Tales of a Goddess

I hate fighting with my husband. There is never a winner, and I always end up apologizing even if I shouldn’t. The worst part is the utter lack of make-up sex. We argue, we rage, we calm down, I say I’m sorry, and thus begins the interlude once more between blow-ups. It’s like hurricane season; the storms aren’t always category 5’s, but they’re cyclical and predictable (to a degree).

I suppose it stems from the fact that we’re both very stubborn people. I refuse to give in, he refuses to give in… I’m surprised we’re not in an arms race, causing our own personal Cold War to escalate rapidly out of control. Although, come to think about it, maybe my husband has been building missile silos while I’m at work. It would explain why the house was torn up two nights in a row when I got home. They must be hidden under the kids’ toys and the dirty dishes.

It’s not like I don’t love my husband. I do. Dearly. It’s just lately we can’t see eye-to-eye on anything. We both fault each other for the same damn things, and of course I’m not going to give any ground. I’ve done that enough in the past. I’m positive he feels the exact same way. I understand that he’s frustrated with both my depression and my resultant behaviors, yet I wonder if he accepts the fact that it’s a long road to recovery (on which I appear to be stalled, but that’s an entirely different issue), and that sometimes I just have horrid days. I want him to know that I recognize he too has bad days (at work, at home) and that some days/nights he wants to be lazy. However, if the dishes reek of garlic from the home-cooked dinner that only he got to eat, they should be done then. I do not want to do dishes first thing in the morning, especially when my poor little feet can hardly transport me (carrying the twins) downstairs without falling apart.

Of course, this is never over. We’ll be tossing insults and word grenades over our little Berlin-type Wall until we’re old, when either the nursing home puts the ixnay on it or our arms fall off, which will be decades down the road. Sometimes I just wish we had other things to fight about, just to mix things up. Maybe I’ll invade my neighbor’s house, and I can ‘debate’ with them about the unseemly volume of their (tasteless) music. Or I’ll take up residence in the front yard (the back has too many spiders) and have a sit-in for domestic peace. In any case, I’d better prepare for the long, boring haul.

So, Mr. Goddess Anna’s Husband, tear down that wall! And then please do the dishes. I’m back in the mood for playing hardball.

I’ve been meaning to post for days now, but I just couldn’t bring myself to put fingers to the keyboard. There were more important things for me to do, like play Sims 2. Or browse the ‘net. You know, other ways to waste time online. I’m not sure what was keeping me from blogging, other than sheer boredom and a lack of anything to bitch about (husband, shut it). I did say that I’d write when I felt better, but my allergies have settled in, and not until all plant life is dead in the Tidewater area will I be back to normally-scheduled breathing. So, I write. And sneeze.

I do seem to benefit from my new job in ways other than previously expected; my sinuses are not nearly as buggy in the mall. I have a feeling it is because the average temperature in our store is -40, give or take a few degrees. And that’s centigrade, people. The air conditioning kills off any pollen, mold, and mammoth life, drying up my nasal passages and giving me precious few hours of semi-comfy breathing bliss. It makes up for the pain that now resides in my lower extremities (despite finding better shoes). Speaking of things that are somewhat related to extremities (‘extremes,’ which shares the same root), on Saturday the other new girl, who started with me, up and quit. Saturday had been her first day on the job. She had been scheduled to work Sunday, though I snatched up those hours almost immediately. Hell, we could use the money. Management had the theory that she just wanted the discount for a few days, but the hiring process is supposed to weed out people like that. I just fail to understand how a person can quit after working maybe 5 hours at a job she waited almost 2 months to get hired for. I worked too damn hard to just say ‘nope, sorry, not worth it’ to a new employer. Besides, doesn’t that look bad on the next application? Did she care? The world (me) may never know.

In case you’re wondering why I might need some extra money (and why I’m willing to kill my feet by standing more hours), this website holds the answers. I’m gunning for the $23,000-and-some-change custom-built playhouse, complete with cable, electricity, and running water. I just hope I have enough room left over for a driveway, because what luxury playhouse would be complete without the matching luxury car? Little Miss and the Twins are too special to me to just keep up with the Joneses, we need to be in the running with the Trumps.

For the record, we own a Passat, and at new-value it was nowhere close to the cost of the Ferrari above. Much, much closer to the playhouse. Obviously, priorities somewhere, somehow went horribly awry. Who the hell pays that much for kids’ stuff? When they’re bound to stain it/tear it/destroy it anyway? Helpful Hints from the Goddess: give your kids some cardboard boxes, t.p. and towel tubes, an old sheet or two, and chuck ‘em in the back yard. Waaaaay cheaper, and more fun too. I know, I was a kid once. The clothes… step away from Nieman Marcus and the like, and step into your friendly neighborhood Tar-zhay, Burlington Coat Factory, or H&M. Better prices, and at H&M, you get the best style for the best prices. Yay for not dropping a grand or two on kiddie clothes shopping!

All serious sarcasm aside, we do need to put money aside for Christmas shopping. Seeing how I’ll be working in the mall this season, the hell if I’ll want to go there after Thanksgiving to shop. Besides, I think we’ll just wrap up some empty boxes and tubes for the kids anyway… Hubby and I will be the only ones playing with the toys anyway!

On a completely unrelated topic, congratulations to Ernesto for being the first hurricane of this devastatingly calm hurricane season. Yeah, last year we were already on ‘K’ by this time, and we all know that the President, conspiring with Global Warming (cue bad guy music), was going to whip up another horrible, destructive storm season this year, but you go Ernie! It’s a good thing that Florida has it’s shit together when it comes to Hurricane preparation and evacuation. I do hope that this storm causes minimal damage with no loss of life, but I can’t help smirking about how wrong the global warming death-eaters are turning out to be. It’s all cyclical, people, and dire warnings are going to come back and bite them in the ass. This season will be calm, which means that if next season is bad, people will have that whole complacency vibe going on, and we’ll have another wreck like New Orleans. Oh, and repeat after me: local, state, federal. Let that be your hurricane mantra. Stepping off my box now.

Oh, yeah, I’m back in the groove. Or gutter. ; )

A bit has happened since I’ve posted last. I started my new job, killed my feet, wore a Holter monitor for 24 (excruciatingly long) hours, and discovered that my cat is terrified of my leopard-print slippers. My sinus issues have migrated into my inner ears, causing me undue pain all over my head, so I’m going to be quick. That, and the cat is eyeing my half-eaten lunch.

I did fine on Sunday, save for the blackout that scared the crap out of both the other new trainee and I. We were in the back of the store, and there were no emergency lights where we were, so the utter black was a tad creepy. I got paid though, so it’s all good. I found out that my first shift was last night, and that’s a whole other story.

Yesterday I received my Holter monitor to wear from 11 am Monday until 11 am today. I felt like a cyborg or something. The half-finished Cylon model 13. It was beyond annoying, and I didn’t even get a chance to take a shower beforehand, so I got to go to work all icky. I wore heels (BIG MISTAKE), and ended up standing for four hours straight folding and sorting clothes. It’s like I’m getting paid to do laundry. It was boring but easy work, and I do enjoy being around clothes. I learned two important lessons last night: flip-flops are okay as long as they’re embellished (I was told ixnay on the flip-flops) and that I don’t get a dinner break. That means I eat at either 4:30 or after 10:00. But it’s a job, so I’ll deal.

As a result of my poor shoe choice, my feet are throbbing wedges of heated agony. My loving husband massaged my feet both last night and this morning before work (I love him), but they still hurt. I put on my leopard slippers, even though they’re hot, because they’re soft. The cat hates them. He gets all bristly and fearful when I walk next to him. Of course, right now he’s made a bed out of the bottom of my skirt, so he’s practically on top of them. Maybe he’ll get used to them. But it was funny seeing him run like a bat outta hell upon sight of the big-cat-colored footwear. Hee hee hee, looks like I have something new to do for fun.

When I’m feeling better, I promise I’ll write better. Really.

I start my training tomorrow for my new job. A few days ago, I was celebrating the end of my 8-month job search; today, I’m actually starting to get nervous. I had finally began feeling like I was getting my depression under control, and that although I was still experiencing bad days, the good days were more numerous. The past three or four days, however, have burdened me with self-doubt, anger, and insomnia, with the roots of my depression surging forth once more throughout my mind.

Everything is pissing me off. From my sinuses to my husband’s meal choice is filling me with primordial rage, and my poor family is once again taking the brunt of my misplaced aggression. I’ve been trying to avoid chores; that fierce desire to hide under the covers lurks just beneath the surface of my conscious. The children are causing me more grief than usual, mostly for perceived offences that I take way out of context. My husband cannot do anything right: I’ve told him I feel this way to stave off argument, and that it’s not how I really feel (the depression is talking), but that did us no good.

I know that in the course of my recovery, there will be bad days. I am but on step 24 of what might be a million-step journey. There are always bumps, detours, and pauses on any path to happiness, and I’m trying to think of my current situation as just that: temporary. I would accept that more readily if it was just a day, maybe two. I feel no better today than I did three days ago, and that’s what scares me. I am tired of feeling like I am regressing, of the changes of medication, the pervasiveness of my inability to mentally work through my problems. I’m tired, period. I can detect the slippage in my bones; no matter what my husband thinks, I know there is something just not right about my mental situation. I want to put my finger on it, but I’m neither a psychiatrist nor a psychic. I’m glad that I’m not psychotic though. That would be bad.

So I start tomorrow with the cloud of mental uncertainty and instability hanging over me. I’ll try to shake it, if I can just find the tools to do so. Of course, with my luck, this down spell will be as stubborn as my sinusitis. I’m so doomed.

Once again, I’m sick. My sinuses are in overdrive producing mucous by the container ship-load. Yes, that much. I have little idea as to why this is the second time in about 4 weeks that I have fallen ill. Mainly, all I have is a hunch that it’s related to our lazy-ass air conditioner. Something about how the attic unit isn’t compatible to the outside unit, and so it quits on us every once in a while. We have a window unit in our bedroom, because my husband can’t sleep unless he’s snuggled next to a witch’s tit (read: ice cold). Our AC failed about a month ago, and my respiratory system rioted. It failed yesterday, and once again I am a slave to the tissue box. I woke up healthy yesterday. I feel so bad today I decided to not go to a play date AND to skip a meeting of my group therapy. My mental issues can wait. The kids can tear apart the living room. I feel like shit.

The coughing and the sneezing suck rotten duck eggs. Just had to throw that in there for ya.

Why did I type ‘duck’ as the kind of egg that I’m sucking? Just thinking about the psycho ducks that roam our neighborhood, harassing good-natured, non-wildlife-feeding citizens like me for food stuffs. Oh, I totally forgot this until now, but the other day (Tuesday), we saw several ducks foraging threw a KFC box. The ducks were eating chicken. Maybe I need that therapy session after all, because that image just fucks with my head. These poor creatures are so used to human food that they’ll eat the fatty, fried remains of their cousins instead of flying a quarter of a mile to the nearest duck pond to eat pond grass. Which has got to be better for them than chicken. Or batter. Or whatever else could have been in the trash. Why oh why must the people in this development feed the ducks? They have no fear of humans, resulting in me having no fear of running them over in my car. I am afraid, however, when they congregate on my front doorstep and peck at our storm door for hours. To seek revenge for my lack of free handouts, they proceed to poo all over our yard and driveway. And they’re ugly, too. Frighteningly ugly. They make our duck-obsessed Little Miss nervous. Maybe I should let Vlad out for some ‘recreational’ hunting. Although, I love my cat enough not to make him eat duck that tastes like fried chicken. Ick ick ick.

Now that I’m done mentally cringing from that image, indelibly engraved into my fragile mind, I’ll forge ahead onto my next gripe. I want a haircut. I want some color in my hair. I’ve been asking since the beginning of summer. My last haircut was in January; my last color was in October. I start a new job this weekend, and my hair has nothing to it. I want to present to the public an image other than the ‘harried-stay-at-home-mom-who-has-no-time-for-personal-upkeep-look’ I’m sporting right now. Alas, we haven’t the funds for such a change. We never do. Once again, I have to wait months to get something that I could seriously use now. I could go without the color, but I need the cut. And not the Hair Cuttery butchery that my husband would probably suggest. I have bad hair. The type of hair that makes me want to shave it off and wear a wig. I had great hair, until I got knocked up. The twin pregnancy made it worse. It hangs like a willow tree, with little frizzies and stuff. Can you tell I hate my hair? I don’t even feel like putting effort into describing it. It’s starting to brush the tops of my shoulders, and a shorter cut is the only way to give it shape. My husband will be not pleased that I posted about this, but I don’t care. I don’t get sick days, so I’m venting online. Grr.

I could go on, but out of some vestigial concern for my readers, I’ll stop. Besides, I have a pile of tissues to dispose of. And a lung to hack up. If you’ve gotten this far, thank you. If not, phoo on you.

I am just so elated right now. Elated enough to even want to do the dishes. I FINALLY got a call back from Lane Bryant about the job I applied for last month. Oh, yeah, they hired me. Me, the SAHM with no references and a former job as a linguist in the Navy (note the lack of retail there). And to think I was going to start boycotting the store.

Last night the family and I went to return a pair of pants I had purchased last week. Actually, I wanted to exchange them, but it turns out that 22 is a pretty popular size for Lane Bryant customers. So I had to return them. Hubby and I both noticed that the hiring sign had been taken down from behind the counter. I was on the verge of tears the rest of the evening, as to me that signaled that the position had been filled by someone other than me. It’s been the only part-time job that I’ve bee interviewed for, so the blow was extra awful. We even passed by the hiring manager on the way to Barnes & Noble, and I avoided her eyes for fear she’d she the unchecked rage brimming beneath my tears. We picked up an application at B&N, but by that time I was convinced that I’d never get a job.

See, even though I’ve started my own home business, I need a part-time job in order to cover some of the expenses. Also, I need time away from the house sans kids. The discount wouldn’t hurt either. I bawled to my husband all the way home, and poor guy was frightened because I was crying and driving (under the speed limit, though!). So imagine my surprise when I get a voicemail on my cell phone (I must have missed the ring, the phone was buried under clothes, husband’s clothes.), and it’s from the hiring woman at LB! I called her back, and she asked me if I still wanted the job (of course I do!), and told me how much I’d be starting at. It’s quite higher than I ever expected, considering my job history. I start Sunday morning.

I take back some of the mean things I’ve said about that woman and Lane Bryant in general. Not everything, though; I’m not that magnanimous. But I am employed, and at least one of my jobs will bring in a paycheck. As for the business, please visit the link to the left. It’s totally worth your time!

Couldn’t resist a plug. : )

I love my cat. Vlad is the first pet I’ve personally owned since becoming an adult, as my mother kept possession of my (late) cat while I was in the Navy. When Doogie died, a hole was formed in my heart. A fat, lazy cat-shaped hole. Doogie (yes, named after Doogie Howser, I was 5 for crying out loud!) was my silent, all-caring friend when I needed some love. Petting his furry belly melted my stress away. So, when I became really depressed, getting a kitty seemed like the perfect idea. Enter (again) Vlad the Cat.

We adopted him from a local no-kill agency, Cat Rescue, Inc, via Petsmart. This was his second time with them, as he had been returned due to allergies. His first owners, with kids I’ve guessed, named him Macaroni; the second, brief owner called him Tigger. I gave him a more manly name. He’s a grey tabby domestic short hair/manx mix. He has the bare formation of a tail stump, a ‘rump riser’ in Manx parlance. Vlad has the most beautiful cream undercoat I’ve ever seen on a cat. If we knew where our camera was, I’d post a pic. He showed no aggression towards Little Miss at the store, and that sealed the deal; Vlad became the sixth member of our household.

Now, for the first few days, he hid in our room. Quite quickly, though, Vlad made the rest of the house his. He especially likes our shower. Vlad generally stays away from the boys, but he’s not swift enough to always escape from Little Miss. The poor kitty will lay there as she brushes him with a baby brush, or chats to him as he tries to eat. Little Miss is obsessed with Vlad; everything he does fascinates her. And he takes it like a champ. The twins, the very few times he’s been subjected to their pawing, are a tad afraid of the furry beast. They’ll watch him but give him a wide berth.

My husband is not immune to cat harassment himself. This morning, I found the cat trapped in the downstairs bathroom. He’d been in there for probably over 4 hours. I think he was asleep, though, because I didn’t hear him until the very end. He’s been stepped on, and tossed off the bed several times. Then again, he uses me as a human cat-toy.

Overall, though, Vlad has a good life here. He’s thickened up since we’ve brought him home, and his fur is oh-so-soft. He gets to lounge around all day and hunt imaginary creatures at night. Vlad’s welcome to all the food and water his kitty heart desires, and his food and litterbox aren’t even on the same floor, let alone next to each other (like in his cage before). For all this, he only has to pay two things: attention to me when I need fur therapy (Calvin and Hobbes) and he has to put up with Little Miss’ obsession with him. Oh, and put up with her calling him a ’she’ and ‘Flag’ instead of Vlad. Personally, I think he loves it.

Oh, and yes, Vlad is named after the city Vladivostok. That’s why the timestamp is so off. Also, he’s named after Vladimir Putin, and Vladimir Lenin. It’s that Russian obsession of mine. But in retrospect, cooler than after Doogie Howser. (May that kitty rest in peace. He lived around 17 years. I still miss him. Badly.)

A bit of reading material has been circulating at Blogging Baby and around my playgroup message system. What would this entail you ask? Something about not passing around invites to parties in the classroom unless everybody was invited to the shindig. After all, if little Johnny sees Suzie get a party invitation and then gets passed by himself, he’s going to grow up to be a social misfit, or a lawyer. Riiiight. Listen, Johnny needs a lesson in light rejection. Not everybody gets invited to every party. You can’t invite everyone to your birthday party. Et cetera. If only everybody thought like me, I wouldn’t need a blog.

I love my kids. I realize it is my duty to feed them, nurture them, clothe/bathe/keep them warm, and to provide shelter. Of course, shelter to me implies the whole ‘roof-over-the-head,’ as opposed to ’shelter-from-every-bit-of-mental-anguish-real-or-imagined.’ Case in point: I received a comment from a reader who I know was sincere with her advice. She objected to my post on two grounds – pedophiles and TMI. I’ll admit, I can see where she’s coming from. I understand, really I do. And I’ll explain why I’m going to stand by my decision to post about my sons’ more off-color habits.

Let’s start with the pedophilia. There are sickos out there. Unless laws are changed and we can just lock these creatures up for life, I’m going to have to deal with the fact that they’re breathing the same air as my family. A pedophile could see my kids in the grocery store and run home to fantasize about them. One could read my blog and do the same thing. I refuse to let fear of what other people do in their minds to inhibit my way of life. It’s just not practical. I don’t let my kids play out of my sight, we lock our doors at night, and we do everything in our power to protect our children from harm. To me, perverts reading my blog are not tangible, and therefore quite outside my control. I could remove the post and the fantasy could still be extrapolated simply from the fact that I have you kids. At what point could I stop that?

Now, to the TMI. Yes, my posts can be graphic. I view the Internet as a place where I can type exactly what I am thinking without censorship. Most of the time, what I’m thinking happens to be something I’d never say aloud. However, Tank’s habits are well-known in my family. I related the story to my MIL yesterday, and she had to hand the phone to her husband due to her laughter. She has told me more about my husband’s early childhood behaviors than he even knows, and much of it is quite embarrassing. That’s what parents are for. There is no photographic or written evidence of a lot of our childhood, but somehow our parents have not forgotten every excruciating detail. At times, I’ve wanted to die of embarrassment; other times, I’ve been thankful to know that some things all kids do. Am I worried that my sons and daughter will be laughed out of school 10 years from now if a friend stumbles across my archives? Of course not. My job is not to prevent embarrassment, it is to teach them effective ways to deal with it. Laugh it off, ignore it, tell their side of the event in a humorous way. If I had never started blogging, my kids would still do funny things that would get out to their peers. I cannot predict the future, but I do want to prepare my children for the fact that some kids are going to be asses, and some are going to want to laugh with them. And after they move out and start families of their own, I hope that they’ll have the ability to take things in stride. The real world sucks sometimes, and I want to make sure they can handle that.

Besides, maybe things will be archived differently 10 years from now. Or something. Nobody knows.

I hope that adequately describes how I feel. Please, Mex, do not think I did not take your comment under serious consideration. I even discussed it with my husband. I appreciate your concern, and I thank you for your compliments about my writing. I mulled it over, and decided to keep the post. I honestly don’t post that often about my kids like that, so feel free to peruse some of the other posts. They’re a bit less graphic.

Speaking of the kids… what are they doing to my books???

Boys like to play with themselves. If I had something dangling between my legs that responded to touch like magic, I would too. The twins, especially Tank, can’t keep their little hands away from their genitalia during diaper changes. The first few times, I was embarrassed, but I thought it was cute. Now, it’s just a speedbump in the changing process.

I would never want to inhibit this behavior, because I do know it’s natural. Little Miss went through that phase two years ago, only it manifested itself during bathtime. I try to look at it as preparation for facing the fact that they’ll be doing it for real several years from now. And I can’t help but to smile at the happiness on their faces when they explore all parts of their body. Of course, with Tank, I also cringe when he shoves his hand into my mouth, because yes son, I DO know where that hand has been. Icky icky poo.

Little Miss has been present for the twins’ diaper changes since we brought them home from the hospital. At the time, she couldn’t say ‘penis,’ instead opting for the word ‘peanut.’ In fact, while counting to 10 in Russian, she giggles at 5 (pyat) because it sounds like ‘peanut’ to her. And in her mind, ‘pyat’ equals ‘peanut’ equals ‘penis.’ At least peanut butter doesn’t set her off (although it gives me the giggles, but I’m a sick woman). Anyway, she was at first quite curious, but now, it’s nothing special. Today, however, she was watching Tank as I reached for a diaper. Tank was going full-force, both hands involved. He even had a serious look on his face, tongue out to the side. Little Miss glared at him, and in all seriousness stated “Tank, your peanut is not a toy.”

That’s a thought I hope she never forgets. Especially about 12 years from now.

Sometimes, I just have to shake my head and smile. She’s 3 going on 50. About an hour later, she lectured the cat for playing with my ankle. I was just waiting for her to tell Vlad to apologize to me. Poor cat just laid there confused, unsure whether to run or go back to sleep. She’s going to make a man very harried one day, I’m sure of it. To prospective grooms of Little Miss, I send you my warning. Beware!

Finally! At long last, he took a few deliberate steps last night! He was too tired to accomplish more, but honestly, I’m happy for what he did. What makes it even sweeter is the fact that Bulldozer walked from me to my husband. Daddy wasn’t around to see Little Miss start walking, and by the time he came home on leave, she was quite experienced. He was so excited to see Bulldozer walk that he shrieked like a girl (sorry, honey) and scared the rest of us. Little Miss started crying from the noise, and Tank didn’t know what to do. All-in-all, it was a very cute scene. Except for those who were crying. That was just funny.

Bulldozer is also starting the habit of sucking on his thumb, a trait his brother has displayed for about 9 months now. This is good because it was a painful weaning of the binkie for Little Miss (something I’d rather not repeat) and bad because I’ve read thumbsucking can cause orthodontic problems. But if it means no searching for the binkie under the crib at night, I’m all for it. He rarely uses it anyway, and doesn’t require it to fall asleep. And two thumbsuckers equals twice the cuteness!

The kids are growing up so fast. It seems like only a few months ago I could hold the twins at the same time with no effort and Little Miss was in footie pjs. It’s hard to believe that Tank and Bulldozer are on the verge of bipedal mobility, or that Little Miss is counting to 20 and teaching herself to write letters. It makes me feel happy, that in spite of my issues and problems my offspring seem to be okay. It also makes me feel old.

Twin is being trapped by the other twin. Looks like I have to get back to parenting. Old, so old. But proud.