Thursday, January 19, 2012

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

A day in the life...

This is totally me.  Promise...
This is an example of my hair on a "normal" day.  Give or take.  Ok, I'm not blond.  And I don't have seven feet of glorious, silky hair.  Nor do I resemble Rapunzel, look beautifully willowy and melancholy, or even own a white dress for that matter.  
Let's not be nit-picky, here.  

I've got long hair that tends to be frizzy, have split ends, and occasionally behaves well enough to fool an onlooker into thinking that I have "good" hair.  

Today is not one of those "good" hair days.  As a matter of fact, this month has not been one of those "good" hair days.

I quit on my crazy-person "no chemicals" beauty diet.  I could claim that I got poor, and couldn't afford all those fancy schmancy shampoos, which is partially true, but that doesn't excuse the fact that there were approximately fifteen hundred different ingredients already in my house that would have worked just as well, and were completely "natural."  Baking soda is not beneath me.


I got greedy, and I missed the feeling of having silky, heavily coated in chemicals, fashion magazine hair.  Bouncy, glossy, practically-pickled-in-perfumes hair.  I wanted to smell like coconuts.  And mangoes.  And flowers and spring rain and a goddamn blooming tulip.  I wanted to feel girly, and not like some kind of refugee, trying to run and hide from the evils of mankind, living in a box, and washing my armpits with a "warsh-rag" and dirty pond water.
Ugh.  Weakness.  Thy name is Vanity.

Consequently, my scalp went into full resistance.  Every unsettling thing you can imagine happening to your head, ever, happened on mine all at once, short of my locks turning into snakes, and bursting into flames.  Although I'm still not sure that isn't inevitable.

I'm itchy.  I'm flaky.  I'm greasy.  When the word "skanky" was coined, it was this scalp condition they had in mind.  I feel skanky.  And I resemble closely a snow-covered ski slope.  A hairy ski slope.
After my shower this morning, I looked like a fat, round python, desperately trying to shed its skin.

Before I resign to my fate, and go out in search of the underside of a bridge to inhabit, I'm giving civilized living one last shot, and have coated my entire head in coconut oil and cocoa butter, and have submitted to looking like Courtney Love for the rest of the day.  (Since I'm also recovering from a nasty allergic reaction to mangoes, that left my lips looking all herpped out and splotchy.)

And now, a lesson in sarcasm:

I am stunning.
I am alluring and breath taking.
People have lined up outside my door, desperately wishing to bed me, and possess this impeccable specimen of womankind.
No one can resist me, for I am all that is sexual, desirable, and winsome.
Bow down, homely peons.

I am a rare, and unique snowflake.  With a greasy plastic bag
on my head.  Ya know, to catch the dripping.  What?  Is that weird?  
I am finally able to feel compassion for my gross cat, who flakes, scratches constantly, and generally grosses-out the entire house.  Scratch away, poor kitty.  It's probably a lot more dignified and satisfying than having a produce bag full of oil stretched over your head.  On purpose.

Monday, January 9, 2012

In the angry blackness

Unexpected tears in a seemingly neutral situation.
Intense irritation at the noise my licking cat makes.  
Hopeless sadness, as my husband leaves for work.  
Desire to hide from my own children indefinitely, make a fort out of my bed, and stay there for weeks at a time, growing fat on chocolate and starch.
Unnerving hatred for everything and everyone that ever was or will be.

Aching head.
Aching body.

Depression is like an ominous black storm cloud, looming threateningly in the distance, and slowly swamping over you, and raining down on you before you even have time to realize what's happened.

I know that it happens.  I know that it will come, and I know that it will eventually pass, leaving me relatively unscathed.  I know it is a part of me, or I am a part of it, and that it's simply something I have to overcome from time to time. I know that I will come out of it, that it won't be forever.

But, in the midst of the blackness, it's easy to forget that this isn't forever.  There is anger.  There is shame.  There is sorrow so intense that it drives us deep down into dark places, with dark thoughts, and claustrophobic helplessness.
In the midst of the blackness, it's easy to believe that I'm sub-par as a mother.  It's easy to believe that any decent person could overcome this muddy disposition, and devote herself entirely to her children, beaming with ecstatic glee all the while.  It's easy to believe that I'm the most selfish and awful person in the world, for not being able to muster up genuine happiness to see them.
I can not.
Their presence during this dark time brings anxiety, fright, and a reminder that I am not a whole person under the influence of this blackness.  I fail them.  And my anger as such is intense.

In the midst of the blackness it is easy to believe that I am unlovable as a whole woman.  That my own sexual objectification is my only endearment, and that I am otherwise uninteresting, useless, and not worth a person's precious breath in speaking to me.  This becomes doubly troubling, when my hair and teeth remain unbrushed for days, my showering is sparse, and my choice of wardrobe is always pajamas, which are usually unwashed for days on end.

In the midst of the blackness it is easy to believe that everyone else in the world functions perfectly, navigating even the most difficult bouts of depression with effortless grace, ease, and success.  Without a "legitimate" illness, I remain the only person on the planet who occupies her bed needlessly.  Nothing is wrong with me, more than a lack of will power and personal responsibility.  I am a lazy, selfish crybaby.

It passes.  It slowly crumbles away, and I begin to resemble a somewhat "normal" person again.  Eventually.  The physical pains of this "invisible" illness slowly disappear, and I emerge from my black cave, a little stronger, if not a little bit smelly.  I will take hold of the reigns of my sanity once again, and remember that I am a human being still, regardless of the black thing that swells over me, and forces me to believe otherwise.  I'm alright.

Remembering this, however, in the midst of the grip of this hell, in the center of receiving an emotional ass-kicking, is not always so easy.


Saturday, January 7, 2012

Secret Lover

My dearest love,

It has been at least a week since we were last together.  I can still feel the warmth of you.  The way you sooth and comfort me on even the most trying days.  I can still feel the sweetness of you against my tongue.  I savor every memory, and I miss you so terribly that it has caused me physical distress.  Even getting out of bed in the morning is a torment without you.  My body nearly refuses to go on without you, as I yearn to have you inside me.  Yes, I admit it.  No one can fill me or satisfy me the way that you have done for so long, my love.
I am groggy.  I am cranky.  I am weak and frazzled without you.  How I miss you.  How I want you.  How I suffer in your absence.

Others have tried to take your place.  They are weak and bland, compared to you.  I've tried to make it work with them.  To take them to my favorite places to spend with you...sitting together on the back porch.  A stolen afternoon bath together.  Even sneaking into an early bed, my desire for you burning within my belly.
They are no comparison for your warm company.  For your thickness.
Life will go on.  I will find others to occupy my time that was once devoted solely to you.  Others will sustain me, and in time, I will find that I don't miss you so much.  That my body doesn't ache for you.  I will move on.  Until then, I pine for you, so desperately, and think of you every time I pass my favorite place to have you.
But I will move forward.  I will survive.

With deepest, endless love,

(I don't think my beloved coffee will respond, being an inanimate object, and all...)  


Thursday, January 5, 2012

Dish Pan Hands.

As evidenced by last night's post, things in our house are slightly, to put it mildly, skewed.  Household appliances are going haywire, along with my own health and a large portion of my (supposed) sanity, and the children have expressed their aversion to the changes in wholly unpleasant ways.

Today, however, seems to have given me, at least, a relief from the ongoing monstrosity inside my aching head, and I feel, for the moment, worlds better.

The sink is still completely blocked.  Something malevolent (and quite greasy) has taken up residence in the deep, deepest depths of our kitchen plumbing, and no amount of effort, be it manual or chemical, will work to unstop it.

It also smells.
And resembles the poo of a sickly baby.
Did I mention it smells?  

Horrifying goo, that is probably living inside my pipes right this very moment.  And smells.  

Because Mr. Sugar Mattress didn't arrive home from work until after 4 in the morning, the problem was left unattended both last night, and again this morning, while he slept late, and then got up to leave for work again.  Try as I might, I'm simply not adept at being a drain-unstopper-er.  Things I am quite good at, tho, include dragging out the entire contents of our under-sink cabinets, making a mucky mess under the kitchen sink, and generally stinking heavily of the greasy mystery clog (since I'm also inept at plunging a blocked sink, and tend to splash loads of grossness everywhere when I try.)

With a kitchen two days behind, and dishes piling up, I've had to improvise.
There is something quaint and sort of cornily fulfilling about doing one's kitchen chores the "old fashioned" way.  Tub of hot, soapy water for washing, and a tub of cool water, for rinsing.  Cups clinking delicately beneath the foam, waiting to be made new again with some good, old fashioned elbow grease.  Lost in thought. 


We are so far removed from what once were the most time consuming tasks.  And it leads, often, to being removed from ourselves, as well.  Nothing takes any time, any more.  We load up the dishes, we push the button, and they get washed inside the magic dish-washing box, while we move on to the next room, to stick our faces into whatever digital gadget distracts our attention sufficiently.  Our own thoughts pushed out of the way, while technology fills us with mindless entertainment. 

But today, as the result of our unfortunate plumbing situation, and the growing number of filthy dishes on our counter, I was forced to step away from distractions, roll up my sleeves, and wash everything by hand.  Even down to dumping buckets of gray water and food off the front porch.  Aside from the blogging, and the fact that I'm still in my pajamas, I feel like a good-quality June Clever knockoff today.  Kitchen all sparkly, and a brain full of fresh thoughts, that are normally dulled out by the 21st century.
So, thanks, greasy mystery muck.  I did go away with something after all.

So, you can leave, just any time now.   Seriously, you smell.

Not really related to any of this nonsense above, but
Lordy lord, isn't this an adorable, cozy photograph.
And I seem to be stuck on blogging pictures today.  You'll
just have to figure out how to sort this all out yourself.
Longest and most senseless caption ever.  

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Headaches and husbands.

It's been nine days.
Nine days of a nearly constant, thumping timpani inside of my brain.  A "headache" that threatens to swell up and crack my skull at the seams, and spill those throbbing brains all over my pillow.
Relief is fleeting.  Medications stand little chance at putting a dent in the pain, and the tension that's developed above my shoulders.
For nine days.

In those nine days, my family has watched me slowly begin to come unhinged.  They've watched me grow increasingly clumsy, and awkward.  Well, more awkward than usual.  They've seen me react to seemingly innocent situations with tears and absolute emotional devastation.  They've seen me become more and more irrational, tired, depressed, as I swing from impossible, painful lows, to giddy moments of relief that border on an actual high.

My husband has tolerated twisted bed sheets and hours of flailing, due to my worsening insomnia.  He has listened during repeated, tearful phone calls, during which I have complained about our broken vacuum, my intense pain, our blocked kitchen sink, our children's antics, and my insatiable craving for cookies.  He has worked tirelessly on the knots in my neck, in an effort to help me feel relief, and enable me to fall asleep.  He's made special trips between his exhausting two jobs, in order to fetch me medicine and comfort food.  He's maintained a cool head and an empathetic concern, when anyone else would have rightfully walked away ages ago.

When it feels like the world has left me behind, and that the pain might never end, he has been there, as a constant reminder that I'm not alone.  That even if everyone else disappears, and my head threatens to cave in on itself, he is there, ready to accept, support, and love me.  And all of the crazy that comes along with me.

My favorite medicine <3 
I feel as if I owe him an enormous "thank you."  And an apology.  Which should also probably extend, thanks to all the recent medication, to my liver.
I'm sorry, husband.  I'm sorry, liver. 

Swollen Herpes Simplex. Catchy, eh?

I believe in "a reason for everything."
I believe that spending 10 minuted jammed up in traffic may save a person from what was potentially a fatal accident.  I believe that losing one's keys for a half hour in the morning, may save a person from potentially being mugged and stabbed in the parking lot at work.

But on days like today, I'm left scratching my head, and wondering "WTF, Universe?"
What can be gained by a vacuum cleaner malfunctioning for the second time in a week?
From what am I protected by discovering that my kids have broken a window shade, a doorknob, a houseplant, and have destroyed their bedrooms.  Again.
What on earth is gained by discovering that I have a grotesque mango allergy, that asserts itself in the form of a rash on the lips, causing me to resemble Angelina Jolie with swollen herpes simplex?  Yes, that.
What do I possibly gain by having my sink clogged with some sort of mystery gelatinous muck?
Pile on a nine-day headache, and I'd say that qualifies as a good excuse for a homicidal rampage.  Starting, of course, with the fucking sink.  As a side note, I am convinced that the smell that's attached itself to me, is permanent.  If so, do note that I don't smell like turkey on fucking purpose.  

As a mother, I realize there are moments when we are forced to request things that are seemingly ridiculous.  "Take the necklace off the cat.  Don't lick your brother's shoe.  Don't lick your brother.  Don't eat your boogers.  Don't wipe boogers behind the couch..."  The list goes on.  But "clean up the cheerios from around the toilet"?  Really?

I want desperately to go and hide in my bed, shovel junk food into my face at an alarming rate, and to ignore the outside world for the remainder of the week.
However, any attempt at self-preservation and alone-ness, leads to horrible backlash from the aforementioned children, leading to loud arguments, slamming doors, and the disaster-effect of their bedrooms leaking into every other room in the house.  And probably, boogers wiped on the couch.  Yeah, someone has done that.

Although I am currently accepting applications for a masked gunman (or woman) to show up at my door, snatch me away, and lock me in a room where I'm forced to watch TV and relax blissfully all day while I eat comfort food.

P.S.  I suppose the day isn't a total wash.  I did discover this marvelous gem while searching for a moron-friendly fix for my sink.  A quick pause at 37 seconds will pretty much sum up my sentiments regarding this entire day.