Ritual de lo Habitual

I've been working lately on not chewing on my lips and the inside of my mouth. This is a habit I've had for years, but in recent months/years/I don't even know for sure how long, it's gotten really bad. There are days when I will chew and chew and chew to the point my jaw actually gets sore. The insides of my cheeks will swell and then I'll end up biting them (hard) accidentally. And my lips are a cracked and jagged mess no matter how much balm or lipstick I apply.

So I decided it has to stop. And for the past couple of weeks, I've been working very hard not to do it. There are some days when I don't chew at all. There are other days when I will catch myself taking a bite or two and I'll stop. There are other days when stress will get the better of me and I'll allow myself to gnaw for a good 5 or 10 minutes before I tell myself "enough" and stop. But for the most part, I think I'm making progress.

And progress--not perfection--is what we strive for, right?

Lemons--Lemonade--Vodka'n'Lemonade

We're all familiar with the old "when life hands you lemons" philosophy. Well, I've been feeling like life is handing me a helluva lot of lemons these days:

• Bob's ongoing illness, our inability to find any lasting improvement for him, and the ongoing problems associated therewith
• Ben's company heading down the shitter and the state of the job market for someone with his background
• My getting screwed out of paid maternity leave and the resulting shitstorm of unpaid medical bills, bad credit and underemployment I've been fighting for the past year
• db's unwillingness to pay child support or make any effort to stay current on child support
• Our seeming inability to get ahead in any way, shape or form lately.

I know I should "count my blessings" and move steadfastly forward with a shit-eating grin plastered on my face ("fake it til you feel it!") but I'm just not that girl. Hard luck tends to hit me harder and heavier than a lot of people because for whatever reason, I just can't accept that "shit happens." I want to know why, dammit, because if I know why, maybe I can prevent that same shit from happening (or, better yet, other shit) in the future.

Unfortunately, I think I know the "why" behind the majority of issues in our recent scenario, and there ain't a damn thing I can do about it. Nada. Nunca. Nadie. It is what it fucking is, and it sucks.

So if I can't do anything to change the status quo...what do I do to keep from getting so damned depressed about the whole thing that I swallow several bottles of pills with a vodka-spiked lemonade chaser?

The truth is, I don't know. And every time I try to think about it, I get mired in my own thought process and my adult ADD kicks in and I just have all these fragmented thoughts whirling around in my head. I've even started to disturb myself lately, outside of my head. I'll be in the kitchen for the purpose of doing something to Make My Life Easier--say, making multiple sandwiches to freeze for Bob's lunch. And then, as I'm getting the peanut butter from the fridge, I'll see a jar of roasted red peppers, and I'll get them out and start making hummus for my own lunch. Then halfway through that, I'll get a container out of the cupboard to put the hummus in, and will notice the complete state of disaster the storageware is in, and will start organizing it. Fast forward--I've now been in the kitchen for a fucking hour and a half. I've made two sandwiches, have hummus sitting in the Cuisinart, and half the storageware sitting out on the floor. The toddler is playing with the other half. The counters are full of food and wrappers and scraps and other shit. And Ben wanders in and says, "uh, you gonna be in here much longer, cuz I was thinking about getting dinner started."

In other words, I spend a lot of time having good intentions and accomplishing very little. And that's not even counting the things I actually forget I'm doing and never finish (or never start).

I don't know if it's a lack of time or what. I don't think so, because even though it's summer, we've recently been spending an inordinate amount of our evenings indoors--partly due to Ben's being a big pussy about mosquitoes, partly because Bob has been in trouble so much that "doing something" is out of the question. Our suburban locale puts a dent in my lifestyle dreams, too, I've noticed. I was reading about Bitchcakes riding her (delectable) bike through Brooklyn to run errands and shit, and I found myself waxing nostalgic for our Northtown days, when literally everything we needed (save a really good grocery store) was within biking distance on flat, tree-lined sidewalks.

As for time. I've been wanting to start digging into some book ideas I've had brewing for a long time, but never "had time" to get started. Turns out I still don't. I think a lot of my "time" issues could be resolved if I went to bed a little later and got up a little earlier. But being depressed means the six or seven hours of sleep I currently get feels like a deficiency, and the thought of shaving another 60-90 minutes off that amount makes me want to cry.

Still, I really do think I need to start getting out of bed earlier in the morning. I also have a lot of "projects" around the house I need to move my ass on, regardless of the fact summer is on the downhill stretch to over. (And there's another problem--summer's end and the start of the long-ass cold miserable weather sends me into complete misery, and I'm already dreading that onslaught.)

Now that I think of all this, I think what I really need is...a Trapper Keeper. Go ahead, laugh. But in all honesty, if I had a notebook, with dividers and space to jot down all my ideas and compartmentalize all the different aspects of my life I need to keep straight...maybe, just maybe, I could get it all out of my head and into one neat and tidy place, and then I wouldn't have to remember so much, and my head would feel...freer. Maybe.

Good thing school supplies are out in full force right now, huh? Do they even still make the Trapper Keeper? Cuz I'm getting one, goddammit. With kittens on the front.

The Comedy of Tragedy

Some people think I've officially dropped my basket.

I've been going out of my way the past couple of days to let my inner comic burst forth and wow the world with my humorous outlook on the world. This partially relates to my desire to establish the new blog. Mostly it relates to my desire not to think about my firstborn's slim chance of living to see his 18th birthday.

I've tried to shun this reality for the past 7 years or so, ever since I first noticed Bob wasn't like other kids. Even after I finally accepted his diagnosis, I've been treating it like something that, with the right treatment, can be "fixed." Cured. Resolved.

It can't be. People live with it, yes. Some are even successful in spite of it. But things being as they are--his extremely young age at onset, the fight to keep him medically compliant, his apparent resistance to so many different medications, his genetic predisposition to self-medicating--I can't say his odds look good.

People like to try to soften the blow for me by telling me stories about people they know/knew who are/were bipolar and lived happy, fulfilling lives. That's all well and good. But for every one of them, there are at least two or three who knew someone who finally got tired of being miserable and decided to put a stop to it once and for all.

And I can't say I won't be relieved if, when, Bob does the same. It sounds horrific, but seriously--for him to be at peace? That's what I want more than anything. I'll mourn, for certain. But I'll be more mourning the person he could have been, the person he was, the life he deserved but for fucked up reasons I'll never be able to explain, was denied.

In a way, I'm already mourning all that. Knowing all the great things there are in childhood that we all take for granted, that he will never be able to enjoy because he just can't, it destroys me. Knowing that every day he feels like shit but he doesn't know why and doesn't even have the words to articulate it--I just want to scream. And scream. And scream some more.

And knowing that I have to be the big girl, the parent, trying to teach him some useless fucking lesson, basically that the person he is is fundamentally wrong and bad and unacceptable--shit, that makes me feel like a monster.

So yeah, I'm going to take a nice little cruise down that river in Egypt, and try to keep laughing. Because I'm afraid if I stop laughing, I'm going to start screaming. And I may not be able to stop.

Shameless Self-Promotion

In an effort to stop depressing myself on a daily basis, I've started a new blog. This new and improved Mitzi Green creation will be less homage to my daily life, and more a comedic endeavor. Because regardless what he says, I'm funnier than my husband. So he can suck it.

So go, read, laugh. Your amusement is tantamount to my personal fulfillment.

http://www.goodtimesmitzi.blogspot.com

Enjoy.

Of course, I'll continue to post here. I need an outlet for senseless whining and bitching about how much my life sucks. And I can't afford therapy, so this will have to do.

I Have Girl Wood for Michael Ian Black.*

*It's kind of a shame my husband doesn't read this anymore, because he would totally appreciate the "girl wood" reference.

Mi amor is a big fan of The State. Big, big fan. A majority of our conversations have gone something like this:

Him: (obscure reference)
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Him: It's from a State sketch.
Me: Of course.
Him: I can't believe you didn't watch that show.

I did watch that show. But in The State's heyday, I was over 21 and doing things that over-21 people do--like work all day and weep bitter tears in a bar all night. Ergo, I don't necessarily remember every sketch. He, on the other hand, was in high school, doing things high school people do--like memorize every sketch on The State.

There were definitely a few that stuck with me over time. "Slash," for one, because I found the idea of a Slash infestation riotously funny (albeit scary as hell). "Blueberry" still comes to mind every time I bite into a muffin. And who could forget "The Jew, The Italian and the Red-Head Gay"? Not this wise-cracking Gen-X'er. No, sir.

So when Ben told me he blew his wad on a limited pre-release copy of the show's three seasons on DVD, I wasn't nearly as excited as he was. Although I was glad for the opportunity to see the Slash bit again. (It really is that funny.)

Then we watched it, and it all came back to me. Of course I remember this show. I watched it all the time. Now I remember the sketches from whence Ben drew all his obscure references.

What I didn't remember was Michael Ian Black being so damned hot. I mean, he's practically edible. Even dressed like a girl in the "origami" sketch. (I'm a product of the 80s, so I'm naturally attracted to men dressed like girls. What can I say?) And when Levon starts talking about all that pudding, I want him to throw me down and take me like I'm a big ol' pile of butterscotch.

I don't care that the images I'm getting all hot and bothered by are a good 15 years old. I don't care that he's married with children (and so am I). If there were any actual chance in hell of me tracking down Michael Ian Black and eventually conning him into doing the nasty with me, it wouldn't be a fantasy. It would be stalking. And that's not Good Eats.

Now I'm glad my husband doesn't read this, because if he did, he'd probably start talking like Levon the next time we get jiggy with it and I'd be so embarrassed I'd turn six shades of crimson and die.

On an unrelated note, I also didn't remember "Chicken Lady" wasn't a State sketch. When I asked if it was possibly on the Season 3 DVD, Ben looked at me with pity and said "That was 'Kids in the Hall,' dear."

Oh, yes. And I thought they were hot, too.

Desperation

It doesn't smell good.

Instead of enjoying the field trip today and just being normal, Bob spent the day: (1) biting a kid on the shoulder to the extent it left a lasting bruise and teeth impressions, (2) kicking and (3) hitting and (4) generally being an asshole. Because of (1), the staff at the school-aged child care program are bound to suspend him tomorrow. Meaning he gets a day at home with dear old Mom, and Mom gets to take a sick day because tying him to the bedpost is apparently frowned upon by the authorities.

What infuriates, frustrates, and annoys me no end about this situation is the fact it's so completely, utterly, superbly ineffective. He doesn't understand it, but the primary reason Bob acts that way there is because he doesn't want to be there. It's loud, it's chaotic, and it makes him crazy. So what do they propose as "punishment?" Not being there. In effect, they have now rewarded him for his behavior. Thanks. Way to reinforce negativity.

Not to mention I just don't get this whole "punish the parents" bullshit. Seriously. Is the intention to make me so angry over having to figure out how to finagle a day off to be with my unruly kid (and losing a day's pay) that I will be more likely to punish him? Is the thought behind this, "you know, obviously these parents don't discipline their child, or he wouldn't act this way, so we need to piss them off good and proper and inconvenience them to the point they'll punish the kid so bad he won't ever act this way again"? Because if that's the case, trust me, Deep Thinkers, you couldn't be missing the mark more. If a kid is acting up at school or day camp or what have you because his parents don't discipline him at home, chances are pretty good they either won't be swayed by your tactics, or they'll beat the kid near to death (and thereby exacerbate the problem). However, in this instance, you've got a kid whose parents are doing everything they possibly can (and then some) to get him under control (obviously without success) and further punishing them? Insult to injury.

I Think I Can, I Think I Can, I Think I Can

I have another phone interview tomorrow morning--this for the job I really wanted but didn't think I had much hope of being considered for. I guess I've attained an age where I'm not immediately out of the running for positions of authority.

Ack.

I've been mentally preparing myself all weekend. Plus, this one I get to call in for. So it won't be a "hit or miss" sort of affair, I'll actually know what's going on when I pick up the phone. The only problem is, I need to figure out where the hell I'm going to be when I make the call--certainly not at my desk. Or the restroom. I may end up sitting in my car.

In anticipation of hopefully one of these phone fiascoes resulting in a real interview, I went out today in hopes of tracking down a suit. Yeah, right. Apparently there are no suits for sale in July, at least not where I shop. I finally settled on a nice pair of dress pants (black) and a shirt. Hopefully that will do. I'd really rather be wearing a suit but if I can't find one, I don't know what else to do.

Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands

This may go down as The Summer I Spent Being Bitter and Reading Bitch Cakes At Work All Day.

The Lady About the Job called back this morning (after I left her another voicemail at 10am), and determined not to miss out on this opportunity and spend another day fretting over it, I answered the damn phone when it rang. Which, of course, meant I opened the conversation as I was practically running to the elevator in an effort to get out of the office before I said anything that might give away the purpose of the call. She asked why I wanted to leave my present job as the elevator doors were closing, and I choked out something stupid about how I'm really just ready to move on, to advance in my career, to move into something I can sink my teeth into and really use my brain and put my skills toward. Yes, I really fucking said those things. And when I finished, I had reached the ground level, gotten off the elevator and stepped out onto the noisy street, and there was silence on her end...so when I finally said "Hello?" and she said "yes, I'm here, I'm sorry, I was just writing," I may have sounded a little too relieved when I explained I was afraid I may have lost her in the elevator.

The rest of the conversation was equally shitty, with her asking me absurd questions obviously from a written script in front of her, and me giving relatively good answers with completely sucky delivery. I sounded like someone trying to get out of a speeding ticket. Tripping over words, nervous giggling, ugh. At least I managed to not "like" and "you know" and "uh..." all over myself--I've retained at least that much of my public speaking ability. The whole call lasted about 12 minutes (yes, I timed it) and she told me her notes and my resume would be forwarded to the recruiter, who may or may not call me to schedule an interview.

Lucky for me, my sister worked for a small local branch of this corporate monster for seven years and left on good terms. She is also still good buddies with her old boss, who frequents the office I'm applying to, and who promised her he would get me an interview. So thanks, sis, and if this costs you a blowjob, know it's for a good cause.

'Cause I need to get the fuck outta here.

Seriously. I hadn't been here an hour this morning before someone hands me a folder full of paper with 12 sheets turned lengthwise and says, "scan these in and email them to me. Thanks."

Several years of higher education and several thousands of dollars in student loans, and I'm essentially a document clerk. God Bless my College Degree.

And upon that realization, my attitude fell in the shitter. Completely. And I no longer think it's salvageable. At least, not as long as I'm still here.

So by the time I ordered my lunch from Panera and went downstairs to fetch it, I was pretty much finished with all the real "work" I need to do for the day. I've spent the remainder of the afternoon reading the aforementioned Bitch Cakes' musings and doing some on-line window shopping for a suitable interview ensemble. (Yes, I just got bent over--I mean, purchased a very nice interview ensemble just a year ago--but I've shrunk two, possibly three sizes since then.) And hoping I can find a Nice Warm-Weather Interview Suit (and shoes) for less than a Benjamin. Because otherwise, I might have a Benjamin seriously pissed at me.

Speaking of seriously pissed, I had an angry run-in last night. I had just taken Bob to Pizza Street for dinner. (If you're not familiar, it's the trailer park version of Chuck E. Cheese, buffet-style, and there aren't sneeze guards in the universe big enough to protect you from the cooties running rampant in that joint.) I had promised him because he had a "free meal" (drink not included) certificate from summer school, and he had managed not to get sent home early from Adventure Club and he was, after all, leaving for db's that evening until Sunday. The pizza is gross, but since you get bent over and it's a buffet, you feel compelled to eat until you want to die. And they have dessert pizza, which is pizza crust rolled in cinnamon sugar, topped with six inches of powdered sugar and drizzled with chocolate syrup. Hells. Yeah.

I was already disgusted when I decided we had time to stop and deposit the four checks I've been carrying around for a month (because I haven't had time to stop at the bank). My nearest bank branch is in a strip mall, and there's a little bar and grill there that my former co-workers frequent. Sho nuff, standing out front smoking a cigarette is...my Former Boss.

My first instinct was to floor it and run his ass over. But I was driving the Kia, which might have bruised him at worst, so I just snarled some nasty things under my breath and continued about my business. He didn't see me, and I squelched the urge to honk and wave with only part of my hand, so it was a very brief encounter. Only it was like picking the scab off a wound that only just started to heal, and all that bitterness came oozing out yet again.

Grrrrrr.

So I will find another job. A better job. A job I am well-suited for that is well-suited for me. Because success is the best form of revenge. And I'm damn well due for some good shit to happen.