I Love My Mom

This morning, my uterus tried to kill me.  Over the years, I have come to the unfortunate realization that my reproductive system apparently was constructed by Satan himself.  And Satan, who seemingly is particularly cranky during the Christmas season, thought it would be a very funny thing indeed to give me the gift of menstruation during my Christmas vacation to my parents' house, and just for extra giggles, he decided to make this month extra super duper torturous by sending his minions to do this:

After four ibuprofen failed to make a dent in my crampage this morning, and because I was in so much pain I could hardly move, I texted my mom, who was downstairs, and asked her to please bring me some bread, water, and more pills.  She came up right away with everything, and as soon as she was in the room, I burst into tears.  You'd think that the mother of a 36 year-old wouldn't have to deal with owies and tears anymore, but clearly that's not the case.


After I calmed down, my mom let me know that, right before she'd received my text, she'd gotten a phone call from my sister, who was in the living room, asking her if she could please bring her a warm washcloth.  Considering the methods we were utilizing to contact my mother, one might believe my parents dwell in a palatial estate, but actually the only thing between the family room (where my mom was) and the living room (where my sister was) is a hallway.  However, at the time of the phone call, my sister was in the process of nursing her newborn son, so she wasn't exactly mobile.  That hallway might as well have been the size of Canada.


All of this is to say that my mom, who has a terrible cold, spent her morning receiving calls and texts from various rooms in her house and then dashing from room to room, saving her daughters.  That is because my mom is a hero.

Here she is flying up the stairs with water, bread, and ibuprofen

If I were to expound on everything my mother has taught, told, or done for me throughout my life, this post would be 10 million words long.  How could I explain everything someone who has loved and cared for me unconditionally for almost 4 decades has done?  Suffice it to say:  if it weren't for my mother, I would be dead thousands of times over, and if I weren't completely dead, I would be utterly physically, mentally, and/or emotionally deranged.


When I trained mentors for children in foster care, I told them that all children need and deserve unconditional care, and the way I defined that for the trainees was:  the kind of care a person can take for granted, knowing that it will always be there.

Yup, that pretty much sums it up

I'm sorry to say that I know I've taken my mother's care for granted plenty of times over the years, but that's just because she's so damn good at being unconditional!  So I blame her.  


Okay...not really.


I'd also like to take this opportunity to give a shout-out to my dad, who did me the great favor of going to the store today and making his first ever, after 68 years of life, purchase of a box of tampons.  Thanks, Dad!

Here are four of my favorite living creatures on the planet

Blog Block

I think I may have run out of things to say, or perhaps just the will to say anything.  Since I hit my one year anniversary, I seem to have come down with a severe case of Blog Block.  Occasionally I'll get a flash of potential subject matter, but soon after the flash, negative self-talk begins.  My brain tells me things like:

• That's dumb.
• No one cares.
• That'll be complicated to write.  You don't have the skills.
• You should just watch another old "Lost" episode and go to bed.

I believe this type of thinking is indicative of the fact that I am entering, or have already entered, a state of dysthymia.  To those of you unfamiliar with that term, dysthymia looks, and feels, much like this:

Apparently, Dysthymia is also a defunct, Icelandic metal band.  Who knew?

Essentially, dysthymia is low-level depression.  Everything that a dysthymic person perceives is filtered through a lens of general cynicism and despair.  When one is in this state, friends seem like acquaintances, acquaintances seem like strangers, and strangers seem like enemies.  Nothing is particularly good, and most things are potentially awful.


Several years ago, my husband had an interaction with a stranger which perfectly illustrates dysthymic perception.  He went to a beach in Santa Cruz and was staring out at the ocean when another man walked up and stood by him.  They stood in silence for a few moments before the man said, "The ocean is filthy.  It's completely full of shit.  Whale shit, human shit, bird shit, fish shit.  It's just a giant toilet bowl."


Some people look at the ocean and see a beautiful, majestic, supremely powerful entity.  Their perception of life changes as they stare out at a seemingly endless, timeless body of water.  They feel insignificant and powerless, yet simultaneously serene and enamored by the beauty of this planet.

Apparently, other people look at the ocean and see this:

Those people are experiencing dysthymia.  And so am I.  I intend to be over it as soon as possible.

Yay For Me

So first of all, I just need to say that I already wrote this fucking post.  Yesterday I wrote the whole thing and saved it as a draft.  Earlier this evening I was simply taking a final look at it before pressing "publish post," but then I decided I wanted to alter one image, so I selected the image and hit "remove image."  However, instead of removing that image, the entire post deleted itself and then saved itself immediately in its new, completely blank form.  I guess I should have specified that "remove image" meant "remove this particular image that I have clearly selected" rather than "remove image, and by image I mean the entire fucking post."


FUCK.


Okay, time for the recreation process.  Have you ever written an entire paper, lost it somehow, and then had to go through the mental exercise of deciding that the next draft would be better?  Yeah, I never believed it, either.

Today is If Satan Were Anal Retentive's one year anniversary.  Fweet!  Let the party begin.


The last year has been eventful.  I returned to kickboxing after a yearlong hiatus.  I became a volunteer dog walker at a local shelter, making the transition from volunteering with humans, which I did for 10+ years, to volunteering with dogs.  This was a stellar move.  Plus, I became an auntie.  All of these things have been quite cool.


I have also come to a couple of critical realizations over the past year which may or may not have serious implications.


Realization #1:  I am currently that adult who, when entering a classroom after being away for a brief period of time, causes an immediate hush to fall over the room as students quickly and guiltily return to their assignments.  Yup, that's me.  It is so disturbing.  Students also ask me if they may be permitted to go use the bathroom.  I cannot even begin to explain how weird that is.  I have been granted the authority to dictate if and when young people relieve themselves.  That makes me feel like this:

Sit down!  Shut up!  Memorize your multiplication tables!

I am not a teacher, but apparently I impersonate one at my workplace.  I suppose that, through the eyes of students, any staff member at their school is a "teacher."  All school-dwelling adults guilty of the crimes of attempting to impart knowledge and maintain some semblance of order and productivity are smacked with the label "teacher."  However, I'm not a teacher.  I've never wanted to be a teacher.  Hmph.


Historically, whenever I've left a job, it has been with a list of prerequisites for my next job.  For example, when I retired from the domestic violence field, it was with the understanding that none of my future job titles could contain the words abuse, violence, or assault.  My latest requirement for future employment is that I will in no way, shape, or form be responsible for other people's toileting practices.  You wanna go pee?  Go pee.  I don't want to be involved.


Realization #2:  Despite the loveliness and many fine qualities of this city, I am not a Portlander.  I know one of the things that attracted me to Portland is that it has a dark edginess about it which I appreciate.  However, what I've realized over the past few years is that my darkness, which is anger-based, actually isn't a fit with Portland's darkness, which is melancholy-based.  And while I do realize that anger is something people use to cover up uncomfortable, gloomy feelings like overwhelming sadness, I think the reason people do so is because sadness is...well, a total bummer and really fucking depressing, while anger generally feels, if not particularly good, at least pretty powerful & cool.


In short, currently I feel like a Pantera Girl living in a Morrissey World.  For you visual learners out there:

This is me

...and

This is Portland

Well, there's my year-in-review analysis, folks, and I'm stickin' to it.  I look forward to bringing you all plenty of additional non-magnanimous ranting throughout the coming year, or at least until 12/21/2012, the world's scheduled date of implosion.