Memory Chasms

August 28, 2008 at 4:49 pm (Rants, Raves, and Internet Hate, Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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For the past 5 and a half years, I have wanted my mind back.  Somebody took my brain out of my head in my sleep, snuck down to the nearest firing range, shot it to hell and back with a 50-cal, and stuffed in backwards and leaking into my slumbering cranium.  I’d give a date, but I have trouble remembering my daughter’s birthday, and I think this incident happened sometime around then.  A partial list of things I have forgotten: my name/birthday/age (well, that goes for everybody in the family), various meetings and appointments, spelling/grammar rules, the fact that I have a bad knee, and the better part of two whole languages (three if you count English).  It’s embarrassing to admit you need a new form because you spelled your first namewrong, to realize you’ve forgotten where you’re going while on the Interstate, heck, to be teaching your daughter colors and not remember the color in the foreign language of choice (and then to mind-blank on the damn English too!).  Seriously, today I couldn’t remember ‘green’ in Russian.  It might be zeloniy, but honestly, I haven’t a clue.  I remembered blue (syrnyy), yellow (zholtyy), and red (krasnyy), but not green.  And then, all I could think of was ‘verdi,’ and the word ‘green’ kept bouncing off my tongue every time I would try to put it to use.  Sophie was just staring at me like I was drooling (I might have been), desperate to not be associated with this dumb-ass woman who doesn’t know her basic colors. 

Note: I totally made up the transliteration for the Russian, ’cause I’m lazy and twitchy.  And my fingers keep hitting the wrong keys.

Sophie’s meet-and-greet was a wonderful waste of our time.  We barely met the teacher because so many people were crammed into this tiny little classroom – compounding the crowding was the scavenger hunt the kids were asked to do.  Also – I had to take the twins because I literally have no one down here to watch them, but what the frakkity frak was up with the two parent households there with a hundred billion kids too young for school?  Way to suck down the oxygen and heat up the air.  I’m just saying they could have took it out to the hall or something.  Yeah, I’m bitchy.  I didn’t know anybody, Cam was acting odd (and loud), and Tom was freaked out by so many people.  Sophie was excited at first, but disappointed the teacher was not interested in talking to anybody, except the parents she already knew.  She’s still looking forward to school, though, and is so happy there is a flag in her classroom.  She lurves our flag.

I was going to write some thoughts yesterday about Hillary Clinton, and how I felt about her speech and all that, but I decided not to.  All I’m going to say now is that I’m looking forward to her inevitable return, and that even though I’d never vote for her, I will always respect her for what she’s done during this campaign (relating only to her, though, not referring to her begrudging support for the big O).  My decision had nothing to do with the Clintons, nor the campaign, nor anything like that.  I was suffering from a bit of self-doubt, brought on by an online conversation that never should have taken place.  I don’t really think I’m over it yet.  It looks like it’s about to storm here, so I might have to shut the computer off (I never keep it on during thunderstorms), but maybe I’ll compose an entry about this doubt.  On the other hand, I’m not sure I want to face it yet… it’s one thing to have it floating around my grey matter, another to see it in black and white.  That, and I can always hope it falls into one of those memory chasms… but that never seems to happen to the things I really should forget.

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Interlude

August 26, 2008 at 8:13 pm (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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I feel obligated to post today… seeing how I’ve actually been posting every day lately.  I have so much going on in my mind right now, though, that I’m actually having trouble typing.  I’ll be typing one word, and then my mind skips and my fingers start spelling a different word.  I guess I’m trying to figure out who I am and where I’m going right now.  Also thinking about putting the kids to bed, making some tea, and turning on the convention.  The schadenfreude (German is awesome!) is tasty, and I’d like to delight in somebody else’s misery tonight.

Kids are very screamy tonight, and getting on my nerves.  Dank Gott school starts in a week.

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Sad News

August 25, 2008 at 11:31 am (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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I was reading today that Margaret Thatcher is suffering from dementia.  I grew up admiring this tough woman as a role model, in an era when powerful women were few and far between.  Having been born 10 short years before the fall of the Soviet Union, to a family laced with Cold War Warriors, with an inbred fascination of this period of our history, I often wonder feel as if I was too late.  I knew about the Defense Language Institute before I learned Santa was fictional, I was introduced to the major players of the day by 2nd grade, I cried when the Berlin Wall fell and during the early 90’s I hoped the Soviets could hold it together long enough for me to grow up to fight them.  I’ll never claim to have been a normal child.

Politically, I did not become conservative until my early 20’s; however, before that, I followed a more Classical Liberal approach.  However, I always knew Communism was bad; my grandfather told me stories of the horrors he had seen in various Red countries over 30 years doing secret stuff I’m not supposed to know about.  My political appreciation for Ronald Reagan was late-blooming, but I always had a place in my heart for him, because to me, he was the embodiment of all that was Good and Right in the world.  Ms. Thatcher was right there with him, and so was Pope John Paul II (for a few other reasons too, like our shared family ancestry).  I cried like a family member had died when both of those men fell to age; I am tearing up now at the knowledge that another pillar of my past is about to fall too. 

I willingly gave up my future in government work for my family, a decision that I have come to regret.  The reemergence of the Russian Bear has further solidified this feeling.  Thinking about this entire subject stabs my heart with a icy blade of sadness, and it makes me question a lot of things.  Some I can control, others I can’t.  I’m not ready to let go of my past quite yet, and the future is starting to look hazy and uncertain.  As the world slips into troubled times, our greatest leaders are slipping away too.  I used to think that I’d be one to fill their footsteps (Thatcher gave me hope that women belonged in high-level politics), but I’m not so sure anymore. 

In the meantime, I will keep the Iron Lady and her family in my thoughts, and I encourage others to do the same.  Whether you agreed with her or not, dementia is a horrible thing to suffer from, and I hope she finds peace soon.

 

On a completely unrelated side-note, I spell-check every entry.  I’m not the World’s Best Speller, but recently, I’ve had very few mistakes, usually words I’ve made up.  A bit of bright news after two days of dreary posting!

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Sunday Addendum

August 24, 2008 at 5:47 pm (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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After a nice shower, some Lord of the Rings (yummy Legolas), a nice cup of Jasmine White tea, and some soup, I’m feeling a little more up to dealing with the world.  Not perfect, but more human.

Also: what kind of sick, twisted, sadistic mosquito bites a person in the crease behind their ear?  The ones in my house, apparently.

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A Slice of Anna

August 24, 2008 at 11:20 am (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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Anybody who’s ever had the (mis)fortune of chatting with me for more than two seconds realizes quite quickly that I’m a tad, um, odd.  Especially about food.  It wasn’t until I read this post and responded that I really thought about how different difficult I really am.  Food for thought.

When I wrote my response to those questions, I was feeling okay.  I’ve made no attempt to hide the fact I suffer from depression: it’s been two years since I’ve been treated for it, but honestly, it’s like that stain in the carpet that never really goes away, no matter how many chemicals you soak it in.  Depending on a plethora of factors, some controllable, some not, I ride the roller coaster of hormone-driven emotional chaos every day.  Some days are good.  Some days are horrid.  Most are a mundane mix of the two, starting off strong and getting weaker, or beginning like death warmed-over and ending with a smile.  Today is not going to be good, neither is tomorrow.

I stare at my surroundings through my eyes as if they are not really mine at all, a detached observer in a semi-soundproofed room inside my cranium.  I am aware of the changes in my demeanor, the creeping bitchiness, the subtle scrunches of my facial muscles in aggrevation.  Little things get to me: a cup laying on the floor, the volume of play, an ernest request for water from the kids.  The little me in the head-box starts yelling, screaming at me that something is not right in there, the signals are popping off and klaxons are sounding… but big me, the real me, just keeps sliding downwards, blissfully unaware of the icebergs ahead.  It doesn’t take much for the slight slope to morph into a free-fall, crossing a line from grumpy to despondent. Little me breaks free, and I hear her: I ignore her, what else am I supposed to do?  I know I am in my dark place, I know what needs to be done, but at the same time, the kids need to be fed and bathed, the laundry done, I need to pee.  I go on autopilot, shoving my depression into the corner as I attempt to go about my day as normally as possible.

It’s getting harder to do that. 

I will not go back on drugs unless I have to to survive.  I hated the person I became when I was drugged; it wasn’t me, it wasn’t the me I wanted to be.  I know I need to get back into yoga; I need to crochet more, to relax in bed with my cross-stitch.  I need to retreat, to be alone… to take a long shower and do my nails and to listen to silence.  To meditate.  I struggle to figure out how to manage all this and the usual chores of life: right now, I am typing this instead of laundry (and peeing), but I’ll write this off as later as part of my coping plan.  There is never enough time in the day.  Well, maybe there is, but time management is not my forte.  Right now, all this logic and planning and rational thinking – it’s coming from the observer me.  The practical, working me, meanwhile, is falling apart wondering how I’m going to make it to dinnertime (Chort, it’s nearly lunchtime now!  What to make the kids for lunch?  I don’t even think I’m hungry!).  Knowing me, I’ll blow off the chores and loaf around the house all day, and be pissed tomorrow that the litterbox didn’t get changed and the cats peed on the stairs.  Knowing this doesn’t make me want to change anything, either.  That’s the essence of my depression.

I also know my husband feels guilty as hell for not being here, for being separated from his family and leaving me down here to be a single parent.  We’ve had quite a few arguments about this, but really, deep down, I don’t blame him.  I blame myself for not being able to handle things better, for not being normal like everybody else.  Other military families are worse-off than we are – my husband is not in Iraq, or Afghanistan, or even on a ship – he’s in Maryland.  They obviously can handle it, why can’t I?  Mix this issue with my battle with depression, and we’ve got one convoluted mental problem. 

So what am I going to do?  I’m feeling a little better, just from typing this.  So I’m going to go on with my day: chores, kids, etc.  The kids will get a nap, I’ll get a shower and maybe I’ll finish the scarf I’m making for my FIL.  I’m going to take a deep breath and not fly off the handle when I see the billions of toys scattered across the living room and playroom.  I’m going to make it to dinner, and to bedtime.

First, though, I seriously have to pee.

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Eight Years

August 22, 2008 at 3:33 pm (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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My husband is not coming home this weekend – so it fell to me to complete one of his usual chores (that was neglected last weekend): cutting the grass.  Now, technically, we don’t have enough grass to warrant a lawn mower; we make due with a weed-eater.  The rain has been scarce, so it’s not like the front yard was a jungle like last month (hey, synapses firing… I let the kitties play Jungle Cat in the front yard, maybe that’s when they picked up the fleas… it was optimal flea-conditions out there).  So, I hauled my boondockers out of my closet, threw on Tim’s pants and a tee-shirt, and was set to go.

Then, I realized the boots were a smidgen too tight.  Man, my feet got wide during my last pregnancy!  And they felt heavier too, clunky and clumsy, like I was wearing somebody else’s shoes.  In a way, I was.  The me that used to wear those boots to work is long gone, a fading memory slipping away on the breeze.  I received those boots nearly 8 years ago; they fit my 17 year-old feet a little more loosely back then.  It hit me, clodding through the house, something else about 8 years: I hadn’t used a weed-eater in 8 years either.

Those heady days of youth, carefree summers spent indulging in fantasy and sunlight -  I spent my summers mowing and trimming our huge-ass yard, on my own, with parents who knew damn well I had a pretty nasty grass allergy.  True, the riding mower was fun… until it broke, and I got to cut nearly two acres with a push mower close to my own age.  I really hated doing trim work, and I was lousy at it.  This is a woman who cannot draw a straight line with a ruler, and I’m supposed to weed-eat the trim to the same height as the other grass?  Pshaw!  Even grass is for families that don’t enforce child-labor!  (Not to delve into this part of my past too deeply, but instead of an allowance for this ‘chore,’ I got the ability to contact the outside world.  Abuse comes in many forms)

So, 8 years of weed-eating freedom came to an end today wearing 8 year old boondockers.  I did a pretty spiffy job… of getting whacked in the face with a small piece of FOD, of making my biceps ache, oh, and I think I might have actually cut some grass and/or weeds too.  It’s funny, how something so mundane can bring back such powerful memories, of how much I’ve changed in that time, of how different my life is now.  Although, on a less serious note, some things never really do change: I still reek at yard work, and I’m still allergic to cut grass. 

To Tim – by the way, honey, this is not a condemnation of you.  The yard was bugging me, so I harvested some initiative from deep inside my psyche to weed-eat the grass.  Oh, and I hate electric-powered yard equipment… stupid plug kept falling out every two seconds.  Hate also: the gigantic, born from nuclear waste, suck-you-dry-like-the-Wraith mosquitoes in the back yard.  Seriously, one had the leg span of a nickle.  What the hell is that?

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Sleep is a Beautiful Thing

August 22, 2008 at 8:45 am (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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I remember when Sophie was a wee baby/pretoddler, and I was still active duty.  I would have to get up around 6 am to be to work around 8, having to shower, eat, get her ready, take her clear across base and drive all the way back to near my house where my office was.  This was plenty of time, mind you.  Sophie felt otherwise: she would wake her happy little tush up at 5 every morning.  If I was lucky, it would be 5:30.  I would take her downstairs, turn on Disney, and cat-nap until I could function.  When my mom lived with us, Sophie would crawl into bed with her, and promptly go back to sleep (no such luck with Mommy, though).

So, it stands to reason that I would remember this, that I should be prepared for the early rising with the boys.  You see, the boys were always late risers, no matter what time I put them to bed.  Some mornings, they’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 8, others, they snoozed until nearly 10.  I was frakking lucky with those two.  Was.  Because ever since they turned 3, they have been awake and happy at 6:30 every. single. morning., unless Tim is home (they sleep in for him).  As a jobless civilian, I don’t even begin to turn human again until after 7.  There is a definitive problem here.  I hear them climb out of bed, take toys out, investigate other bedrooms, turn the tv on downstairs, like the creatures carved on a cuckoo clock.  Yet, I cannot physically get out of bed until I receive my 7:02 daily weather message.  Even knowing what horrible things the kids can do unsupervised (sink play, toilet flushing, cat water… shenanigans in water), I just can’t get up that early anymore.  Maybe it’s because I’m getting older (heh), maybe it’s because I get 3 hours of sleep, maybe it’s because I’m lazy, but it’s just not happening. 

Of course, the fomerly early-rising princess doesn’t drag her morning-hating rear-end outta my bed (or off the boys’ floor, she refuses to sleep alone) until after 8 at least.  And when she does grace us with her presence, I wish she’d just go back to bed.  It’s why I’m so glad she’s afternoon kindergarten… it’s wrong to subject that evil to other, unsuspecting, people. 

I don’t mind happy in the morning (I’ve learned to deal), but I’d like a smidgen little bit lots more sleep.  And more tea.

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(Insert Title Here)

August 21, 2008 at 11:55 am (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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I know I had a billion things to type about, because I’ve been really busy lately and haven’t had time to put fingertips to keyboard.  Of course, WordPress took a few nanoseconds longer than usual, and phwam! my neatly stored cache of pithy commentary and witty anecdotes vanished into the depths of my synaptic clefts.  Hi, my name is Dory.  I suffer from short-term memory loss… at least I think I do.  Maybe my name isn’t really Dory either.

Sophie is all registered for kindergarten; she starts the day after Labor Day in the afternoons.  She asks me eleventy-billion times a day when she starts school, and moans and cries when I tell her she still has nearly two weeks.  Anyone know where I can find a ship capable of relativistic speeds?  I’ll only need it for 12 days.

This past weekend, Cam dropped the nice (gifted to us) digital camera in the cat water.  Where he apparently proceeded to play with it until it lost all memory of function.  Tim went ballistic; understandable, but at the same time, what the hell was with his obsession to take the damn thing apart?  Man is a signals analyst, not a digital camera repairman.  A day later, we caught Sophie dumping cat food into the cat water: we now have reason to suspect who actually put the camera in the water (she was the one who claimed Cam did it in the first place).  She actually blamed her brother for the food, even though he was upstairs asleep.  At least I know she doesn’t have a future in politics – she’s horrible at lying credibly.

Flea update: cats still have a few, the house is pretty much de-fleaed, but who knows?  Since our electric bill just shot through the roof, I have to cut back on the constant vacuuming and laundry.  Nobody’s been bitten in days, so I’m okay with this.

Alright, I still don’t remember everything else, but that’s okay.  I’ll remember… eventually… I hope.

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The Silver Lining

August 14, 2008 at 8:52 am (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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I discovered my bedroom floor hopping with fleas a week ago today.  Since then, I have been busting my ass to combat them.  The cats still have them, but we humans seem to be (90%) protected due to my diligent vacuuming efforts.  It takes me an hour, but I vacuum the 3 bedrooms upstairs and the hall, the stairs, the downstairs hall, and the living room/dining room.  Heavy vacuum cleaner + moving furniture + vigorous moving x up and down the stairs a billion times + subsisting on green/white/red tea and air =  weight loss.  I’ve lost 3 pounds in the last week.  A wondrous thing no doubt… I’m just wondering if my poor knee can handle much more of this before it starts hurting again.

In any case, it’s good.  Enough to make me smile – which is a big thing when surrounded by the circle of flea life.  Also, to my husband: I’m eating more than air, I promise.  There’s some dust and borax mixed in that air, a little (carpet) fiber too.  ; )

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Face-Palm Moment

August 13, 2008 at 2:55 pm (Tales, Anecdotes, and Observations)
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Harris Teeter parking lot (cheapest organic milk around, store-brand, btw):  I see a car pulling out of a parking space, heads towards me.  Coffee cup on roof.  I flash my lights, honk my horn, roll down the window – I catch the driver’s attention.  She pulls up, puts her window down.  Me: Excuse me, do you have any Grey Poupon Crack you have a coffee cup on your roof.  Her: Laughs, says ‘Thanks.’  And then proceeds to pull off fast, dumping the cup off her roof.  Doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back.

That’ll teach me to giving a flying frak about other people.

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