Honoring Friends

With all the negativity circulating social media and most often in my morning news feed, I made a couple of self-preservation decisions. One was to start my morning with coffee and my journal. In other words, I don’t start my day reading the stuff that gets my blood pumping. I’m journaling “almost” regularly now, like I used to, since 1987. The current journal’s (numbered #38) opening date is August 23, 2013. That’s over three years ago! Which at one time would  have been unheard of.

I’ve also begun writing what I’ll call a “long piece,” because I’m not ready to call it a novel yet. So far, I have 15 pages and 7500 words. Which doesn’t sound like much, but it’s an accomplishment for me to actually DO it. I have so many ideas that I bounce back and forth between this one and that – which do I want to write? So I can now say I’m committed to writing this one.

I met the sweetest woman at the restaurant about a month ago who told me she keeps a Gratitude journal. Every day she writes in this journal, about something she is grateful for. I thought, what a wonderful idea! So positive, so enlightening, so powerful. We ALL need more of this, especially now. I decided that I wanted to keep one too, but couldn’t decide whether to include it in my current journal or keep a separate one just for gratitude, and then I thought that perhaps there would be times they’d overlap and then it would be like writing twice, and who has time for that? Plus, I could be in danger of creating my own version of the Golden Notebook and I already have enough anxiety.

Anyway, back to social media. I started what I’m calling an Honoring Friends Initiative. Every day I choose a friend to honor. So, in essence, it’s very much a gratitude-type of journal, only it’s public.

I’m 8 days into what I limited to a 30-day initiative. It’s been easy so far, with the exception of locating a suitable photo with both of us in it. I clarified that it was random, so that the order in which I introduced each of them wasn’t a declaration of their order of importance to me – which I suspected could easily be misinterpreted.

What I’ve noticed so far, on this eighth day, is that if I had to get married all over again, traditional wedding and all – I would want every one of them to stand up with me.

These eight women are comprised of a friend who traveled with my family to Greece when we were 14, another dear friend I met at the bus stop who 30 years later is still one of my closest, my oldest friend I’ve known for all (but 5 months) of my 47 years, a best friend with whom I shared all the ups and downs of adolescence, my pledge sister from my first college, another long-time friend and maid-of-honor (the first time around), my roommate at NYU, and still another long-time friend who’s been there since the 6th grade.

They are all special in their own ways, they have all been “best friends” with whom I have collectively shared laughter and tears, sarcasm, arguments, hugs, secrets, sleepovers and concerts, late nights, hangovers, vacations and silly adventures, broken hearts and weddings, and most of all – unwavering friendship in spite of our absences.

What is life without friendships? They are all valuable, for they are all different. I want to thank those eight ladies for their friendship and love, in spite of me.

My friends have made the story of my life…. turned my limitations into beautiful privileges, and enabled me to walk serene and happy. ~ Helen Keller

 

 

 

 

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Three Times I’ve Felt Blessed

When I really, really knew. I’m talking profound, existential moments.

The first time it hit me, really hit me, I was on a flight home from Santa Barbara. I’d been in California visiting a long-time, on again-off again boyfriend. What was different about this trip, as opposed to a handful of others to San Diego and Laguna, was that this time I fell in love with California. Santa Barbara – its intimately small airport, State Street with its farmer’s market full of vibrant locally grown produce, the little Greek deli’s spanakopita, the flea market/mall filled with old treasures, the Mission and the beautiful rose garden, the State Street Theater, Earthling bookstore, the magnificent cliffs overlooking the Pacific, two old men painting landscapes on the beach. I spent a great deal of time driving and exploring by myself, and the independence I felt brought me back to those solitary New York days where I was discovering who I was.

I got on the plane that last day and felt not melancholy, but … at peace. I’ve never been afraid to fly. I’ve always loved the rush of the jet lifting off, and again when the wheels skidded to a halt on the runway. And, as the plane lifted off and the California landscape grew smaller and smaller, I thought to myself, how wonderful. If this plane never lands again, if I don’t survive this flight, it will be okay, because I. Am. Blessed. I am happy.

The second, profound, time, on a day I can’t exactly recall, I realized again. Blessed to have extricated myself from a painful situation and I knew that God stood beside me as I walked in the light again. My friends stood beside me, they offered prayers and encouraging words, and I was blessed. And I was blessed to have Todd back. I was blessed during this time that he loved me still, and he stood beside me during the worst of the battles I needed to walk through. The revelation and remembrance that I was blessed is what got me through my darkest days.

This morning. After waking up on the couch at 4 o’clock in the morning, alone, with the cat sleeping on top of me and the dog nearby in her bed and the candles still burning on the coffee table… I crawled back to the bedroom where my husband lay sleeping. I woke again 3 hours later, and snuggled up beside him, his hand massaging the pain out of my arm and we spoke the silent language of long-time lovers and friends and I stroked his brown and gray-stubbled cheek, admiring the curve of his nose and the softness of the lips I’ve known for a lifetime. And I felt Blessed.

For I am and have always been blessed. Not more than anyone else deserves to be, but I recognize it – and inside the walls of my soul, no one and nothing can take that away.

I Met Elvis at the Grocery Store

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This is me.

Saturday Todd and I ventured out to the Happiest Place on Earth – Home Depot. We needed spackling paste and I wanted to buy paint for the guest room, which I ended up not being able to decide on because there’s 50 shades of the color I like. I stood in front of the paint chips display feeling dizzy, and just started grabbing cards like a 3-year-old. And I was giddy as a 3-year-old too.

The place was crawling with orange-aproned people who were so damn happy to see us I was beginning to wonder if we’d fallen through a worm hole and this was Disney in disguise. I swallowed the pill that morning that slows my internal world down from rabbit to the Zootopia sloth, and I was strolling the aisles clutching Todd’s arm while he commandeered the shopping cart – because we can’t go anywhere without pushing a giant shopping cart – and smiling like a bride on her wedding day.

Every single Home Depot employee greeted us at every turn with a huge smile and a hello and a how-are-you? Which began to feel enormously funny to me and then suddenly I was smiling stupidly at everyone and everything. It was like the whole place was infused with laughing gas and they let me, and only me, in on the secret. Because Todd wasn’t laughing. His mind works at a mind-numbing pace so that he is constantly thinking about this thing and that, what he’s doing later, or on Tuesday, or next weekend, or what programming changes need to be made, or home projects, or whether to buy a new Mustang or a pickup truck because he’s sick to death of being without something to lug big stuff around. If I had to live one second inside his brain, I’d probably spontaneously combust.

Anyway. We strolled the aisles together and then I’d wander off to see something or other. We have many plans for the house so much of the tour is about pricing and planning. And as I wandered slowly alone, another employee would smile and say Hello! Some of them greeted me twice, which was really funny. One of them was pushing a giant I-don’t-know-what-you-call-it full of merchandise and miscalculated the turn and slammed into a pole in the aisle next to us, and he started laughing then so I was enormously grateful that I didn’t have to suppress my own laughter. I was sniggling to myself for over an hour in this place.

Finally, Todd took me out of there clutching my handful of paint chips and a package of Reese’s peanut butter cups – and we continued on our journey. We stopped at the liquor store to shop for wine and he loves me. He bought me a new bottle of my favorite vodka, which I’m not going to name so you don’t try to take it when you come to my house, and I was so excited because it came with two crystal skull glasses.

Last stop on the most awesome Date Day ever was the grocery store. Because, food. We just had a few staples to pick up, but Todd grabbed the big cart because, I guess, he’s a man. I don’t get to push the cart, and I’m glad because it lets me be the free spirit I am and wander aimlessly away from him while he “shops.” Seriously, this man can shop. He will stop and look at everything. All you ladies out there whose husbands hate to shop – eat your heart out. You will never see mine sitting alone on one of those plush chairs in department stores trying to blend in with the scenery.

So we’re in the grocery store planning dinner when my appetite was ruined by two girls walking past us, one of whom took her hand away from her mouth just in time for the vomit to escape to the floor in the seafood department. While I was grateful of the reminder that I’m not cut out to be a nurse, I was appalled that they kept going and told no one. So, of course I told someone, and continued through the store feeling nauseated, which is a good thing because that made me think of soda and so I turned the corner of the soda aisle and walked right into Elvis.

Which, if you don’t know by now, was THE highlight of my day. And I know what you’re thinking and NO, I was not hallucinating. He was in disguise though, in regular street clothes, but the sideburns gave him away. I stopped dead (no pun intended, really), not really sure what to do, and Todd goes and says hello to him! And he says hello back and says something totally un-Elvis, like hey man, how ya doin’? And then Todd asks him when he’s appearing again and he doesn’t know, man, since the casino is renovating the bar/restaurant and it’s not supposed to be done til March and it’s under new management and he’s not even sure IF they’ll have him back. I’m like, WHAT?! That’s just wrong. Elvis has a huge following, and the casino will have a riot on their hands if they don’t have him back. I’ll start the petition.

And all this totally happened, because WE have Elvis in OUR town. He lives here. Except he goes by an alias, so we kept it on the downlow when we parted – Todd, Tara, and Ted.

6 Things They Say We Gotta Do, Todd!

Well, Todd, here we go again. It must be couples awareness month, because the articles are trickling in on how to be better at it. (Not that I think we need to be better at it, ‘cause I think we’re rocking the heart stuff, but … play along.)

This one came from a site called Warm Fuzzies, and it’s titled 6 Things You and Your Spouse Should Try This Year!

Create a Marriage Vision Board. What the hell is that, you ask? Well, think collage, but here couples glue shit they want to do and shit they want out of their marriage together, so they can visualize their dreams and make them reality. Who has time for that?! How about pay the bills, keep the kids alive, and maybe retire before we die? Are there pics for that in magazines? Seriously though, I have a good feeling ours would feature two more Mustangs, another cat, a pool, Scotland, a router saw, a child-free vacation to Disney, and a million dollars.

Try out a new hotel in your city. What city are we talking about here? Cause in our town, we’re talking about the truck stop/hotel off of I-95. There IS something romantic and sexy about staying in a hotel, I agree, but not if it includes bed bugs and hookers. For the record, we have considered a night out and overnight in Baltimore, but it seems impractical when we could drive home in 40 minutes or stay at my in-laws. And believe me – there’s nothing romantic and sexy about sleeping in your in-laws’ guest room.

Take an exercise class together. Ha! Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Like THAT’S going to happen. They said that “there’s probably one of you who likes to exercise more than the other.” Um, which one of us would that be? Nevertheless, we biked together over the summer a few times and it was wonderful, so I’d have to say it’s highly recommended. Meanwhile, we have added a treadmill to our newly established weight room and it’s getting plenty of use, albeit at differing times. I guess we still have accountability, though.

Go someplace you’ve never been to before. Yes! Always on my radar, but not always able to. I’d like to say we just get in the car and go, but we’ve had some weekend trips for state bowling tourneys that took us to Erie and Pittsburgh that were reasonably fun and places that wouldn’t be first pick for a destination. But we made the most out of them that we could. The article suggests making a list of 5-7 places to go, and creating a savings to make that happen. I’d say that’s good advice. I wonder if they’re also supposed to be pictured on that Vision Board?

Get more creative in the bedroom. I suppose there’s a lot I could say here, like perhaps we should revisit the back wall of Spencer’s, but Todd is very private and plus my dad reads my blog and so do my in-laws. I prefer to keep my blog PG-14.

Reenact your first date. I really like this idea. That is, if either one of us could remember the actual first date 30 years ago. I suppose we could pretend. Or, reenact any of those dates that followed. But then I couldn’t write about them because they may cross the limits of PG-14 (sorry moms and dads). So, that leaves us with our first meeting as grownups reunited – which was pretty exciting – or perhaps the second time when you grabbed me and kissed me full on. Or maybe the birthday date, with a wonderful dinner and the most thoughtful gifts a man ever gave me. Yeah – let’s do THAT one again.

If you have time, click on the link above – as I want to give full credit to the original article. And while you’re at it, scroll down to the exercise picture and I ask you to envision you and your spouse doing that. Because I want to try this with Todd, just for shits and giggles. If nothing less than a fart or two. Because THIS would be hilarious.

What are your plans with your spouse this year?

The Grilled Cheese Incident

Yesterday a man in Baltimore County got pissed off at his wife for taking a bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich, went into his basement where he kept 15 guns (four of them loaded), and began firing shots at her through the ceiling to the kitchen where she was standing. She fled the house with their three teenagers and no one was harmed. A three-hour standoff ended with him, wearing a holster loaded with ammunition, surrendering to police.

While it sounds funny – thanks to the media who trivialized the incident on Facebook as “The Grilled Cheese Standoff” and in the Baltimore Sun as a “grilled cheese dispute” – there is nothing funny about this. Someone, or several, could have died. The man wasn’t legally allowed to own guns due to previous assault convictions. There is no further information yet as to whether the man is mentally ill or, perhaps, a veteran suffering from PTSD.

We’ve all seen the news recently. Another deadly shooting, this time in the Ft. Lauderdale airport that left me weeping on my couch late Friday night and feeling fearful of ever setting foot in an airport again. The shootings that make the big news are always the ones that seem so random or, lately, those claimed by ISIS. Gun control is a huge issue in this divided country and it’s easy to see why. I believe we have the right to bear arms, but I also think it’s vital to screen individuals who seek gun ownership, particularly in an America that appears to be backsliding into Wild West mentality. I want the right to bear arms, but who in hell needs an AK-47?

Is the grilled cheese evidence of domestic violence, or does it point to a larger problem? Veterans aren’t often getting the help they need, after returning from service in war-torn countries. And even when they do reach out for help – are they getting it?? It seems our fellow in Florida did not. Is the grilled cheese a symbol of our community’s failure to help someone who is crying out for help?

Meanwhile, I contemplated writing this post with a bit of dark humor – that if I were even slightly mental I might have enacted a Dirty Sock Standoff in my own home, albeit with a Nerf gun, or a Supersoaker. Because I’m sick to death of seeing dirty socks lying around the house. Or, dirty clothes littering bedrooms and making it hazardous to enter. One more unmedicated day of tripping over a shoe and I might just have to blow the house up. But I do have a sense of humor that is just risky enough to go to the local pet store and adopt three kittens, because I can.

Lucky for everyone, I AM currently medicated and of sound mind (body notwithstanding) and so I just move through waves of pissed-offedness and get over it. Sometimes I will remind the offenders, other times I find myself thinking snarky things to myself. Still others, I just pick up the socks and forget about it. It’s my lot in life, I suppose.

However, another individual who is a few chicken nuggets short of a Happy Meal might one day decide to carpe diem all those dirty dishes no one could see fit to put in the dishwasher and the next thing you know, their house is on the evening news via helicopter and the whole neighborhood is wondering who lost their shit today. It sounds funny, doesn’t it?

But there’s nothing funny about mental illness. And we need to stop stigmatizing it and brushing it under the nearest rug because it makes us uncomfortable. It needs to be open, front and center. People need to be able to say, I have anxiety and it makes my heart race and I don’t know why, but it scares me. They need to be able to say, I can’t think straight and it scares me. They need to be able to say, I’m afraid to leave my house. They need to be able to say, I don’t want to live anymore. They need to be able to say, my children make me feel violent sometimes. They need to be able to say, I have dreams about the war and people dying in front of me. They need to be met with compassion and direction about how to get the help they deserve, without judgement. Imagine how many lives could be saved.

It’s not funny when post-partum mothers drive their cars into lakes with their children strapped inside. It’s not funny when a friend kills himself because he can’t cope with his chronic illness anymore. It’s not funny when a service member is traumatized by horrors in countries we only read about, and they return home to cope with it alone.

What can we do? What can YOU do?

 

In Mysterious Ways

It’s been a difficult couple of days. Without too many details, I haven’t been feeling well and it’s not contagious and I need to call a doctor this morning. And, like the icing on the proverbial cake, my anxiety is off the charts. Watching real-time television is not recommended during these times.

Last weekend we had snow, nothing debilitating but roads were covered and slippery and I wasn’t feeling well and, as I said before, my anxiety had reached the moon. Veruca was supposed to go to her dad’s and so he came down and picked her up, which was very nice and I’m grateful.

So I pulled myself together and drove up to get her last night, driving the usual route through countryside shared with Amish folks. I learned several years ago on a field trip to The Amish Farm that Sundays alternate between church days and visiting days. Church days are great because there are few buggys on the road in the evening. Visiting days, however, are quite the opposite. I always forget which weekend it is.

I came up upon three cars driving 30 mph in a 45, behind a buggy making a left turn. Usually drivers speed up after passing the buggy, but last night the front car continued to drive like there was a foot of snow on the road. I soon found myself driving 20 mph with no buggy in sight and cursing a blue streak at people who shouldn’t be on the roads if they’re afraid of a few snow drifts.

I jumped around radio stations, mistakenly tuning into CNN where the topic was over the cabinet picks’ upcoming hearings and how none of them have turned in their paperwork yet, and some GOP dude was accusing the Dems of throwing shade once again at the Republican party and being sore losers. Bullshit! I changed the channel to Broadway and sang along to Hopelessly Devoted at the top of my lungs, and felt a little better.

By the time I arrived at my ex’s house I was listening to Joel Osteen, who preached about not letting anything steal your joy – for example, when a driver pulls out in front of you and you want to just yell at them and wave your fist? Let it go. Don’t let that steal your joy. Well, wasn’t that apropos?

Veruca gets into the car and we’re not more than half a block away when she tells me this really terrible story that she read in the news. I asked her how she heard about this story and where, because it gave me goosebumps. A woman came home from work one night where she was a bartender, got into an argument with her husband who pushed her down the stairs, and she died. V thought it was so sad and terrible. The man is in jail and the two small children are now with their grandparents. She reiterated her thoughts about it and asked me, isn’t that just so sad. I was stunned.

Stunned, because it bears a remarkable resemblance to another story I’ve heard, except the woman’s fall was broken by a gate at the top of the stairs and so she never fell down and died. But had the gate not been there… I might be telling a very different story.

So Joel Osteen was still on, and the sermon he was now giving was titled, I’m Still Standing. That we all go through difficulties, but God is in charge and we will not be defeated. That divorce or bad break should’ve broken you, or that addiction, or partying lifestyle should’ve killed you – but look: You’re still standing.

And suddenly it had all come together for me in a supernatural way. “You may have been knocked down, but you’re not going to stay down…

JOEL: You may be in a difficult time right now, you need to look back and remember what God has done for you. Remember how He’s made a way when you didn’t see a way. Remember how He opened doors that should have never opened. Remember how He put you at the right place at the right time, promoted you, healed you, restored you. If He did it for you once, He can do it for you again….. when the storm is over, when the trouble has passed, when the opposition has ceased, one thing you can count on – You’ll still be standing.

Know that God brought you through the past, and will get you through the future.

A lovely reminder from above, an affirmation.

2016 – A Year in Review

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Todd and I finally got our vacation! We took several days at the beach and had a wonderful time.

Veruca finished her last year in elementary school and began her middle school career. Much to my surprise, she returned to Cheer again last fall. After struggling for the last two years like a small boat in a perfect storm, her academic performance this school year is off the charts. I couldn’t be more proud. She seems to be taking school a lot more seriously, even as the social scene takes off. She made new friends this year, notably two other Type 1 girls, who fully embraced her even though she doesn’t want to be a part of the all-diabetes, all-the-time, channel.

My baby boy began his 10th grade year starting in football, and moved around a bit until he found his success in defense. I was thrilled to hear his name announced during games, and more thrilled that he finished the season unscathed. He also turned 16, and I marveled at how quickly that happened. He doesn’t have his permit or a girlfriend yet, and I’m not bringing any of that up. He made distinguished honors in an all-honors curriculum, during a busy football season.

I am still working in the restaurant business. It’s not quite a fate worse than death but, after resisting the reality for the last 30 years that I’m actually good at it, I accepted the fact that I might never fully escape. At least until Mom retires. Meanwhile, I took on grant writing and research with the college and have met some amazing people.

I paid off my legal fees. That is all.

I watched with a slowly dwindling sense of humor the course of the presidential election. I got sucked into a handful of volatile FB posts and watched friends and family slinging mud and calling names. I was unfriended by someone who I’m convinced is either completely delusional or an alcoholic, or both. It really bothered me, as these things do, but in retrospect I’ll defer to her oft-used quote that the trash took itself out. This was a year for removing offensive people from my friends list.

I didn’t fulfill my JDRF Ride plan, but I did attend the gala in April and continued to volunteer my help to the new School Management of Diabetes Guidelines for Maryland, which took more time to complete than anticipated. I believe these guidelines are set to roll out very shortly. We also had our annual fundraiser at the restaurant in September, topping our donations from the prior year. The art show didn’t receive the attention it required to be a success and so was scrapped in the eleventh hour.

We had my in-laws’ 50th wedding anniversary party in our backyard on a picture-perfect day in June. The catering came from the restaurant and the music by Mr. Entertainment, Bobby Newton. It was a beautiful event that I wasn’t the slightest bit nervous about, but the professional in me saw flaws in the execution that made me nuts (which I’m sure no one else noticed). My mother-in-law looked stunning in the most beautiful dress and was every bit the happy bride all day, which made all the hard work worth every minute.

2016 was a banner Exit year for far too many big-time celebrities. Sadly, David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Glenn Frey, Harper Lee, Nancy Reagan, Garry Shandling, Patty Duke, Merle Haggard, Doris Roberts, Afeni Shakur Davis, Muhammad Ali, Anton Yelchin, Buddy Ryan, Elie Weisel, Garry Marshall, Kenny Baker, Gene Wilder, Florence Henderson, Fidel Castro, Alan Thicke, Zsa Zsa Gabor, George Michael, Carrie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds, William Christopher (MASH’s Father Mulcahy). I left some out.

And then there was Prince. I am still reeling from the shock. Veruca was playing music from our MP3 list last night and she put on Purple Rain “for you,” she said. And it made me cry. A friend of mine posted on FB a week ago, “my youth died in 2016.”

The biggest personal loss of 2016 was Pi. She would have been 16 on December 17th this year, but she left us in August. She was a great dog. Sabra, meanwhile, took nearly two months to recover from this loss, but today she is back to her old self – a super sweetheart who knows her special place in our house.

My ex got remarried. She’s lovely, and I’m genuinely happy for him. Really.

Finally, in a heart-stopping, breathtaking, shocking, offensive, almost laughable, seemingly impossible presidential win… Donald Trump takes home the prize. What becomes of the U.S. and our democracy, is anyone’s guess… and there are more than a handful of outspoken #notmypresident folks who are waiting for a miracle.

But the good news is, Betty White is still alive and we have a roof over our heads and food on the table. I worked on the last night of the year, as I always do, and rang in the New Year with my man and one of my very best friends, hugged about 20 people, and nearly peed myself with helium-infused songs.

So here’s to 2017… may it be full of surprises and re-affirmations.

 

 

 

 

 

Three Days In, and I’m Stabby

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I had planned a nice New Year post or two – you know, reflecting on 2016 and then looking ahead to 2017 and possible resolutions. But, it happened again… PMS rolled in like that relative everybody hates to spend the holidays with and now I’m p-o’d and blocked.

It all started Saturday morning. Or, maybe it was the day before when the pets reminded me that vacations mean nothing to them. But I recovered from that and went on to enjoy a Christmas party with the bowling league that was filled with entertainment for all the senses. It had everything – good food, juicy gossip, drive-by smooches (don’t ask), shots, hilarious stories, … oh yeah, and Todd was throwing strikes. Chocolate Cake shots, by the way, do not taste like chocolate cake. I haven’t been drinking lately, so when one friend ordered the next shot – Duck Farts – and I asked what the hell it was, I knew it was going to be a long car ride home.

So, it really all started Saturday morning. Todd had scheduled an appointment with our solar guy to talk about adding more solar to our existing panels. I knew the house was less than – okay, I knew it wasn’t clean – but I figured they’d sit at the dining room table and so Jim Kirk (I swear to GOD) wouldn’t have to go where no man has gone in three days. I was wrong.

I went to the kitchen for coffee and heard them in the living room. And I saw a dirty pair of socks lying on the kitchen floor that’d be hard to miss on one’s way to the living room. Next to the table covered with the aftermath of our get-together with my dad, stepmom and brother three days before. And the kitchen counters littered with debris and dirty dishes piled in the sink. And I knew that the living room wasn’t much better, between a carpet that had grown its own pet hair and the bed pillows and blanket tossed carelessly aside from the morning before. AND… the Christmas tree wasn’t lit. Why the HELL hadn’t Todd at least thought to light the damn tree? It stood, wilting in its darkened corner, just four feet away from where they were sitting like the fucking grim reaper.  Oh yeah, and my pot of herbs I’d brought inside that looks more like a bucket of weeds I keep forgetting to water, than the succulent herbs they once were. I was mortified. MORTIFIED. And, not a little PISSED.

Jim, for his part, seemed unaffected by the ambience. He’s probably seen worse, but I didn’t want MY house to rank up there with them. Todd told me it wasn’t a big deal. He doesn’t worry about stuff like this, which is infuriatingly both a good thing and a mortal flaw.

PMS also takes me down the road of intolerance, which seems to have hit an all-time high this year. I know it’s only the third day. But this isn’t a safe way to start a new year. At least not for the bystanders.

There’s a very fine line between charity and taking advantage. I’m standing on the precipice of intolerance for what I feel has all the appearances of taking advantage. When one has clearly defined expectations and boundaries – no matter whether those are ignored, overlooked, or forgotten – I’m not very tolerant when things begin to look very different. So, I’m going through this again. It’s an opportunity to reevaluate what we wanted in the first place and how to get back to the original plan.

Meanwhile, I’m sweating the little stuff. Something happened recently, whether by ignorance or intention, that was a clear exclusion of Me. My first reaction was, oh. Quickly followed by thoughts that instantly reminded me that my stepmom wouldn’t have missed this slight, and I know she’d never let us hear the end of it. Sidenote: my stepmom is an exceptional woman I spent my early twenties silently judging only to learn and fully understand (read: eat my words) many of those things as I moved into adulthood, and I have nothing but the utmost love and respect for her.

Anyway, I journaled it and now cryptically posted it here just to annoy you. Because misery loves company. Because I’m annoyed that the tent rental company who provided us the tent for my in-laws’ 50th anniversary party sent out a generic email thanking me for my business and… we value you, blah blah blah, and we’re following up to see if  you’re planning a similar event this year and to lock in last year’s prices now, blah blah… and I’m thinking, how many 50th anniversary parties do you think we have? I know, picky picky. That’s what PMS does to you, people.

Which is why we shouldn’t go out in public for two weeks every month. Because today I took Veruca to a dermatologist and the dude seriously thought I was there for the bags under her eyes. Yes, she has bags under her eyes – she’s been on vacation for 10 days and hasn’t been to bed before 11 o’clock since Christmas Eve. BUT. That is not why we were there, and I had to correct him and then insist he take a closer look. Anyway, he confirmed what we thought it was. But it took all I had not to start spitting and snarling at this so-called professional. So not safe for him.

Everywhere else I went today, everyone was off their game. Everyone. I felt like I was surrounded by aliens impersonating humans. Badly. And they’d look at me with their weird eyes, trying to see if I knew.