Crazy Person, literally.

What we have here is one of those good news/bad news situations.

The kind where it's hard to tell which is which.

First, some background.

Obviously I have been absent for a few months. Part of that was just busy with projects and some hypomania after Timm got his new job. That eventually slid into a muddied, deliberate avoidance of blogs in general. I told myself it wasn't because I was depressed, knowing that avoidance of any and all social contact is usually my number 1 sign of depression . I also wasn't emailing, or talking on the phone. I had gone from running 25 miles a week, to not having laced up my running shoes in over a month. Pretty much just going to church on Sundays, and maybe grocery shopping on Saturdays. 5-6 days a week were spent in my pajamas all day, sleeping as much as possible, and steadily putting on weight. (12 pounds since Thanksgiving to be specific.) The only time I put my foot out the door was the unavoidable trek to the bus stop each morning at 7:30. In all honesty, I wouldn't even have bothered to do that except that it's much easier to have Bella at school all day. (That and truancy laws.) Sometimes I didn't shower for that many days at a time either. Full disclosure.

After you've spent 6 days straight in your pajamas, haven't left the house, and worn a path into the carpet from bed to couch to fridge and back, it's hard to deny that you might, just maybe, be depressed. Especially when you're daily routine involves sleeping on the couch every morning after dropping your eldest off at the bus stop while your youngest patiently absorbs a lot of Netflix-streamed tv.

Unfortunately this scenario is nothing new to me. I have been dealing with major depression all of my adult life. It's really quite tiresome and boring. So armed with my fancy new health insurance, I decided to go see a psychiatrist for the first time in over 4 years to try and see if we could find a different treatment than the one I've been on for so long. I didn't feel very good about the appointment or her opinion, so I sought a second opinion and waited 3 months to see a different doctor, which I finally did this week. Which leads me to the good news/bad news portion of this post.

The good news is that I probably do not have Bipolar II Disorder, as I have long suspected that I did and researched. 

The bad news is that I do show symptoms of the following disorders:

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder

Generalized Anxiety Disorder

Major Depressive Disorder 

and last but not least

Eating Disorder NOS ('Not Otherwise Specified')

You know, your typical OCD/ADHD/Anxiety-ridden massively depressed person with an eating disorder.

I got that diagnosis in Provo before moving here, but conveniently forgot about it until I had the pleasure of reading over my psychiatry records in detail. Hey, if anything can pull you out of a debilitating depression, it's reading over your medical assessments and lack of progress over several years from the perspective of a trained mental health practitioner.On a good note, she did indicate that I was very attractive. (That was of course one line mixed in paragraphs upon paragraphs about my obsessiveness over food, weight, body image, and self-worth.)

Right.

So for now not much has changed. This doctor agreed that I am probably nor Bipolar- II or otherwise. I see him again in a month and I sure hope we can make some changes so I feel alive again. Which is not to say that I am sad- those blessed individuals with no experience with depression probably don't understand that. Probably because of the antidepressants I've been on for years, I do not currently have a sad depression. It's the bored apathy that is wasting me. The inability to find any purpose in showering, dressing, or leaving the house. So in the meantime, I'll try to suck it up and make the tiny goals that brand-new mothers and invalids make each day- For tomorrow: shower, dress, and make the bed.

I also read a bit in my files about my Eating Disorder (NOS), which I'll explore in another post. In the meantime I'm planning on going to Weight Watchers tomorrow,  perpetuating my 'ED (NOS)'. I'm trying to remember the therapeutic benefits of writing, and will thusly torture anyone reading with an account of this roller coaster.

Good times!

A History of Pests

When I die, let it be said that I have a respect for insecta of all kinds. My respect is primarily reserved to those who observe the unspoken edict that they remain out of doors, never crossing the threshold of our home. I can identify the purpose and usefulness of some of these insects, and understand that they play a role in nature. There are a few that are anomalies, such as the mosquito, that serve no purpose other than to spread communicable diseases and itching welts- but I hear there are insects that are actually beneficial if not entirely innocuous. I reserve a hallowed place for one type of insect in my home, however. One that is not really an insect at all really, an arachnid. I leave the spiders to their peace so that they may aid me in my mission to eradicate the actually bothersome insects.

Before we moved here, my cousin Cathryne warned me that North Carolina was home to more insects than anywhere in the nation, some of them as large as birds. She learned this from a stint she spent in Chapel Hill. She claimed she could not even sit in the grass for fear of the many classes of insects that threatened to overtake her. I waived away her concerns, believing that she and I must be cut from a different cloth. She was right. In fact, depending on the time of day, you can hear a veritable roar of cicadas that quickly becomes background noise, part and parcel of living in the South.

However. 

Once said insects cross into my territory- into a carpeted, air-conditioned, civilized world-all bets are off.

For the most part, our home regularly only houses the human and feline species, but occasionally something else sneaks in. I can't really blame them- especially in August, but that doesn't change the fact that they are entirely unwelcome. 

I will now chronicle for you our history of pests in this home:

 Only twice since we moved here 4 years ago have I seen a cockroach- big, black 2-inch suckers that scurry and flee to the shelter of the underside of the couch or my sink drain. That's not bad for 4 years, but both of these incidences incited a near riot of one. I sat perched on my couch, which I quickly became afraid of, imagining it's many insidious and invisible predators that prey on dead skin cells and my peace of mind. Suddenly, I lived in a tainted world. All porous surfaces were suspect, and could I have afforded it, I would have hired a fumigator, ordered all new furniture and carpet, a Kirby cleaner, and a deep-cleaning team of specialists within the 5 minutes of sighting the cockroach. Alas, I was left to buy copious amounts of roach bait, clean compulsively and keep the name of an exterminator on hand should I sight another one. 

One of my cat's many faults is that they cannot eat without spilling cat food all over the floor. This may have something to do with the fact that all of Smeagle's tiny front cat teeth have fallen out, he has recently lost an incisor and a molar, and his remaining teeth are so plaque-encrusted it sometimes makes closing his mouth difficult. Nevertheless, they spill their food all over the floor, which sustains a large colony of the tiniest ants in the world who keep a steady track from the cat food to my window sill.

Once I discovered some very small larvae-looking things in the bottom of a rank laundry basket where damp clothes may have been collecting for longer than is advisable. Repulsed, I whisked them into a collection jar, and started my research, afraid for bed bugs. They turned out to be carpet beetles, which after my reading I was convinced would be the ruination of our home and family. I vacuumed religiously and kept better up on the laundry which were my only defenses against them.

I have seen and heard mice in my kitchen so many times I disregard it now. I've actually only sighted one once, but I am convinced that everything I hear from that vicinity is a mouse, hellbent on bringing my insanity to full fruition. As with the other pests I have battled, I go straight for the big guns. Had these mice been found in nature, I would smile at their small, cute natures and leave them to themselves. But once again, once they enter into my home, all I can think of is vanquishment at any cost. Mouse traps and carefully placed mouse poison. Incidentally, my cats are completely  useless against these pets. Never once have they caught a mouse, though they sometimes lay in wait, studying a corner of my kitchen which always makes me uneasy. Once, several years ago, Dobby caught a fly by one wing in her mouth, then eating it, earning her the nickname of 'Ninja Cat'. That has been the whole of their usefulness in their 7 1/2 years.

A few weeks ago, Timm came home from Scout camp and dumped his bag on the living room floor. Later that day, a small blue-tailed lizard was seen racing through the living room. This variety is often seen sunning on our front porch, making a hasty retreat as soon as you open the door. This was the first time I had seen a reptile in this home. Smeagle darted after it, causing Bella to sing his praises whenever possible to allay Timm's threats of turning him into 'Smeagle bacon'. I picked it up, it comically clamped down on my finger, and I released it outside. I blamed it on Timm's scout bag, but I'm really not so sure.

The next week, I was in the kitchen when Fiona came to me, wide-eyed saying: 'mama! There's a fwogda wiving woom!' (Or, 'Mama, there's a frog in the living room!') I chided her 2-year old imagination and moved to inspect. There, in close proximity to our dryer, was a frog, completely covered in lint. His eyeballs were so coated with it that he struggled to close his eyes and I had to thoroughly rinse him in the kitchen sink before returning him outside. I will admit, that one still mystifies me.

All of this evidence, collected, sounds horrifying. It makes me out to be a slovenly, unkempt and unsanitary person. That I might be, but our home is not. It's not perfect, but most of the time I like to think my house is cleaner than many others. As an example, I sweep my kitchen at least 3 times a day. This is in part because I have small children who eat like Cookie Monster, and because I cannot abide the feeling of crumbs underfoot. After the cockroach debacle, I further intensified my sweeping initiatives. My point is, I am not living in the deplorable conditions this evidence would suggest, and there is no need, at this time, to contact Child Protective Services.

And then. Then.

The whammy.

Lice.

Empty

{Yes, that is white wine in my fridge. Cooking wine. It should also be noted that all contents on the right hand side of the fridge belong to Timm, except for the Diet Coke with lime that I have repossessed.}

I probably should have guessed it when I arrived home and was immediately met with a cat crap stain in the living room and an unidentifiable smell pervading the house: It was not going to be an easy return.

To be fair, I should preface this with saying that Timm went above and beyond what is necessary or expected to ensure that I came home to a clean house. I always make sure that I leave the house clean, whether I leave for the day, or for an extended trip like this, so it is very gratifying to see him take the care to do the same. He mopped, he did all the laundry, he changed the sheets, he ironed, he vacuumed, he did the dishes- It was great. Unfortunately he was not home to intercept the aforementioned cat crap stain or the other debacles I was yet to face.

 We got in after 11pm, and the girls didn't get in bed until midnight. I stayed up for a bit going through mail and enjoying the first quiet I experienced in nearly three weeks. The next day was spent doing the usual post-trip chores: unpacking, laundry, vacuuming, pouring out the two week past-expiration solid milk Timm left in the fridge, etc. That evening we finally went out to the grocery store to procure some much-needed staples for the next few days. After about an hour of shopping, we went to check out. Being almost entirely out of food, the total was a bit more than I expected and I swiped the credit card to make the purchase. Timm and I had previously carefully planned out the final expenses of the month, dividing them between the scarce balances on our two credit cards. (Our goal of paying those off isn't going too well. It's a tough gig trying to survive on the less than $2500 a month paycheck a teacher's salary provides.10 months a year. For a family of 4.) Needless to say, the card was declined. In futility, I tried again. (I'm a glutton for punishment and public embarrassment.) Next I tried to write a check, reasoning that it wouldn't go through before he was paid on Friday, only to find that I had left my driver's license at home. They called over two different managers, both of whom refused to take my check without my driver's license. Even with another form of id and my social. Defeated, I left the store telling them I would be back with my driver's license even though I knew it was not true. I don't know why I told them I would return, but it was probably to save face. Upon leaving, Bella realized that they were out of free cookies and started to cry while Fiona loudly protested over her bandaids that we had to leave behind in the cart.  I couldn't help it: I cried on the way home, and I cried when we got home. I fed them toast for dinner and then started in on the next obstacle designed to defeat me.

At some point during the day I tried to move some food from our freezer to out chest freezer, only to find that at some point while I was away it had tripped the breaker, which happens frequently. The good news is, being poor as we are, there was hardly any food in it. The bad news is, there was some previously frozen Brussels sprouts, which had thawed and proceeded to decompose for approximately 2 weeks. Now, I love Brussels sprouts. Fresh, well-prepared Brussels spouts. However,  I cannot adequately describe to you the power or force of the stench that was unleashed when I broke the seal on that chest freezer. The cruciferous odor that had been captured in that small space was enough to take on a life of it's own. If it were a cartoon, it would be a thick green ribbon snaking through the house leaving death and destruction in it's wake. Since it was not a cartoon, I tied a dish towel over my nose and mouth and opened the freezer once more to face it's fury. After I threw away the offending and ruined food, I began to try and drain the 2 inches of standing water infused with essence of rotten Brussels sprouts. I attempted to drain it onto cookie sheets, but kept spilling fetid water onto the carpet so I opted to sop it up with towels which I quickly transferred to the washing machine. I wiped it out with Lysol and let it air out overnight, but I'm afraid some damage is irreversible. I am what they say a 'super-smeller' and keep thinking I smell those Brussels sprouts wherever I go.

Lastly, coming back East was a much harder adjustment, and Bella was obviously stuck on Vegas time since she didn't fall asleep until after midnight. I was desperately trying to watch last week's Survivor on my laptop, trying to reverse the damages of the day while pillaging their Easter candy, and she kept coming out, all. night. long. Eventually we both settled into my bed, and she fell asleep there around midnight. We took the day off again today, hoping to get her acclimated enough to return to school on Friday. I got a few groceries, and Timm gets his teacher's lump sum tomorrow. I'm trying not to think about the fact that it will almost be gone the same day after our online automatic bill pay has it's way with it.

For now I am going to settle in for another Survivor on my laptop, and make sure that girl is asleep this time.

Whew. Tomorrow I can start on my trip highlights, of which there were many.

Tedium, in 3 Parts

Part I- A short play

Part II- A treatise on body image

Part III- A contradiction to the treatise

Part I

Last night.

Timm and I.

10:30 pm, a late night for us.

In a darkened hallway, heading for bed.

Me: So, I really think you ate my fortune cookie.

Timm: No, I didn't. I threw it to you, then I ate my fortune cookie.

Me: Yeah, but I put it down. I think you found it, forgot you ate your fortune cookie, thought it was yours, and ate it.

Timm: I didn't forget that I ate my own fortune cookie.

Me: Yeah it's easy to do. I do it all the time. I'll reach for something to eat and then I look and it's not there, and I'm like, 'Oh, man! I already ate that? Dammit!'

Timm: I do not participate in mindless caveman-like eating.

Me: Whatever, people do that all the time. It's not just me. They do!!

Which leads me to another point:

I'm fat.

:: Girls, my girls, if you are reading this-years from now- don't you ever say that. ::

Part II

Now allow me to sidetrack into another, ranting vein:

I am very aware of the self-loathing that comes from being self-conscious of one's body. I had these issues all growing up, and still do as I think most women do to a degree. It's an effect of growing up in our body-conscious culture that prizes thinness above all else. It begins to seep into us as children, listening to our mothers and other  role models as they pinch their fat in the mirror and begin to catalog all of the reasons that they are imperfect and inferior in some way, and thus unhappy. It can be self-directed, or merely the undue emphasis on one's appearance, for good or for ill, when assessing or describing a person. Celebrities, friends, that person in front of us at church, someone passing on the street. We are too emphatic about appearance and shunning or ridiculing those we meet with displeasure, or elevating and praising those we approve of. Ourselves included. Thus I have always been adament about trying to avoid this with my girls as much as possible. They have never heard me complain about my body or my appearance in any way. I may give myself a through redressing in my mind, but these words are never uttered in their presence. I try not to comment on others' appearance unnecessarily or to identify one by the way they look, to categorize them or label them. I tell my girls they're beautiful, but I always make sure to tell them they're smart, funny, caring, and compassionate as well. I had a friend when I was young, and her father was constantly exclaiming over how beautiful she was. As a 12-year old I was simultaneously a bit envious of this praise or her beauty that inspired it, but also sad that this was the only attribute her father had praise for. It was so one-dimensional and shallow, and even as a child I could recognize that. So can our children, so this is my small part to try and balance the constant bullying our children, our girls, will receive from the world- that they do whatever necessary to conform to the ideal, or deservedly hate themselves when they do not. That all hinges and depends on their beauty or lack of it. At least they won't hear it from me.*

Wow. That went on a lot longer than I intended. I can't even remember why I started writing this to begin with. Oh, right.

I'm fat.

Part III 
I kind of tired even myself out writing all that, so it must be equally or more so tiring for a reader. Let it just be known that tomorrow marks exactly 4 months until my 30th birthday, and I would really like to be a little closer to my goal by then. And by closer I mean, not fatter. Less fat. Maybe even verging on thin. Despite everything I said up there, I still do want to lose weight, and not just for vanity's sake. I just don't feel good, and I don't feel like myself. That's the worst part. This is the hardest time I have ever had losing weight. By that I mean, the hardest time I have had keeping motivation to lose weight. I am fortunate that my metabolism and my body respond well when I eat right and exercise. They let me lose weight appropriately, but I have just not been able to do those things. I have wondered why it has been so hard for me this time, and I think it is because this is the longest I have ever been overweight. In the past, it was usually post -pregnancy, and I just lost the weight. This time, I gained the weight when I moved to Charlotte. 3 1/2 years ago. Ahem. I think because it has been so long, those habits are more ingrained and harder to break. I have gotten accustomed to being fat and eating poorly. Even if I hate it, it is the easy way. I need to find a way to keep my motivation in my sites and remember that I can do it, I have done it many times before, and it is worth it.

Oh, I am so tedious sometimes.

*It should be noted that I am exceptional at diagramming a problem, forming vehement opinions about it, advising others, and then living diametrically opposed to that opinion because of the difficulty I have in bridging the gap between what I believe and what is hard to do. Call Me Badger reserves the right to these opinions at the risk of sounding hypocritical or dumb.

A Letter

Dear Bob's Red Mill,

For the past 6 weeks my family has embarked upon the daunting and sometimes perilous journey of going Gluten-Free. My husband and possibly both of my children have Celiac disease. I am also a cook, and a baker. A pretty good one too. Especially the baking part. I was not raised or taught to use mixes in almost any scenario. We are from the make-it-from-scratch persuasion and this tradition has been passed down through several generations, as evidenced by my dog-eared and stained recipes from my grandmother. I'm sure you can imagine my dismay when faced with the task of continuing to bake good-for-you and more importantly good-tasting wheat-free cakes and cookies and the like for my family. Thus I have turned to mixes and relied heavily on them these past 6 weeks. As I learn to navigate the GF waters, buying specialty flours and ingredients to mix my own all-purpose flour, learning what ratio of xanthan gum to add to these flours and how to substitute these in my favorite recipes, mixes have become a crutch. A really good one to get us through these first few weeks. And for the most part, they have been surprisingly good. With 2 notable exceptions. Which brings me to my point:

First, it should be known- I am a bean lover. Across the board, I love beans. I even like lima beans! So it is not with an unfair bias against beans that I say to you, "Why in the name of all that is holy do you insist on making mixes, especially those meant for sweet treats like cake, with garbanzo bean flour?!?!? And fava beans?!" Now, I know you did not pioneer the use of these legume-derived flours, at least not to my knowledge. But when there are perfectly good, bland, and distinctly non-bean flours available, like rice, that you can easily slip in without notice, why would you rely on fava beans?! I made my favorite cookie recipe and they looked great. Held up wonderfully and could barely see a difference. Until I ate one and thought, "Hm. Beans." Have you ever had a bean cookie? No. And do you know why? Because they are disgusting. That is the reason you have not seen them featured behind the bakery glass or written up in Bon Appetit. People don't like beans in their cookies. Now, I used your all-purpose flour mix, so you could argue that maybe that particular flour would be best in a savory dish, in small quantities where it could go unnoticed. This is true. But then explain to me why you would create a chocolate cake mix, and then use the same garbanzo and fava beans flours?! It is specifically and obviously created to make a chocolate cake, and guess what? Not unlike the cookies, people don't like bean cake. And it's not subtle. I mixed it up, ignorantly, and it looked great. With anticipation, I licked the beater, as is a favorite pastime of mine. Immediately I shuddered and exclaimed "Beans!! Oh crap. Beans." And shuddered again.

Seriously, chocolate cake?

Garbanzo beans? 

They do not go together.

I implore you to use other milder flours such as rice, but until then I will be taking my business to Betty Crocker, who's mixes are decidedly unbeany. I can't believe that I have come to take a stance on mixes that is anything but opposition, but here we are.

At an impasse.

I finally mixed up my own blend, so I hope to leave your mixes on the shelf from now on. I will, however use your individual ingredients. One of which, by the way, is rice flour. 

Bothered by Beans,

Jessie

Public Service Announcement

For the sake of your health, your sanity, and your peace with the world as a whole, do not- I repeat, do not-ever look into your garbage disposal without it's protective covering. (You know, the black thing that keeps all your utensils from falling in.) The sight will horrify you. A layer of calcified, petrified food coating the interior and entrance into said disposal. A smell. Even though you run your disposal with diligence after every single use, after any food makes it way into it. Even though you occasionally put soap or citrus rinds in there to freshen things up, albeit apparently not as often as necessary. It is quite possibly an entrance to another dimension, or more probable, the very gates of hell. It's one of life's conveniences that is best left unstudied. Appreciate it in an abstract way, much like indoor plumbing and Sodium Benzoate. (To preserve freshness.)

Flux

For me, one of the hardest parts of motherhood is the constantly changing and evolving schedules of my children, depending on their age and stage at the time. The flexibility required to continually adapt and adjust my priorities, my time tables and my days.
For instance, I generally use Fiona's morning nap to get any cleaning that needs to be done, allowing me the afternoon nap to rest and recuperate, all to myself. I need that small does of alone time in my day to get me through the rest of it with some sanity intact. I've been working on my Home Management Notebook lately and have gotten my schedule pretty well arranged. (Providing I actually stick to my various schedules, of course.) And now? Fiona has not been taking morning naps. This makes it difficult, if not impossible to get any cleaning done, let alone get ready for the day. Augh. I struggle with productivity and motivation enough without having constant wrenches thrown into things. I know there is a solution to this, it will just take some reexamination and retooling, not to mention sacrifice of 'my' time. It just frustrates me to never have a constant- except change!
I'm afraid I'm also going to have to start getting up earlier. Which probably also means going to bed earlier.
AUgh!!

I Must Admit...

Even though i am consciously noting things for which i am grateful, tonight I must admit to feeling a bit lonely for those far from me. I miss Hannah and having an easy relateable friend close by- both on the deepest levels but also the ease of just being, co-existing. I hate that I don't know enough about her daily life and the people in it. I hate that I can't call Michelle whenever I get the urge while she is in Paris. I usually call her on a near-daily basis for things mundane, benign, frivolous, funny, and desperate. I miss the proximity of so many people I love. Who support me and take me 'as is'.
So take that, gratitude! A healthy dose of whining from one of its principle followers.

'They're Baaack...'

I got an early Halloween scare today when Bella came in from outside and told me she had a surprise and to close my eyes. I opened my eyes to find a medium-sized singular mushroom. It had an orange cast to it. I gasped and quickly breathed 'Where did you get that? Did you get that from the back yard? Are they back?!' "Yeah' she replied, 'Three piles.'

?!@#$&*!

I give you...

{Photos once again taken from the safety of the deck, one story above the specimens}

I know it's silly. I know that it makes no sense, but these things freak me out! Why does no one understand?! You may recall last year's reaction. (I just reread it, and did you remember that they were steaming and had juices running from them? Do you still think they are harmless and I am overreacting??) Afterwards I hastily put it out of my mind and rested well believing that the offenders were cut asunder and my place at the top of the food chain was well established and proven to any and all who might be thinking of plotting another such overthrow. Not this time, fungi!
Apparently they didn't get the message. They lay dormant for a while, scheming...I just mowed the lawn a bit over a week ago and there was absolutely no sign of growth. I did check while I was there because it crossed my mind but I breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared to only be host to authorized, properly manicured grass and weeds. Then today, I go out onto the deck after Bella's surprise, and I can't help it, I screamed. I swear I wasn't trying to be dramatic, and even though I braced myself for it, the sight instantly sent chills all over my whole body and I let a scream escape. From then on, every time i thought of it I got full-body chills.
I talked to Molly today and she pointed out that it was well-timed, being the day before Halloween. I replied excitedly with 'Yes! Because they're like Zombie Mushrooms!!', thinking that maybe someone finally understood, but she was merely referring to their pumpkin orange color. Damn it.
Really? Does no one understand this (albeit very strange) idiosyncrasy? It's anything that clusters- bee hives, wasp nests, small weed-like onions growing in my yard that I tried, futilely to dig up, just constantly unearthing more and more...even the word 'cluster' in this context makes me shudder. And 'piles'. Ew. There should not be piles of anything growing.
Robin sent me an email this time last year called 'Grillin' Bees' and it was a story and photo documentation of just a sick ridiculous hive and it almost makes me sick to my stomach. If you're interested let me know and I can send it on, but be forewarned.
I'm really not afraid of anything. Anything else, I guess. I'm cool with bugs, insects, rodents, dirt, all manner of farm animals, spiders, snakes, you name it. I'll touch it, I'll dig in, I'm down. No fear. But show me a sprouting vegetable or a fast-growing brightly-colored mushroom in the yard, and I'm done.
Done.

Anti-Social Even on the Internet

I studiously avoid most networking sites or services including Twitter and FaceBook. Obviously, Blogger is an exception since it is my journal and not an advertisement for myself, availing any and all to seek me out. I admit to an aversion to these sites that prevents me from even looking at them-I have not ever looked at FaceBook or Twitter.
This seems a little strange since I am not necessarily a private person. I am a talker and anyone who has had one conversation with me probably knows all they want or need to now about me. I will write about almost anything. (In fact, in response to Jill's request- I wear a 36 D. Before I delivered my kids I was an E and that was before my milk even came in. We're talking personal-size watermelons here people.) Yet despite this proliferation I cringe at the thought of a very specific group of people finding me- anyone from high school.
I did not enjoy high school. That is an understatement. In fact I hated the years that collectively include junior high and high school, puberty, adolescence, all of that. I hated it so much that I dropped out at 16, got my GED and went to community college so I could transfer to BYU by the time I would have been graduating high school. One of the best decisions of my life. Because of this, I alienated a lot of people from my life, as was one of the primary reasons for doing so. I wanted to change my life and make a clean break. High school is not a place for clean breaks or absolution among your peers. I think I made those years unnecessarily difficult for myself. I am a completely different person than I was then and I don't want to reminded of that time of unhappiness.
Since I left high school in 10th grade and haven't seen most of those people since then, I never really gained closure. I left when everyone was at their peak of punkish-ness and thus they are forever frozen that way to me. It is so hard to imagine that they have moved on and become successful, contributing members of society, never mind admirable parents. That thought is mind-boggling to me. Mind-boggling. I know that at least some of them must have grown up to do something worthwhile if only because of the mathematical probability. Perhaps I may even like one or two of them if we met as adults. But I still can't imagine that to be true. In many ways I feel like my life began when I dropped out. Most of my memories and parts of my life that I like to recall are from that point on. Anything remembered from my adolescence is usually explained with a lot of head-shaking and shoulder-shrugging.
Perhaps part of this means that I am afraid of what people will think if they do happen across me. Would anyone even look? Remember me? And if they did would they think kindly of me or remember me as the weird girl who freaked out and dropped out of high school?
I know its idiosyncratic and probably an insecurity on my part, but I don't want to be on display in the online meat market that exists.
Besides all of those reasons, I try to live a simpler life and to me, these typify the rapidly increasing world of technology and voyeurism. I am not against technology and quite enjoy many of its fruits, but not to the degree that most are accustomed. We have a cell phone thanks to my mom, but I never use it and it is, as described by a flight attendant on the loud speaker this summer, a 'Model -T' phone, or looks like its from 1953. While I don't think it is that bad, it is definitely a no-frills phone. No camera, no touch screen, no apps or games of any kind. And voyeurism? I feel about blogs and the like the same way I feel about friends. I don't care about having throngs of friends who are merely acquaintances that I keep on hand or see occasionally to share trivial bits of information or gossip. I much rather enjoy a few select friends that I know well and love. I don't have the time or interest to pursue the lives of people I knew 12 years ago, veritable strangers, who knew me when I was at my worst.
So there's my defense of my anti-FaceBook and Twitter policies. Just musing on that today.

At Odds

I have a problem. I want to be thin(ner), but I also really love food. Why must these be at odds? I love everything about food. First and foremost, it just tastes good. But there's more- I love baking. Cooking-depends on the day- but baking, rapture! I love baking for other people. I love the whole process of baking from start to finish, but especially the middle part that sometimes includes dough! There are some really wonderful things to make out there.
I also want to be thin. Sometimes I wonder, at what cost? Is it really worth it? I'll give you a different answer on different days. And how thin? Maybe I want to settle for slightly plump if it allows me to also enjoy the wondrous array of food this world offers. I mean, food is a basic component of life! It's everywhere! It's unavoidable! It's amazing! And besides all this, I'm fighting biology. Eating sugar literally sends more mood-enhancing endorphins to your brain, which for a depressed person is basically a little shot of happy in every bite. (Hence a high correlation between depression and over-eating-) How can I fight chemistry? You always hear health freaks or diet-do-gooders say that food is fuel, and only fuel. I've been thinking about it and I came up with what I think is a good analogy. Yes, food is primarily a fuel source and the reason it exists is to fuel our bodies. But to relegate it strictly to this purpose is like using sex solely as a means of procreation. Sex exists to create life on earth, however it can also be really fun! (Between monogamous married individuals, of course.) Besides their primary functions both food and sex can be enjoyed for other purposes and should be! Right? Probably the solution to this would be moderation. However, I seem to have a really hard time with moderation. With anything, but especially sugar due to the happy shots it gives. Plus it's really good. Then I think I should just focus on making better choices over time to live an overall healthy lifestyle and not fret over every bite and every calorie. Unfortunately this method is risky and slow.
So you can see why I am at odds. Why oh why must this disparity exist? Why can't I be one of those cursed naturally thin people who get to enjoy the food they like without consequence?

Self-Indulgent Rant, or 'Creative Frustration'

I tend to be very passionate about whatever it is that I am interested in at the time. Sometimes these things are more fleeting than others, but I approach everything head-on with an all-consuming devotion. Even if it turns out that I lost interest quickly or change my mind, at the time I really was genuinely passionate about it. One cannot tell from the outset whether the notion will be transient or lasting because I always have this genuine interest.
Usually I research the ins and outs of the subject before deciding whether or not to pursue it. Such was the case with keeping chickens. I was really interested in it, but approached it with the caution it deserved, not wanting to ultimately be stuck with a flock of chickens and their adjoining waste if later the idea lost some of it luster. I read 2 or 3 books, talked to a couple of experienced chicken keepers and mulled it over for a while. Fortunately I decided that at least for the time being, chicken-keeping was more than I wanted to handle. Whew- we dodged that one. Luckily for everyone, my sometimes-fleeting interests do not always carry the threat of avian bird flu, mounds of feces or accompanying flies. My current love does not come with any real threats to my safety or the happiness of others around me.
Sewing.
I've been into sewing for a long time. I started my first quilt 12 years ago, and it is still unfinished, not for lack of interest but perhaps because of the magnitude of the project. That's another problem. After reading and researching, sketching and brainstorming I attack it with a zeal that would indicate that I actually know what I'm doing or have experience in the field. I figure, 'I can figure it out. I can do that.' Oftentimes I cannot. Then frustration and cursing ensues.
Now that Fiona is officially one year old (!!) I feel like I have the freedom and presence of mind to explore my passions. Finishing a lap quilt while at Michelle's house gave me the confidence to sew again, so I came home and started filling notebook with designs and ideas. I have visions of grandeur of filling my etsy shop again, updating daily, hand-made gifts for everyone, shunning the opulence and emptiness of consumer-driven store bought gifts. I start collecting materials everywhere I can- Goodwill has been a great place for vintage sheets and fabric. I start drawing patterns and get to work creating, trying to translate my ideas to tangible items. This is where the frustration comes in. I don't actually know what I'm doing. My talents and abilities do not match my visions! It is SO frustrating to have this break in communication. It makes me feel demoralized and like I have no business doing this and why do I even try?! So I curse and pout and put it down. The next day I wake up, look at it and tackle it again.
I need help.
Maybe more ways than one.

Same old, same old.

I have so many things to write about, so many things I am behind on, things I never documented at the time, pictures waiting in reserve for their due appearance,expressions of gratitude, images I want to remember, experiences I want preserved- but I am not caching up on any of that today. Today I have to write about what is stressing me, what needs immediate release, if not resolution. Any guesses?
Money.
Of course.
I am trying to exercise a little restraint in the details of our finances which is somewhat foreign to me and just a bit hard to rein in. As much as I would like my blog to be completely honest and utterly devoid of content editing, I have made it public and people other than myself read it. I try to write with a complete disregard for my 'audience' since it is first and foremost my journal, but ultimately that is impossible since I know that others are reading it and the details of my life include other people, whether or not they have agreed to have their part published in a public forum. Thus when I want to vent or agonize over the minutea of a modern, domestic life it means that others agonize along with me. It also means that no matter how little finances mean to my self-worth, translated into complete and full disclosure over the details of said finances, others may not appreciate my lack of discretion. So, allow me if I may to speak somewhat cryptically in an attempt at semi-privacy. On a blog accessible to anyone on earth provided they have internet access.

Let me start by saying I don't want a lot of money. I have quickly adjusted to living on a very tight budget since getting married. I am creative in my frugality and even enjoy the challenge at times. In general I follow the adage to 'Use it up, wear it out, make it last or do without.' I make as many things as possible. I don't want to live ostentatiously. I try to avoid rampant consumerism. I don't like to accumulate too much stuff. I flee from extravagance.
But.
I would like to pay the mortgage with more than a $10 buffer, deposited on the day the mortgage is due to be withdrawn. i would like to be able to buy groceries so I can make actual meals without worrying about maxing the credit card. I would like to order the birthday present I picked out for Timm's 30th birthday next month. I would like to be able to go about my day, being productive, instead of feeling haunted with worry about paying the bills. Instead I am sitting on the couch blogging about it in the middle of the day when I have other things to do. I hate the feeling of want, I hate feeling ungrateful, I hate feeling like I can't do it myself, I hate not being able to find a solution, and I hate whining about it. I hate that I don't see an end in sight.
I hate it.
I know I'm not alone and I know that there are worse things on earth, worse problems to have, and that I still have more than a large portion of the world living with less than I have. Still, it's what's on my mind at 1 pm today, and much of the time. I'm off to the grocery store to see how little we can get by with until Timm gets paid n 2 weeks.

Whine

I'm sick.My ears are ringing. I lost my voice. I have an earache. I have phlegm. I have a stuffy nose. I can't breathe, I can't sleep, I can't take a day off. I hate being the sick mom. Not only do you get no rest and no special accommodations or care, but you're still taking care of everyone else. 3 year olds and 5 month olds are not the best nurses, or very understanding either. They still whine, cry, wake up in the middle of the night, and generally drive you crazy. Even crazier when you feel like someone is sawing your ear off.
Blimey.

Back in Action

Well, I'm trying at least. I'll probably have a purge-style post soon that will showcase all miscellaneous photos on my card that I want to show as well as a stream of consciousness rambling to explain the day-to-day banalities that you have missed out on for the last 2 weeks. I know you are all on pins and needles waiting for that one.
We took these on Sunday at Nana's request because she said, and I quote, that the family picture she had of us was "terrible", "awful", and "unattractive." Hmm. Although I do not necessarily disagree, short of liposuction, Lap-band surgery or drastic photo-shopping, there's not much that can be done at least immediately, since I am the detracting subject matter. Since I haven't employed any of the aforementioned drastic measures, we just gussied ourselves up for church in coordinating clothes and took these afterwards. They turned out reasonably well. Unfortunately I also decided to try my hair a new (and apparently scary) way for said pictures. I hope these ones meet Nana's critical standards, or she may have to wait a year for a family picture featuring a new-and-improved Jessie.
(In her defense, I think Nana was merely displeased with her poorly-printed photo that was on regular computer paper that they printed and then cut to size. I think. It wasn't really clear.)
There might be better ones of Bella, but they feature many more chins for me, so they will remain archived on my computer for now. Of course I need to pick the most flattering one of myself. Self-preservation and all.
Viewing these photos was one of those acute moments of painful realization and reckoning. (Some of you are familiar with this, I'm sure-) You think you know how bad it's gotten (say, a weight problem or some such thing...) and although you are not pleased with your current state, you have come to terms with it, at least for the time being. You feel like you have an accurate picture of the person you are presenting to the world. You know what you are, where you stand, for good or for ill. Then you see a picture that clarifies that image all too harshly and you think, "Wait-what? Is this for real?" Then your mind tries to rearrange the reality that you thought you were living- you view yourself as everyone else has apparently been seeing you and wonder how you could be so ignorant, and how no one could tell you, set you straight. You feel shame and embarrassment that this is the picture, the person you have been unwittingly placing on display for the general public, whether they want to see it or not. (Most likely not-) Your mind reels, dissecting every social encounter and viewing yourself in a more accurate, and unflattering light. Suddenly you wonder why said public and social individuals have tolerated your company other than for a new-found appreciation for themselves when compared to your sad state.
Sigh.
So this is what it has come to. How did I let this happen? Why is it so hard to change?
The funny thing is, I don't feel like a fat person. In my mind, I look like I have at my best- that is the person I see myself as. The problem is, other people don't see that. My friends in North Carolina don't have a better frame of reference to compare me to- one that I feel is so critical for me to remember so that I know is attainable. And my clothes definitely don't see me that way- they hang in crowded silence, each garment relying on each other for the hope that they will be worn again some day. Soon.
I realize if you don't know me very well, it could be hard to detect my dry and self-deprecating tone, but I promise it's there. I can find humor even in the ugliest of situations and it helps me to clear my mind by writing it all out. Accounting for it. So there we have it.
Please notice the label- No need to comment.
Also- it's worse than these pictures would lead one to believe. I'm not masochistic enough to publish the truly hideous, though more accurate ones. So there.
Quiet.

TMI: Self-Indulgent Musings...

This is after all, my blog, my journal, and if you can't be self-indulgent in that forum, where can you? I suppose that is the very definition of a journal come to think of it...
What's with me? I'm feeling stuck.
This all seems so familiar somehow- Perhaps something I felt approximately 1,277 days ago, or when Bella was about the same age as Fiona is right now. When Bella was born, I was so afraid of post-partum depression. Considering the rigorous battle depression gives me on a regular basis, the addition of post-baby hormones and the stresses of new motherhood seemed an ominous combination. I was pleasantly surprised when I seemed to handle it better than I expected or thought capable. For a couple of months anyway. No that it was easy, not that I felt like I adjusted particularly well or adeptly, but still better than I thought I would. Then after a few months my progress seemed to slow, things started to pile up around the house, my to-do list remained stagnant, my patience grew thin, perhaps I gained a few pounds, and I left the house less and less. A familiar routine for me since all of these are common symptoms of depression. Why? What happened? I was doing so well, and then suddenly... I wasn't. Well the same seems to have happened this go 'round. Fi is 4 months old and my house is a disaster, laundry is in several piles around the house and hasn't actually been folded and put away in a couple of weeks. I went to my first Weight Watchers meeting last Friday but have yet to actually commit myself to it since I didn't plan accordingly. I have yet to assume making regular dinners for my family, resume a regular cleaning routine, maintain any sort of regular routine for that matter. Dishes are piled around the kitchen, my grocery shopping still on the kitchen table, my laundry spread around the living room with the ironing board hopefully set up. My bed is unmade, my coupons not completely clipped or organized. I am participating in a yard sale with some friends this weekend and have yet to even begin assembling or readying my goods. And yet with all this piled up around me, here I sit watching American Idol, blogging, waiting for Timm to come home from work with a milkshake for me.
Why now? Why do I feel like I'm giving up now after 4 months of comparable success? It starts to accumulate in my consciousness making me think along the lines of: 'What am I good at? What am I good for? Why am I the way I am? Why is everyone in my life better than me, deserve better than me? Why does anyone like me? Why can't I do anything? Why can't I sustain anything or any achievement? Why am I so much less than everyone else? Why am I so much less capable than others? What redeeming qualities do I even have? How does anyone put up with me? Why can't I get it together? When will I? Will I?
What is the point of me?
Hmm.

Note to Self:

Do not plan to do ANYthing between the hours of 7 and 11 pm. Unless those plans are to endlessly pace the floor, rock, pat, shush, sing, sway, change positions, nurse, practice 'Serenity Now' and becoming zen-inevitably giving in to the roar of white noise that is incessant screaming. No reading, no watching tv (if you want to follow it whatsoever), no cleaning, no talking, nothing productive and nothing enjoyable. After 11 pm. you may ready yourself for bed as quickly as possible, hope Fiona will sleep in the nursery and dive into bed, hoping for a possible 2 hours of uninterrupted sleep.
We're 1 hour in for tonight. 2-3 more to go.

Evidence

Just in case anyone thinks I am exaggerating or being dramatic about the issue of 'colic' and reflux around here, I submit this evidence.
If you are prone to migraines or hypertension, do NOT watch this video.

That was 15 seconds of what can amount to 3 hours of screaming and crying. Tonight she stopped about 30 minutes ago after 3 1/2 hours of intermittent crying, where there was more of that than there was of peace.
I tried to make cookies to stuff my frustration and stress, but only got so far. I abandoned it after 10 minutes. The amount of time that she stayed asleep in her crib when I transferred her from my arms. I left it all in the kitchen.
My bed, unmade for the last 2 days.
A project I undertook, organizing and storing my maternity clothes and cleaning out my drawers. A relatively simple project I started yesterday. Silly me.
My stack of books from the library awaiting my attention.
The one I am currently trying to get through in the very few minutes a day I can actually read.
Colic self-portrait.
Trying to deal.
And this is me, in all my glory. Lounge clothes with multiple large spit-up spots. Actually my second spit-up covered cleaning shirt of the day. Yesterday's makeup-smeared mascara and eyeliner. Zits dotting my entire face, no doubt from a combination of stress and a deluge of sugar and other large quantities of junk. My teeth aren't even brushed.
While it's true that the screaming is usually only at night, my days are often darkened by the shadow of the previous night's episode. Last night was another particularly bad 'sode, and today I was tired, lounged, and tried to recoup. Thus, my house in in disrepair, I am in... a sad and sorry physical state, and I miss my husband as more than a sounding board and an occasional relief from the screaming baby. I am actually dealing quite well and am very proud of myself on my emotional fortitude, but I still don't know how much more of this I can take. Right now she is mercifully asleep in her crib, (going on 20 minutes!!) and I am trying to steel myself for-at best, wakings at every 2 hours, and at worst, sleeping with her in my arms. Or maybe it's the other way around. I don't know anymore.
How on earth am I hosting my family's stay for Thanksgiving in 3 days? What the?
Help me. I am dead inside.
(that last part was supposed to convey a dry but humorous declaration of my mental state, but Timm said it read more like 'I am going to go kill myself.' So- it's not suicidal. It's dry humor at the expense of my sanity.)

Dirty Begging little... Dirty Cats.

These cats. They're like squatters. Covered in their own filth, leaving evidence of it wherever they go and constantly begging off of me, be it food or attention. With every little meow or titter from their mouths I am instantly resentful. What do you want from me?!
What's a girl to do.
Back in the day, we jokingly used to say that those dirty spots had merely been 'Smegelized.'
It's not funny anymore.
Every time I walk by the bathroom and get a whiff of the litter box, even if it's clean, makes me alternately hang my head or throw it back in indignation.
Sigh...

End of the Line

I have had pets for as long as I can remember. As a parent myself, now I can't imagine why my own parents were so indulgent with me in this arena. The first pet I remember is Maggie, a parti-colored Cocker Spaniel that I'm pretty sure my mom fell in love with from a shop window. We kept her for a little while until my mom said that we were allergic to her, although I suspect she just realized it was a bad decision and the excuse of allergies was the easiest way to break it to the kids. I'm not sure if Simon came before of after Maggie, but he was an all- white medium- hair cat that we got from some kids giving away kittens on Halloween. We had him for about 7 years until he got Leukemia and we had to put him to sleep, much to the trauma of my brother and I. Besides these pets I had many others, a total of: 4 lizards, a mouse named Spencer, countless 'feeder' goldfish, 3 rabbits, several kittens, my calico cat named Molly, a Lab named Maddie, my Weimeraner named Sadie, a horse I leased named Astro, and an almost-sheep named Lambie. After I moved out the pet-collection got even worse. Since then I have also owned many rats, a freshwater aquarium, 2 snakes, a pink-toe tarantula, and several more cats including the 2 hairless ones we have now.
I worked as a vet tech for 5 years, starting at the age of 16. I loved this job, but it required very many tasks that were at times revolting, and I never minded any of it. It was fascinating and fulfilling. Later I was a manager at Petco which also had it's fair share of less-than glamorous aspects, but I still loved it.
I have always been an animal-lover. As an intense teenager I was a vegetarian and animal-rights activist, and even a vegan for a short time. I always marveled at how this trait was settled upon me since no one in my family shared my affinity for all living things. I have always unflinchingly accepted this as a basic part of my makeup and personality.
Until now.
Things are changing.
Before I had Lola I remember actually being afraid that having a child would make me love my pets less. Ha.
Well it did.
Ever since having children, there has been a slow decline in my devotion and dedication to animals- my pets more specifically. As time goes by I have less and less tolerance for the additional workload my pets place on me. Now that we have Fiona, it is almost intolerable. They are just 2 more creatures that I have to care for- cleaning up their bodily fluids, feeding, watering, bathing... without the same incentives or rewards you sometimes get for caring for your children.
For example- since the cats are hairless, they are actually quite high-maintenance. They still excrete the oils a normal cat would, but lack the hair to absorb it, thus attracting all dirt and grime to it like a filthy, greasy magnet. This requires once-a-week bathing at which I am negligent at best, as well as regular ear, eye, and nose cleaning. Also nail trimming. This oily dirt-attraction leaves brown spots wherever they congregate. Since they are hairless, they also seek cozy warm places. Hence, the places they congregate are many and leave the aforementioned brown patches on our sheets, covers, furniture, walls that they lean against, windowsills, blankets, pillows, clothes...
I know, disgusting.
Up until now it has been a mere nuisance that I was willing to overlook for the affection and pleasure of my kitties.
I still love these cats, but it is not really worth it to me anymore. The more complicated my life becomes as my family grows, the less I am willing to expend my limited energy cleaning up after these guys. It seems lately they are so much work!
For instance, a few days ago I came out into the living room to find 2 piles of cat vomit. Lovely.
Yesterday I discovered that one of them crapped in our bathtub, the very same bathroom that houses their currently immaculately clean litter box, leaving them no excuse for such behavior. Before I could clean that up, they did it again. What the?! I am washing my bedding constantly, trying to remove stains that are hopeless. I walk around the house with a bottle of Lysol and try to remove the stains I see from room to room. I clean the litter box frequently to avoid having a characteristically cat-smelly house. Bathing them is always at the top of my to-do list, and seems to resurface as soon as I get around to doing it.
They are also incredibly needy, a trait I found endearing until recently. Hence, the picture of Smegel laying on top of Timm's arm as he feeds Fiona a bottle. He frequently lays flush against her while I nurse her. They sleep under our covers every night, nestled as close to us as possible. When I spend my whole day in close physical contact with a preschooler, an infant, and at time a husband, 2 sweaty cats are the last things I want to share my affection with, especially if they are vying for it while I am presently sharing it with other members of my actual family.
I never thought this would happen. I can't believe that I am saying it, but I don't know how much of an animal-lover I am anymore. Or- I still love them and are fascinated by them, but I don't know how well they fit into my life anymore. I am as shocked as anyone and now find myself in a predicament since my cat's predicted lifespan gives us another 10 years together. Unless that long-term cough of Smegel's develops into something more...
Forgive me Erin!