Watched Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution while eating. Defeating the purpose?

I can't help it: religious radio is fascinating to me. But I can only listen for a few minutes before my head explodes.

Ouch.

I whacked my head really hard on the corner of a shelf [because I am a horrible housekeeper and can't put shit away].

I just spent the past hour worrying about whether or not I have a concussion:

• Are my pupils the same size? How can I tell when I look in the mirror and see it reflecting back at me???   Would my neighbor think I was insane for asking her to look at my pupils?  Probably.  Fuck.  Back to the mirror.
• Am I nauseous?  Or is it hunger?  And what the hell am I supposed to make for lunch?
• Am I losing consciousness?  Or am I tired? Or am I tired because I am losing consciousness?
• Does one side of my body feel paralyzed?  Is my sinus paralyzed?  Or is it reacting to the fresh air from the open windows.
• Am I dizzy?  Or am I persistently confused?  [Quick!  What's 7 x 7? Stuff she KNOWS!]
• Am I having trouble walking?
• Do I have a headache?  The contact point isn't hurting, but I guess I feel the faint traces of a headache.
• Does my neck hurt?  Is it from spending the morning typing or is it from the blow to the head?

All of these things are exacerbating my anxiety by about 11skillion percent.  So I'm walking around, trying to get my work done, wondering if I should eat something or risk going down the stairs or wait!  I haven't checked my pupils in a while - must look and see how they are.

I know I should just start doing something physical [like clean. or go for a walk] and then I will forget about this [or I will die, you never know], but I hate when the anxiety gets such a strong foothold that it's almost impossible to shake. It makes it that much harder to move on from this crazy.  It's exhausting.

I'm going to go lay down.

Shit.  I can't.  I guess I'll make some lunch.  Because I don't think cleaning is good for a concussion.

Let's Not Get Carried Away

The girl and I went to the gym to work out last night.  I want to get in shape [3 weddings this spring/summer PLUS Krav Maga training to start in September], so I'm buckling down.

Once I got to the rec center, I actually pulled out of one parking spot when I saw I could move to one closer to the door.  I'm getting healthy, not training for the Olympics.*


______
*Bonus points for those who recognize Jim Gaffigan's genius.

Books and Fighting

I am re-reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz.  E is listening to it on CDs during his commute.

When I first read this, I had a hard time getting blown away- maybe it was the great expectations, the fabulous reviews - until I was about 1/2 way into the book.  After that point, it was firmly entrenched in my mind.  I haven't really stopped thinking about this book since I first read it, and I often recommend it.  I think because the whole immigration/first generation/fuku issues resonate so completely for me - but my issues with that are obviously different [different gender/race/ethnicity/country of origin/religion/type of fuku].  Plus, who doesn't love footnotes?  And trash talking Trujillo?

This time, I'm sinking in a little easier, plus it's great to talk about it with E, who has none of the immigrant/first generation baggage.  The problem now is, I've been trying to write and it's hard for me when I read something so lyrical to think that I have anything to say. 



In other news, we, as a family, have decided to take up some sort of fighting regimen [yes, we did have a Burn Notice marathon recently.  Why do you ask?].  I'm thinking Krav Maga.  G read up on Egyptian stick fighting, which also seems kick ass.  But I have a hard enough time keeping the stuff in my purse organized - where the hell would I put a 4 foot long stick?  Up my butt?

Maytag, I'm warning you.

Our new dishwasher went kerflooey last night - stopped working near the end of its cycle and also kindly blew out the fuse that it shares with the coffee maker, microwave, fridge and stove. Yes, I know that's a lot of juice on one circuit, but we have an older house with spectacularly shitty wiring. We'll get to it soon. I swear.

So we couldn't use the dishwasher, because it would blow the circuit each time it was plugged in. E had to do the dishes by hand. Like a farmer. Or a hobo. If a hobo had a sink. Or dishes.

As E was standing at the sink, he said the most brilliant thing I've ever heard: "Whoever said the greatest invention is sliced bread is a fucking idiot. The greatest invention is a dishwasher."

It's true. I could not believe how thankful I was that my hands were covered in eczema [yes! so pretty!] and I couldn't do the dishes.

Seriously, Cheetos?

I grabbed some baked Cheetos [way better than the regular kind] and as I was putting away the bag, I noticed their little advertising blurb:

These go great with sandwiches [o.k., sure, it's how I eat them], soup [huh? Well, maybe . . . ] and afternoon yoga.

What?
The.
Fuck?

I got into Bharadvajasana [Seated Side Twist]:





And ended up with fluorescent orange goo EVERYWHERE. Thanks, Cheetos.

Bittersweet

I did not love pregnancy.

Labor and delivery was awful.

The first year or so I spent in a horrific post-partum fog so blinding that I’m honest to god amazed that I made it through. The next few years after that were spent clawing my way back to something approaching normal.

I do not care for babies – they are boring, and, to paraphrase Fran Lebowitz [maybe? I’m too lazy to find my book and look it up], they offer nothing to the conversation.

But there have been moments lately that I have ached for a little girl. I remember how small and sweet and kind my daughter was and it kills me that I am never going to have that again. I see this tall and sweet and kind teenager walking away from me [always walking away, for some reason; can’t her future be right next to me? And can’t she be small again, so I can put her on my hip and carry her around, pointing things out and listening to the non-stop chatter?] and I want, so desperately, another little girl.

We had one child. That’s it. We tried a few times after that, to no avail. It was fine. Neither of us was desperate to have another kid, but we kind of wanted to. And when we couldn’t, that was fine, too. Adoption was discussed, in great detail, at great length, but ultimately it was a no go.

Now we are older – not super old, lots of women start having their kids at my age – but older. And the girl is older, too. And my husband doesn’t want to be 60 when our last kid graduates from high school. I guess I don’t either.

But sometimes, I dream about a little girl who looks quite a bit like her big sister, and I wish things had been different. I wish we would have had another kid.

This lasts until I’m out and actually see another child acting like a kid and remember how my nerves were so frayed that I just about lost my shit. I don’t have the patience.

Maybe a niece visiting would be fine.