cooters, and fishy odors.

Here's the run down... Bleeding with intercourse, Husband notices a funky smell coming from my nether reaches after a romp, no conception despite carefully timed frolicks. After a brief ride in the stirrups, I had my answer. I may be paranoid, but there was still something fishy in Cooterville. Bacterial vaginosis. Just rolls off the tongue doesn't it? Turns out the bad bacteria doesn't do so well in my acid bath of a vagina, but once semen enters the room, it's party time. The more basic semen neutralizes the acidity, and the bacteria multiply exponentially (at least somebody is reproducing in there). Those bacteria rage on and make a chemical that results in the same smell as the fish department in our low end grocery store. Not only does it turn my stomach, but that fishy chemical is killing our precious sperm. Bastards!!!!

As you can imagine, I was absolutely thrilled that the doc had an answer and a prescription for me. Husband looked mighty relieved as well. I think he's terrified that we will have to do a semen analysis. I don't blame him, if I had to come to orgasm at the doctor's office to check my fertility, it would never happen. Too much pressure.

Here's the drawback to my new med, no drinking. Crisis. Apparently, my med has that same sneaky little ingredient that they give to alcoholics to keep them from drinking. Just one sip of alcohol and I will be a regular visitor of the most valuable bowl in the house, the porcelain one. Oh how I love my wine with dinner too. Plus, no sex for me either until the infection is gone. Horny and sober, how will I survive?

It's hard to be my husband.

This is definitely going to be filed under the label, "Posts My Husband Hates". So hopefully, I will remember to warn him about it before I actually publish it. In case I forget, I will apologize deeply to him now...but I'm writing it anyway.

I am convinced that for most things my husband and I do together, his preferences tend to dominate the arena. Not that I don't get to do what I want, I do. But, as those who have lived with someone before knows, compromise is essential for peaceful living. And, I get a lot out of giving to him (not just giving in to him). So ultimately, I will lean to his preferences out of pure selfishness; let's face it, I lean to make myself feel good. No doubt I shouldn't whine when it's really my choice, but on occasion I get a bit torqued when I perceive the tilt as being a little too steep.

So last night, I started in on him, poor guy. Our Netf.lix had arrived and one of them was a horror film. In fairness, he chose this film for the other category it was in, court room drama, which he knows I like very much. Unfortunately, I hate horror films, they give me nightmares. I can handle gory, but I don't sleep well after scary. Once I got a whiff of the horror element, I was none too pleased with his choice. I complained that ultimately we watch more DVDs that he enjoys than DVDs I enjoy. He was quick to protest.

Now that I was rolling, I added that his preferences are honored with a greater frequency than mine...not that I minded, but still. Admittedly, I was out of line, but I kept going. I asserted that if we sat down and quantified the situation, my point would be obvious and quite factual. While we couldn't count up all of the meals, snacks, music, and other entertainment that were chosen mostly based on his preference, we did have access to our DVD rental history via the handy, dandy Internet. And so the tally began.

Here's the score over a period of just over 3 years...

• 264 total movies rented and counted
  
• 175 movies that we were both willing to admit we would watch even if the other wasn't around (66%)
  
• 37 movies that I claimed, and Husband refused to claim (14%)
  
• 52 movies that Husband claimed, and I wouldn't watch on my own accord (20%)
  

The final result...a 15 movie differential between the two of us over 3 years of renting. Not exactly the dramatic stats I needed to justify my claim. Sure he gets greater number of DVDs than I do, but it's not the type of favoritism about which I was clamouring. At least we've got the numbers...

...now, why was that important again?

It really is hard to be my husband.

I forgot clumsy

6. Clumsy

I forgot "clumsy" on my list of themes from yesterday. Husband thought I should add it. I had never considered clumsy to be one of my life's themes, but he's right, let's face it, it is. I am forever clumsy. My father used to tuck my long hair into the back of my shirt so I wouldn't dip it into my food during meals. I was never allowed to eat or drink anything while on any carpeted surface of my parents home. I should own stock in Resolve for how much I buy the stuff. My husband's favorite clumsy story is the one about the first time we met. It's a classic example of my clumsy theme.

My husband and I met at a local festival here in town. There is no purported reason for the festival other than the interesting fact that it is usually held after all of the students leave for summer break. My town is a college town so the departure of the students can be bittersweet. For all intensive purposes, despite my current status as a student, I consider myself a "townie". Some use this term with derogative implications, but I wear the townie badge with pride. After all, this is the longest I have ever lived in one town and I tend to feel like I belong here. Anyway, it wasn't but a few months after my first husband and I separated when the festival occurred. So, I was doing just about anything to keep my mind off of the divorce. Thus, I took up a friend's offer to go to the festival for the day.

It was an up day for me at the time, in fact, looking back, I was probably hovering in the realm of hypomania. Nevertheless, I was having a great time and felt very energized by the street music, the arts, crafts, and herds of people. My friend and I saw a friend and her husband while they were listening to a local band perform. After some chatting, I finally noticed that the friend and her husband were towing behind them a friend of theirs. I had no idea who this guy was, and in my mood, I decided to find out, pronto. Oh, boy was this guy cute! The first thing to draw me to him was his necklace which consisted of brown wood beads of uniform size with the main bead being a ceramic fish. Then, his t-shirt caught my eye, a Phish t-shirt.

In the same way that you can tell certain things about a person when they have a Grateful Dead sticker on their car, you can read certain things into a person when they wear Phish paraphernalia. For those who don't know who the hell I am talking about, Phish is a music jam band with a similar following as the Grateful Dead. With my first husband, we used to follow Phish around on tour. We were never the cross country followers, but we did coincide our move from California to New York with Phish's tour along the same route. We also were one of the die-hards that sat in line in our car on a Florida highway for 12 hours just to get into the Phish concert for New Year's 2000. 12 hours to travel less than 30 miles! So, when I saw his t-shirt, I knew we had something in common, something fun. It would be my "in".

Somehow, we all agreed to meet later that evening at a local beer bar. Another link- he likes beer, I like beer. So far, so good. I was feeling especially sparky that day with my overalls on and a slightly tighter shirt than normal. When we all met at the bar, we were all feeling pretty lively from the day's festival. We all ordered beers. Now this is where the details become important. The bar is set up with benches and long tables and therefore, even if you aren't at the same table as another person, you can still be fairly close to the person sitting on the same bench or in the same row. In my high mood, I was busy telling stories to entertain my friends and this new guy. It should be noted that a full pint of beer was sitting in front of me on our table, and I am not sure whether I had already drank one or not, but I was definitely not inebriated. When I tell stories, I use my hands to an annoying degree. This tactic gets me in all sorts of trouble. So as I told the story with my hands, I inadvertently, clumsily, knocked the entire beer over, spilling the whole pint onto my overalls. I was soaked in beer. Because I do this kind of thing all of the time, I was prepared to laugh at myself.

Sitting there covered in beer, I am laughing with friends when the girl sitting diagonal from me at an adjacent table leans over to the friend across from me at our table. The girl asks my friend if she could try to keep me under control. Now this is where you have to picture a tiny waifish college girl foolishly telling a friend of mine to keep me under control. Oh boy. Apparently, some of the beer I spilled all over myself must have splashed up and dotted her table. Crisis. Once the three women at my table realized what this girl had just said, we just stared at each other while I schemed. I have to admit that the three of us are sizable women. While not fat, we were tall, large boned, sturdy women. I would like to think that most skinny, waif-like girls wouldn't risk picking a fight with three women of our stature, but apparently we were sitting near an exception to my assumption. One female friend finally leaned over to the waiflet to ask her to repeat what she had said. On that note, I promptly got up from the table, went into the bathroom, and unrolled a hefty number of paper towels. Upon my return to our table, I slammed down the paper towels on the waiflet's table and said, "Here you go", and then sat down at my table. The laughter was difficult to suppress, but we continued on with a rather fun night. And no, I didn't go home with Husband-to-be...

...well, not that night anyway.

That was Husband's first impression of me. Good one huh? I am so smooth!

And then a miracle occurred

Last night was very rough indeed. The sandman was apparently having an affair with someone else because I didn't catch a single wink last night. I finally fell asleep on the couch after dawn and after a double dose of Seroquel. Didn't wake up until after 1pm today. Groggy, but finally rested.

A few minutes ago, I was surfing my life away and then a miracle occurred. Husband stands up and says to me in a sincere tone, "Have fun blogging, bloghead." So I ask where he's off to and he replies, "I'm going to clean the kitchen." Long pause now for the breath of air I am trying to catch as he walks toward the kitchen. I am all a flutter. Goosebumps as well.

Happiness is a clean kitchen in the land of Crazyville. He's going to be able to milk this good deed for awhile and I really don't mind. Crazyville is on the red level of the terrorist alert scheme when the kitchen has been taken over by other kingdoms, families, and genus. Yuck. When feeling heinously hypomanic-- which is my least favorite section of Crazyville and where I currently hang out--I am in a state of heightened alert, a montage thought pattern bombarding me with organized mayhem. I become an impatient toddler with obsessive tendencies. The carpet really NEEDS to be vacuumed so that all of the vacuum lines in the rug are parallel and the individual fibers all tilt the same direction to make it look the same tint. The knick knacks, scattered across tables and other surfaces, always NEED to be rearranged. And yes, it all has to be done right now. "NOW!" I tell you. This is a really bad part of town.

But, I seem to be able to focus on at least one thing for any duration. I blog and blog and blog til my head transforms into a more amicable pattern. It really works. And so I am left alone to blog while Husband cleans the kitchen. Awesome.

I'm sorry

I am so profoundly sad today that it is difficult to see how to make it through the next hour, the next minute, the next sentence. So I will just keep typing and hope that something I write makes a little bit of sense. First of all, I am so so sorry. Sorry that you are reading this and perhaps hoping for something funny. I don't have funny. All I have is sad.

I didn't sleep much, if at all, last night. I keep having flashbacks of the life I have made for myself and how it has all gone so horribly wrong. I won't even bother to list all of the things that I am hating myself for right now. The best thing I can think of to describe bipolar disorder at this moment is a description I once read about it somewhere. Here it is...Bipolar illness is anger gone awry. When I am manic, the extreme anger faces outward and is expressed as hatred for everyone and everything. That was yesterday. When I am depressed, the intense anger faces inward. I hate myself, anything and everything I have ever done. That is today.

I have thought a lot about why it is that I think others want to see me fail and enjoy it even. Despite my husbands logical and reasonable assessment that if they want to see me fail, that's their problem not mine. It's especially self centered to think that everyone wants to see me fail, I know this, but that doesn't help me. In fact, it's just one more reason to loathe myself.

I have received so many Christmas letters from friends from college. While I am aware that these letters are a bit slanted and don't reveal everything that's going on, I am also aware that there must be some truth to their words. These letters tell tales of new homes, recently purchased property, new babies, new jobs, and loving families. It's becoming more and more difficult to fight off the idea that their happiness doesn't take anything away from me. Unfortunately, I do end up thinking of what I am missing, what I have fucked up along the way, and what a terrible terrible person I am for thinking of any of it. Not to mention what a terrible, ungrateful person I am in general.

I tried everything to escape my head this morning. The treadmill, writing my own Christmas letter (except it sounded more like my last post), meditation, yoga, sleep. It was all a tremendous failure. I cannot help but wonder if the new med I have added to my psych-salad is making things worse. In the past Zoloft hasn't created problems, but that doesn't really mean anything.

OK, that's enough puling. I can't stand to read this or write this anymore. I make myself sick.

All THOSE people want for Christmas

Had a long discussion with my therapist today about how to talk about my lack of job offers when the in-laws ask about it this weekend. I have been avoiding them and anyone else who would potentially ask about my rather pathetic job situation. The thing is that if you have to ask then I haven't already told you about it. If I haven't already discussed it with you, then I don't want to or intend on discussing it with you. With the exception of a few people, I haven't talked to most of my so-called friends and family about it for a very good reason. THOSE people are the ones who get off on my misery and this includes the in-laws. I seem to have a lot of THOSE people in my life actually. In fact, I think that's all they want for Christmas this year is to hear about unfortunate events in my life. So because I am feeling a need to give, I think I will let them have what they want, my misery. It's a great year from THOSE people, Santa was generous this year. Here's a few fun time misery gifts the in-laws will get in their stocking on Christmas Eve...

1. Nope, no job offers. I am 0 for 6. Wow,school has a been great investment for me so far. So if you were angry that I got into the school of my choice, then revel in my $80,000 school loan load combined with no job.

2. Not enough for you? How about the fact that my dog died this year.

3. Still feeling deprived? My grandfather died too.

4. Back for more? Good thing I am well stocked... Not pregnant yet and bleeding in between periods. Sorry no confirmed diseases or cancers yet, but wait a month or two and I will see what I can do; my doctor couldn't get me in until mid-January.

5. Don't walk away yet, there's more... My bank account is $600 in the hole right now and counting.

6. Even our appliances hate me... Our microwave finally crapped out on us after repeatedly beeping at random intervals and then flashing the number 6:66 over and over again. I kid you not.

7. The new microwave we purchased blew up after one whole week.

8. No, we didn't purchase the extended warranty and no it cannot be fixed.

9. I have long curly black hairs growing out of my chin and out of the mole of my face! ON MY FACE DAMNIT!!!

10. And for the grande finale... the JRT ate all but one pair of my underwear. Why did she spare a single pair? Because I was still wearing them.

I could go on but I really don't want to spoil you. Let's leave some for your birthday. Merry Christmas!

Wow, the fun never stops

I should warn you all now, there is nothing funny in this new post. I am plumb out of funny today. Finals are finally over and I am in the come down period. But that's not the only period I am enjoying today. Looks like I will be enjoying another month in Crazyville. I should just register to vote here, since it's possible I am going to become a permanent resident. I wonder what the license plates look like in Crazyville.

Youngest sister, age 19, just sent me a jpeg of her most recent sonogram of her little bean sized fetus. I really wish I could be happy for her, but so far that's just not happening. The arrival of the red tide, put a damper on happiness. At least I didn't have to aim at a precious stick; I think I'll celebrate and spend the money I would have saved by buying a good bottle of Zinfandel. I need something to look forward to after all. Scratch that, I need something that will last at least a week. Let's go all out and buy that Laguvulin scotch that I have been drooling over for the last year. Damn my neighborhood liquor store for stocking the good stuff, but I do love the damned.

I am spending the day cleaning our sty today. We are such gross people. Usually, the bare minimum I ask for in terms of tidiness is a fire lane from the couch to the front door. Apparently, even that's too much to ask for. Our household spiders are the only ones who seem to be keeping their areas clean. Too bad I sucked down their homes into our shop-vac this morning. It's cleaner in there anyway. To those of you who stay at home to keep house and take care of children or pets or whatever the hell it is you take care of, I salute you. Every moment I clean, I am just a little bit angrier and little more bitter. Poor husband doesn't even realize what he is walking into tonight when he comes through the door after work. If I warned him, that would take all the fun out of my day, and that wouldn't do at all. Wish him luck.

Chainsaws and Butter Knives

Husband and I had quite a row the other day over something of great importance. About a year ago, I clamoured for a chainsaw. With all of the dead wood on our property, we have some great potential firewood. I even shopped around for one that I could use. My husband hated the idea and fought hard against it. He won that round and I never bought a chainsaw. Not because I ever listen to him, but because we ran out of money and I couldn't justify buying a chainsaw when we were eating rice every night.

A few days ago, I asked him what he told his mom we needed as Christmas gift ideas. At the top of his list was a chainsaw! Incensed, I told him that it was just like him to turn around and want something once I had let the idea go. He protested vigorously and revealed that the reason I was not "allowed" to have a chainsaw was because I would surely cut my leg off. And, he asserted that if his mother did buy us a chainsaw, I would not be "allowed" to use it! Not sure where he got the idea that he was "allowed" to tell me what I could and could not do. There really is no better way to get me to do something than for someone to tell me I am not allowed to do it. If I want to cut my leg off with a chainsaw, that's exactly what I am going to do. He continued to review evidence of my propensity for accidents and injuring myself with dangerous tools in error. Nevertheless, I let the topic drop for the time being.

Yesterday, I was rinsing our butter knives before putting them in the dishwasher. Husband left crusty cake on a butter knife and it had turned to cement. Vigorously scrubbing that knife and muttering under my breath about people who couldn't seem to rinse their own silverware, the sponge slipped and I sawed into my index finger producing copious amounts of blood. Cursing myself while trying to keep the blood off the dishes, my husband looked over and asked what was going on. I cut myself with a butter knife! Instantly, I thought of the chainsaw discussion. I was sure he was going to bring it up, but instead to make me feel better he showed me a divet on one of his fingers. He had injured himself with one of his own fingernails. Neither of us should be allowed to use or have fingernails or butter knives much less chainsaws. Discussion over.

Pouting

I am pouting today because I am not getting what I want when I want it. Of course, pouting doesn't make anything any better, but that doesn't seem to stop me. Ovulation is on the horizon and I don't seem to be able to attract or entice my husband into the game. So frustrating. Just as my body started giving me the clues is when he seemed to lose interest. Granted, I am ultra-sensitive to rejection these days and I interpret it all to mean the worst.

Rejection throws me into flashbacks, but not the good kind. My first husband told me everything I wanted to hear, but his actions always betrayed his words. He reassured me over and over again that he wanted children with me and loved me more than anything in the world. With hindsight I can be thankful that he couldn't follow through on the conception of a baby part. His body just wouldn't play along. Took me awhile to figure out what it all meant. So now, everytime my current husband doesn't show absolute enthusiasm I think of the last one. My poor husband lives in the shadows of my insecurity. Unfortunately, I am not in a state of mind to feel too bad for him. For now, I am just pouting and trying to keep myself from a complete a total freak out. Let's just say that the last time I felt this way I launched into insanity and did a bit of carving. Focus, focus, focus...