Done.

Fuck this.

And fuck you.

*************************************************************

Hmm.  I had originally written something about hoping your own karma comes back on you.  But then I talked to Minna, and I came to a realization that changed my mind.  You don’t matter.  You can barely tie your own shoes without someone supporting you emotionally, you have never had to deal with a problem on your own, and I sincerely doubt you could.  Your perceptions of reality are so skewed by your own immaturity and stupidity; therefore, there is really no reason for me to be upset.

I have the utmost respect for intelligent, coherent, mature adults, and I seek their perspective and counsel on a regular basis.  It helps us  both develop as people to be better human beings.  But knowing that you don’t have the capability for that makes it so, so much easier to just laugh and shake my head, and raise a toast in honor of those people who truly, truly do matter.

To sleep, perchance to dream-

Interesting, sometimes, how our perceptions become our reality without needing conscious thought or action to do so.

When I was growing up, sleeping in, even on the weekends, was seen as “lazy” and a “waste of time.”  And if cleanliness is next to godliness, well, laziness was about as close to the devil as you could get without actually crossing the River Styx.  I’ve always had this weird fear of other people thinking I’m lazy, and I guess I never realized just how pervasive that had become until I really tried to step back and see it almost from outside of myself.

The Musician is my best friend on the planet next to the Scientist.  We clicked immediately when we met, and have a connection like I’ve never seen.  We know each other better than pretty much anyone else, and there’s nothing I can possibly think of that could ruin our friendship.  He is, by his own definition, a total slacker.  I am, by mine, quite driven.  We joke that if we had ever gotten into a “Relationship” that it would be a great six months, but at the end of it, both of us would be battered and bloody, and one would be up on murder charges.  It varies on the day which one of us that was.

On a recent occasion, the Musician and I were talking and I told him that I needed slacker lessons from him.  He laughed at me and said that he wasn’t sure I could get beyond the first lesson.  I scoffed at him, quite indignant at the thought that I would fail at anything, and he pointed out with much amusement that last year, when I was down with H1N1, and could not manage to stand up to go use the bathroom without help, I was still having the kids bring me laundry to fold as I laid in bed.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  Holy hell.  The boy was right.

I have run myself into the ground enough that I can barely see daylight, and it is doing some damage to me.  Question in, do I even want to contemplate the long term effects?  Probably not.

This weekend, I think I hit that wall where your body just says, “Enough, goddammit.”  I slept roughly 11 hours Friday night into Saturday morning.  Saturday was busy; lots to get done and handle.  I went to bed late that evening, and was up around 9 on Sunday for about 8 hours then.  But when we got home from visiting the Professor at college around 3:30, I was exhausted.  The Scientist mentioned that he needed a nap, and I agreed.  We passed out for about 90 minutes.  From 5 til 6:45, I made dinner, put some laundry away, watched some football, and then realized that I felt exhausted.  All I could think was, “W-t-f, Mate?”  (To the people who don’t get the reference, it can be found in one of our family’s favorite videos.)  So I curled up again, and was out cold immediately.  The Scientist woke me up to take my meds at 11, which I greatly appreciated, and then I was, again, out like a light.  I woke up a few times during the night, but slept mostly til 5:30 when the alarm rudely informed me that it was Monday morning.

At first, when I started thinking about how much I’d slept, I was almost alarmed, and the guilt crept in.  “Holy crap, you’re a lazy lout!”  “What a total waste of time!  Look at all the stuff you didn’t get done!”  But for whatever reason, an allegory of sorts wound its way into my brain instead: Let’s say you go to the shelter and you get a dog.  You don’t want a puppy; too much work.  So you find this older dog with a sweet personality, and laid back nature.  The shelter guy warns you that he’s a little lame in one leg and has a few minor health issues, but he’s a good dog.  Off you go home with your new best friend.  Once you get home, do you then force the dog to run miles every day, until he is limping in pain, depressed from exhaustion, deprived of time to heal and rest…

I had to stop the train of thought right there because the mere idea of abuse to an animal makes me physically ill, and starts me crying, which really screws with my sinuses.  But if thinking of that kind of treatment to a dog causes me such anguish, how in the hell do I justify doing exactly that to myself?  For so long, I have perceived my need for rest, which is greater than some people’s (The Scientist and the kids, for examples), as a sign of weakness, or a character flaw.  My body is flawed indeed, and it doesn’t work like everyone else’s.  But should that detract from my worth as a human being?  At one time, I would’ve hesitated before answering.  On the one hand, the obvious answer is a blustering, “Of course not!  DUH!” but actions speak louder than words, don’t they?  And my actions wouldn’t have supported those words.

So we’ll see if I can keep on this path; my body needs it, and really, so does my spirit.  If I destroy my body with constant demands and no restitution, I’ll be too broken to enjoy my islands when I get there.  That would be the greatest travesty of all!  =)

Tonight, the Ambassador’s away game has been rained out.  So I’ll pick him up from school, go visit my mom, watching the Ambassador carefully, as Golden Boy is in residence with my mother, and then head home.  We’ll figure out dinner, and then I’m done.  Maybe I’ll work on the baby quilt, maybe I’ll edit some pics that have been waiting for me, maybe I’ll read, or maybe I’ll just curl up in bed and watch some TV before going to sleep.  But whatever I choose, I’ll make sure it’s a restful end to a long, stressful, busy, rainy day.

Keeping score…and losing

I’ve been in some crappy headspace anyhow this week, so when my head wandered off while I was driving yesterday, I didn’t bother fighting it.  When my state of mind is more settled, I prefer to keep my thought processes on a more productive or effective track, but sometimes the effort just isn’t worth it.  Here’s your fair warning that this post is pretty bitter.

I was thinking about keeping score in relationships.

I tend to be relatively laid back, and cannot be bothered figuring out who did extra stuff for whom this week or whatever.  The Scientist was having a tough week recently, so I did his dishes for him.  He was all worried about why I was doing them, and reassuring me that he was going to do them.  I just kinda blinked and replied that I knew he was going to get home late, and I didn’t have anything better to do, so I just took care of it.  It didn’t occur to me to put a mental check mark in some abstract column that I’d done it.  He does stuff for me all the time, so my covering something as simple as KP for him didn’t even hit my radar.

But I asked myself, in a most exasperated tone, why I then have issues letting go of stuff in the past from my family?  This really bothered me, as “pettiness” isn’t usually included in the list of character attributes that are used to describe me.  It isn’t my style.  Now, I could write it off to exhaustion, stress, or any number of outside influences.  But none of them really got to why I feel the way I do.

I mentioned it to the Scientist last night as we were chatting, and he asked what score I couldn’t let go.  I told him that since moving here 14yrs ago, my collective family has had at least 10 major health incidents (surgery, kidney stone, whatever).  In the other column, I have had 7 surgeries.  When my family has had these incidents, I have driven the person home from the hospital or to do errands later, I have done carpool, run errands myself for them, cooked meals, cleaned houses, changed dressings, brought groceries, transported kids places, sat in waiting rooms, done personal care in the hospital itself, kept other family/friends up to date and informed, dragged work home or to the hospital so I didn’t miss deadlines, sent emails, and sure as hell lost count at how much sick/vacation time I have taken to do those things.

Now, I swear by all that’s holy, at the time, this was just what I did.  I didn’t think about it, no tallies were kept, and absolutely no resentment was found.

But the other day, I stopped, and I looked back.  Of those 7 operations that I had, my father took the kids for one single day (the procedure was an emergency), and my sister took me to one post-op appointment.  Even when the procedure was scheduled a few weeks out, and I asked for the help we so desperately needed (such as when kids were unable to stay home alone, needed to get to school, etc), it was either simply refused, or some excuse was carelessly tossed my way.  They “didn’t have time” or were “too busy.”  Afterwards, it was merely an occasion for a phone call asking how it went.  The Scientist was left to his own devices in the emergency cases, and we did have some fantastic friends who helped us out in those times.  There was this huge, huge push for us to “move closer to family” but man, I often wonder why. We did the vast majority of the driving to attend sports stuff, events, whatever.  My parents would be shopping on the weekends, 15-20 minutes from my house, and wouldn’t even call.  Then they’d complain about not seeing the kids.  But this really takes that proverbial cake for me.  It’s perfectly acceptable for me to drop my life to help everyone else, but it’s just as acceptable for them to ignore me and my family?  I’m confused as to how this math works out, and I’m thinking that even my own personal, resident math genius Professor couldn’t explain it.

The Scientist is a proponent of Stephen Covey, and borrowed Covey’s allegory of an emotional bank account to offer an opinion.  Covey asserts that relationships are like a bank account; acts of love are deposits, and hurtful actions or things that break trust are withdrawals.  (That’s a super-simplified explanation, but you get my drift.)  So he said that my family has made so many withdrawals from that account without deposits that it causes resentment to build up where it normally wouldn’t.  In a healthy relationship, deposits are so common and plentiful that even a rare big withdrawal doesn’t have to do too much damage, and little ones are easily fixed or even overlooked.  But the constant taking without giving back, and the fact that I was so clearly not valuable to them, has taken its toll.

There’s a quote that I have loved since I first saw it, and my relationship with my family exemplifies it beautifully:

“Do not make someone a priority if they only make you an option.”

I think I’ve been an option long enough.

Yet another tally in the “lousy mom” column

They say you have to be the change you want to see in the world.  I fully agree with this concept, and most times, I try to model it for the kids.  I have always said “please” and “thank you” to people, including them, because I expect them to do it as well.  I tip well, I smile, I hold the door for others, all things of basic manners that I fully expect my teenagers to exhibit.  It makes them “odd” to startled adults who don’t expect it, but it also makes them good people.

But there is definitely one lesson in which I fail miiiisssseeerrrably to be the good example.  And that, my friends, is in sun protection.  I know that pale skin is healthy skin, and that any bit of tan is damaging.  I’ve heard it all before.  And perhaps this is contradictory to my nature, but I am absolutely, 100% against the fake-n-bake tan.  the sun’s rays, while damaging, are also natural enough to have some benefit to them.  The vitamin D is essential, and for people with S.A.D., it can be a life saver.  (And yes, for those people, the use of light boxes is, of course, warranted.)  But in general, I am very against tanning beds.

That said, when I hit the beach, I apply sunblock enough so that I do not burn, and then I settle in and let the sunlight seep into my body.  The heat infuses my joints with gentle waves, and makes my skin a nice golden brown.  Now, I have burned; don’t get me wrong.  And when I do?  I am the first person to label myself with the moniker of “Dumbass.”  But honestly, if I do burn, it’s generally that I swiped the sunblock over my skin and missed a spot, or reapplied, but not in time.  It’s rare that I burn badly or all over.  (Although, in the case of my burn from Isla Saona this April, it was faulty sunblock because we both slathered repeatedly and both got roasted!)  I do admit to finding tan lines kinda sexy, and for me personally, I especially love the ones on my feet.  Those flip-flop lines tend to stay there through the winter, reminding me that flip-flop weather has promised to return to me.

When the kids were little, I slathered them from head to toe in spf50, dressed them in spf50 rash guard shirts, plopped hats on their little heads, and hoped for the best.  I didn’t keep them inside in bubble wrap, but I definitely practiced due diligence in protecting their skin.  Sunburn when they were little?  Not on my watch.   As they got older, they slacked a few times, and The Artist especially, got fried.  Poor girl, she can walk to the mailbox for the morning post and get sunburned, while her brother can go without sunblock for a day at the pool and barely have a tinge of pink on his shoulders.  He is my Coppertone baby for sure.  The Professor is in the middle.  She tans, but she also goes over the line pretty easily.

Now that they’re older, they have started to make their own health decisions, and in turn, deal with the ramifications of those decisions.  The Ambassador, for example, actively “works” on his summer tan to attract more girls.  (Can you see my eyes rolling at this one?)  He has blond hair and blue eyes, so the golden tan just makes him look like a California surfer dude.

La Professora is pretty good about sunblock, especially with her masto going crazy lately.  Sunlight and masto don’t get along very well, so she’ll get splotchy if she gets too much.  But this past weekend, she used the spf 15 and got a light tan, while keeping the dreaded pink skin at bay.

We definitely keep high spf around for the Artist, but even she decided to try her hand at tanning and “only” used spf 15 this weekend.  She did pretty well; no burn at all.  Of course, her desire for a lack of tan lines on her back makes the guys who go by trip over themselves, but we’re trying to adjust to that one, too.  (More eyerolling from Mom inserted here.)

I know I should make sure they wear their rashguards and spf 472 any time they walk out the door.  I do understand the risks of melanoma, and the fact that any sun exposure is touted in the media as deadly.  But really, with all of the other perils they will face in their lives, and the risks that they will take as they navigate their way through college, work, society, dating, I just decided that the occasional times at the beach would be low stress, without Mom bugging them every four seconds to put on more sunblock.  So chalk this one up to being a lousy mom, but it looks like my kids just might be sporting a tan for now.

Nighthawks? More like Fighthawks.

Here’s a newsflash for you.  Soccer is a rough sport.

[Wow, I guess I’ll take “Captain Obvious” for $400, Alex.]

Yes, yes, I know.  This is no cosmic revelation even to the most clueless sports anti-fan.  But while bruises and scrapes are commonplace badges of honor after a tough game, and the occasional sprain is iced down and wrapped with an Ace Bandage of pride, there are  limits to what is considered acceptable risk.  I will even stipulate that an occasional busted ankle or torn ACL when the heat of battle creates collisions is not out of the realm of reason.  But the boundary to that realm comes in the form of intent.

If two players go up for a header, collide, and hit the pitch hard, it may take them a minute to remember who they are, what team they play for, what day it is, and possibly what sport they were playing in the first place.  As this information filters back into their scrambled brains, they sit up, reach over, and help each other off the ground.  It’s the way it works.  But when a goalie dives for the ball on the ground, and an opponent comes in with a slide tackle, cleats up, to the goalie’s midsection?  That, my friends, is malice.   (It’s also supposed to be an automatic red card, according to the NCYSA, but that isn’t the point.)

Last night’s Varsity game was one in which the other team came in with a raging case of malice.  They weren’t there for finesse, or for love of the game, for teamwork, or for fun.  They were there to dominate by force.  Their passing game was pretty good; they had speed and decent footwork.  Their defense was a little sloppy here and there, but they were fast enough to get back.  However, they also received, if memory serves, 8 yellow cards.  Now, to be fair, I do not have the official stats count, so I may be off by one or two.  But at least two of those yellows are supposed to be automatic reds.  One was a slide tackle in the back, cleats up, and one was train-wrecking the goalie when he was down.  (Yes, I have photos of both fouls.)  They also threw an elbow into the face of our team captain, nearly breaking his nose, but doing enough tissue damage that the doctor has benched him for the entire week.  Their coach encouraged the behavior at every turn; the rest of the team not only crowed when one of our players went down, but then hotly protested every whistle the ref did decide to blow.

What got me the most, though, was the parents.  We’ve all known rabid coaches who watched the Sensei in Karate Kid with glazed eyes of adoration one too many times.  And we’ve all known teenagers so pumped full of hormones, energy, and anger that their bullying behavior in the hallways at school flows easily out onto the sports fields as well.  But I simply have to ask the question to these parents: Are you proud of your child right now?  Are you bragging to your friends about how many yellow cards your player has this season, or how many injuries have been caused by your child’s elbow, cleats, or fists?  Do you rest easy, knowing that instead of learning the delicate footwork, or sensing your opponent’s next move before it’s made, instead of studying the plays and the geometric intricacies of patterns set up by the coach, your son or daughter tripped, elbowed, cleated, or pulled (by the jersey) his or her way to victory?

The Ambassador played hard, he played physical, and he played to protect his goalie.  But he has been raised to understand that no matter what, at the end of the day, he is to respect the game.  He will tuck in his jersey properly, he will address the ref as “sir” or “ma’am” no matter how much of a tool the person is, and he will be a gentleman on the pitch.  He has been raised to know that in a normal game, if he cannot win the game on his efforts (combined with the efforts of his mates, of course!), then he (/they) didn’t deserve the win.  His team lost last night, 6-2, but that was no normal game.  Not by a long shot.  But if my son had come onto that pitch and acted the way the Northern Guilford Nighthawks had acted, I would’ve held no pride for his team, and certainly not for him.  Instead of the elated cheers after a win, I would’ve worn a badge of shame as a parent.

For me, I am proud of every player on the Eastern Alamance Eagles team, and their coaches as well.  They got frustrated last night, and yes, they shoved back, talked some trash, and their tempers occasionally hindered their usual fluid and skillful maneuvers.  But at no point did they cross the line into “thugs” out there, and at the end of the day, no matter what the score, they showed themselves to be men.

Well done, Eagles.

Things that make me go “hmmm”

D’you  ever notice how many double standards are used in relationships?

I got thinking about it today, and it kinda made me wonder if other people noticed the same thing in their own lives.

Odd, yes.  But sometimes weird shit goes through my mind; what else am I going to do with it?

[The one that got the train of thought zooming down the tracks: “we” are not caring what my extended family thinks about the way we do stuff, but “we” are absolutely careful to maintain the fragile sensitivities of the Scientist’s parents by hiding the fact that we’re in counseling.  Interesting, that.]

Spinning and spinning and spinning

Right now, I feel like a hamster on a wheel in pretty much all aspects of my life, and I’m wracking my brain to try to figure out how to break through it.
— weight loss is hindered by the loss of kayaking, being tired in the evenings, etc
— my job is eating away at me, but I’m back at square one, wondering if it’s going to be another 2.5 yrs before I find something else.  I was so close, and it vanished like Keyser Soze
— I’ve quit eating out at lunch, only getting coffee once a month, tried to streamline groceries, and I still feel like I’m fucked financially, getting nowhere
— my knee is giving me problems and I don’t know the origin; the other knee is starting to be affected now, as well, and it’s frustrating

I know that having teenagers/kids in college kind of freezes your life/bank accounts for several years, but it’s just frustrating when I feel like I’m busting my ass trying to do the -right- things every goddamn day, and I get absolutely nowhere.

I do think something hiccuped hormonally over the past several days; my appetite spiked and then dropped, I had a lot of generic leg pain (something I used to have when I was PMS’ing), and I’m pretty down and teary.  But I guess the overall feeling that my life is pointless and stagnant is taking its toll on me a lot more than I realized.

I hatehatehate having a “fuck it” or “don’t give a shit” attitude about my job.  I got into education because I do care.  That has been slowly sucked out of me by bureaucratic bullshit, egomaniacal ostriches in power (they run and attack to get what they want personally, and then bury their heads in the sand – lather, rinse, repeat).

For now, I’m back on the theme song I couldn’t shake at the beginning of this year (Spirit of a Storm).

Fuck it.

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