I should be spending the majority of my time this morning studying. I just can not bring myself to do so at the present moment. It’s not that I don’t want to, I feel studied out. Like my test grades are going to be what they will be regardless of what I do to try and tweak them any further. I have two pretty big tests this morning, Chemistry and American Government. I’ve been studying like crazy for both of them, but it seems that every time I open my Chemistry book this morning, a wave of apathy takes over and I can’t bring myself to look at moles and grams and empirical formulas for one more second.
With that said I decided that I would get my apathetic butt up and attempt to do something constructive… This is my attempt, don’t laugh. I have a hard time figuring out what to write about in these blog things, it’s not that I don’t have a million things running through my brain at all times, because of course, I do, it’s just that even I recognize that most of these things are pointless, and well, kind of boring.
I’m sure that most people wouldn’t want to sit through a description of my day, because I know that I start getting rather tired when I subject myself to a review of my day… Not because it’s so intense, mainly because I’m tired all the time… I mean, ALL THE TIME. I awoke yesterday afternoon to John snorting; he was trying to contain himself as he laughed at me and my situation. Apparently studying had become so interesting and I was so deeply engrossed in it that I hadn’t realized that I had fallen asleep, Chemistry book on my lap, pencil in one hand and eraser clutched tightly in the other. I was so sure of my skills that I was going to show Morpheus that I meant business. Who needs to be awake while studying? I guess I’m among the lucky few that feel the back of my eyelids contain the answers to all the questions in the universe, Chemistry and American Government included.
I’m actually rather annoyed with this sleeping thing. I find myself needing a nap in the middle of the day. I do mean needing, I can’t just forego the notion, and not lay my head down for a minute, because my body has decided that it is going to sleep and screw whatever else I’m doing at the moment, eating, studying, watching TV, listening to a lecture, yes, they’ve all been victims of my recent narcoleptic tendencies. People around me offer the pregnancy excuse rather forthrightly to explain this obnoxious new development in my life… I’m not so sure, maybe I’ve just hit upon a vein of laziness that I can’t shake, or maybe, I’ve become apathetic like all the other voters in America age 18-25 (residual effect from my American Gov’t. test).
Whatever the reason may be for my unexplained shut eye necessity, I hope that it runs its course and departs rather quickly. I have a Calculus test on Tuesday and I cannot afford to allow Mr. Siehl another victory. I do not believe that studying the inner workings of my dream land will provide me with sufficient answers to all of my Calculus woes, no, that should come from an intense study of my Shaum’s manuals coupled with an enthusiasm for the wonderful world of Calculus (where I am to harvest this enthusiasm is still a mystery… I shall find it before Tuesday though, and report back to you.).
So I will leave you with some honest truths about me… I’m lazy, I’m avoiding many uncomfortable things by writing this blog at this particular moment, and I have absolutely no idea where I will unearth a new found love for Calculus… Maybe if I dig deeper into my Siehl hatred… Yeah that’s a thought. So, I’m off to procrastinate a little further, and dread the approaching Chem. test, watch the clock, and think of me. Smile a little to yourself at around 2 or so this afternoon, for I will be deprived of my afternoon nap, circumstances simply won’t permit it.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Internet Spades and Other Atrocities
I have a problem… Well, I have a lot of problems but I’m only going to admit to one, well, maybe two at this particular moment. I really, really like to play internet spades. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I mean, it’s a pretty simple game with not a lot of quick wit required, and it’s not like I’m making any money by doing so, or even improving my cat like reflexes or anything of that nature. I’d probably enjoy playing “real spades” with “real people” just as much but I don’t think it’s feasible to find three other people who are as hooked as I am. Not to mention, my weakness hits me at around 12:30 AM, or right before I leave for school.
Spades is definitely not a test of speed, or intense thought, so it provides ample opportunity for one to chat with the other players. Don’t judge me (had to get that out of the way first, and I’ll remind you further of said disclaimer as this blog goes on), but I actually really enjoy talking to some of the people that I meet on there.
Way back in Sept. of 2007 (I know ages ago) John and I were in Savannah, GA for a job interview. John was off doing various interview things and I had my opportunity to get a couple of hands in. That fateful day I met Bob or, “Mr. Journalist” as he prefers to be called. Actually, I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t prefer that but it makes me smile to know I make him squirm with the title.
Bob is (you guessed it) a journalist for a paper in Wichita, KS. A sports writer to be specific, and a very good conversationalist might I add. He also really enjoys it when I call him my “dear friend,” he says it makes him feel about 80 or something… Well Bob, you are much older than I am, live with it and pass the tea and crumpets. On a more serious note, Bob has lent much support to my desire to actually write something of some use someday and has aided in reviewing multiple homework essays (I’m so sorry you had to wade through those History projects). I feel very lucky to have found such a cool person through a random game of spades in a hotel room in Savannah.
I have not always been so lucky when it comes to internet altercations… I currently have an internet stalker whom I am dealing with. John and I had a good laugh at first about this dude, but he’s beginning to really, and I mean really annoy me. I’ve even complained about him to Bob… Oh yeah, it’s that bad. Much of the problem stems from the fact that he has multiple venues in which stalking can be accomplished,
Stalker Boy goes to school with me, and is in one of my study groups. Like all good study partners do, we exchanged info, i.e. phone numbers, and IM identities (again, watch that judging, it is the wave of the future in communication… I stand by that.). Our conversations began on a very normal, scholarly level, all about the subject at hand… He began to text me about homework and would send me emails with possible solutions. That was fine, no problems there… Then about two weeks into the mess the conversation turned from appropriate subjects to, well inappropriate ones.
I nipped that one in the butt immediately and was rather proud of myself. I felt extremely uncomfortable and told John what had been said and how I responded. John had a good laugh and then told me that I hadn’t seen the last of Stalker Boy. I was doubtful about this for I felt that I had sufficiently smashed his ego beyond reparation and that he would pick up the pieces and scamper off to his next subject. I informed John that I had taken care of it and John informed me that I was sorely mistaken for he was, you know that saying” Young dumb and full of…”
Well, John was right as he is more than I’d like to admit, and I have been dealing with Stalker Boy on a regular basis. It’s not so funny now, I’m really annoyed and well, pretty disgusted. Just a side note for my thousands of readers (cough), desperation is not hot. Stop it, you look like an idiot.
I’m frustrated by the whole situation for I hate having to “Appear Offline” all the time. I thought that the coast was clear for I have been quite a bitch in person to Stalker Boy and was again sure that this would squash any and all residual (he’s tenacious at least) hope that he might be harboring.
Last night I changed my status from “Appear Offline” to “Online” and said a silent prayer to the internet Gods for some peace and a reprieve from all idiots. I went to sleep sure that my combined effort of concentrated bitchiness, and unavailability for the past month and a half would have the much desired effect of warding off Stalker Boy.
I awoke this morning to an IM from, you guessed Idiotic Stalker Boy Extraordinaire gracing my computer screen with an equally repugnant message of “damn, look who’s online!” I swear, he’s trying to make me kill him. I’m at a loss of what to do, I can’t wait for this semester to be over for I will be free of all contact with him, and my internet will be safe from anymore dim-witted advances.
Uggh. John, you were right, I hate to admit it, but you were right, he’s not going away and I’m going to have to up the level of bitch from, pretty-bitchy to mega-bitch this coming week. Now I’m off to change my status once again to “Appear Offline” for I will spend the rest of my weekend lurking in the shadows and hunkering down in my stalker infested internet.
Spades is definitely not a test of speed, or intense thought, so it provides ample opportunity for one to chat with the other players. Don’t judge me (had to get that out of the way first, and I’ll remind you further of said disclaimer as this blog goes on), but I actually really enjoy talking to some of the people that I meet on there.
Way back in Sept. of 2007 (I know ages ago) John and I were in Savannah, GA for a job interview. John was off doing various interview things and I had my opportunity to get a couple of hands in. That fateful day I met Bob or, “Mr. Journalist” as he prefers to be called. Actually, I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t prefer that but it makes me smile to know I make him squirm with the title.
Bob is (you guessed it) a journalist for a paper in Wichita, KS. A sports writer to be specific, and a very good conversationalist might I add. He also really enjoys it when I call him my “dear friend,” he says it makes him feel about 80 or something… Well Bob, you are much older than I am, live with it and pass the tea and crumpets. On a more serious note, Bob has lent much support to my desire to actually write something of some use someday and has aided in reviewing multiple homework essays (I’m so sorry you had to wade through those History projects). I feel very lucky to have found such a cool person through a random game of spades in a hotel room in Savannah.
I have not always been so lucky when it comes to internet altercations… I currently have an internet stalker whom I am dealing with. John and I had a good laugh at first about this dude, but he’s beginning to really, and I mean really annoy me. I’ve even complained about him to Bob… Oh yeah, it’s that bad. Much of the problem stems from the fact that he has multiple venues in which stalking can be accomplished,
Stalker Boy goes to school with me, and is in one of my study groups. Like all good study partners do, we exchanged info, i.e. phone numbers, and IM identities (again, watch that judging, it is the wave of the future in communication… I stand by that.). Our conversations began on a very normal, scholarly level, all about the subject at hand… He began to text me about homework and would send me emails with possible solutions. That was fine, no problems there… Then about two weeks into the mess the conversation turned from appropriate subjects to, well inappropriate ones.
I nipped that one in the butt immediately and was rather proud of myself. I felt extremely uncomfortable and told John what had been said and how I responded. John had a good laugh and then told me that I hadn’t seen the last of Stalker Boy. I was doubtful about this for I felt that I had sufficiently smashed his ego beyond reparation and that he would pick up the pieces and scamper off to his next subject. I informed John that I had taken care of it and John informed me that I was sorely mistaken for he was, you know that saying” Young dumb and full of…”
Well, John was right as he is more than I’d like to admit, and I have been dealing with Stalker Boy on a regular basis. It’s not so funny now, I’m really annoyed and well, pretty disgusted. Just a side note for my thousands of readers (cough), desperation is not hot. Stop it, you look like an idiot.
I’m frustrated by the whole situation for I hate having to “Appear Offline” all the time. I thought that the coast was clear for I have been quite a bitch in person to Stalker Boy and was again sure that this would squash any and all residual (he’s tenacious at least) hope that he might be harboring.
Last night I changed my status from “Appear Offline” to “Online” and said a silent prayer to the internet Gods for some peace and a reprieve from all idiots. I went to sleep sure that my combined effort of concentrated bitchiness, and unavailability for the past month and a half would have the much desired effect of warding off Stalker Boy.
I awoke this morning to an IM from, you guessed Idiotic Stalker Boy Extraordinaire gracing my computer screen with an equally repugnant message of “damn, look who’s online!” I swear, he’s trying to make me kill him. I’m at a loss of what to do, I can’t wait for this semester to be over for I will be free of all contact with him, and my internet will be safe from anymore dim-witted advances.
Uggh. John, you were right, I hate to admit it, but you were right, he’s not going away and I’m going to have to up the level of bitch from, pretty-bitchy to mega-bitch this coming week. Now I’m off to change my status once again to “Appear Offline” for I will spend the rest of my weekend lurking in the shadows and hunkering down in my stalker infested internet.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Math Schmath
It’s been an off week for me. I have been feeling rather odd and have had a lot of difficulty concentrating. I’ve also been extremely tired thus adding to my concentration deficiencies. I’m going to go ahead and get all the whining out of the way now, so brace yourself. My body feels odd, and I’ve been out of breath and have only been able to run a mile or two at a time during workouts. I’ve been hungry but indecisive on what sounds appetizing. I’m having a hard time at school, I got the lowest grade I’ve ever gotten on a test in college this last week; an 81% on my Calculus test.
While on my way home from school last night at 10:00, my night turned from a plethora of things to complain about to a silent moment of reminiscence of my youth. Test in hand, thoughts of resentment towards my 7th grade Math teacher began running through my head. Mr. Siehl, man was he the worst teacher I think to have ever graced the ranks of teachers worldwide. It is entirely Mr. Siehl’s fault that I received an 81% on this last test, for if he hadn’t called me stupid and told me that I would never amount to anything, and that he doesn’t even know why I pretend to be able to do Math in front of my other unfortunate 7th grade peers, I would never have felt obligated to take Calculus in the first place!
Damn him, I mean, Mr. Siehl gave me no way out… I can remember so clearly, the day that he handed a test back to us… He prefaced this event by standing up in front of the class and calling each student up individually, reading their full names which he inevitably massacred, their grade and adding a comment (mostly snide) to the already embarrassing task of having to walk to the front of class and retrieve your paper which, in my case was normally covered in red check marks. Damn those check marks.
On this particular day, all was going as planned, the students were in the midst of being sufficiently embarrassed and he called my name: Mihana (which came out nothing like it should have even if he pronounced it phonetically) Sherwood: 79.5% C+. I was shocked and for a moment thrilled by my almost B, for I had never achieved a score that high in his class before, most of the students never reached beyond the 70% range, but this was feeling of bliss was short lived, for as I stumbled out towards the front of the class, he told me to “stop right there.” In the middle of the aisle, what in the world could this be about? He peered at me over his bifocals and asked me if there was anything I would like to tell the class… “Um, no, not really, is there something that I should tell the class?” Silence and a deepening stare was all the answer that abhorrent man offered me. “Um, thanks, for my C+?” “How about how you went about achieving this tremendously high grade?” “I studied, and got a tutor?” He looked at me and responded with words that I will never forget: “Since you cheated, I figured that you would have the decency to own up to it, for we all know that you are simply not smart enough to attain this kind of score.”
I started shaking, I teared up, and he mockingly asked me if I was going to cry. I told him to give me my damn test, snatched it out of his hands and ran out of the classroom. The girls bathroom seemed like a wise place to seek refuge and it was there that I went. I don’t remember how the rest of the day went, but I do remember spending the remainder of my years in middle and high school convinced that I was no good at Math.
Mr. Siehl offered me something that I have just begun to fully appreciate… He showed me that sheer determination can overcome any obstacle, even if you are simply not smart enough to really make your way through it. My experiences in College have served as proof to me that I am not what Mr. Siehl made me out to be, and that I can in fact excel in the very subject that I have feared for so long.
My father, one of the wisest people I know, suggested that I should get through Calculus, get my standard Dean’s List Certificate, and put together an article for the Surfside News in Malibu, CA sharing my story with the other people from my home town. I’m sure that Mr. Siehl is still around, for people like him never die or retire, they thrive on the hostility they generate and the lives that they try to shatter through their limited power of teaching 7th Grade Algebra. Once this article is published I would love to hand deliver a copy of it to that horrid man, maybe more like 5 or 6 copies and let him know that I have not only achieved more than he ever thought possible, but that I have done it all because of him.
While on my way home from school last night at 10:00, my night turned from a plethora of things to complain about to a silent moment of reminiscence of my youth. Test in hand, thoughts of resentment towards my 7th grade Math teacher began running through my head. Mr. Siehl, man was he the worst teacher I think to have ever graced the ranks of teachers worldwide. It is entirely Mr. Siehl’s fault that I received an 81% on this last test, for if he hadn’t called me stupid and told me that I would never amount to anything, and that he doesn’t even know why I pretend to be able to do Math in front of my other unfortunate 7th grade peers, I would never have felt obligated to take Calculus in the first place!
Damn him, I mean, Mr. Siehl gave me no way out… I can remember so clearly, the day that he handed a test back to us… He prefaced this event by standing up in front of the class and calling each student up individually, reading their full names which he inevitably massacred, their grade and adding a comment (mostly snide) to the already embarrassing task of having to walk to the front of class and retrieve your paper which, in my case was normally covered in red check marks. Damn those check marks.
On this particular day, all was going as planned, the students were in the midst of being sufficiently embarrassed and he called my name: Mihana (which came out nothing like it should have even if he pronounced it phonetically) Sherwood: 79.5% C+. I was shocked and for a moment thrilled by my almost B, for I had never achieved a score that high in his class before, most of the students never reached beyond the 70% range, but this was feeling of bliss was short lived, for as I stumbled out towards the front of the class, he told me to “stop right there.” In the middle of the aisle, what in the world could this be about? He peered at me over his bifocals and asked me if there was anything I would like to tell the class… “Um, no, not really, is there something that I should tell the class?” Silence and a deepening stare was all the answer that abhorrent man offered me. “Um, thanks, for my C+?” “How about how you went about achieving this tremendously high grade?” “I studied, and got a tutor?” He looked at me and responded with words that I will never forget: “Since you cheated, I figured that you would have the decency to own up to it, for we all know that you are simply not smart enough to attain this kind of score.”
I started shaking, I teared up, and he mockingly asked me if I was going to cry. I told him to give me my damn test, snatched it out of his hands and ran out of the classroom. The girls bathroom seemed like a wise place to seek refuge and it was there that I went. I don’t remember how the rest of the day went, but I do remember spending the remainder of my years in middle and high school convinced that I was no good at Math.
Mr. Siehl offered me something that I have just begun to fully appreciate… He showed me that sheer determination can overcome any obstacle, even if you are simply not smart enough to really make your way through it. My experiences in College have served as proof to me that I am not what Mr. Siehl made me out to be, and that I can in fact excel in the very subject that I have feared for so long.
My father, one of the wisest people I know, suggested that I should get through Calculus, get my standard Dean’s List Certificate, and put together an article for the Surfside News in Malibu, CA sharing my story with the other people from my home town. I’m sure that Mr. Siehl is still around, for people like him never die or retire, they thrive on the hostility they generate and the lives that they try to shatter through their limited power of teaching 7th Grade Algebra. Once this article is published I would love to hand deliver a copy of it to that horrid man, maybe more like 5 or 6 copies and let him know that I have not only achieved more than he ever thought possible, but that I have done it all because of him.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Forbidden Foods
As most people know, there are certain foods which are widely enjoyed at most times in one’s life except for that fateful nine months when you’re carrying a baby in your belly. Some of these forbidden foods are easily avoided, and some others, not so much. One such food that I have had an internal struggle over lately ever since that double pink line showed up is Sushi. I LOVE Sushi, I think that Sushi is one of the best foods ever created and my mouth is watering at this very instant just with the thought of Sushi on my mind.
John and I have a tradition… Well, more like a joint addiction. We are both Sushi addicts, although we are not just any kind, any time type of people. The Sushi must be exquisite and the ingredients must be oh so fresh. Come on now, they’re raw, so it’s not like I’d be willing to take a chance with expiration dates and the like. Anyway, back to tradition, there’s no good Sushi here in Albany… I hate to say it, but it’s true. So, John and I trek down to Tallahassee about once or twice a month for the sole purpose of gorging ourselves at THE BEST SUSHI PLACE EVER: Osaka Sushi.
It takes about an hour or so for us to get down there (we drive kinda, sort really fast), for all we can talk about on our way there is how much we can’t wait to be sitting at our table and ordering our Green Monster’s and Crunchy Dragon’s; and that Ginger Salad, heavenly. We always order through the same Sushi Man, Andre, for he is by far the master of Sushi Creations (I have bestowed that title on him officially). Andre makes us gigantic rolls, stuffed full of Spicy Tuna, Shrimp Tempura, Avocado, Cream Cheese and many other divinely beautiful ingredients. The Spicy Tuna is amazing, and is on my list of forbidden foods… I kind of feel like crying right now, it almost seems that I should mourn the passing of my Spicy Tuna eating days, for they have departed from this life for at least the next six months.
Even with these restrictions, John and I decided to treat ourselves tonight to a taste of heaven, so we will be heading down towards the wonders of Andre’s creations after we go to the gym and sufficiently starve ourselves for the remainder of the day—If you’re gonna do it, you gotta do it right and go in famished. I have resigned to the fact that my Sushi eating experience may not be exactly as I love and remembered it, for it shall be minus my beloved Spicy Tuna, but I have utmost faith in Andre’s compositional abilities to maybe spice up some Cooked Crab (tear).
Regardless of if I’m sacrificing my Tuna eating abilities or not, I’m sure that the trip will be perfect and the conversation will be about the mouth watering rolls we cannot wait to devour. It will be a perfect ending to an absolutely wonderful weekend spent lounging around the house with John. Such gorgeous weather has provided ample opportunity for us to walk the kids and discuss our plan of attack for this upcoming Tallahassee trip. With that said, I’m off to change for the gym and begin my full fledged count down to the five o’clock mark when we’re headed out the door to the restaurant that dreams are made of.
John and I have a tradition… Well, more like a joint addiction. We are both Sushi addicts, although we are not just any kind, any time type of people. The Sushi must be exquisite and the ingredients must be oh so fresh. Come on now, they’re raw, so it’s not like I’d be willing to take a chance with expiration dates and the like. Anyway, back to tradition, there’s no good Sushi here in Albany… I hate to say it, but it’s true. So, John and I trek down to Tallahassee about once or twice a month for the sole purpose of gorging ourselves at THE BEST SUSHI PLACE EVER: Osaka Sushi.
It takes about an hour or so for us to get down there (we drive kinda, sort really fast), for all we can talk about on our way there is how much we can’t wait to be sitting at our table and ordering our Green Monster’s and Crunchy Dragon’s; and that Ginger Salad, heavenly. We always order through the same Sushi Man, Andre, for he is by far the master of Sushi Creations (I have bestowed that title on him officially). Andre makes us gigantic rolls, stuffed full of Spicy Tuna, Shrimp Tempura, Avocado, Cream Cheese and many other divinely beautiful ingredients. The Spicy Tuna is amazing, and is on my list of forbidden foods… I kind of feel like crying right now, it almost seems that I should mourn the passing of my Spicy Tuna eating days, for they have departed from this life for at least the next six months.
Even with these restrictions, John and I decided to treat ourselves tonight to a taste of heaven, so we will be heading down towards the wonders of Andre’s creations after we go to the gym and sufficiently starve ourselves for the remainder of the day—If you’re gonna do it, you gotta do it right and go in famished. I have resigned to the fact that my Sushi eating experience may not be exactly as I love and remembered it, for it shall be minus my beloved Spicy Tuna, but I have utmost faith in Andre’s compositional abilities to maybe spice up some Cooked Crab (tear).
Regardless of if I’m sacrificing my Tuna eating abilities or not, I’m sure that the trip will be perfect and the conversation will be about the mouth watering rolls we cannot wait to devour. It will be a perfect ending to an absolutely wonderful weekend spent lounging around the house with John. Such gorgeous weather has provided ample opportunity for us to walk the kids and discuss our plan of attack for this upcoming Tallahassee trip. With that said, I’m off to change for the gym and begin my full fledged count down to the five o’clock mark when we’re headed out the door to the restaurant that dreams are made of.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Time Heals Most Wounds
It was a little over two years ago when I finally decided that I was dead. I figured that it was much easier to continue in the day to day routine if I didn’t really have to be alive through it. I mean technically, things were still working alright… I did everything that I had to do; I just didn’t do them with any particular care one way or another. I’ve come to realize that the precise point of my transfer from life to death was when my ex-husband killed my dog, ripping the only being that I had on my side out of my hands and sending him to a place I would never see him again. Maybe that’s why it took so many bullets to put Gunther down? I guess shooting two souls at once is a little more taxing then most .45’s can handle.
I didn’t realize initially that I was no longer among the living, for I was still taking up space. I occupied quite a few jobs and maintained a definite, yet distant presence. I never thought that I would divorce; I was much too stubborn for that. I kind of wish (it would be face saving at least) that I had other reasons for my perseverance in that hellacious relationship, although I would know deep down that they were all false.
I know this because I can recollect with such intense clarity, my thoughts on a car ride home one day. It seems that I had been pondering the fact that I was indeed stuck in this relationship because of my bull-headed stupidity, but that I had glimpsed some possibility of rescue. Now, here’s where it gets kind of embarrassing; I thought that if he would just step on the accelerator a little more, maybe our car would skid off the road into the fern covered ten foot ditches on either side. I would probably be injured pretty badly (but since I’m young, I was praying that I was somewhat invincible), hopefully, accidentally (is that fair to wish for an accident?), he would be fatally injured and I would be released from my bonds.
Who does that? Who actually fantasizes about their husband’s death? I thought to myself on so many occasions: “My life would be so much easier if he would just die.” I know I’m terrible, but good lord I felt trapped. I had never been one to stand by and watch my life pass me up, yet with each faithful day; I realized that I was losing my grasp on the last strands of any possibility of redemption.
I finally ended it with him, and that monster knew exactly why… He didn’t do what most men in his situation would do and ask me “Is it another man?” Or, “Have you been thinking about this for a while?” No, he said: “This is because I shot your dog, isn’t it?” I couldn’t even bring myself to confront the question the way that Gunther rightfully deserved. I told him that there were many reasons for my departure from his life, but “yes, you murdering my best friend definitely is up there at the top of the list.” He scoffed at me. Told me that he couldn’t believe I was willing to throw away “all this” over a dog.
I must have looked slightly baffled for he attempted to clarify and attach a definition for what “all this” was, but I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, “all this” must not be all that much if it’s so insignificant as to need such clarification procedures. I left without thinking twice, for it was a decision that was made 6 months prior on a cold island in the Pacific Northwest. I knew then and there that I would no longer be able to live a life with the monster that took my soul.
I live every day, in an increasingly grateful state for I am no longer in that Hell. I think sometimes, as I’m in the car with John, that I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else, and that I never thought that my life could get so good. I don’t know how I afforded myself the misery of 6 years with my ex, but I am thankful for the lessons learned. He taught me to realize that some things can’t be fixed and that some things don’t need fixing. Those things that don’t need fixing are treasures to be loved and kept safe, for the whole world is not as lucky as I.
I didn’t realize initially that I was no longer among the living, for I was still taking up space. I occupied quite a few jobs and maintained a definite, yet distant presence. I never thought that I would divorce; I was much too stubborn for that. I kind of wish (it would be face saving at least) that I had other reasons for my perseverance in that hellacious relationship, although I would know deep down that they were all false.
I know this because I can recollect with such intense clarity, my thoughts on a car ride home one day. It seems that I had been pondering the fact that I was indeed stuck in this relationship because of my bull-headed stupidity, but that I had glimpsed some possibility of rescue. Now, here’s where it gets kind of embarrassing; I thought that if he would just step on the accelerator a little more, maybe our car would skid off the road into the fern covered ten foot ditches on either side. I would probably be injured pretty badly (but since I’m young, I was praying that I was somewhat invincible), hopefully, accidentally (is that fair to wish for an accident?), he would be fatally injured and I would be released from my bonds.
Who does that? Who actually fantasizes about their husband’s death? I thought to myself on so many occasions: “My life would be so much easier if he would just die.” I know I’m terrible, but good lord I felt trapped. I had never been one to stand by and watch my life pass me up, yet with each faithful day; I realized that I was losing my grasp on the last strands of any possibility of redemption.
I finally ended it with him, and that monster knew exactly why… He didn’t do what most men in his situation would do and ask me “Is it another man?” Or, “Have you been thinking about this for a while?” No, he said: “This is because I shot your dog, isn’t it?” I couldn’t even bring myself to confront the question the way that Gunther rightfully deserved. I told him that there were many reasons for my departure from his life, but “yes, you murdering my best friend definitely is up there at the top of the list.” He scoffed at me. Told me that he couldn’t believe I was willing to throw away “all this” over a dog.
I must have looked slightly baffled for he attempted to clarify and attach a definition for what “all this” was, but I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, “all this” must not be all that much if it’s so insignificant as to need such clarification procedures. I left without thinking twice, for it was a decision that was made 6 months prior on a cold island in the Pacific Northwest. I knew then and there that I would no longer be able to live a life with the monster that took my soul.
I live every day, in an increasingly grateful state for I am no longer in that Hell. I think sometimes, as I’m in the car with John, that I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else, and that I never thought that my life could get so good. I don’t know how I afforded myself the misery of 6 years with my ex, but I am thankful for the lessons learned. He taught me to realize that some things can’t be fixed and that some things don’t need fixing. Those things that don’t need fixing are treasures to be loved and kept safe, for the whole world is not as lucky as I.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Hormones
I’ve been dreading the onset of the “evil hormonal mood swings” that are to accompany all pregnant women and turn them into the monstrous, fire breathing harbingers of ill will and antagonistic creatures fabled in the forums and many pregnancy texts available. I have been working steadfastly on keeping a wary eye out for any “irrational flares of emotional behavior,” but this has proven to be quite a challenge. Keeping an eye on oneself is damn near impossible and absolutely exhausting, especially when it has become apparent that even if such inner intuitive prophecies of hormonal outrage begin to manifest I have about as much chance as the proverbial snowball in hell to stop them.
With that said, I must give a textual pat on the back to John, for he has been such a tremendous sport. He insists that I have not yet transformed into that crazed hormone-ridden beast, but I have instead remained rather calm and collected…. I think he’s lying. I theorize that he must be tapping into some great inner well of tranquility (which I was unaware existed in men, especially Italian ones), and clinging to the sides of the well in desperate hopes that such peace may be contagious.
He has struggled through my “moments” of irrationality, always finding a semi-graceful (albeit superbly graceful for a man), method of calming me. His last dazzling show at appeasing the demon followed a brief yet rather unexpected outburst on my part about being overwhelmed. Now, I have to justify a bit for both of us. I’m in school full time, and working part time, and John works full time in a high stress environment. I was frustrated because I simply cannot manage to clean the house from top to bottom every day, do all the laundry, wash the dogs, and get all my homework done on a daily basis. Some women can, I don’t know how, but I can’t.
So, I came home from school at 10PM Tuesday night to find that John had left for work and there were a number of dishes in the sink, as well as a pile of laundry that could have been folded and the house was kind of disheveled and my back hurt, and I was tired, and I was cranky, and John had gone to work so I had no one to complain to, so I did what all irrational women do: I got mad that John couldn’t read my mind and know that it would have been really helpful if he had done one or two things while I was at school.
Mind you, many things had in fact been accomplished; just not the things that I had hoped would miraculously have been taken care of during my 12 hour day. The next day, I unceremoniously brought it to John’s attention that I was in need of more of his help. He kind of wavered a bit on the subject thus opening the door for my full fire breathing activities to commence. I lost it, and in the midst of losing it realized with crystalline clarity that I was indeed allowing those godforsaken hormones to carry me off on this wild ride. All of my efforts at introspection were paying off incredibly well, for I was fully aware of the situation, but, much like President Bush, I didn’t have a withdrawal plan. Yes, I was fully engaged in the war, aware that things were not going so hot and feeling unequivocally stuck in my current situation.
John pulled one of those mystical band-aids out of his hat and soothed me, all the while looking at me with a somewhat confused and befuddled look, promising that he would do better. I don’t know how I managed to land such a good guy, but he rewarded my tirade with treating me like a princess for the following two days, coincidentally his two days off. He rushed to help me with the laundry, Cloroxed the kitchen floor, emptied the dishwasher not once, but twice, and put the dirty dishes in it, pulled out a heating pad for me when my back hurt, and asked me continually if there was anything else that he could do.
Yeah, I felt like a monster. I can’t believe that I could blow up at someone so perfect, but what the hell, he loves me anyway. Today at breakfast we were talking about what is going on with my pregnancy and all of the developmental things that are happening at the moment. Hormones were mentioned briefly, and with the charming smile that I fell in love with oh so quickly, he informed me that I had been an angel, and of course my hormones hadn’t gotten the better of me.
With that said, I must give a textual pat on the back to John, for he has been such a tremendous sport. He insists that I have not yet transformed into that crazed hormone-ridden beast, but I have instead remained rather calm and collected…. I think he’s lying. I theorize that he must be tapping into some great inner well of tranquility (which I was unaware existed in men, especially Italian ones), and clinging to the sides of the well in desperate hopes that such peace may be contagious.
He has struggled through my “moments” of irrationality, always finding a semi-graceful (albeit superbly graceful for a man), method of calming me. His last dazzling show at appeasing the demon followed a brief yet rather unexpected outburst on my part about being overwhelmed. Now, I have to justify a bit for both of us. I’m in school full time, and working part time, and John works full time in a high stress environment. I was frustrated because I simply cannot manage to clean the house from top to bottom every day, do all the laundry, wash the dogs, and get all my homework done on a daily basis. Some women can, I don’t know how, but I can’t.
So, I came home from school at 10PM Tuesday night to find that John had left for work and there were a number of dishes in the sink, as well as a pile of laundry that could have been folded and the house was kind of disheveled and my back hurt, and I was tired, and I was cranky, and John had gone to work so I had no one to complain to, so I did what all irrational women do: I got mad that John couldn’t read my mind and know that it would have been really helpful if he had done one or two things while I was at school.
Mind you, many things had in fact been accomplished; just not the things that I had hoped would miraculously have been taken care of during my 12 hour day. The next day, I unceremoniously brought it to John’s attention that I was in need of more of his help. He kind of wavered a bit on the subject thus opening the door for my full fire breathing activities to commence. I lost it, and in the midst of losing it realized with crystalline clarity that I was indeed allowing those godforsaken hormones to carry me off on this wild ride. All of my efforts at introspection were paying off incredibly well, for I was fully aware of the situation, but, much like President Bush, I didn’t have a withdrawal plan. Yes, I was fully engaged in the war, aware that things were not going so hot and feeling unequivocally stuck in my current situation.
John pulled one of those mystical band-aids out of his hat and soothed me, all the while looking at me with a somewhat confused and befuddled look, promising that he would do better. I don’t know how I managed to land such a good guy, but he rewarded my tirade with treating me like a princess for the following two days, coincidentally his two days off. He rushed to help me with the laundry, Cloroxed the kitchen floor, emptied the dishwasher not once, but twice, and put the dirty dishes in it, pulled out a heating pad for me when my back hurt, and asked me continually if there was anything else that he could do.
Yeah, I felt like a monster. I can’t believe that I could blow up at someone so perfect, but what the hell, he loves me anyway. Today at breakfast we were talking about what is going on with my pregnancy and all of the developmental things that are happening at the moment. Hormones were mentioned briefly, and with the charming smile that I fell in love with oh so quickly, he informed me that I had been an angel, and of course my hormones hadn’t gotten the better of me.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Procrastination
I do a lot of things well, but I'd have to say that procrastinating is one of my talents that I believe truly trumps all the rest. I am so amazingly adept at this that I have yet to come across anyone who can muster quite the level of enthusiasm for the sport as I can. I don't mean to toot my own horn (or maybe I do) but when you're good at something it's best to just come right out and let everyone know... "Hey, here's something I do well."
I'm currently attempting to graciously accept this gift that has been bestowed upon me. It has been a long hard road, but somehow I have finally come to the realization that I simply cannot fight it anymore. After years and years of New Year's resolutions where I solemnly swore to myself (normally on Jan 3rd or 4th, because I had other things to do at the moment so I had to put off making my resolutions till later), that I would not put off for tomorrow what can be done today. I spent much of my time in these earlier years attempting to develop a plan for handling things as they came up, but somehow I always ended up delayed.
I think one of my most ingenious methods of disguising my problem to the world was the extensive schedule overload I participated in. I made sure that my schedule was so full that I always had an excuse as to why I've put something off, for I must have been busy doing something else at the time when I really should have been doing what I was so surreptitiously avoiding. eh, eh? Genius!
Of course I have fallen back on many of the tried and true methods of procrastination cloaking activities... These are much more familiar to most novice practicers. They include the infamous getting really angry when someone else notices that you have not sufficiently covered up your procrastinationalistic (yeah I made it up gimme a break) lifestyle, and delivering a full verbal assault to the offending individual. Much like spraying a noxious skunk like odor at them and fleeing the other way while they gasp for air. Primitive, yet very effective.
My skills of psychological and verbal manipulation were greatly improved during my tenure as a covert procrastinator. You see, I could make someone else believe that it was not only a good thing that I hadn't completed the task I should have, but also something that had a preconceived, perfectly clear, understandable reason behind the untimely un-fullfillment of my obligations.
Of course there are many other unmentioned methods out there, and I, being the veteran that I am, have probably applied all of them at least once to various events or deadlines in my life. So with that said, I leave you with the inside scoop... I am a procrastinator, a damn good one, and I have completely given up on changing it. I'm resigning to the fact that I will always stress myself out over deadlines because I will never attempt to finish things early and I'm accepting that I must acknowledge my talents for at least I'm good, no really good at something.
I'm currently attempting to graciously accept this gift that has been bestowed upon me. It has been a long hard road, but somehow I have finally come to the realization that I simply cannot fight it anymore. After years and years of New Year's resolutions where I solemnly swore to myself (normally on Jan 3rd or 4th, because I had other things to do at the moment so I had to put off making my resolutions till later), that I would not put off for tomorrow what can be done today. I spent much of my time in these earlier years attempting to develop a plan for handling things as they came up, but somehow I always ended up delayed.
I think one of my most ingenious methods of disguising my problem to the world was the extensive schedule overload I participated in. I made sure that my schedule was so full that I always had an excuse as to why I've put something off, for I must have been busy doing something else at the time when I really should have been doing what I was so surreptitiously avoiding. eh, eh? Genius!
Of course I have fallen back on many of the tried and true methods of procrastination cloaking activities... These are much more familiar to most novice practicers. They include the infamous getting really angry when someone else notices that you have not sufficiently covered up your procrastinationalistic (yeah I made it up gimme a break) lifestyle, and delivering a full verbal assault to the offending individual. Much like spraying a noxious skunk like odor at them and fleeing the other way while they gasp for air. Primitive, yet very effective.
My skills of psychological and verbal manipulation were greatly improved during my tenure as a covert procrastinator. You see, I could make someone else believe that it was not only a good thing that I hadn't completed the task I should have, but also something that had a preconceived, perfectly clear, understandable reason behind the untimely un-fullfillment of my obligations.
Of course there are many other unmentioned methods out there, and I, being the veteran that I am, have probably applied all of them at least once to various events or deadlines in my life. So with that said, I leave you with the inside scoop... I am a procrastinator, a damn good one, and I have completely given up on changing it. I'm resigning to the fact that I will always stress myself out over deadlines because I will never attempt to finish things early and I'm accepting that I must acknowledge my talents for at least I'm good, no really good at something.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
