| Merry Christmas, Daddy! |
[Dec. 16th, 2009|06:39 pm] |
So, Dad called me tonight to chat. He was telling me all about he and Mom's adventures down in Key West over the weekend, and it turns out that low point of his vacation was when he made a special trip to a bakery down the street from their hotel to pick up a gigantic $5 cookie to eat on the plane home, but then left the cookie in the back seat of their rental car when they dropped it off. Sad.
Based on a few details that I was able to gather over the course of the conversation, I have managed to hunt down this bakery. A couple of phone calls explaining the situation and I've got the owner's name and schedule, and I've been instructed to give her a call tomorrow. Sounds like she will probably humor me and ship a bunch of cookies up for Christmas on Saturday.
ETA: I just spoke with the owner and the cookies are a go for Saturday. She'll have them to the post office this afternoon. Cookie Lady FTW! |
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| Suggestions? |
[Dec. 15th, 2009|08:31 pm] |
My "to read" pile is dwindling, so I'd like some book recommendations. Not a big fan of sci-fi, but I'm open to pretty much anything else. |
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| But I'm out of stamps, so they won't go out until Monday or so. |
[Dec. 12th, 2009|09:51 am] |
Last call for your addresses so I can send you holiday greetings! Post there, not here. Comments are screened on the other entry to prevent anyone other than me from stalking you.
Things I have learned thus far about writing cards:
My handwriting is goofy and often legible only to me. Sorry in advance if you can't read a word of what I've written.
I tend to write stupid things and then regret them. I'm too cheap to waste a card, though, so they get sent anyway. Consider my idiocy your gift this year.
I have the longest address in the world.
"Chaska" is fun to write.
Envelope moistener is amazing stuff. |
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| Purge |
[Dec. 9th, 2009|12:10 am] |
Today Ian and I saw a counselor to help us through this interminable shit storm. I've been in serious crisis mode for about a week now after this two and a half month build up, and I'm glad that she was able to fit us in on such a short notice. We got the recommendation for her from our new OBGYN just yesterday. (We switched to the lovely doctor who took care of us the day my water broke and I have said on no fewer than three occasions this past week that I am going to marry her. She is exactly how my doctor should be.)
So far we like our new mental health professional, despite the fact that sometimes when she is particularly gesticulating she also makes this face that seems to say I am going to vomit. I wasn't sure what to make of her at first, but Ian took to her right away, specifically commending her for not bolting out of the room as I continued to pull issues out of my Mary Poppins bag of emotional fuckeduppery. In my effort to cut to the chase and get on the path to healing as efficiently as possible, I basically laid everything, or nearly everything, out neatly in a semi-orderly fashion. In a scant fifty minutes we touched on the pregnancy, the loss, Jonas' NICU stay, my father's illness, my mother's flippant suicide speak, my own suicidal reflexes, Josh, my job, Ian's job, the recession, and the greusome impulses and imagery brought on by post partum depression (including but not limited to cutting out my own tongue and gouging out my right eye with my toothbrush). I'm not particularly shy about just how crazy it is that I have every right to be so I have no shame at diving in right away with someone who has made a career of listening. Also, I want to know right up front if she can handle the long history of depression and LIFE EFFING SUCKS that comes with being my therapist. Not surprisingly, we are scheduled to meet with her twice a week.
Right now, I feel "okay" despite the fact that after weeks of "maternity" leave, I am scheduled to return to work on the 21st. Sitting here at my newly installed desk (at which I am meant to finally finish my Great American Smut Novel), I cannot imagine a worse fate than going back to my job as a team manager four days before Christmas. But unless Ian manages to score the job he's been working on lately, I won't have much of a choice. I have no idea how I would 1) deal with going back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, or 2) make it through a whole day, let alone weeks, of not having a breakdown between the hours of 9 and 5:30. I've read blogs of women who have been through similar situations and have gone back to work after nary a month of leave... I just don't know how they did it. I understand that they had the practical necessity of returning to their jobs as I have now, but I am still unfit for public consumption after 10 weeks. How these women make it back to work after just three or four is beyond me. This adds to the feeling of severe failure and lameness that has become my common existence.
In any case, this is how I am doing. I am depressed, but not insane (being horrified by the horrific impulses and images obsessively plaguing me is a good sign, it seems) and seriously, seriously wishing that there could be some way that I wouldn't ever have to go back to Bank of America. Though it has been blackened and stretched and wrung and basically defiled, my soul still feels more like my own lately since I haven't had to go to "that place" every day. And fuck if I don't want to give it back. |
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