Subtle Glow

I am sucking ass at the blogging lately. Not for any particular reason, either. Unless you count getting up off my ass instead of parked in front of the ‘puter as a reason. I’m liking it.

We had quite an action-packed weekend as a result. I took the kiddo to the fair for his very first time. We both had a blast. He made a little money at our garage sale, where we had all of three items to sell. Heh. He sold both of his, so he had some cashola to spend at the fair.

His first purchase was marked by this revelation: “Mom, I bought something! For myself!” At which point I used the opportunity to sprout the seed of “Shopping is Gooood” in his fertile little mind. Because I am just an evil-shopping-seed-sowing parent like that. And, because, I Can.

Other factors solidifying my status as Evil: My laughter, done to such a degree as to make me double over and cry tears of pure enjoyment and hilarity as my son made his way through a plexiglass maze. Except, I mean “made his way” as in “slammed face-first into the plexiglass” when he thought he found the right path. Repeatedly.

Also of Evil origin: Apparently my encouraging him to sell his items at the garage sale. The sale of one item in particular will now and forever be known as “A Big Mistake” as proclaimed by the kiddo, complete with large tears and a sad heart as he saw His Precious riding away in the back of a pickup truck. Forever.

*sigh*

I imagine the sale of that particular item will most likely end up being not so much a sale and more of a catalyst to purchase new and more expensive item just like it to be received at a birthday or gifting occasion coming soon to a family near you.

So apparantly there is a bit of accountability to the whole Evil Parent-ness. Eh, well. The horns make it all worth it. 

The concept of a SFP is that the things you think and do will contribute directly to making those things happen. Imagine white-water rafting: You are out of practice, and scared of crashing into the rocks. Only you are so focused on not crashing the raft - steering diligently away from the rocks near the left bank - that you never notice anything else. It’s the best way to end up crashing directly into the rocks on the right.

I used to spend so much time in life worrying about doing this that or the other a certain way in order to avoid any number of results from happening.

I spent a lot of time angry, and by angry I mean full of hatred and rage, at someone who abused their authority and their power and took advantage of my trust. Once I grew up and gained a little perspective (and half a country’s worth of distance) I swore to myself I would never “be like that.” I would never allow anyone to treat me that way again.

I spent so much time running away from what I knew I never wanted, I was blinded to the fact that I ended up running straight into it.

When I realized this, I felt so… I don’t know. Bereft. If I couldn’t save myself from my own fate then who could? If I could spend all that time and energy making sure I didn’t depend on anyone, and didn’t allow anyone to talk this way to me, and was adamant that I would not be controlled by anyone or anything… and then come to find out I had found someone who did exactly all of those things, and I became that person I most hated - well, really, what was the point?

That was a very difficult period in my life. More difficult than the 15 years (at least) of depression prior to that. For me, depression was almost a comfort by that time. I was comfortably numb.

Once I stared in the face of my reality, the depression morphed into anxiety. As much as depression was dark, and almost dreamy considering how much of my life I preferred to sleep away - anxiety was bright and sharp and IN MY FACE. ALL THE TIME. Where depression was odorless, anxiety was acrid. Depression was quiet and muffled while anxiety was now not only loud but constantly accompanied by a shrill ringing in my ears.

I can taste anxiety on the back of my tongue, even today. It tastes of metal and copper and dirt, like a mouth full of pennies.

Somehow, with the help of some pretty good medication I suppose, and a lot of time ALONE searching for the answers to many questions - the most important one being “Who the fuck am I really?” - I managed to move away from the edges of the extremes.

Day to day, I spend my time putting all sorts of things in perspective. Constant sorting and filing into the many relative areas of perspective - without really looking too closely for any hidden meanings or alternative interpretations. I don’t trust my interpretations.

Generally it isn’t until things become what seems to be a pattern that I stop to review “the file” up to that point. Objective logic is a safe zone for me. If someone is interested in me - I tend to overlook their subtle advances, even if they happen over a long period of time. Hope is an extreme, and a luxury I don’t often allow myself. It flirts with anxiety, and stirs up the crazy.

There is no medication to help keep the correct filters in place anymore.

I don’t trust myself to know when I can see things clearly, and when I color them with varying shades from the extremes.

What I do know, and what I do trust is the measure of reason. If I am running into the same sticky point over and over again I take the time to step back and analyze with that measure. To go back to the rafting metaphor - I like to figure out why I keep running ashore. It’s rare anymore, but it happens from time to time.

Right now, there is someone else trying too hard to steer away from that cluster of rocks on the left. They can’t see there are plenty of rocks on the right side as well. I am not trying to steer them back to the left; I am trying to steer toward the safety of the middle. I can trust myself there. But to reach the middle, you have to have an equal balance of left and right. Meanwhile there is still that big waterfall at the end. I haven’t forgot about that, either.

But you know what? It’s my raft, too.

I am a single parent of increasingly challenged social skills thereby cementing my status of ‘forever single’ but very much okay with it. Also, the kiddo spends time with his father on a pretty consistent basis - at least once a week - which gives us a break from each other.  Sometimes we really need that break.  For the most part we do ok, we manage to get through most days with a minimum of meltdowns.

Sleep, I have realized, is one of the keys to maintaining sanity.  Mess with it, and shit goes awry. 

Last night we had a few little circus acts going on about an hour after the kiddo went to bed.  And then again around midnight.  And then AGAIN around 2am, at which point I COMPLETELY LOST IT as a result of being woken twice in one night.

By the time I pick him up on Sunday, I know I will be looking forward to seeing him.  Still, I know we’re both looking forward to getting that schedule back on track.

Foot Fetish
Tonight we hit a local eatery in order to help contribute to a fundraiser for the kiddo’s school. Or his daycare. Or maybe the PTA. I don’t know, really. Less than two weeks left and I am being bombarded with money grabs:

“We’re having a class picnic, could you donate $2?” Sure. Picnics are Good Things.

“We’re having a concert! Come and listen, and won’t you pay $10 for dinner to help fund the event?” Hmm, sorry have to pass on that one. The menu lists chips, hot dogs and sodas. Alas, no virtue in any of that.

“By the way - we’re selling raffle tickets! Just $1 each - you can even write a check. Your child could win a new bike with a helmet, or a gift certificate to a local restaurant.” Gosh, only a dollar each? Ok.

“Parents - we’re so proud of our first graders we decided to organize a raffle!! Would you be so kind as to donate an item or two?” Well, it’s for the children after all.

It’s a little annoying, but I like to help out where I can. Plus I can try to assuage some of my (inappropriate, I know) guilt at the fact that I am a single, working mother and can’t volunteer to help out in the classroom due to that pesky work schedule of mine.

So tonight was “a portion of tonight’s sales will be donated to the (insert program here)” and we went. I mean, we had to eat anyway, right?

The kiddo noticed one of his friends coming in. The boy’s mother is one I always notice but we never really say much other than “Hello” in passing. I only notice her because she never - and I mean NEVER wears shoes. I always assumed it was that she didn’t want to bother with shoes just to run and drop off her kiddo.

I thought for sure tonight I would see her in some type of footwear. At first she was blocked by the register, so I went back to my dinner and assumed if she was inside the establishment, and they were serving her, she would be wearing shoes. Not a long leap in logic, right?

Wrong.

She STILL had no shoes on. Before it was just something I noticed. Now, it creeps me out. I wonder where those feet have been. All bare and stepping in and on all kinds of ick. I started thinking about how black the bottom of her feet must get by the end of the day. Does she notice it? Is there black sticky tar-like prints in the bottom of her shower?

EW, hold on. How did I go from bare feet in front of the salsa bar to the shower??

Actually it’s because I don’t really very much want to know how DIRTY her feet get. I can only imagine and I’ll bet that doesn’t even come close to it. I just want to know how does she manage to get them CLEAN? Or does she?

Kinda gross.

Kiddo and I ate our dinner and I chatted with her a bit before we left. Chatted, and managed NOT to ask her anything about her feet. Don’t ask me what she said, all I could think was “dirty feet dirty feet, what do you do about your dirty dirty feet?” bzzz. bzzz. bzzz. Around in my head the whole time. heh.

I’m sure you’re wondering - was I virtuous at dinner? In a word - No. But did I come home and do an hour of cardio and climb up and down on that 14″ patented Firm Box to make up for it? Bet your sweet ass I did. Maybe someday, I’ll have a sweet ass of my very own virtuous self to bet. Anyway, more about that below.

Things Are Not Making Sense Here.
I - the one who tossed and turned while sleep stood stubbornly in the corner smirking and laughing at me most of the night - took two Tylenol PMs at around 7 this evening. I figured by 8 I would be settling in for the night.

This was after a very cranky evening of much crabbiness on my part. I thought going for a walk would help my mood. You know, endorphins and all. But after walking for a bit I found no endorphin to be found, much less an improved mood.

So I decided to run. I would chase down those endorphins if I had to explode a lung to do it!

Yeah, no. I found no pleasurable feelings as I ran. So I kept going, thinking they would kick in eventually.

Nope.

I think I might have been in an even worse mood after I got home. Just, you know, judging by the fact that at one point I slammed my bedroom door and screamed. A little anyway. And then I showered. And I felt better. A little.

I figured it was a good idea to try and get to bed early. Which brings me back to the beginning of this where I was starting to tell you how much I need the sleep and everything.

So there I am, popping the two PMs and waiting for the generic form of benadryl fog to wash over me and tell me it was time to go to sleep. Because I seem to have lost touch with that signal somewhere. Probably due to my habit of missing signals, but that’s another entry and I’m getting off topic. Again. So maybe the pills are working better than I thought.

AHEM.

How is it that I’m the one still up and trudging along, almost 3 hours later and only just this very minute thinking I might be close to sleep, when the kiddo actually passed out EARLY, with no apparent warning, in my bed even?

What’s up with that?

PS - I’m tired! Finally! So… I’ll spellcheck tomorrow.

I am writing to you regarding your Spa meal collection.  The addition of whole grains like brown rice instead of white to a frozen box of lunch is most appealing.  The lemongrass chicken I found to be perfectly delightful.  As is the lemon chicken meal.  Apparently, I like lemon on my chicken.  However, I do feel I must share my displeasure at today’s selection:  chicken in peanut sauce. 

I followed the package directions exactly, as I have with other meals in the past.  Not to mention they are rather easy to follow, even for a beginner who has never made one before.  Vent. Heat. Let Stand. Eat.  That’s about all there is to it.

Now, the package indicates I should expect “the goodness of whole grain pasta with roasted chicken tenderloins in a flavorful peanut sauce accented with garlic and crisp water chestnuts, shoestring carrots, & snap peas.”

When I peeled back the film of plastic to reveal my lunch I was met with a glob of stringy, noodle-like items that were crusted together with no hope of separating and mixing in the gooey, watered-down peanut butter (as near as I can tell from the taste).  What’s worse, I had exactly two snap peas, which I was ok with, as I don’t find them very much able to stand the cooking/freezing/reheating and tend to pick them out.  There were three strings of carrots, and alas - NO water chestnuts, crisp or otherwise.  The chicken pieces were tender.  At least the larger of the five, anyway.  I still ate the other two smaller pieces, but only because I wouldn’t want anyone to accuse me of trying to starve, you know.