what in the world could that be?

I’m a really awkward person. Not in the adorable Zooey Deschanel look how quirky I am kind of way, but in the more disturbing girl-in-the-back-of-the-classroom-who-eats-her-hair kind of way. Also, I totally went through a hair eating phase. Not like the frightening cases you hear about on tv where a teenaged girl has like 20lbs of hair removed from her stomach, just a general nervous habit. I get nervous in crowds really easily. My mother refuses to believe this because as a small child I would often walk up to complete strangers and start conversations. It’s a miracle I was never kidnapped and disemboweled. I just really don’t like large groups of people. Especially if I’m expected to socialize with them. Dear God help me if I have to socialize. That being said, I am dreading my upcoming wedding. I know I said in my last post that Sara and I are a dysfunctional married couple, but in truth, we’re not even married yet. We just fight, bicker and pick on each other like an 80 year old couple with varying levels of dementia. Our wedding is going to be small. I have had panic attacks worrying about how much of my insanely large extended family is going to be offended when they don’t get an invitation, but it’s not my fault my grandparents were fond of pro-creation. I think when you really think about it, I’m pretty sure most of us are really fond of the act of pro-creation. Besides, I can’t get too pissed about it because that negates my existence, which means that if you’re reading this, and I don’t exist, you’re hallucinating. And if you’re hallucinating, you’re either on really good drugs, or you have a brain tumor. I choose to believe it’s drugs.

Shit. I just forgot what I was talking about. Awkwardness. I guess I just subscribed to the belief that I was just a black sheep. And then I went to high school where everyone thought they were a black sheep. So then, I figured that if everyone’s a black sheep, I must be a white sheep. And that led to fears I was turning into a white supremacist. So then I decided I was a drunken unicorn and my identity issues were solved because at least a drunken unicorn is unique. I spent way too much of my adolescence trying to adopt a personality that would make others happy. In fact, I still do that shit. Kind of makes me wonder if I’ve ever been honest with anyone about who I am. Except for you guys. You guys are the people I trust. It’s the people I KNOW I don’t want to be honest with. Those people are assholes.

Honestly, it wasn’t until about a year ago, when I discovered the drunken ramblings of Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess for those of you paying attention, that I decided that if people couldn’t deal with my honesty, I didn’t need them around. Her struggles with anxiety and depression made me feel less alone as I struggled with depression and ADHD. For the record, I am not hyperactive in the sense that you’re thinking. I don’t run around smearing glue on shit and even if I did, I’d forget about it before I got to pour the glitter on. I’m just easily distracted. I don’t know if that’s obvious. It really should be if you know me. I’ve been known to get lost in shopping malls because I saw something pretty and decided I had to look at it only to discover that the people I was with didn’t even notice I was gone until they were on the next floor and I was almost in tears because I was positive they were going to leave me behind, thankful that they had finally ditched the weirdo who couldn’t even finish a thought before jumping onto the next topic. Seriously. I started blogging partly because I thought it would be a great exercise in trying to focus. Unfortunately, I have like a month’s worth of entries waiting to be posted because I just couldn’t stop thinking about random shit when I was typing. Shit. I’m off-topic again. Sonofabitch. Jenny! She has helped me to see that my awkwardness is something to be embraced. It is something wonderful and fantastic and what’s better than that, I am NOT alone. There are thousands of hair eaters like me who understand me. Not that they’ve found my blog yet, but at least I know they are THERE.

In which I nearly die from swine flu

In the fall of 2009 the entire world freaked out over the swine flu. We weren’t supposed to call it swine flu though because it was feared that people would stop eating pork due to the misconception that this strain of flu actually came from a goddamn pig. The P.C. term was H1N1. I still think someone fucked a pig and forgot to shower the pig beforehand or themselves afterwards. Either way, beastiality is generally frowned upon in our society. That Thanksgiving, as the American nation prepared to go shopping, my best friend, Sara, and I found ourselves victim to the cruel bitch that was swine flu. Miraculously, Liam did not catch this. I have no fucking idea how in the hell that happened, but perhaps whatever benevolent force in the universe that exists thought, for one shining glorious moment, swine flu was about all I could handle when coupled with Thanksgiving. Not that I had any major gatherings to attend to. That was never something I really enjoyed. I would invite whichever of my friends had no where else to go for the holiday to come to my and Sara’s shitty mold infested townhome in West Des Moines’ privileged poor sector. Unfortunately… or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, it was just Sara and I that year. Once Liam was out the door on Wednesday evening, I went and started preparing dinner whilst feeling somewhat nauseous, warm and fighting a raging headache – all of which I just assumed was par the course for dealing with my asshole ex-husband. By the time Thanksgiving dawned, I had been throwing up most of the night and diarrhea had kept me wondering which end of me had earned the privilege of the toilet and which one was going to be dangling precariously over the side of the bathtub. Thanks to the frequent flushing of the toilet down the hall, I had an inkling, I wasn’t alone in my misery.

Being the stubborn WASP that I was raised to be, I still insisted that the Thanksgiving feast of Cornish game hens, sweet potato casserole, green bean bake and pumpkin pie needed to be cooked and that to admit defeat to something as stupid as the flu was not only weak, but damn near un-American. After getting the various foodstuffs into the oven, I collapsed in a heap on the living room floor, praying that I had the strength to make it through this holiday with my wasp-y smile still intact. Unfortunately, it is at about this point that the sweating began and I had to be grateful for the foresight I’d had to not only bring my heavy comforter downstairs with me that morning, but to also collapse close enough to the dvd player and the Netflix pile to be able to throw something in to pass the time. Just as I used up the last of my energy looking for the goddamn remote and pondered whether or not I should be concerned about replenishing liquids or just be grateful I hadn’t thrown up inside the hen carcasses, Sara came down fully dressed and really upset.

“I have to go to fucking work.”

“You’re fucking kidding”

“No, some asshole called in sick, so now I have to spend the next 2 hours trying not to throw up on people.”

I gave her a look of what I thought might be sympathy. I’m not really sure though, to be honest. In fact, a lot of this is a blur. Anyways, I think I was more pissed off than anything else. Here I was, DYING, and she was about to run off to work. I was trying to make thanksgiving nice for her, and she was leaving me in my goddamn hour of need to go tend to people she couldn’t even talk to me about thanks to HIPAA. Thankfully, the food still had about four hours left to cook, so, in theory, I could pass out and when I woke up, she’d be there. My dependency on her was a little disturbing and I should have figured out then that we were destined to become the dysfunctional married couple we are today, but I digress.

I woke up to the credits rolling on some movie I can’t for the life of me recall, Sara running up the stairs to throw up in the bathroom and a kitchen timer going off. Pretty decent timing. I heaved myself off of the floor and checked on various food. The hens were ready to go in the oven and lifting them off the counter to carry them the two steps to the oven was an act of endurance I knew I wasn’t equal to, but still somehow managed it. When Sara came downstairs, I was curled up in the fetal position on the couch with a mixing bowl cradled in my arms. She looked at me with sympathy and asked if I needed anything. I think I may have muttered something about the next movie, but I don’t recall. All I know is that the next two hours of my life were the most upsetting hours I have ever spent. EVER. The movie was called The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. I have a thing for holocaust movies. Maybe it’s my affinity for Judiaica that has now become so strong I’m working on becoming one of the chosen people, but on that day, I wished to Christ I hadn’t ever started down this path of intrigue in the Holocaust. Most holocaust movies end on a sad, but hopeful note. This one did not. It involved two adorable boys befriending one another from across a barbed wire fence, until the one outside the fence decides it’s time to go over (well, actually, under) to play with his new best friend, who kindly gives him matching striped pajamas to blend in with. Did I mention that this newly attired boy’s father was an SS officer? I should have. I think it was important. The boys run off to take a shower with the rest of the society of striped clothing enthusiasts and I sat there saying, out loud (I swear I was only muttering this, but Sara swears I was screaming at the tv),oh dear God, they wouldn’t. They would never do this. No way. The dad is gonna burst in and save the kid at the last minute. SPOILER ALERT. He doesn’t. He finds out way to late and goes to the fence, finds his kid’s clothing in a heap, runs to the camp and the kid is already in a fire heap. Fin.

Yeah, that’s how they ended this movie. God. Damn. Happy Thanksgiving. I bet you forgot that this was a Thanksgiving story. Needless to say, I was traumatized. Here was a movie that actually succeeded in making Schindler’s List look like a Mel Brooks comedy by comparison. Then, the kitchen timer went off and I somehow managed to lift this 750lb pan of two Cornish game hens out of the oven along with all the aforementioned side dishes. By the time, the food was divvied up, I was exhausted and looking at a roasted carcass and various vegetables was making me feel sick again. I took two bites, looked at Sara and said, “I just. fucking. can’t.” and put my plate in the kitchen, climbed the twelve miles of stairs to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed. I awoke what felt like 4 days later, but in reality was more like a half hour, to find Sara lying next to me. When we both were finally conscious again, I asked her why she didn’t crash in her room, she simply said that she didn’t want me to choke on my vomit and die. In that moment, I loved her more than I had ever loved anyone and then I threw up on the carpet.

Somebody sweet to talk to

I have a lot of friends who are teachers. I even have a mother in law who is a teacher. That being said, I have an enormous amount of respect for these people because the idea of spending even an hour with a large band of small children, preteens or asshole high school students makes me sad that corporal punishment is not only not admissible in a school, but also illegal. Don't get me wrong, I don't believe in hitting kids unless it's a last resort, but seeing as how most parents nowadays are more interested in being friends with their kids than actually parenting them, someone needs to show them that there are serious consequences for fucking with the wrong person. Namely, me. I don't suffer fools or assholes easily and my quick temper is only saved by the fact that I know that it is best controlled when situations can be avoided.

However, I do have my moments when I wish I had become a high school English teacher. I love books and watching people embrace the joy of reading. I love Shakespeare and research papers. However, the moment that the slacker asshole in the third row dared to ask the question "does spelling count?" because he hadn't bothered to read the syllabus, I would have to kiss my career good bye purely because I wouldn't be able to stop myself with just a simple yes. That misguided youth would spend the next week of his life trying to dislodge an edition of Shakespeare's plays out of his bleeding rectum and I would would be acquainting myself with the state's penal system. Bet he'd never ask the question again though.

How is it that we, as a society, have gotten so lazy that we can't be bothered to worry about spelling. I get grammar. That shit is hard, but man, spelling?! Really? Do you really care so little about how you present yourself to the world that you can't be bothered to know the difference between grate and great? This whole mentality of "close enough" is bullshit. Learn how to spell. Learn how to distinguish antonyms! This is important! Seriously! How is it that we let these kids skate through without educating them, or worse, not allowing their teachers to educate them properly because they're afraid they'll lose their jobs because Johnny and Cindy had to stay in second or tenth grade another year? They should be socially shamed because they didn't work hard or their parents used the teacher as a glorified babysitter. People are so fond of saying that you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink, but that certainly doesn't apply to teachers. It's their fault that the students aren't listening. Fuck that! My kid does his homework and I sit there with him until that shit is done. If he doesn't understand it, I try to help him. If he still doesn't get it, we try to find someone who can help, and if none of that works, it is HIS responsibility to get hell from his teacher. Stop blaming teachers because you can't be bothered to take an active role in your child's education or upbringing. I understand that there are indeed some awful teachers out there, but they are in the minority. Most teachers care about their students and don't deserve a pay cut or to be fired just because your dumbass kid can't unglue himself from AdventureTime long enough to actually learn something. I'd get in to the concept of teaching to the test, but bitch ain't got time for that.

Musicbox

I'm having a really kind of awesome week. I found my wedding dress. THE one. It's out of my price range, but thanks to a few very sweet friends and a wonderful fiancee, I've been convinced that I should go for it. It's so beautiful and everything I've ever wanted in a dress. I feel like a princess just looking at it. However, I will try on a couple of other dresses just to make sure that it is the dress of my dreams. I'm fairly positive it is though. I cried when I saw it in the wedding shoppe window. It will be mine. Oh yes. It will be mine.

I'm making significant progress on my school plans as well. I'm still planning on German Education, but it seems this will help me earn my way through grad school so in all reality, I should be teaching at the college level within the next 10 years. I know it seems far off, but I'm okay with that. I've always taken the scenic route when it comes to school anyways. I may not be able to do it the same way Paul (my brother) did, but he didn't have a family to worry about. The biggest thing I'm excited about it is that I may possibly (and that's a pretty damn big possibly) be able to get my study abroad credits at the Mozarteum in Salzburg and while I'm there get a certificate in Oratorio and Lieder. Oh my lord does that just get me all excited. Not just woo-we're-going-to-six-flags-excited, but omfg-I-may-pee-my-pants-excited. :) Oh let's hope!!!!

I went to my nurse practitioner for the first time since moving. She thinks I may have been misdiagnosed, which is a very easy thing to see. She's thinking it's not just a case of Major Depressive Disorder, but instead BiPolar II with ADHD. *shrugs* I guess it's alright so long as we get the medications right this time. I'm just getting kind of sick of being on meds and having to take them every damn morning and night.

Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness?

Hardly. I'm surprisingly happier than I've ever been in my life. I'm marrying my best friend and my soulmate in less than a year and since our relationship started, I've known love greater than I ever thought possible. The kind of love that I've only read about. Not just passionate flames that burn fast, but a steady love that is enduring.

I'm going back to school soon too for German education. I'm so excited about it and I know it will be exactly what I need to be doing until I can get back to grad school. It will happen, I just imagine it will be quite sometime before it does. I want Liam to have a childhood where he has friends. So I suppose that means I'll be staying put until 2022 when he graduates. It's only 10 years. Like a drop in a bucket and with the most wonderful family ever, well, its not the sentence it could have been with other people. But with Sara and Liam and possibly another child someday by my side, oh goodness the places I will go! :) it

Breathe

It's been one hell of a week. Confusing emotionally, upsetting, and just exhausting. I started work this week and it went really well. I'm learning things, but I'm still scared that I'm not going to be able to do it. But the biggest thing that happened is that L's grandpa died. Not my dad... Lo's dad. I really loved D. He wasn't the most well-spoken man, but he was a sweet man who loved me like a daughter. L's been freaking out all week. I'm trying so hard to be there for him, but I'm just as upset. The confusing part is how much I want to be there for Lo. We've been divorced for 5 years next month and I still call him my husband. I still love him unconditionally, but I'm not IN love with him. I've learned my lesson to stay away from him, but knowing another woman is taking care of him and standing where I should be just pisses me off to no end. I don't know how people can be married more than once... I have so much trouble accepting that I'm not married anymore. I know I'm not, but I'm still scared I'm going to hell for having left him. He asked me to though, and I would have done anything to make him happy. *sigh* Doesn't help that he was abusive...

Because

Well, I've moved. Officially out of Iowa and into Wisconsin. I never EVER want to move again. It's such an awful stress basket that isn't necessary. The next time I move, it will be into a house that I intend to die in. And hopefully, no one will bail on me that time. Yeah, I had a helper all set up until she texts me a half hour before she was going to be there to say that she was too sick to help. I have trouble believing that. She set it up a couple of days before that she was getting sick and then told me she'd be there... *sigh* I hate being lied to. Especially by someone who's supposed to be my friend. Thankfully, S helped me out by leaving work, cause there is no way I could have done it on my own. I called her crying and begging for help..

I actually just left Iowa for the last time yesterday. Saying goodbye to S was so difficult. I dreaded it and I'm still waiting for it to sink in. I don't know if or when it's going to.