Posts Tagged ‘husband’

My wellbeing is plaid.

Wednesday, September 8th, 2010

It amuses me a little that strawberry picking has become such a common family activity.  Why is it that manual labour becomes fun once you’re charged to do it?  Is this along the lines of Build-A-Bear stores, or the self-serve check-out that was always so packed when they first came out?  And I fall prey myself.  I would pick strawberries.  I will admit that there was some perverse sort of novel enjoyment in scanning my own groceries. …And I was a cashier for more than six years while I was in school!   Part of me wants to stuff things in a bear and choose its clothes.  I can’t help but feel like I should capitalize on this and have somebody come bring their kids to weed my garden for an hour.  I will gladly give them a basket of strawberries once they’re done.   Better yet, for a small extra fee they can rent a mop and enjoy the Family Cleaning Experience.  It builds character, I hear.

Things have been mostly good around these parts.  My negative moods really do seem to be concentrated now into pervasive sweeping unhappiness on certain days.  I’m trying to discern some sort of pattern.  There’s been huge progress in my overall state of being, which is fantastic (there are far more good days than bad now).  But I do feel occasionally a little like I’ve made it almost to the end of some unbearably long video game, and am sure that I’m just about to save the princess/world/marmot, except that I’ve talked to everyone I’m supposed to talk to, and collected everything I’m supposed to collect, and explored every scrap of terrain I can get to, and cannot f$@$ing figure out what I’m supposed to do next.  And everyone else seems to have completed it so easily they can’t remember how.  And there are no walkthroughs.  And my computer is really a hammer-head shark.

Currently my top bets are on some combination of blood sugar levels, general fatigue, social contact, and alcohol consumption.  Except that aside from the blood sugar (which generally balances out my mood as soon as it’s corrected anyway), these things seem to connect to my state of being indirectly as best.  Sometimes I’m tired on the days that are bad.  Sometimes I’m more tired, but I’m fine.  I feel perfectly normal (okay…maybe a little more flashy than normal) when I have a glass of wine with friends.  Sometimes the next day I’m a train wreck.  Sometimes not?  I’ll have to continue my research.  It sounds like getting smashed and staying up all night eating cupcakes would be a good start.

I’ll inform my husband.

Speaking of the husband, my Sappy Syrupy Warm Fuzziness Quotient requires that I mention that we apparently blew my therapist’s mind a little at my last session.  She had asked me as homework to have my husband and I come up with some 1 year and 5 year goals, separate of one another, and then compare, and discuss, and create some joint goals we could both work towards.  We’re already pretty good communicators and pretty aware of what we want from our lives and the changes we want to make to get there, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to get some things down on paper, and was curious to see where we might diverge.  So I made up my list during the day.  He did his at work and e-mailed it to me to print off so we could talk about it later.  We each came up with around 10-15 items.

…The same freaking 10-15 items.

Seriously.

We’re both very willful, independent people in our ways, so in joint ventures we will compromise with each other of course, but neither of us would bend our own individual goals just to be more like the other.  We just also happen to be willful people who are pretty perfectly matched.

His List – “lose more weight”

My List – “lose some weight”

His List – “exercise more”

My List – “more regular exercise”

His List – “continue to meditate”

My List – “continue with regular meditation”

His List – “reduce overall workload”

My List – “obtain a better balance of work and home life”

His List – “launch my own business / work independently”

My List – “start own business if I decide I’d like to try that”

His List – “don’t waste time”

My List – “find a way to keep our natural inclinations from interfering with our ability to do things that are fun, rich, and rewarding”  (which, upon discussion, means exactly the same thing)

Some of them (like paying off the debts) were even more identical, but also more obvious choices.  The only exceptions were that he placed exercise at the one year mark while I put it in the five (though he already exercises very regularly, so that’s probably an easier goal for him to get to), and that I also included getting myself back into some form of employment (which would be irrelevant to him) and deciding whether or not we want kids.

So my therapist reads over our lists, and looks at me with the most obscure expression on her face.

“Do you know how often this happens??” she asks me.  I am not 100% sure what she is referring to, and so am hesitant to comment.

“Never.  That’s how often.”

Apparently couples often have very contradictory goals (spend more time with my husband, spend more time out with the guys, etc.).  I think we broke her a little.  Really.  She sputtered for a while before collecting herself.   Perhaps she didn’t entirely believe what I had told her in the weeks before?  Are so many couples so different in what they want to accomplish in life?

There are many areas of my life in which I feel like I could have made better choices along the way.  My relationship is not one of them.  We have our challenges like everyone else does, but we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.

Plus, it’s a rare guy who will recognize one of the Bad Days and encouragingly walk his wife back and forth between two restaurants with no trace of impatience until she comes to a comfortable decision about what she wants to eat.  Because he knows that’s exactly what I needed right then.

Not quite seeing eye to eye

Friday, September 3rd, 2010

So my husband and I were having a disagreement about something the other day, and were lying on the floor on these big pillows we have while we talked it through to try and resolve it (don’t ask me why we lie on the floor to negotiate, but it seems to happen often), when in the middle of our mini-fight, this

stepped between our heads, filled our field of view, and promptly sat down for a while, just hanging out.  We wait.  She wanders away.

Our reaction:

“Hang on – there seems to be a communication barrier…”

“Everything seemed grey for a minute there.”

“There were a few hairy moments.”

The fact that our primary concern was getting in another pun is probably a good indicator of why our relationship is so strong.

He’s also a little bit roguish, but in a completely responsible way, I swear.

Friday, July 9th, 2010

It’s our anniversary on Monday, so we’re celebrating this weekend.  Second year of marriage, ninth year together.  I end up saying that a lot, because I don’t want to let those extra seven years go.  He is bright, and clever, and determined, and witty, and charming, and spontaneous, and devoted, and stubborn, and rebellious, and ingenious, and honest, and passionate, and perceptive, and introspective, and adaptable, and trustworthy, and generous, and bold, and just the right amount of both cheeky and geeky for me.

And I’m kind of smitten with him.

Tonight I surprised him with a nice dinner, because he’s got a bunch of work to finish still later on this evening but I wanted us to be able to carve out a little couple time together (normally he does the cooking except for on major holidays, which suits me just fine, but every now and then I do make something.  You know.  So I don’t forget how the stove works).  I realized partway into the preparation that the theme of the meal was pears and thyme.  …Pairs.  And Time.  How appropriate.  Sort of.  …Okay, it’s a stretch, but it’s closer to romantic than asparagus and salt.

Plans for tomorrow revolve around cotton, in honour of the traditional gift for a second anniversary.  Also around fresh baguette and cheeses.  I’m sure I read that on the list somewhere.  Second anniversary – cotton, bread and cheeses.  Next year is leather, bread and cheeses.  Could get interesting.

To summarize other news, Dr. Douchecanoe was still a douchecanoe while my husband was there, but much much less so.  And I managed to get out of the appointment without an armful of new medications.  Unfortunately I still have to keep seeing him, because the new therapist isn’t a doctor.  On the plus side, the new therapist does seem good.  She took some time at the first session to inquire about my diet, supplements, exercise, and other things that I find reassuring.  She seems well informed (no new information, but at least I wasn’t telling her things she didn’t know. …See Dr. Douchecanoe above).  She seems willing to explore various options for treatment.  And when I mentioned my history with antidepressants, she gave me kind of a horrified/sympathetic look and comment rather than ignoring what I said (*cough* Dr Douchecanoe *cough*).  I will admit that it was kind of relieving to have someone other than me, who seems vaguely competent, taking some responsibility for my treatment.  It’s been stressful feeling like I need to carry it all on my own shoulders.

I think I’m going to continue seeing free therapist too, though.  Can’t hurt, right?

And plus, if I add one or two more health professionals, I can form a baseball team.

Also, it was brought to my attention again today that I have a very difficult time getting angry.  I just take too much personal responsibility for things, so if something goes wrong, I automatically assume there was something more I could have done to prevent it.  Wrong leg got amputated?  Should have double-checked and confirmed with the doctor one more time before going into surgery.  Tree fell on my car?  Should have foreseen that as a risk and parked somewhere else.   There’s not a lot that I can’t claim an active role in somehow.  Meteors, maybe.  Granted, I did choose to live on Earth, but do you know how cold it is on Neptune this time of year?  Plus, dude, I hear the commute is hell.

In other and completely unrelated news, apparently someone in my area was having a yard sale on “Friday.”  They had a big old salmon-coloured sign on the main road.

Does that mean I need to be there by Wednesday if I want anything good?  Are they trying to throw off the cops?  Bending space-time?  Do they not believe that Friday is real?  I almost got out my cell phone to take a picture, but the light changed too soon so I drove away and missed out.  …Okay, I almost got out my cell phone to take a picture, but the guy behind me gave a polite honk as I sat at the green light spaced out thinking about it, and I drove away and missed out.  Still, classic blog of unnecessary quotation marks moment.

In a similar vein, this is pretty damn funny too.

You know, The Scream. Like that expressionist painting, except with more fur.

Monday, July 5th, 2010

My cats amuse me.  Both kitties are very attached to us, and delight in following my husband and I from place to place. …Except when it comes to the office.  You see, the office contains many delightfully tasty wires to gnaw on, and as such, is locked behind closed doors unless we’re in there.  And of course, the fact that it’s sometimes off limits makes it ever so enticing the rest of the time.  The boy-cat has picked up enough English to understand exactly when it’s time to leave the room, and consequently makes a break for the farthest corner under my desk at the earliest opportunity.  Then once I crawl under there to manhandle him out, he very consistently resorts to what we like to call the flop defense (this may be trademarked, although I haven’t actually seen him file the paperwork yet).  This is that mode in which wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, the slightest touch drops him to the floor in a floppy mass of purr.  And floppy masses of purr are infinitely endearing, but also infinitely difficult to pick up and/or manoeuvre.  He is aware of both of these things, which makes it the perfect action when he’s somewhere he wants to stay and doesn’t want to give us the option of being annoyed with him for it.  LOVES being removed from the office in an arduous and precarious manner.  Strange tastes, that cat.

Of course, he also has a habit of rolling our doormat over himself like it’s made of money.  Or tuna fish.  Or whatever it is a cat would most want to roll in.  He looks absolutely euphoric there, rubbing it all over his body.  We haven’t yet figured this one out.

The girl-cat is less interested in being in there than she is in making sure she’s living life on her own terms, I think.  She protests loudly when she’s moved somewhere that wasn’t her idea, even when it’s somewhere she’s happy to be.  This afternoon I was ready to move out of the office, so I tried to pick her up out of my husband’s office chair where she’d curled up, and she gave me the indignant saucer eyes and a repeated Silent Yell.  If you have not experienced the Silent Yell, let me just say that it looks much like a Normal Yell, except the sound emitted is in potentially too high of a register to be perceived by the human ear.   All I could get was a kind of light clicking sound.  Like when she’s tracking an insect.  Or swallowed an alien. It was like she was so shocked and appalled that I could be contemplating moving her that she was rendered speechless.  At any rate, today I randomly decided to just roll her into the hall instead.  Where she sat for the next hour or so, looking like she wasn’t quite certain whether she should be incensed or triumphant at this development.

Today was a fairly productive day for me, in which I did many productive things for productive reasons.  I wanted no part of the highest priority items on my to-do list, but I decided for once to just skip them and get some other stuff done rather than run away screaming.

Silent screaming, mind you.

Like somebody was trying to move me off a comfy office chair.

I am definitely not yet quite balanced out, but life continues to be much better in the absence of the Luvox.  It’s sort of like at the moment I’m living in a car with no brakes.  So as long as I’m cruising along the highway in the right direction and nothing unfortunate happens, I’m just as fine as all the other cars.  …But the moment something derails me, or pushes me off course, I’m in a crap load of trouble.  That’s pretty much my life right now.  Fine, fine, fine, BLARGH!!!!!!, fine, fine, fine.  At least there are more fines than blarghs these days.

I’m scheduled to see a new therapist tomorrow.  On the plus side, she came highly recommended.  On the down side, she came highly recommended by Dr. Douchepsychiatrist, so I have to take it with a grain of salt.  I love how at the last session, he was confused at why I wasn’t making faster progress this past year, since I seem to be willing and fairly motivated.  And I tried to bite my tongue and politely remind him that the past year has been a haze of unconscious/nauseous/unstable/anxious/suicidal medication hell.  …Which he seemed to brush off, since in his mind it still “wasn’t a significant problem.”  Yargh.  We’ve decided that my husband is going to come along to my appointment this Wednesday.  We figure it’s got to go in one of two extremes.  Either he’ll treat my husband like just as much of a brainless insignificant peon as he treats me, or he’ll be totally ingratiating towards him.  I’m not currently sure which one will make me more irate, but I’m sort of pulling for the second one on the chance that it helps us actually get somewhere with a treatment plan I can live with.  Maybe he’ll be more willing to acknowledge somebody “sane.”

Seriously, I’m making alien clicking sounds as we speak.

The Freshmaker

Monday, June 7th, 2010

When we moved into this house, I did a lot of research into “natural” pet and people-safe methods of insect control.  One of the things I discovered is that a mixture of peppermint oil and water kills spiders. …And it really does.  I tested out the mix a few times, and aside from feeling like a terrible human being for closely watching some spiders die, it turned out great.  I bought a cheap little plastic spray bottle to put some in and have kept it by the front door for the occasional time that something with eight legs tries to move in somewhere inconvenient.  I’m all for letting spiders be most of the time.  I don’t mind if they want to hang around and eat things in my area.  …Provided they pay attention to the appropriate zoning laws.  Upper corner of garage, okay.  Seat of my lawn chair, not okay.

Anyway, the other day as my husband and I were entering the house, I noticed a…rather large…spider attempting to make itself a cozy new home on the piece of roof right above our front door.    The low-hanging piece of roof.  The one our heads pass right under as we’re going inside.  Zoning violation.

So, feeling all super prepared, I pull out the trusty squirt bottle and open fire.  Except that I can’t seem to quite get a firm stream going – it mostly kind of spritzes all over my hand like it thought about traveling all the way up there to where the spider is but realized after a few inches that DUDE – have you seen how far that is?  Hand’s right here.   Minty death for me.  And being the bright one that I am, rather than fiddle with the spray nozzle, I just brandish my hand further into the air and sort of wave it around, like somehow that will make up the difference.  Or that squeezing more furiously will somehow intimidate the water into going where I want it to.  But the spider is still up there, calmly raising one hairy eyebrow in my direction.  And I CANNOT stop now until I succeed.  And did I mention that it was kind of breezy that day?  Like, blowing towards the doorway in which I was standing?

So…um…you know that icy fire menthol vicks vaporub sensation that some pepperminty things give you?  Yes.  I know.  Everyone saw this coming but me.  …But in my defense, I couldn’t see anything coming at all since there was MENTHOL IN MY EYES.   I had no recourse but to laugh at myself.  We’re not talking slightly nippy here.  We’re talking dear-lord-stop-breathing-near-me-the-resulting-change-in-air-flow-is-lighting-my-face-on-fire.  Cold fire.  The full intensity of the sensation didn’t really set in for a few minutes (or maybe it was my focused determination and optimal spider-killing powers of concentration) so I didn’t realize until after quite a while of peppermint flailing that the back of one hand, all of my face, and both eyes were rather unusually minty.   My lovely husband brought me some paper towels.  And he even refrained from allowing his raging laughter to drop him to the floor until after leading his now-blind wife to the bathroom.  He’s a good man like that.  And he has since even refrained from bringing up hourly the ending to the whole escapade.  On the plus side, I now go well with lamb.

Scene:  I raise my head from its twisted position under the tap in the bathroom sink, where my husband has been helping me try to get as much water as possible on my eyes, and I’ve been partially-successfully trying to avoid first hand experience with the sensation of waterboarding.

Me:  You know that paper towel that I grabbed partway through to try to keep the water out of my nose?  …It may or may not have been the one completely covered in peppermint oil.

Husband: (laughing hysterically)

Me:  My nostrils are cold.

Confucius say he who gives wife blender should beware when he sleeps.

Wednesday, May 12th, 2010

I was amused recently while talking with my husband about the differences in creative gifts for men vs. women.  We were inspired by an old episode of Modern Family, and basically my hubby was saying that no matter how much some guy wants a GPS watch, he would probably be happier with a night of great sex.  I brought up that I found it sweet and amusing how every now and then on a certain Unnamed Community Site, someone will post a question asking for suggestions for creative things to do for their boyfriend’s birthday on a budget, and she’ll get lots of responses from women detailing the wonderful creative things they have done, or have had done for them.

A scavenger hunt of places that were significant to them as a couple.

Notes detailing things she loves about him.

I am guilty of this too.  And they sound fantastic to me.  …But in the back of my mind, it’s still sweet and wonderful, and I’m sure he would appreciate the effort, but he would probably be just as happy with the sex.

So anyway, we concluded that really gift giving for men really just works like the fortune cookie thing.  You take a lovely gift, and add “in bed” to the end of it.

Scavenger hunt…in bed!

Notes detailing things she loves about him…in bed!

Getaway weekend…in bed!

Night of dancing…in bed!

Eighteen holes…in bed!

See?  It works!  …At least as long as you’re not giving a sweet little puppy.  Or a goldfish.  Or lama.  Animals in general are probably out of the question.

I generally avoid talking about any of the complications in my own sex life here.  I think that it is one of those areas that still comes with a fair dose of embarrassment and guilt, and as such I naturally avoid sharing it with a selection of random strangers (unlike my butt, which is apparently fair game).  I would happily share my most embarrassing moments (mostly not actually that embarrassing), or how much I masturbate (varies), or what my nipples look like (um…nippley?) before admitting that anything might be less than perfect in the bedroom.  That sort of thing has “FAILURE AS A WOMAN” stamped all over it. …Or that may have been my ass again.  I’ll check.

At any rate, it hurts me to have to say that we’ve ever struggled, because we are so very perfectly matched in that area.  Once upon a time we lined up more beautifully than I had ever thought possible.  In fact, we both had the exact same favourite fantasy, except in opposite roles.  How disturbingly perfect is that??  We had a rich and awesome sex life.  Plus, we have a strong and healthy and wonderful relationship in general, so I don’t like to say anything that might tarnish that perfect picture.

The truth is, though, that there have been challenges.  And maybe other people are having challenges too.  And maybe if I write about them those people will feel a little less alone.  Our major issue was the self-perpetuating cycle of expectation and rejection.  The depression definitely whacked my sex drive down some, and I’m happy to try to get into things to make him happy, but my own desire has been pretty low.  I can go about two or three weeks between sessions without feeling the burn, maybe more depending on which meds I’m on and/or whether I’m in the extra deep pit of withdrawal.

When all of this first happened, I know that my now-husband was hurt by the change.  We didn’t have an official diagnosis yet at that point, and I’m not sure I even knew then about any link between sex and depression anyway.  I know it wasn’t on the radar.  I just knew that I was really tired, and run down, and stressed, and that I was working myself to my breaking point almost every day.  …Which in and of itself is plenty reason for a lady not to quite be in the mood.  I was happy to oblige him, but he could tell that my heart just wasn’t in it the same way.  We were still pretty new at this point too, in the grand scheme of things, so we were a little less graceful in our communication than we would be now.

And then he got upset once.  And that’s all it took.  Suddenly, sex with him went from a completely safe and free and open and judgment-free zone to somewhere with quotas, and expectations, and in which I could be judged and found lacking.  He never meant to hurt me.  He forgot the conversation right after it happened.  I never did.  I don’t know if it’s the same for other women, but sometimes an especially painful word or phrase will hit me just so and get seared into my memory, to be replayed for a while.  This was one of those times.

We’ve had a lot of discussions about it since then, but I’ve never been able to fully shake that feeling for good.  And I’m not sure that it isn’t partly true anyway.  I know that it upsets him when we don’t have sex as often as he would like.  I know that he gets frustrated sometimes.  And as much as he tries to be supportive and understanding, sometimes that leaks out.  We are way to perceptive with each other to be able to successfully conceal our emotions.  And every hint of disappointment I pick up just makes the problem that much worse.

There was a lot of anxiety there for a while.  More than I think I’ve had attached to almost anything else in my life.  He would get frisky, and I would get scared.  Not of him at all or anything, but of…I don’t know exactly.  Judgment maybe?  Performance anxiety?  The knowledge that he could be mad at me in association with what we were about to do?  I would try to push through it as often as I could, but when that emotion was intense, he didn’t want to take advantage of me that way or put me through that.  We wanted sex to be a pleasant thing again.  Eventually, he stopped initiating all together, for fear of being shot down.  I ended up trying to make sure that we made it there at least once a week, whether I wanted to or not.  I’d pick the best moment I could find, and if I couldn’t find a good moment I would just make my move when time had run out.

I felt awful about it.  He felt awful about it.  And it fed upon itself.

We are better now than we were then, but I can’t say that there isn’t still some tension around the issue.  At the moment, we’ve decided to try…um…physical recreation…as often as possible, the theory being that maybe at the least it will lose some of the stress that’s now associated with it.  Plus, that could be fun.  So far, I’m finding that it makes it easier to be more frequent, and a little calmer, but not more interested.  It feels good, but most of the time just isn’t worth the effort (which feels really sad to say).  I think the libido is just one more casualty.  And now there’s a whole new ball of stress and guilt around it because we both know that it isn’t what it should be.  I am proud of us for finding ways to stick with it even through the queasy-tired-craziness of late.  In the back of my mind, though, I had hoped that it would make more of a difference.  I was hoping that I’d want to have fun again, and things could be closer to what they used to be.  I’m sad to find that so far they’re not.  I don’t know if there’s anything more we can do at this point.  Maybe this is just our reality until I get well.  I never thought that we would be those people, with the bedroom issues.

At any rate, this is a difficult thing to put out there, but part of the point of this platform in the first place was to try to be open about the things that I would most want to hide.  I do think that airing them out helps some, and keeps them from taking on too much power.  So there it is, internet.  My libido has tanked.  I’m super guilty about it.  And there’s tension surrounding what should naturally be a fun part of our relationship.

It’s a puzzle.

…in bed.

Fetch

Wednesday, April 14th, 2010

Not feeling entirely normal this morning, but since I got around 3 or 4 hours of sleep last night, that’s probably not much of a mystery.  I watched the sun rise outside my bedroom window.  Then I finally got a bit of rest.  I am completely unable to fall asleep when something emotional is unresolved within me.  My husband can do this easily, and I have no idea how he can do it.  He has no idea how I can remain awake.  I am not sure that I got the better end of this deal.

It was cute, though.  He was trying to be comforting last night and then fell asleep, but he stayed in contact all night long.  I would roll over, and his arm would reach out to gently rest around me again.  I would shift position and he would try to grasp my armpit.  I would wiggle and he would grab hold of the side of my face.  Nice romantic stuff like that.

At any rate, I sat down to write a legitimate post today, but instead I ended up with these.

See how normal?  Very.

Normal Stick

Rubenesque, isn't it?

Overweight Stick

Pirate Stick

Pirate Stick

Plastic Surgery Stick

Plastic Surgery Stick

Porn Star Stick

Porn Star Stick

Stick With Cats For Arms

Stick With Cats For Arms

I may need help.

I’m probably more down with KFC. …Or CIBC. …Or maybe the BBC.

Sunday, April 11th, 2010

That’s not true.  It find it totally greasy now.  And salty.  And really kind of gross.  The BBC is okay, though.  Sort of boring sometimes.

It was another largely successful weekend.  I thrive on variety and new experiences, so I always feel more vital and lively when I’m exploring something new.  If it’s not likely to hurt me, and I haven’t done it before, I want to try it.  My husband knows this, which means teasing me often about abandoning poor loyal cucumber (my previous default flavour) in search of new ones. Sometimes, though, it also means he will suggest out of the blue that we go do something just for the sake of doing something different.  And I love him for this.

We explored a different town yesterday.  The vast metropolis of nonvastnonmetropolisville.  We didn’t bring directions, and we didn’t bother to find out what was there.  We just packed up and decided to spend the day.  Part of my wedding speech for my husband involved how much we sincerely look forward to long car trips together, so the fact that it was a bit of a drive wasn’t bad.  I miss getting the chance to just hang out with him.  When we’re laughing and talking and joking together I forget for a while that my chemistry is out of whack.

(As it turns out, nonvastnonmetropolisville is pretty much as exotic as its name might suggest.  It does have a Wal-Mart, and a movie theatre, and a Mexican restaurant that we’d never tried before.  And there were slot machines on the way, so we totally had to go in there.  I had never played on a slot machine before.  Big spender there, me and my five dollar bill.  I know.  But that’s just the kind of rebel I am.)

There were no tears yesterday, nor today, which seems like something that should be a given, but hasn’t been for some time.   We did hit one snag in the evening when I wasn’t up to seeing the movie he wanted to (with the whole reverberating ear thing, I figured that super loud probably wouldn’t be the best idea).  He was totally fine with it, wonderful, and supportive, and not at all upset, but I felt overwhelmingly guilty and worried that I was being selfish (truth be told, it wouldn’t have been my first choice of film).  I feel like I can’t always trust my judgment anymore because I know that it’s sometimes skewed.  So I was a little paralyzed over whether or not we should see the movie anyway.  There was some welling in my eyes, but I think I was really more upset that I was having an issue than about the issue itself.  It sucks to be reminded that everything isn’t well yet.  I am boggled sometimes that I can go from perfectly normal to meltdown within twenty seconds.

Today has been smooth, though.  And there are burritos.  Because we’ve already made tacos, chicken fajitas, and beef fajitas in succession.  But we always seem to have a few ingredients left over, and it would be a shame to let them go to waste, right?  That, and we’re apparently a little obsessed with Mexican food these days.

Also in breaking news, apparently a whole pile of Naughty By Nature tribute sites have just crashed and burned, because as of last Thursday Emotional Umbrella is apparently the place to be if one is looking for “I’m down with OPP.” …Or many poorly spelled or less grammatically correct versions thereof (also “I’m on the OPP,” for folks who like to be different).  A veritable flurry of search hits.  Before last Thursday?  Not a one.

Hello Naughty By Nature folks.  Unfortunately aside from the occasional blasphemy (and monogamous sexual adventures that I don’t write about here) I’m probably not really all that naughty.  Search on, my friends.  Search on.

Should have stuck to just getting tissue paper and the occasional pair of junk drawer scissors.

Monday, April 5th, 2010

I feel like posting, but am not especially inspired today.  I seem to be missing those initial bursts of energy lately.  My moments of “flow” have ebbed into a sort-of-okay and sometimes not-so-great haze instead.  Which, at best, leaves me writing a lot of sort-of-okay and sometimes not-so-great posts about sort-of-okay and sometimes not-so-great topics.  And more now, to be honest, because I committed to myself that I would try to keep writing, then because I feel especially excited to say anything in particular.

The Luvox trial that was not in any way supposed to support the fact that I am having legitimate withdrawal symptoms supported that I am having legitimate withdrawal symptoms.  So we’re doing it again this week in case it was random chance.  And I was just starting get over the what-do-you-mean-my-body’s-not-crazy indignant denial and moving on to you-mean-I-don’t-have-to-go-through-that-again-then acceptance and pleasure.  Nope.  Still in limbo.  How low can you go?

I will say that I had an overall lovely long weekend.  The hubby and I scheduled in a bunch of pleasant activities together.  If we try to choose one on the spot, inevitable I just end up feeling this insurmountable irrational pressure to choose the BEST ACTIVITY EVER.  …And then eventually just end up going with whatever he wants to do.  I need those happy things to keep my spirit alive, though, so the plan-in-advance strategy is working out okay.  Anyway, we sat outside, and read, and talked, and walked, and played games, and went out for breakfast, and laughed together, and even (gasp) had a lot of sex, and just generally hung out and enjoyed each other’s company.  And I felt more alive at the end of yesterday than I have in a very, very long time.  We need to make a point of having more weekends like that.

Granted, even during Happy Fuzzy Bonding Weekend, there were still a couple of temporary disasters.  I think we’re both so run down by everything now that we can’t help but be a little on edge or overly sensitive to any negative sign.  We came through it, though, and although there were a few unpleasant hours in there here and there, it didn’t take over the experience as a whole.  And that’s a good thing.  I am holding onto hope that things will start to get better for us now.

Maybe there will be a Happy Hairless Bondage Weekend on the horizon.  You never know.

I think I need to find a way to change my own weekly routine, though.  I can feel the newfound energy starting to fade.  Stupid dollar store mental batteries.