Light On The Vulnerability, Please

Climbing into bed last night, it felt like one of those nights where I would lay there awake, tossing and turning. But, as I laid my head on the pillow, it felt like the events of the day were piled on my chest, dragging me down into sleep.

The day had been wrought with lay offs and pay cuts, and when someone tells you that you're pay is getting cut and you don't have a choice about it... you suddenly realize just how vulnerable you and your life actually are. You realize you're happy just to have the job and the pay cut seems suddenly like a bonus.

Granted I work in a place where the owners took the largest pay cuts, it still stung As the emails from my co-workers who were let go on Friday came rolling in, I suddenly realized that my job, the job that I love so very much could be ripped away from me. I don't "belong" there, I just work there.

I came home and watched my son struggle to breathe. Vulnerability is like an albatross around my neck today. Sitting on my back, watching my struggle with the realization that my life is not made of steel and brick, it is flimsily constructed of paper and strings. Creatively wound in the form of a soft hammock that cradles me, but that may just tip and drop me to the hard, rocky Earth below at any moment.

Also? If you're my neighbors, that flashing light wasn't code for 'please fucking help us we are being murdered', not that you offered. It was my kid and I fighting over which position the light switch would be in while he fitfully slept.

He won. Light on.

Clark, that's the gift that keeps on giving the whole year

At this point I would welcome a jelly of the month membership.

Admit it. Whoever gave me this gift come forward and admit now. Come on! I know someone did. I mean Toddler Possession is all the latest rage right? And believe me having a kid whose body houses the King Of All That is Unholy is truly the gift that keeps on giving the whole year.
And since my little angel couldn't possibly want to be evil all on his own, I'm sure some well meaning person signed us up thinking, "Oh the Booms' will absolutely LOVE this!"

Well we don't! As a matter of fact it completely freaking sucks. And it didn't come with a red bow or a fancy foil tag with our names scrolled on it. It just showed up one morning last week and has NOT GONE AWAY YET!

And it is our gift alone, because do you think that he throws himself on the floor, flinging snot and tears all over the his daycare provider's house? No! We get little pieces of paper every day with the word HAPPY circled on it and little notes that he made a bird feeder today and doesn't eat mashed potatoes. Nothing on there says, "Today he projected the image of Satan onto the wall and then threatened to eat our dog!" or "after his eyes rolled back in his head, he spoke in tongues and revealed the date of the Apocalypse!"

Every day I come home and read the note and think today is the day that we have broken the spell and then mere seconds later his head spins and he growls, "come join us, Mama! We all float down here!"

In between the sessions of demonic inhabitance, I see glimpses of my sweet faced, little boy who hugs my head and gives me sweet, sweet kisses. I look at him and know I am blessed for having such a beautiful, healthy boy and then he utters something in a language that I can only guess you have to be 18 months old to fully understand and the second I look confused and don't immediately hand him the very thing he just told me he needs or his head will explode he then, actually explodes into a writhing, snot-flinging, back-arching, floor-kicking hell beast. Complete with kung fu action.

Last week I went to the doctor to discuss how my meds aren't touch my anxiety and when the doctor asked me if I've been under more stress recently, I just looked at him blankly. Because honestly? Wouldn't it be his duty as a physician to call mental health services if I let on for one moment that I thought demons lived within the chubby face of Crazyman?

So you'll have to excuse me. I just crawled out of the rocking myself to sleep in the fetal position long enough to write this post to tell the world that I'm alive, I just can't come to the phone right now because His Darkness has made me His Bitch.

Battling Myself

***It's become clear to me lately that I need to tell you all, or perhaps include foot notes about the level of sarcasm and the hint of fiction that I write with. So consider it done and if from this point forward if it's not clear to you that I'm being sarcastic or using my artistic license as I see fit, well then you probably deserve to believe that I do things like leave my son on the curb to be picked up with the recycling. Just don't call CPS. I hear they aren't the biggest fans of sarcastically artistic license. Or artistically sarcastic license, whatever my mood mandates. Although, this may not actually apply to today's entry.


I'm in that place right now where I'm sick of a whole lot of things. And the really good news about that is that mostly it has to do with the appearance of everything on or related to my head. And the rest of it has to do with my ass.

And those two things are really the sum total of what I consist of. I'm all ass and head and sometimes just asshead. Which makes me sound like a figure 8 with issues. And I guess that's an accurate portrayal of me and my me-ness.

I'm sliding further into the funk and I wander from mirror to mirror in my house, hoping one of them will reveal something that I'm not seeing or will at least let me know that all other mirrors are warped and I'm actually stunning or at least passable.

I guess this is the point where I should spell it out. I have two major issues. Well, just two that I'm going to point my focus towards today. Otherwise, we'd be here all week, kids. So in the Cliff's Notes version of my hang-ups we now delve:

1. I have no idea what I look like. No clue. I've been tipped off that I might have a mild case of that thing that makes Michael Jackson jack with his face all the time. The second I think I know, then I see another picture or another angle that shows quite clearly that I'm a moose with a wrecked face. So that MUST be what I really look like. I cannot go out in public without wondering "is THAT what size I am?" or something else just as equally deep, thoughtful, world-changing and awe inspiring.

B. Spending money makes me ill. Any amount. The second it leaves my hand or my bank account, it's gone. While that seems like basic knowledge, it gives me such an unsettling feeling that grips my stomach in ways I can't account for. And just to make that little quirk even more quirky, I instantly regret it when I don't buy something that I want. And then the anxiety of not having it makes me feel uneasy and like I might just die at any moment from not having that very thing that I walked away from after debating it for what seems like panic-wrought eternity.

Just yesterday I spent an hour on a website with a beautiful coat I wanted sitting in the "shopping bag". A full hour I spent on there, with it sitting there with its soft little arms crossed, calling to me in its beautiful cream colored woolen voice. I actually hit "check-out" three different times and I couldn't do it. And then? When I clicked the little "x" and left the site, I felt a wave of panic wash over me. Sheer, blinding, white panic, complete with flashing lights in the corner of my eyes.

I emailed my husband to let him know that I couldn't do it. He asked if I wanted him to do it, thinking that I was having technical issues. And while I was, those technical issues had everything to do with me and my head. I replied that it just seemed so expensive and he remarked that he should have realized that I was the issue. Just as reference point for you folks out there, the panic inducing amount was a mere and lousy 50 bucks. I'm a fabulous bargain shopper above all else.

I can hear the whispers out there. I hear you thinking, "that poor man. What he must contend with." And you're right. He calls me a flake all the time, but it should also be said that for every moment where I've driven him to drinking and the verge of the nearest ledge, I've spent many more hours tormenting myself with that very weird, nutastic thing. My brain buzzes with the uncertainty and thoughts of not-worthiness.

We actually argued over it last night with him telling me to "just buy the fucking coat already. I'm sick of hearing about your coat!"

And while my coat is roughly 6 years old, missing a button, has a torn lining and a hole in the pocket, some little thing inside my dark, dank and wet little mind says that I don't deserve or even need a new coat. And now? I must stop talking about the damn thing.

Getting ready this morning left me feeling like I had a cue ball rolling around in my soft belly. I want to cut my hair, desperately so. I've NEVER had an issue cutting my hair before. It's hair, it grows. But something in there says the second I do it, I might regret it.

I was still pondering the hair issue as I climbed into my car and saw the post-it note I'd left there with the number of a new hair salon I wanted to go to. And just looking at the phone number and considering it felt extravagant. Actually spending money to have my hair cut seems so crazily frivolous.

I have to be totally honest with you right now and say that just writing this and "saying it out loud" is making me sick to my stomach. I'm gripped with anxiety and fear for myself. I recognize that I put too much stock in my appearance and I always have. I dream of this sweet little place where I don't care about my hair, I don't care about my face or my ass. I don't need a coat or clothes of any taste or style. I just need to be me. And then in that sunlit place, dark clouds roll in as I realize that once I lose those things or give them less meaning and merit, there isn't much left there to be proud of.

The Internal Debate Goes External

I'm not sure if it's because I've been off my meds again (I know, I know) or if it's because I just really need a change and anything of a particularly nasty nature that I've been feeling just seems to hang there. But for about a month now I've been contemplating and while I only vocalized the thought a few weeks ago, I've been mulling it around in my wicked little brain.

Maybe it's because I need to wash away the particular nastiness of this election and shampoo isn't cutting it.

Maybe it's that I'm the opposite of Sampson and more like Lenny Kravitz.

I'm unsure and while I've been trying to ride out the clippy-clippy, cutty-cutty gremlin that's been sitting on my shoulder and gnawing away on my ear, while whispering dark and evil unpleasantries about split-ends into it. I think it just has to be done.

I think I need to cut my hair.

The Financing

After the consultation, which most cosmetic surgeons will do for free, you then spend a lot of time thinking about what you are about to undergo.

Me? I waffled. I tried not to think about it and then I tried to think about it and it was like I hit a thinker's block. I just couldn't think about it anymore. And like anything that I try not to think about, it creeps into my mind while I sleep at night and I find myself waking up at 3:00 in the morning in a slight panic.

The thing is that I never really thought about NOT doing it in that time. I thought about everything that went along with it, but not doing it didn't seem to be an option. I even slightly panicked when not doing it might have become the answer.

So I went in and went through the booby sizing game. At the end of it they showed me a list of dates and handed me a short stack of brochures for cosmetic surgery financing companies. Which introduced me to a whole new round of anxiety attacks. Anytime I have financed anything in my life I panic. Being judged by financy dudes makes me ill. My dad always said, "Never let anyone know how much money you make or don't. They do nothing but judge you with it." So here I am filling out forms to tell people the one thing that my dad always told me not to tell. I mean I JUST showed my boobs to a strange man and now I have to tell people how much I make. What would dad say?

Jason had to do the initial footwork for me. I just couldn't do it. It was too much for me. So he did and they said they would call us in an hour. So bite my nails for an hour I did. And an hour become two and then three. And then three hours became days. A week had passed and we didn't hear anything. I was convinced it was the Gods and the Cosmos and all that other cool Discovery Channel stuff telling me that I was meant to have these sad little tidlums the rest of my life. I just gave up and let it go.

It made me sad. Jason asked me about it and I told him it just wasn't meant to be. He shook his head at me and got a tad angry and said, "so you just give up like that?" And stupid me nodded my sad head. The thought of calling them only to hear I was rejected was too much for me. So Jason sighed and picked up the phone and called them. He then says, "you were approved, you dork!" It turns out my account manager was out sick. With that I did a happy booby dance to rival all others. Are there other happy boob dances? I dunno.

Do you know what happened after that? A big nothing. Again, it was another week with no info and then my doctor's office called. It's a little amazing how fast things happened after that. After the initial fast form online you then have to fill out the tall stack of forms that have to be notarized and sent via some service where they can track that shit. Which by the way, Jason had someone in his office notarize them so they know too! Included on those forms are the promise to give up your last born, my first was too old at this point, as well the names and phone numbers of every person you have ever known since birth so they can verify that you aren't a slime bag.

And do you know that they actually call every single person on that list too? We were getting calls left and right from people telling us they were called as a reference. And here is the kicker. When they called my office to verify employment do you know what it said on the caller ID screen?

Cosmetic Surgery.

Oh they only identify themselves by the name of the finance company verbally but when I transferred the call to my boss I knew that 'Cosmetic Surgery' was popping up on the screen at his desk.

Subtle, no?

So now, not only do I have to tell them that I'm going to be out for surgery but guess what? They know it's not my fucking gall bladder or some shit. They know full well that I'm fixing something. I might as well tell them what or when I get back it's going to be a full-on examination to determine just what it was.

Anyhow, after making sure that I was in fact a warm-blooded human with actual friends and family they let me know that I was indeed all set and all it takes is an APR of your left and right leg followed by a monthly payment of both arms. You will have fantastic tits but you will have no limbs because it truly will cost you an arm and a leg.

Hey, we're all set now. I go in there in 12 days and do you know what is causing me the most anxiety now?

They told me not to wear make-up the day of surgery. I'm going to be knocked out cold in front of other people without a lick of mascara.

The HORROR!

Her Response

When I initially decided to go ahead with the breast augmentation I told my sister. Well I didn't tell her at first but there isn't much I don't tell my sister. It didn't help that my husband would make drunken references to my new tata's in front of her. I mean she is a teacher, it was only a matter of time before she worked that one out, not to mention when I showed up with my new giant sweater puppies she wasn't really going to believe that they were the "new beer gut".

When telling her I made her agree to the fine print of the deal that stated that she would not tell our mother. And when I say don't tell mom, it's not because I don't want her to know - she'll know eventually - it's that I don't need my decision to be gossip fodder for the family. That will all happen in due time, right?

Against my initial thoughts and wishes I went ahead and emailed my mother and told her myself. Complete with the words "there, I told you. Now you know", I nervously clicked send and even blogged about waiting for her response.

For the record, I'm still waiting.

Even though I saw her last night.

There will undoubtedly not be any response. There just won't be unless I hear it through the grapevine that are my siblings. Passive Agressive and Avoidance are things I grew up with and had to work through as an adult. I didn't understand that the rest of world didn't sweep things under the carpet and not speak to each other for days on end.

In other words, the cold shoulder was a way of life for me. We had actual icicles growing from our ceiling when I was growing up. There were weeks in the middle of August that a parka was necessary because mom and dad were at odds.

So she came over last night to bring Monkey girl's school supplies over. One of the most awesome things about my mother is that she always gets her school supplies. My mother is a very generous gift giver as well and my dad handed me a nice check for my upcoming birthday.

The entire time I don't think my mother looked me in the eye and barely spoke directly to me. She busied herself playing with Crazyman and looking at everything but me. My dad was his usual silly self and didn't say anything about it so I don't think he knows. Jason quietly asked me if she knew, I said she did. I'm sure she heard us but still nothing came from that way.

And nothing will.

Someday she'll probably casually look at my chest and say something like "did you go big enough" or something else that takes a degree in psychology to fully determine her true meaning. It's okay. If I waited for her approval I'd never do anything because I don't get her approval.

I just don't.

I get her disdain and I get her disapproving looks. I get her judgment in the form of up and down glances to my appearance. I love my mother with all of my heart, but most of us know what a delicate dance the mother/daughter relationship can be. I honestly don't think she means anything by it.

If she comes across this I hope her feelings aren't hurt. I know how bad hurt feelings suck. Like I told my husband last night, if I let my feelings be hurt by it then I'd always have hurt feelings by things like there was no offer to watch Crazyman for my birthday either.

You see, here's the very best part about turning 31. The only approval I need now is from my husband and my kids and I've got that. The mother/daughter relationship that concerns me most now is the one I have with my daughter. One that I hope is going to be a very different experience for her.

I love my mom. She kind of rocks hardcore sometimes. I just know where we stand and I'm okay with that. I have to be.

Inadequacy At It's Best

Does inadequacy have a best?

There are dishes in my dishwasher and dishes in my sink. That in itself makes my skin crawl. I hate it. On top of that, my house wifing skills showed an all time low when Jason woke up this morning to discover he had no clean boxers. I do recall asking him he'd rather I did laundry last night instead of drinking that second beer and he laughed at me.

I offered to smell all of his boxers to tell him which ones were the least offensive. He told me that he wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. I'm pretty sure I was kidding but you never know what you'd do for love until you're faced with that battle.

I feel bad. My hubs shouldn't have to go commando or risk second day wear. Typically he has underwear. It might not always be folded up in his drawer but he has them.

And just so I can feel woefully not up to par, his ex-girlfriend sent a friend request on MySpace yesterday. The girl has had a second kid and she's skinnier than I ever realized she might have been before. If she stumbles upon this - Bitch, you look good.

I wonder if she'd make sure he has clean underwear.

It doesn't matter, his cat pissed on her once.

Which Way Will It Go?

Here it is a Wednesday morning. Not unlike any other Wednesday morning except that it was supposed to be my Friday morning. Until yesterday I was pretty sure that this was the last week Crazyman went to his current baby sitter. With all the information that Jason had given me it seemed that it was. When we spoke to the new sitter we spoke in terms of the other's last week and how her first week would fall in after that. Never mentioning the date because we all knew the date.

Right?

Wrong.

So I had taken a few days off this week to spend with Crazyman before he made the big change. When I told her yesterday that today would be the last day she looked crestfallen. When she asked why and I explained she told me and then it was my turn to be entirely turned inside out with disappointment.

I'd have to work a full week.

So here I sit in a dress that rivals pajamas in it's comfort and professional appearance. I just got done responding to an email from my mom telling me that she has to work the weekend of a wedding I barely want to attend anyway. But that she and my dad would take the kids to dinner and then my sister would be over to watch the kids.

Who could argue with that? I told her as much and then finished up the email with a quick and brief paragraph informing her of my impending boob job.

I have no expectations on the reaction. It could go either way. In the end, it affects me little except for the level of eye rolling I have to perform when relaying the story to my husband and sister. I'm an expert eye roller and was once even fired for the offense. You just have to know I'm rolling my eyes even as I write that. It turns out that I gesture with my eyes. You know how some people hack the air with their hands when they speak? I happen to have overly developed eye muscles from the amount of gesturing I do with my eyes.

So it goes.

Finally today I tell you that my husband in a desperate flight went to Walgreen's to get my meds over the weekend. Luckily, I can only assume for him, it isn't one that takes weeks to go into effect. The days following his trek to the drugstore have been rivaling blissful. The sense of calm I feel is shocking and I no longer threaten to rip faces off. Truly, I would have hated for all of you to see me on the national news when they tragically reported of the crazed blonde PMS'r in KC that went on a facing tearing off rampage.

It would have been ugly for all. And seeing my blood soaked nightgown-dress would have been news worthy enough without the camera man capturing my crazy, eye-rolling antics happening just above the neckline as I shouted about how Wednesday is supposed to be the new Friday.

I'm here, working the whole week, calm, comfortable and awaiting an email from my mom which will have content in it that won't change anything I'm going to do but still the neurotic teenager in me that always wanted her approval wonders which way it will go.