go baby go

*music credits: The Hives, Tic Tic Boom*

and she has NO IDEA

they are playing and giggling- attempting to do handstands underwater, her little skinny brown legs kicking just at the surface. she never makes it into the full handstand.

she has NO IDEA what i am going through so that they can play with their Littlest Pet Shops in the pool. and she has NO IDEA that right this minute i am SCREAMING OBSCENITIES IN MY HEAD. of which i will spare you, just know that they are some serious obscenities. words i have never said in front of my mother. at least they are remaining, for the most part, in my head. just a few of them tumbling out in little mumbled whispers so that the other parents at the pool won't give me dirty looks and run screaming from the pool dragging along their children and covering their ears.

why all of the screaming in my head? i am on the brink of insanity. the brink.

the wind blew my pens off of my paper. pens, plural. it was strong enough to blow them off of my one loose sheet of paper. this vile act of God allowed the wind to blow my paper into the pool. i was aware of this possibility and was carefully holding the paper while i transferred data from my client's binder onto the paper. this is a tracking paper that i will have to completely RE-DO. joe called and i let go of it, setting 2 pens on top of it to answer the phone. 2 pens. 2 pens are not weighty enough, apparently. joe you did this.

luckily, eliza and her friend were taking a break from swimming and were standing by my table when this happened. her friend ran and jumped toward the paper in the pool, attempting to save my important work. it's not saved. you can't save chlorine pool soaked and crumpled papers with important dates on them.

the wind is still blowing. i have a scowl on my face. which i better stop NOW or i will get unsightly wrinkles in between my eyes. the scowl wrinkles i have been avoiding by wearing sunglasses at all times.

the pool transformed from a slightly unbearable pit of despair to a monstrosity that only belongs in the fiery depths of HELL. there are now teenages throughout the entire pool. LOUD teenagers banging boogie boards over their little brothers' heads. F@#*king monstrosity. Damn you all. STOP HAVING FUN AT MY EXPENSE! DON'T YOU KNOW MY VERY IMPORTANT PAPER AND MY HAIR IS RUINED?!?

she just brought me another scrap of my paper.

are you laughing? are the heavens laughing?!

why are there children laughing at the pool? SHUT UP! STOP IT! NOOOOWW!

today

i feel like lying in bed. ALL DAY.
i do not feel like catching up with school work.
confused? you were on a 1 week summer break, you say?
yes, well a 1 week summer break, during which i was supposed to complete the intro and method section of my thesis, complete a grant matrix (don't ask) and catch up on my client's paper work.
i don't want to do any of that. and i didn't finish any of it during my 1 week summer break.
ONE WEEK SUMMER BREAK.
what a joke.
monday i am back to the grind. with meetings from 2:30 to 5:30.
i have to finish these things TODAY.
and i am at the pool watching eliza and her friend play
trying to get some of this done.
but the wind is not agreeing with me.
it is driving me insane.
the wind is blowing my papers.
blowing my hair.
the sun is irritatingly shining onto my laptop screen
the sun is ignoring the fact that i sat in the shade to avoid that.
the children are splashing.
the sun is shining.
it should be nice.

ruby slippers

This post goes down smoothly with a shot of Lyle Lovett:


Repeat after me: There's No Place Like Home. There's No Place Like Home. There's No Place Like Home.

Three clicks and I'm home.

More like 10 hours on an airplane. TEN HOURS.

I found myself hoping for the rain. Please just rain a little. Give me some mist. Give me the pit pat pit pat tippity tap of the rain against the window as I fall asleep.

In high school I would float away in my thoughts as the rain splashed into the pond outside my window, as it pattered against the window pane, as the frogs would ribbit along with this song. I would crack open my window and soak in the sounds of pure calm. I would leave my window open as I slept through the night, curled up in extra blankets, because that sound is worth any cold that may sneak in.






















As my dad says, we are camera challenged. I failed to take any pictures our entire trip. The pictures posted are simply from google searches. Regardless, the picture above is of the historic street in their perfect town. You can't see the perfectly cute stop light posts. Seriously. Even the stop light posts. I forgot how great this place is in the 9 years I have been away. Maybe it's better with time and maybe it's more appreciated as an adult, without teenager concerns.

Because it's sunny, you can see over 20 hang-gliders carving through the sky and back again to the nearby mountain. Floating magically way up there in the sky, against the backdrop of a totally green mountain. Because in Seattle they are all green.

In the front yard are decorative grass clumps. hmmm... there are also little trees, which will become big trees. There are plans for dwarf fruit trees, a variety, in rows like a miniature orchard or vineyard. There are flowers that are beautiful, including colorful cala lilies. (which may not be spelled right, even though I googled it). These and some very specific type of daisy were planted by my mom, in haste before a second, RE-DO foot surgery.

Behind their home is a backyard. Behind the yard is a fence. Through the fence is wilderness. In the wilderness are slugs. Lots of slugs. and wild blackberry bushes, and lots of trees. Trees covered in wet beautiful moss. At the edge of this wilderness is more wilderness, which is a creek, which is more like a small river. Behind the rive-like creek is a mountain. We walked down to the creek with my mom and dad. Each of us with gloves on to protect against the blackberry bushes. My Dad in bright orange waders, with a machete in hand. He pointed out deer tracks down the path and hacked away unruly blackberry tangles.

In their home is a beautiful baby grand piano. My mom plays it beautifully. My dad, on a special occasion may play a hymn on it. My mom plays and sings. Specifically, for Eliza, she played and sang Blues in the Night. To which, Eliza sang quietly along. I plunked out a few songs that I loved growing up, like Master, the Tempest is Raging.

In their home is a beautiful kitchen, in which my mom makes wonderful foods. Like mango chicken, which sounds sweet, but is actually quite hot and delicious.

In their home is a storage closet downstairs, filled with grown-up and absent children's belongings. My old porcelin doll with the frizzy hair, cheerleading outfit, old books and trinkets. A box for Kelli, and Jake, and Amy, and Kristen. All full of memories not always remembered until held.

There are more pictures of children and grandchildren than necessary, but perfectly placed and much appreciated. Eliza doesn't recognize me in my dance costumes from when I was about her age. I, however, remember each dance recital associated with each costume. Mom and Dad, Grandmas and Grandpas smiling and clapping and hugging.


In their home is so much love it might explode.



















Eliza, my Dad, and I drove to Snoqualmie to hike down to the falls. The trail down to Snoqualmie Falls was closed for that day and the next few days. But, we still took pictures, with a hastily purchased disposable camera, from the look-out points so that we can remember that we tried. We ate in this dumpy little bakery. It was delightful. We drove to Leavenworth, a little tourist village resembling Germany, as it was settled by Germans. There are no pictures to prove this, and there are not enough words to adequately describe this, but: I got to be with my Dad. ALL DAY. He's quite fun and brilliant. I soaked him in along with the beautiful view of the mountains. Eliza wasn't sure what to think at first. Her first time alone with Grandpa for an ENTIRE DAY!! He's actually silly. and funny. and I'm not sure she realized this. It may have taken her the majority of the day to adjust to this and be a little silly back, but she loved it. This serious little girl loves her grandpa. We both soaked him in. I didn't want it to end.
























Before Grandma's foot surgery we got to make our own Ugly Dolls, be silly, play games in restaurants, shop around, go to a play, and visit Pikes Place Market. It was a few days of utter chaos. and it too was perfect. How did she become a Grandma? The answer to this may seem obvious (sex or marriage, in my case marriage), but how did she instantly turn into Gramma? She is beautiful in this role, delving out love like fruit snacks.

We visited her in the hospital the two days before we left and played games. She had an eye patch the first night. Apparently, coming out of anesthesia makes people rub their eyes really hard and she scratched it. She was the closest to drunk she will ever be on the medication, and it was a riot. Eliza was offended that Dyan and I found Granma's drunkenness to be amusing. I couldn't tell a difference, she said. With one eye covered she couldn't seem to keep the other eye open. Uncoordinated. She would ask about her hair. Giggle. Hug Eliza. Make a silly comment. Play with the tape that held on the patch. Push against the covered eye. Pry her non-covered eye open. Giggle. Eliza cried saying goodbye the second night after playing Boggle. Telling Gramma in her mother's day card that she wished she could live there and see her almost every day. (she's so realistic she had to add the almost). I came home telling Joe that Issaquah is perfect and that I just have to live there. Have To!

a running theme

Hating my life is becoming a constant. [see here and here]

Today I got home and said something along the lines of I hate my life.

What is that, the 3rd time in the past week that those exact words have just tumbled out of my mouth? My jaw drops and the words literally fall out onto the floor for someone else to pick up and stare blankly at. I mean, what is anyone supposed to say in response to that?

Here are some options (none of which are recommended):
-Get help.
-You need therapy.
-Take your pills.
-Does that mean you hate us too?
-It can't be that bad...
-Get over it. You say this every day.
----

The thing is, I could come up with more imaginary responses, and none of them would make me feel better.

The thing is: I DON'T ACTUALLY HATE MY LIFE.

So, why do I keep finding myself saying this? Stumbling upon the desire to be an ostrich so that I can bury my head in a hole in the ground? Being overcome with the desire to drop it all and sleep for the rest of the day instead?

It's like vomit. It's uncontrollable. The lurching feeling in the stomach and throat- trying to keep it down... but suddenly, the words have splayed from my mouth and I want to gather them up and swallow them, take them back, but that is just GROSS. Suddenly, there are the words. Out there- filled with chunks of the disgust I've felt during the day- just sitting there for Joe to look at and try to pick out what it is composed of. WHAT DID I EAT TODAY?


Well, here is what I ate today, the chunks--- I had to wake up at 5:15 am. Let me repeat that: 5:15 AM. I had to drive for 2 hrs and 50 min to some small town past Orlando for an HR generic training that is required before I can start my new practicum position. Tolls. I'm 5 min late. I was told to not, for any reason, be late. I'm bored. stiff. I already know about human rights in relation to developmental disabilities. We are there to protect and serve blah blah blah. Important, but really, how many times do I have to receive the SAME training? I get an email from my professor-- advice on how to be more professional and ethical. I should have asked to miss class, instead of just telling him, because he would have told me to not miss. I HAD NO CHOICE. This ridiculous training was mandatory. This job is required for my Master's degree. Give me a break. I leave, drive with droopy eyes for close to 2 hours. Tolls. Drop the only change I have all over the road at one of the "Exact Coin" tolls (I'll be getting a ticket in the mail). Miss my exit. Get stuck in traffic- solely because I missed my exit. Get home. I am sure that starting the period today did not help.

"I hate my life. [awkward pause] I mean... not you and Eliza, but everything in the realm of school."

How does Joe take this. I wonder about this. I mean, it's definitely not a nice thing to say. It's selfish. He and Eliza are part of my life. I want them to be the only things in my life.

The semester ends next week. I can make it. Then breath. I'll be holding my breath until then, so I can cope with disappointed professors, demanding schedules, dramatic friends, and everything else. At least I have Joe, who holds my pieces together. At least I have Eliza to read bedtime stories with.

This will be somewhat simplified in another week.
Then- I will breath deep, enjoy Joe and Eliza, and wait for it to begin again.

carjacks and farmers

I love quaint little roads made entirely of brick. Next time I drive to Orlando for work I just may take a picture to post on here. I was driving down a little, old, dirty alley way-- the kind you might be afraid to slow down to a walking speed on, because someone might just hop onto your car and hitch a ride. It was all brick, as many of the side streets downtown are. I almost stopped, just to admire its quaintness, even with the threat of being car-jacked while driving. It's the little things.

I will depart with a joke from 30 Rock (genius show):
--Why are you wearing a tux, then?
--It's after 6. What am I, a farmer?

post script

I realized that it sounds like I typically want to throw things at Joe, my husband.

This is not true. Once in a while, maybe.

Today (and many other days) he made a p.b. & j sandwich and put crackers in a ziplock bag and made coffee for me to take to school.

Yesterday he did the laundry.

The day before he washed the car.

The day before that.... something else wonderful.

lucky.


What I found waiting for me in the kitchen this morning.

things i shouldn't say out loud

I don't mean to freak anyone out, but I hate my life today.

Seriously.

Ok. NOT seriously.

I am so frustrated with people today. and yesterday. and the day before.

At least I am not wanting to throw things at my husband.

At least I actually love my life today.

when you need a shopping list, use EXCEL

I love my dad. (and you too, Mom)

I mean, he taught me to put the toilet paper roll on the proper way. If you don't know which way that is, it is when the loose sheet hangs down in the front of the roll, opposed to the back. This way you do not have to reach and try to find the loose end. It is always, conveniently, appropriately, right in front of your face.

He taught me *try* to not worry about too many little things. I remember kneeling at my bed- trying to think about enough things to pray long enough- and then looking over at him to see if he was still praying about important things. If he didn't look finished I would think of more things to pray for (I was little, it was usually for things). Sometimes I would discover an important, urgent, mystery of life. Like, when we die do we get to (fill in the blank). His answer was often this: If you don't know you just put your question away, into a little treasure box. Then, when you get to Heaven you can ask your Heavenly Father. This was always comforting. Reassuring. Even if my perfect dad didn't have an answer to a question someone out there did!

I still worry about too many exacerbating and often ridiculous things throughout my day. I mean when am I going to find the time to organize the fridge? because it is not organized... well enough... right now. and that matters. to me. I created a bar graph instead of a line graph for a client. Is my professor disappointed in me? What if he talks to my old supervisor and tells him that I made a bar graph, not a line graph? What will happen to the world?! I worry about wearing the right outfit. I'm almost 28. Why do I care about the right outfit? I don't know, but sometimes I still change my clothes countless times before leaving (late) to a meeting or class or client session...

But, he has taught me to make a list. Tackle one thing at a time. Try not to perseverate on things that really are quite inconsequential. Focus on the important things. Cherish the beautiful moments. Find time to run a few miles, just for me and my sanity.

I may not tuck questions into a treasure chest for a Heavenly Father- but I do set the unknowns aside and recognize that it is o.k. I am o.k. I am o.k. I am o.k.

I was talking to him on the phone. I was tired and stressed. Full of angst. I just finished a research session with absolutely no results. I was feeling inadequate. a disappointment. I used to be a B student. I am now an A student in a Master's program. Now, I am on the verge of a B in physiological psychology due to spreading myself too thin. I am not achieving what I should. Even though I know my professors are still impressed, my husband, my dad, my mom, my friends are proud. I should do MORE. MORE ALL OF THE TIME.

He told me he had been crying because he was looking at pictures of Kristen. I do the same. I put away the pictures for a time. Then, when I feel brave, I look at the pictures all at once. and I cry. I cry, and cry, and cry. Sometimes it's a sob. Bordering on tantrum. IT'S NOT FAIR.

He was crying because he misses her. and us. I miss them too.

Then, he said something that made me stop- and think. I often stop to not think. He said that I almost know how he feels. I almost know how much he loves me, because I love Eliza. That I will fully understand when I have my own.

I think he's right. I can't imagine the love that parents feel. She's my step-daughter and I love her with my entire being. I love her so much it aches sometimes. I feel like I will never be normal again because of the fear and anxiety I have watching her grow up. Because of the joy I feel when she smiles or laughs or writes "mom" on a note to me. ME. her step-mom. To think that when Joe and I have our own children it will be more than this is unthinkable. but probably true.

It makes me miss my mom and dad. Instills refreshed gratitude to them for raising me. For struggling through my stubbornness and frequent silence and lack of gratitude. It reminds me how special Brigitta is to Eliza and how I will never fully understand what Eliza is to her. Even though I love her. Even though I care for her. Even though she is everything to me.

in case you didn't know...

... i'm crazy. more on this coming later. but- for now, this song reminds me that it's o.k.

blank stare

i'm in class. with a blank stare. i usually love this class (neuropsych). i have nothing to say, no questions to ask. I DON'T CARE.

i don't care about any of this right now. why do we care about things? why does life seem so, well, o.k. most of the time? why?... when so many people die and leave their loved ones to grieve? why?... when so many people have incomprehensible experiences?

he's talking about the activity of serotonergic neurons in the raphe nucleus and effects on behavior. I SHOULD CARE.

my good friend's mom died this morning after struggling for the past 4-or so months with her 5th reemergence of breast cancer. i want to do something to help. i want to drive down to miami and hug her and tell her that it's o.k. to fall apart. that no one expects her to pick herself up right away. i want to make sure she knows that we are here for her. but is that selfish? she's in miami with her family. with her life long friends. grieving. mourning. we're just her graduate school friends. we've known her for 7 1/2 mo. we would be an intrusion. or would we? would it add comfort or would she feel put out?

i was angry when people who didn't know my sister wanted to try to comfort me. i was not comforted. i did not want flowers. i wanted to dig a hole and stay there for a while. which i sort of did. i wore her jogging pants and stayed in my house for about 3 weeks. i shut myself off. and i believe i was better off for that. i contacted people when i was ready to do so. i was touched by everyone who cared. i felt blessed that so many people came to her services and showed their support, but i did not want my day-to-day friends who didn't know me in the context of my family. i wanted my family. i wanted my husband. I WANTED MY SISTER.

i'm thinking a card and a small donation to a breast cancer society will suffice. i want so badly to take this pain and sense of loss awy from her. but i can't. no one can.

sista or sister?

By sista, I mean my actual sister. My older sister, Kelli made my day today. I tried to log onto Facebook from my phone while I was in line at the post office, just to change my status to [Michelle: my sister just made me feel like a superhero]. No kidding, except as it told me I had entered my user ID incorrectly, I was at the head of the line.

I was having such an overwhelming day. I called Kelli on the way to the bank and post office and dry cleaners and other errands, rushing to make it to all of them before they closed. It was already 4:30. I made it to the bank. As I was waiting in the drive-up line I was venting to her about my headache from my client, about not having time to study, about aaarrrrrgh! She told me if I needed some perspective that perhaps Mathew's (my almost 2 yr old nephew) recent conundrums would be of some help: Mathew loves to wear pajamas with footies. Don't we all. I wish I still could, but have a feeling Joe would object. Probably not too sexy. Back to the story- Mathew loves to wear pajamas with footies. This presents a very grave problem as he also loves to wear shoes at all times. Feet inside of footies do not fit inside of shoes. Alas, this is not all. Not only does he want to wear shoes at all times, even when he has footies over his feet, he wants to wear 3 shoes. THREE SHOES. Now, if you do not know my nephew, you may want to kjnow that he does not have 3 feet. My family may be strange, but not that strange. We are not mutants (apology for any one who may have 3 feet). My problems are not that big. They just aren't. My stresses are due to problems that have solutions. They may be solutions I procrastinate, thereby prolonging my stress, but remedies nonetheless. Thank God I do not have to try to grow a third foot or fit footie covered feet into my shoes.


Then, I made it to the post office just in time- so close to them closing that they probably considered running up to the doors and locking them as I approached. Kelli told me I'm practically a superhero. I paused at this silly phrase and thought, "Yeah, I did accomplish something." Which, is nothing like being a superhero, but I thought that maybe I am sort of great. I may not have even started any of my readings, worked on my thesis, worked on my graduate scholar tasks, or even talked to Eliza or Joe... BUT- I made it through an overwhelming day with my client, through a boring class lecture, and made it to the post office just barely in the nick of time. Pretty damn close to super hero. Now I just need a name. Any ideas? I was thinking the Barely Achieving Achiever. No that is totally LAME.

"many happy returns of the day,"

said Pooh to Eeyore and Eeyore to Pooh.

Eliza and I are reading Winnie the Pooh, which my mom also read to me when I was a little girl.

do da do, do da do, do da do (picture Wayne's World) ... begin flashback:
Kristen and I are in our beds, in our room. Kelli is in her bed, in the room next to ours. Jake, who is always the lucky one, because he's older and because his room is in the loft, is sitting in the hallway with a pillow and blanket by Mom. Her voice carries as if by some sort of magic to all of us while our eyelids become heavy and our breaths more steady. As she reads each word takes me to another place. I fight to stay awake so that I don't miss any of the story. My eyes won't stay open anymore. Pooh is stuck in the tree. With the bees. Christopher Robin says lovingly, "Silly Ol' Bear" and I can see him shake his head. I'm asleep, dreaming of fields of carrots and honey pots and lost Eeyore tails. My mom read many books to us this way. Her voice bringing us stories like the Mouse and the Motorcycle, poems from Shel Silverstein, and more. Each night her voice would actually become other voices. Eeyore's gloomy yet calming voice would lull us to sleep. Ralph was in my room, asking me to let him ride my toy motorcycle. I will never forget how she imitated Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, Kanga, Roo, Rabbit, and Christopher Robbins' voices. As I read it to Eliza I try to do the same for her. Paint watercolor scenes in her mind for each story. I try to make their voices distinct, unique, and am disappointed when they do not sound like my mom's did. I hope my young age is what made these words read by my mom so magical and that Eliza feels the magic of words at bedtime.

awol

I just devoured a KitKat.
I have an exam tomorrow. I am not prepared.
I haven't posted for some time and here is my excuse:
-- Eliza's mom was in town.
Not much of an excuse, I could have still posted.
Here's really why I haven't posted:
-- My life has been boring.

Here's the scoop, the dish, the update:
--Eliza's mom visited over her Spring Break. Eliza was happy as a clam (I do not know why we assume they are happy, but she was happy nonetheless). In fact she was elated. She was floating on clouds. I like her mom. She's beautiful (even with her hair totally gone), she's a great mom, and she's Eliza's hero (tied with her Dad). I did my part by trying to stay out of the house so that they could have alone mommy-daughter bonding times. I hope it helped. It always makes me horribly sad to see them say goodbye- to watch the closeness between them and then watch her leave, knowing that it's MY FAULT it's like this. Brigitta may read this and think "you're sad?! Don't tell me about sad. She is MY DAUGHTER." And I will think back "I'm sorry."

--I tried to spend time with Eliza on Saturday, the day her mom left, but I had to take a difficult physiological psychology exam that evening online. It was awful, by the way. Mostly I studied that day and told her that Sunday we would just do awesome things together ALL DAY. Me and her and her dad. Enjoying each other and the beautiful weather we've been having.

--Sunday: UTI. Urinary Tract Infection. GROSS. PAINFUL. UNCOMFORTABLE. I stayed in my pajamas all day. What a baby. Did nothing with Eliza. or Joe.

--Monday / today: Another horrible exam tomorrow (and Thursday). I have, of course, procrastinated. Took data for a project. Worked with my adorable client. No time with Eliza. or Joe. But, I did accomplish getting my antibiotic. Explained to Eliza that I am not necessarily a horrible step-mom, but just having a week with loads of tests and headaches and shoulder aches and tummy aches and urinary tract aches. I am not always sick. I just have too much stress. Joe thinks something is wrong that I am not healthy. I do not know a healthy graduate student. So, my dear Eliza, we will play on Friday and Saturday and Sunday. I SWEAR. I PINKY PROMISE WITH A KISS ON TOP.

sick of it

messy rooms.
my own impatience.
whining.
crying.
procrastination...

messes.
laziness.
myself.
others.
everyone...

togetherness.
aloneness.
competitiveness.
social isolation...

painting
my face.
not painting
pictures.
writing
notes.
not writing
creatively...

f. that's all.

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.

since i haven't posted for quite a while and still have nothing i would like to post on my blog i will contribute a bit of random information:

eliza fell asleep to "the never-ending story." i both loved and hated that movie when i was young. she simply loves it. it was much more complex to me. that flying dog thing was obnoxiously fake looking = lame to me, but atrayu... and the princess... mesmerizing.

i have been incredibly stressed out. anxiety. running helps. so does sleeping. but that may actually be the thyroid. what doesn't help, but what i do: pick at my face, freeze up and accomplish nothing.