i heart xx

Who is this mystery boy?!

Eliza has a crush. She's giggling, looking over my shoulder while i'm writing this.

She was writing in her notebook while i was doing school work. I looked up at her and she slyly covered the page. She was writing "i heart (2 secret initials)."

She is growing up. This is so weird. Eliza likes a boy! ok, this has happened before. a couple of times. but it is always cute. and Joe always gets a seriously freaked out about it and tells me to not encourage this. But eliza says he won't find out about this one! (She just told me to write that) SO, if you are reading this "you better not tell him." (She said that too)

First she wouldn't tell me what the initials were because I would know whose they were. So i was like "Is it Gianni?" and she say's emphatically, "NOooOOOOo!!! I HATE him!" And I said, "Well, he is the only boy you have talked about! So just tell me the initials because I won't even know who it is." Finally I said, "Is it a girl?" And she said quizically, "NOoo?!" I was like, "Well, you only talk about your girl friends and Gianni." Eliza, "Well, that's because Gianni is always getting in trouble so I have to tell you about him." (The other day she was hating him because he was fighting with a boy and threw a clipboard and it hit her.) Well, I KNOW WHO IT IS AND YOU DON'T!!!!!

mom, is this true?

I am not one to glean meaning from dreams. In my neuropsychology undergrad class there was the following correct question/answer on an exam:

Q: Do dreams have any meaning for you? Why or Why not?
A: NO. They are merely random neurons firing.

Now my professor of the time is still my favorite professor; the one who got me into all this behavior analysis jazz, the one who pushed me toward the huge paradigm shift I have been undergoing for the past few years. This same man is one who seems to love spurring discussion, whether tinged with anger from the students or not. Class was always fun. For me, anyway. This means that he may not actually subscribe to his own statement. The point is that dreams are NOT for interpreting nor for deriving the purpose of your life from.

So imagine my surprise when my dream a couple nights ago is eerily revealing of my current anxieties and insecurities.

It went something like this:

Me and my family (including mom, dad, siblings, husband, etc.) were all gathered for some reason and somewhere. Mom decided I had reached an age of enough maturity to be entrusted with documents she has held onto since my birth. Among those I spot a medical report.

It stated: Low to normal IQ, bordering on retarded.

Yes, in my dream it said "retarded." Don't worry, when I'm awake I am much too pc to use that word. But, whoever this imaginary doctor or psychologist was, they called me retarded.

I looked up, accusingly, at my mother- jaw dropped.

-Mom, you didn't say anything!

-Weeellll, look how well you turned out...

I look back to the diagnosis and mutter: This explains so many things.

who woulda' guessed?

I was wound up last night like a... like a... a wind-up toy? That's it, like those little teeth you wind up and they chatter around on their little legs. I didn't start out that way though- I had been working on some school work and was getting very sleepy. I finished, well sort of, and decided to go to bed. It was 1 am. I got ready for bed and took forever. It was 1:30 am. I got into bed, pulled up the covers around my chin, squirmed around until my face was in the right spot on the pillow. I was hungry. I cannot and will not sleep hungry. So I got up and got a bowl of cheerios. At this point, I am no longer sleepy... my mind is cranking obnoxiously loud. While I eat my cheerios I attempt to put my mind at ease by more completely finishing my school work. Damn grad school and group projects with social contingencies! 2nd bowl of cereal and documents posted. It was 2:00 am. Now I am exhausted, but this lame attempt to stop the gears was not sufficient! I would need a heavy wrench to throw in there- like being hit over the head with a heavy wrench. My body is exhausted and my malicious mind betrays me. I climb back into bed anyway. It was 2:15 am. Once again, I adjust the covers so that they are layered just right and are folded around my chin, I roll around until my pillow is shaped around my face, and I put my feet in that spot against Joe's warm legs where they seem to be made to fit.

Buh Da Duh Buh Da Duh Buh Da Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Buh Da Duh...........

There's a F*#@ing party upstairs. Those stupid girls. I will hurt them! Or at least think about how much I dislike them now. I've never met them, but I've seen them- and now I am sure I can't stand them.

I mutter under my breath some choice profanities, which awakens Joe. He hears it too. Unlike me, he doesn't just think about how much he dislikes them... he puts on his clothes and mutters a few things and goes outside. When he comes back he listens to see if he can still here the bass from the dance music and gives his report:

He had knocked on the door and asked her to turn down the music, but, it's not coming from upstairs. It's coming from the apartment behind us (sharing a wall with our bedroom). IT'S THE OLD LADY. The 60-something granny. The granny that was wearing slippers and a nightgown at 5 pm when Eliza and I knocked on her door to ask if she had seen our cat. OMG, WTF, NOOOOO WAAAAY. Is this my Bizarro world?!? I'm the old granny with an elderly husband asking the young 20-something to turn down her music. I don't even care. I'll be the old granny I JUST WANT TO SLEEP. It was 2:45 am.

Buh Da Duh Buh Da Duh Buh Da Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Buh Da Duh...........

No Way. Seriously? Is this happening? Joe mutters disgustedly, "Most people don't realize how bass carries." He calmly sits up, turns around and pounds on the wall-- the wall of an OLD LADY. I'm like, "What, does she have dementia?" Which is not funny, since over 50% of people above 80 have Alzheimer's. Seriously, not cool Michelle. But, if she did have dementia she might not know it's not DAY TIME. My mind goes on.... It is still rumbling through the wall and the floor and into my inner ear. It's not just Bizarro world, it's the f-ing Twilight Zone: I WANT OUT. Joe gets up and walks to another area of the wall and pounds the hell out of it.

Finally it stops. And now I am just a little embarassed to bump into her (even though I am pretty sure she doesn't leave her apartment) because this groovy granny might think I am uncool.

see if you can follow this one...

Stress is overtaking my life. Stress that I am not going into details about on my blog. BUT, I have not been picking at my face as much-- so, do I pick at my skin when I am stressed or when it is invaded before I have my period? I hate those things. Which is funny because I also love when they choose to present themselves. Confused?? They make me tired and angry, they make my skin turn into an unrecognizable landscape, they make me eat (yes, make me) more than usual, they make my back ache so badly I think my legs are sure to detach from my body; in short, they RUIN MY LIFE. Yet, there are the few days before the period comes that I am PRAYING for it to f**ing get here already. SHOW ME I AM NOT PREGNANT!!!! My period is always, exactly 3 days late. Doesn't sound late, does it? Well, my birth control pack says it should be on a Friday and it is always on a Sunday or Monday. Perhaps that is too much information. Just realize that I (and so I assume, all women) both loathe and love the arrival of their period. I seriously dance when it comes because my life will not suddenly be consumed with the vomiting and other woes of pregnancy nor with smelly shitty diapers and incessant crying.

This is mostly beside the point. Stress is still consuming my life. To resume the thought track I started out on.... I am not picking at my face as much, but I am getting headaches and eating like Armageddon may arrive tomorrow (does it "arrive?") and I will need to have fat stores that I currently to not have. What if the end or the world begins tomorrow and Joe eats the rest of the Kit Kat in the fridge? I better eat it tonight and circumvent the fighting that may ensue; he did buy it after all.

I should be doing homework, but I am drinking whiskey and eating potato chips and kit kats and... I should just go to bed. Ok, so I will now stop blogging and take some slightly inebriated notes on psychopharmacology.

I am not failing at everything, I am just not giving 100% to everything. There's Joe and Eliza, each class, group projects, my client, my scholarship responsibilities, getting going on a thesis, conferences I miss, research meetings, articles to read, sanity and physical health to maintain... where to begin... NOW I have a new job (for practicum) that will be starting and want to know-- Where will that fit in?!?

Kelli, I apologize, but eating the house has not made any physical manifestations- just call me Skeletor. I will let you know if that changes. I did have a dream that I was baffled by a sudden belly- perhaps that was a revelation?

a day in the life.

It's one of those days today. I've been feeling so below par without makeup. My face has sensed my period coming (sorry, meant to say Aunt Rose) since the last one left. My compulsive fingers cannot seem to leave the poor skin alone. The hair is not helping my face out. It would be nice if bad face days were countered with good hair days, but such is not the case these past couple of weeks.

In addition, we've been moving apartments. It has taken me all evening to not unpack the kitchen. Yes, just the kitchen. It makes me a little crazy. I get so frustrated trying to figure out where to put things away- do the spices and oils go in the small pantry to the right of the stove or above the stove? Do I put the bread where Eliza can reach it, but an odd spot: the drawer! Do I put the mixing bowls in the same cupboard as the plates and cereal bowls?! I would say NO! Don't do it!!! But, alas, I have done it. The mixing bowls are indeed above the plates and bowls. I don't know what to do about having the mixer in the same cupboard as the pots and pans... but it is done. I will (probably) not change where I have put away the dishes, but the food is another issue. I CANNOT have food in the same pantry as glasses. This was Joe's suggestion to my conundrum, which I emphatically refused. Have no doubt- it was an emphatic refusal! The tea is with the oatmeal. I don't know how I feel about this yet. But it seems a better choice than with the spices or soups or crackers. Can they have their own space? I wondered the same thing, but sadly they cannot... there is NO ROOM.

The perils of downsizing.

not narcissistic

Alright... so I removed myself from following my own blog. I thought I was funny. Turns out, i 'm not.

narcissism

I am following my own blog!!

This is really exciting. Not only do I look like I have more followers, but there is another picture of me on my blog!! I just figured out that I can follow my own blog. While signed into my account the link "Follow This Blog" was still there. Why wouldn't I want updates on myself?

The only thing I see a little strange here is the fact that my dashboard may now update me on what I just finished writing. I guess this could be useful... It may even make me feel accomplished to see my own blog update!