Again with the hormones
I can roughly categorize the stages of my life according to my level of hormonal dysfunction. Now, I know that some women believe any sort of mood disturbance attributed to hormone fluctuations somehow sets back the women’s movement or something, and/or that those claims are about on par with sightings of the Loch Ness Monster. Those women are robots.
[Exhibit A: My mother-ex-law, who would cheerfully chirp at my endometriosis-riddled self curled up in agony during abdomen-rending cramps that she’d never had a cramp in her! entire! life! because she’s so active and if only I were to release my death-grip on the bottle of Aleve and go jogging I’d be just fine! (That was grounds for divorce from that family right there.)]
Other women–those who actually have a grip on reality–understand that, like it or not, some of us are profoundly affected by our body chemistry. What a world it would be if only our ovaries were susceptible to hormonal variations! No, the brain is influenced by the waxing and waning of the various female hormones perhaps even more than any other part of the body.
Listen: this madness evolved from a survival instinct gone wrong. The same mechanism that allows a mother to sacrifice her own life for her offspring’s (facing off with an angry bear, perhaps, in neanderthal times; intercepting a bullet or listening to endless hours of “easy listening” hold music with an HMO, in modern times) has somehow morphed into the irrational, emotional GOOD GOD THIS VERY MOMENT IN TIME HAS LIFE AND DEATH IMPORTANCE reaction that possesses even the most grounded of women, under the influence of hormonal surges.
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Bring your Distraction to Work Day
I managed to work at my new job for two weeks–ten business days–without bothering to investigate the contents of my desk. It turns out that my desk is a veritable treasure trove. Just one more benefit of my cool new job, I guess.
Now I know exactly what my desk holds. I also know exactly what snacks are available in the kitchen, and where the paper plates live.
And–all things considered–I think that crossing half the items off of my to-do list for today was pretty good. A lesser woman would have accomplished less. A less patient woman would’ve been apprehended stuffing a small child into the snowbank in the parking lot. I’m just sayin’.
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Pray for me
Well, well.
School’s closed.
Given that I will be alone at the office and I’d like to save a day’s worth of extra daycare expenses, I’m taking Chickadee in with me.
I’d love to tell you that the extra time with me is going to be just what she needs, but asking for some valium would probably be more realistic….
Sunday night sequiturs
The last few days have been eye-opening ones for me. This is not to say that I’ve actually learned anything. Oh, no! That would make far too much sense. My eyes have widened merely due to a vague sense of “Oh, crap.” But perhaps someone smarter than myself can glean some lessons from my experience. Or maybe you’ll just point and laugh. Either way.
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The wondrous WHAT??
I have never been more proud to be female. Nothing says pride like a puppet.
P.S. Enjoy… I am in bed with tissues and orange juice and may not be out for a while.
Maybe in a world without money
When my ex and I were married, we never fought about money. I think that’s unusual; most couples fight about money, yes? We never did.
I’m very frugal. I shopped often but didn’t spend much. He grew up poor and really enjoyed being able to “indulge;” he shopped infrequently but tended to get the things he wanted when he wanted them. We had enough money for everything and it wasn’t an issue.
Cue the divorce. For a solid year–while the legalities were pieced together in painful detail–we fought about money constantly. Actually, we paid enormous sums of money for our lawyers to fight about it. What a grand system we have here.
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Recent declarations
(Or, My Words Often Come Back to Haunt Me.)
(Or–better still–The Reason I Put All My Spare Change Into the Therapy Fund.)
“Look! I wasn’t raised by wolves today; see how I turned the light off when I was done?”
“I know, I know, I’m the slowest creature on the planet!”
“Wow, that was a BIG one! I’m so charming!”
“I think I’ll just leave that there for the maid! Oh, wait… we don’t have a maid! Mama is the maid! Mama…? You look mad.”
“I already know the answer… we get to do it if we’ve been good. But that’s no fair because we haven’t been good and I still want to!”
“Well I was sort of hoping you just fell off the turnip truck because I think that might mean you’d believe me.”
“Why do you keep saying you don’t negotiate with terrorists? I’m just a little kid!”
“You should cry me a river! Cuz I’m thirsty!”
I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you
A lot of you have been asking for more information about this job thing. Even those of you who recognize the need for some discretion have begged me to “just tell us your position” or “give us some hints at least.” And then there’s the lovely person who sent me the strangest email I’ve ever received. It suggested–amongst about a hundred other disjointed, poorly-structured, random and vaguely disturbing thoughts–that I am too “wimpy” to say what I’m doing. (I suspect the sender believes that taking their prescribed lithium is also wimpy.)
Anyway. There’s lots of compelling reasons not to go into it.
1) I found out mid-sandwich the other day that an obscure factoid about me had been passed around (with some glee, sounded like) after one of the senior staff members googled me. I don’t think my coworkers will be reading here, but I didn’t think some inconsequential thing I did a couple of years ago was going to be lunchtime fodder, either.
2) Then there’s the part about how I could tell you what my position was if I had any idea. Let’s just say I’m in a pretty unique spot, where basically they said “we need this and this for sure… and maybe this other thing, and possibly some of this other stuff, and potentially this and this and this if you’re up for it.” I keep telling people that it’s like being on The Apprentice. Every day is different. I have yet to be bored. It’s great! But very hard to describe, even if I wanted to.
3) And finally, let’s recall the main reason I blog: to complain. Work hasn’t given me anything to complain about, yet. Sad for the blog, yes, but rather better for life in general.
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Bearer of bad news
Chickadee: Mama, how many days until vacation?
Me: Well, let’s see. You go to school the rest of this week, and then next week. Then you’re off for a week.
Chickadee: How many days is that?
Me: Hmmm… 9 days until no more school.
Chickadee: And then it’ll be SUMMER! YAY!
Me: Uhhhh… no. It’s winter break, honey.
Chickadee: Aww, man!
Sniff the monkeyus maximus
It is very difficult to continue dancing with your daughter and belting out a heartfelt “I love everybody / Especially you!” while your son keeps bending over and backing into you while giggle-demanding “Smell my butt!”
Can you feel the love?