Starting with: ending my title with a preposition 😛

I finally realized that if I kept waiting around for some kind of Comedy Masterpiece to suddenly drop into my brain, that I would never start writing here again. So I decided to just pick something and start writing, and this seemed like as good a jumping off point as any.

1. My Surgery Story. Back when I started to recover after my surgery, I was all inspired to write about it. And I actually did produce a post or two that started to tell the story. But then I stopped-and I don’t know why. I guess I just wasn’t feeling it anymore. So I therefore grant myself permission to never ever have to finish writing the story of my surgery. I grant myself permission to Declare It Done, exactly the way it is right now. Amen.

2. Cranky Fibro Girl’s Twitter Chat Transcript. Back in the summer Cranky Fibro Girl and I did a live chat on Twitter, and I had all these grand ideas of how I could take that and turn it into some kind of something here on my site. Plus, I promised that I’d at least post the transcript here as a post. But I never did. And I’m tired of feeling guilty about this, and having it hanging over my head. So I therefore grant myself permission to never ever have to post  the transcript, or to have to do anything with it, or to even have to think about it ever again. Amen.

3. Responding to blog comments. I LOVE it when you guys leave a comment for me. I so much appreciate that you let me know that you’ve been here, and that you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read. And I wish that I could/would respond to every comment I receive. Sometimes I can. But then sometimes I can’t.  And sometimes you guys feel like commenting. But then sometimes you don’t. And so I’m therefore giving ALL of us permission to comment, or not, according to how we feel in any given moment. Amen.

So on that note, according to whatever powers that might be vested in me, I grant YOU permission to grant YOURSELF permission for whatever you need to do-or not do-on order to take care of yourself today.

Me: (quietly pondering all the things I could do with my day).

Suddenly there appears a tiny little woman, who whacks me on the head with a very solid stick.

Me: Ow!! (Looking around frantically for the source of the assault.) Who are you?!

Tiny Little Woman: (pulling herself up to her full, tiny height and puffing out her chest importantly) I am the Chronic Illness Delusional Intervention Fairy.

Me: (confused)

Me: But I haven’t even done anything yet!

CIDI-fairy: True. But were you or were you not just thinking about vacuuming the entire house, despite having had a raging migraine for the better part of a week and needing to resort to the nausea medicine you had leftover from your surgery?

Me: Um…

CIDI-fairy: And were you, or were you not planning on rearranging the freaking furniture when you have spent the past two weeks describing yourself as “numb with exhaustion?”

Me: Well…

CIDI-fairy: And isn’t it true that you somehow believed that you could spend an entire hour doing high-intensity water aerobics when you lack the energy to go buy food, and have been cobbling together alleged “meals” using whatever stale ingredients you can dredge up in your pantry?

Me: But…

Me: (looking around anxiously)

Me: How did you know all that stuff?

CIDI-fairy: (smiling mysteriously) Oh, we have our ways. So what’s up, sweetie? Why are you so resistant to just lying down and taking care of yourself?

Me: Well, I can’t just do nothing. I have to find a way to CONTRIBUTE somehow.

CIDI-fairy: OK. But what has everyone been telling you about that?

Me: (looking down): That I don’t have to justify my existence, and that I contribute just by being here, because they are so happy to have me in their lives.

CIDI-fairy: Yeah. And do you believe them?

Me: (quietly): I guess so.

CIDI-fairy: OK, so what else?

Me: Well, I’m afraid that if I just stop working for a while, that all my cool projects and ideas will disappear while I rest.

CIDI-fairy: OK. So,has that ever happened to you before?

Me: No, I guess not.

CIDI-fairy: OK, so what else is bothering you?

Me: I can’t just do nothing , because I freaking HATE to be bored.

CIDI-fairy: Lordy DAY, don’t I know it.

Me: What’d you say?

CIDI-fairy: Oh, nothing, dear. OK, so, boredom. You’ve worked A LOT on this one over the past few months, and remember, you know how to “do” boredom now. It doesn’t freak you out like it used to, right?

Me: (grudgingly): No.

CIDI-fairy: So what is it, baby? What’s really going on here?

Me: I can’t stop, because when I stop I feel how much pain I’m in. It hurts so much. I don’t want to hurt anymore. It’s too hard to feel all this pain. And it’s not just the physical pain, but also the pain of seeing everything that’s happened to my body. And the constant pain and frustration of bumping up against all the things I can’t do right now. And the pain of watching healthy people just being able to do whatever they want without even giving it a second thought. It’s too hard to feel all of that. So that’s why I’m always trying to be anywhere else but here.

CIDI-fairy: I know, baby. And that’s why I’m here. To help you.

Me: (excited): By taking all of this pain away?

CIDI-fairy: No honey, I’m afraid not. I’m here to remind you that when you’re exhausted-oh, and hello, just went on two trips in two weeks!-your focus needs to be on what feels gentle and soothing. I’m here to remind you to keep asking yourself, “What would help me feel a little more comfortable right now?’ The other stuff will be there when you feel better, I promise.

Me: But I’ve already had to do this like 50 bajillion times, already. I don’t WANT to have to keep starting over at the beginning again. It’s not fair!

CIDI: I know, baby doll, it’s not. It’s hard. It hurts. And it sucks. And, it’s where you are.

Me: (sighing): I know. At least I’m getting really good at taking care of myself, right?

CIDI: Absolutely-you are one seriously bad-ass babe! And remember, I am always here, helping you.

And then, in a shower of fairy dust, she was gone.

The “F” Word, or The Karma’s Gonna Getcha

(originally published March 24, 2006)

When my brother and I were growing up there was a joke in our family that in our house the “F Word” was not the actual “F Word”, but instead was the word “flexible.” As in, “You need to be flexible.”

This is actually really good advice, and it is the reason that now I am able to get along with just about anyone I meet. But at the time my brother and I reacted to this parental guidance as if we were being asked to swallow broken shards of jagged glass, washed down with a chaser of smoking sulfuric acid. (Incidentally, this is exactly the same reaction my mom would get whenever she said, “I think somebody needs an ‘n-a-p’.” “I do NOT need a nap, and I am NOT CRANKY!” we would roar, as flames erupted from our skulls and incinerated half of the kitchen.)

So I have to admit that a small part of me was secretly pleased when she called me the other day and said, “Well, they’re telling me that I’m going to have to be really flexible at work these days.” This is not a new thing for her, as this is the same company that sent out a profile of its ideal employee as one who was “not fearful of acting with a minimum of planning,” and who, “makes tough decisions in a timely manner, sometimes with incomplete information,” among other things. (This is also the same company who causes her to frequently remark on how she now finds herself living inside of a Dilbert cartoon.)

Apparently she is being assigned to a new project, one where “you cannot write down the instructions.” My first thought was that she was getting to work on something cool and classified, and so you weren’t allowed to write anything down. But no, you can’t write anything down because “every step is an exception”. So she is working on a project that is composed entirely of The Opposite Of Instructions.

This got me to thinking about my own job history, and about how my mom is a MUCH better employee than I ever was, which is why I now work for myself. If there is craziness in my company, I have only myself to blame. But I also have the power to fix it.

That was not the case when I was teaching at a small, private, religious school a few years ago. I was responsible for Spanish, music, and being the librarian for all 120 students from PK3 to the 8th grade. One day I was told to teach all the kids a specific song for a school festival. That was fine, since I was the music teacher. What wasn’t fine was the fact that I was only given the words. I never received the music to this song, music without which there could be no singing.

One day the principal of the school cornered me in the hallway and demanded to know why none of the children knew yet how to sing this song. I explained to her that it was due to the fact that I, the MUSIC teacher, had never received the MUSIC that accompanied the words to the song.

“But [your supervisor] gave you the words to that song a long time ago,” she replied, staring at me like an evil Svengali, trying with all the power of her not inconsiderable might to bend me to the force of her will.

“But. I. Don’t. Have. The. Music.” I replied. “I can’t teach them how to sing the song if I don’t know the melody.”

So we stood there staring at each other, locked in an epic battle of wills until the bell rang and saved us from having to settle this matter once and for all by wrestling each other to the death in the middle of the parking lot.

Then there was the time that a bunch of us faculty and staff were standing around in the office discussing The Pantyhose Rule (you had to wear them if you were a woman). As was the norm, there were a number of pregnant woman there participating in this conversation.

“But what about if you’re pregnant?” I asked. “Do you still have to wear pantyhose then?”

“Well, yes,” they all replied, stunned that it would even occur to me to ask such a question.

Now, normally I was MUCH better at keeping these kinds of comments to myself. But for some reason on that day my inner shit kicker rose up, leaped out of my mouth, and before I could stop her, said, “Well, clearly a man made up that rule.”

And there was silence. Not just any silence, but the kind of silence that would’ve been appropriate had I just said, “You know, in my free time, I kill kittens. Just Because I Can.”

(And these people were S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E-D when I told them I was not coming back to teach there the following year.)

Not that I am bitter. Or cranky. But it is clearly not by chance that I now work alone in my home all day long, surrounded by no one but cats.

Me: in my office, looking at all the piles and supplies and baskets, etc. that are surrounding me. And even though it’s almost all fun, creative stuff, I am completely and totally overwhelmed. And planning how I can build a fort underneath my desk.

Me: whimpering softly. “Help.”

POOF!

Suddenly, floating right in front of me is a tiny little woman.

TLW: “You called?”

Me: “Uh, who are you?”

TLW: ” You asked for help. I’m here to help you.”

Me: “Like a fairy godmother?”

TLW: “Sort of. But you don’t need a fairy godmother. What you need is a, ‘Hey-chill the f*** out!’-mother.”

Me: Blinks.

Me: Extremely concerned as I survey all of her paraphernalia.

Me: “Is that a vuvuzela?!”

CTFO-M: “Yeah. But don’t worry. It’s a last resort. That’s only for the times when I REALLY need to get your attention because you’re completely ignoring me. To start out with I just use this.”

CTFO-M: Whips out something vaguely stick-like in appearance.

Me: “Is that your magic wand?”

CTFO-M: “Sort of. It’s actually more of an Awareness Rod.”

Me: (under my breath) “Crap.”

CTFO-M: Grins.

Me: “OK, so what do I do now?”

CTFO-M: Surveys the damage, shaking her head and muttering under her breath.

Me: (cringing) “That bad, huh?”

CTFO-M: “I just have one question for you.”

Me: “OK.”

CTFO-M: “What the hell are you trying to do to yourself, woman?!”

Me: “Huh?”

CTFO-M: “What was your pain level when you woke up this morning?”

Me: “Um,” (quickly considering and then discarding the possibility of lying). “13?”

CTFO-M: raps me sharply on the head with her Rod.

Me: “Ow!”

CTFO-M: Grimly, with lips tightly pressed together.

CTFO-M: “We’ll talk more about this later. But first we just need to do some damage control and stop the out-of-control, falling down the rabbit hole spinning that currently has charge of you.”

Me: “So what does that mean, exactly?”

CTFO-M: “It means, put every single paper, writing utensil, highlighter, post-it note, list, basket, cubicle, EVERYTHING on your big table. And then walk away. And then go and immediately slather on some “Losing It” Aardvark Potion, and listen to Shannon’s corresponding audio about ‘Losing Overwhelm.’ Right. Now.”

Me: scurrying off to obey.

****

[Read more…] about Wherein I Need To Have A Little “Come to Jesus” Meeting With Myself

(originally published December 7, 2005)

It Really, Really Is The Little Things

My younger brother just recently got engaged (yay!), and as his older sister I am really feeling like I need to pass along to him the wisdom I’ve gained from being married for almost 10 years.

I could share with him that I’ve learned to ask myself this very important question during tense marital moments: “Do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy?”

I could emphasize that fact that it is a really bad idea to come up behind your spouse when they are engaged in performing a chore that you do not want to do, look over their shoulder, and then say, “Hm, that‘s how you’re doing it?”

But I think the most important thing I could tell him is that, sure, premarital counseling may cover things like money, children, and in-laws, but what it doesn’t tell you is this: it really, really is the little, everyday things that have the potential to trip you up in a marriage.

For example, I remember that when we were moving into our first apartment it was VITALLY important to me that I get to arrange the silverware drawer in the order to which I was accustomed (fork, then knife, then spoon). My husband really could not have cared less about that, but he wisely took advantage of that moment to negotiate some household point for himself, which I can’t actually recall at this moment, but which I’m sure was EQUALLY as important as my silverware thing.

But no one ever talks about that kind of stuff.

Nor do they talk about what to do if, one day when he happens to be in a bad mood, your husband goes off on a rant about how nobody (translation: “you”) ever puts the new rolls of toilet paper on the actual toilet paper holder, but how everyone (again, meaning “you”) just leave them sitting there on top of it. So then for the next few years you obsessively RUN to “correctly” replace the toilet paper every time a roll runs out, until one day you notice that the person who was totally freaking out about this situation earlier is doing The Exact Same Thing that caused his freaking out to begin with, so you finally work up the courage to mention this little inconsistency to him, and he has no recollection whatsoever of that particular conversation and tells you that you need to not take things so seriously. And then you have to kill him.

Hm. On second thought, maybe I’ll just let them discover all these fun little marital treasures for themselves.

…but I am fresh out of inspiration for The Funny this week. So instead, I’m going to rerun a favorite post of mine from back when I first started this blog. Hope you like it.

“Free At Last” (originally published on 7/31/05

I think one of my favorite things about being in my thirties is the fact that I no longer feel like I have to pretend about who I really am (or am not) in order to get people to like me. This was not always the case.

Back during our first year of marriage my husband, who is himself an Eagle Scout, worked as a volunteer with a Boy Scout troop and I, caught up in the flush of wanting to impress my new husband, agreed to go along on one of his troop’s camping trips.

Important Side Note: If you have never been camping before, I would HIGHLY recommend that your first trip not be with a troop of scouts, because any points you feel you have gained by being “a really cool wife” will quickly fade when you realize that, compared to everyone else on the trip including elementary school students, trail dogs, etc., you feel like a giant, incompetent wuss.

I really should have known that I was in over my head when my husband and I went to the outdoor store to buy me some gear. We did not go there to buy a cool backpack, or a kicky bandanna, or a nifty trail tool. No,we went so that I could buy my very own, neon orange, plastic poo shovel.

Things kind of took a turn for the worse once we had hiked up the trail to the spot where we were going to camp that night. We had foolishly drunk all the water we’d packed, so my husband went down to the river, filled our two plastic bottles with water, ran some iodine through the bottles, and handed one to me. I looked at the bottle, looked at him, and said, “It’s brown, And. There. Are. Bugs. In. It!” He looked at me and said, (and please bear in mind that he had only been a husband for a little under a year and hadn’t yet developed the sensitivity that he has now after nine years of marriage), “Well, the bugs are dead. And we have this lemonade mix to add to it!”

Even now, eight years later, I can’t think of this story without experiencing total incredulity at his response.  And even now, eight years later, my husband insists that we would not have even had this problem, if only he had packed a darker colored drink mix.

Happily I did recover enough from this trip to start going out on day hikes with my husband and our friends. As a matter of fact I was pretty impressed with myself on our last trip, because not only was I wearing my very own pair of official hiking boots, but they were so well used that we had to patch them together with duct tape.

(Yes of course we had duct tape-I was hiking with three engineers! As a matter of fact, the only reason that I didn’t have to sleep suspended in between two trees in some kind of jury-rigged duct tape shelter was the fact that the other spouse who came on this trip was five months pregnant.)

However, there are still some hurdles to overcome before I can consider going on another camping trip, as is clearly illustrated by the following conversation I had with my husband the last time he went camping.

10:00 pm. The phone rings.
Me: “Hello?”
My husband: “Hey, Jenny. I need your help.”
Me: (panicking at all the possible emergencies that could befall campers, and wondering just exactly where I can rent an emergency extraction helicopter at 10 pm on a Saturday night) “Oh my gosh, are you all right?!”
My husband: “What? Oh, yeah, we’re fine. I just need you to get the Almanac so you can tell us the geographical size of Liechtenstein in square miles.”

Silly me-what was I thinking?! These were highly trained, highly capable, highly intelligent men. Clearly the only emergency situation in which they could possibly have found themselves would be to be without immediate access to the geographical data of tiny, landlocked, central European countries.

So anyway, the jury is still out on the whole camping thing, but between you and me I wouldn’t hold my breath.