"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

Archive for January, 2012

Venting about the vents

We had (another) gas leak at work today.  The last one landed me in the ER.  So, when we smelled gas (not from my butt this time), we evacuated the building.  I stormed through, announcing (with no room for interpretation or misunderstanding), that EVERYONE was so get out of the building, immediately.


Everyone listened, except for this one guy on his computer, who I KNOW heard me . . . eye contact and all, as I marched though, protecting my people and my building.  I make the staff get their purses and get out of the building.  This is not optional.  I am in full commando, mama bear mode.
Dude still sits at the table and doesn’t leave until a POLICE OFFICER goes and tells him to get out of the building.


Sorry, sir, that you can only listen to someone with a dick and a gun.  Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean you should take me lightly.  I wasn’t telling you to get your shit together and get out because I was having a bad hair day.  Sorry I cut into your wi-fi time to KEEP YOU FROM POSSIBLY DYING.  My bad, dude.  Next time just sit there and hope nothing sparks.




My Ladies

How can I even begin to count my blessings when I am surrounded by such devoted people?  These women who lift me up (sometimes quite literally) when I am down and support me (sometimes quite literally) in all that I do.  They allow me to *be me* at all times.   I do not have to hide or censor who I am . . . and it’s so refreshing.  I have been blessed by these women who are able to laugh with and at and because of me.  How wonderful to be so loved!  These women who worry about me as much as I worry about them and long to help me as I long to help everyone else.


My friends, my co-workers, my family.


I can’t save the world on my own . . . and I am grateful for the team that has assembled around me.  A battalion of women to encourage, commiserate, and laugh.  Always always always laugh.


It beats the alternative, and it doesn’t mess up my mascara.




Foggy pre-sleep memories

of last night . . .


Buddy is too old to jump into  bed anymore, so, when he’s here there is a huge nest of a dog bed, blankets, and comforters (yes, plural) into which he nestles to sleep.  I go to bed before the dogs or Kenny.  Last night, I remember vaguely opening my eyes and seeing Kenny lifting almost 80 pound Buddy and putting him in bed with us.


Moments like that remind me why I married him.

The week winds down . . .

. . . and in my bedtime fog, I seem to have done my shot dreadfully.  And why not?  It’s been one of those weeks.  Bright side?  So far, no immediate post-injection reaction (once was WAY more than enough with that!), so I didn’t hit a blood vessel.  Not so bright side?  I thoroughly just injected into my thigh muscle.


I have broken bones, I have had many surgeries . . . I have felt REAL pain.  But still . . . owwwieeieiiww oww oww ow!


*whine whine whine*



She called at the perfect moment (I *was* in the bathroom afterall) because she knew I needed it.  The perfect friend at the perfect moment.  When life overwhelms, in swoop my friends, ready to make me laugh and let me cry.  Sometimes at the same time.  That’s the beauty of real friends.


I am blessed.


(And, yes, we did rake the carpet with our bare hands.)  😉


So . . . I went to the psychiatrist today to get my meds adjusted.  I’ve been given ups for a month, then I have to go back to see how I’m doing.  She agreed that it’s entirely situational . . . and that I “need to let things go” and “let people fail.”  She told me to *not* work extra, and to leave work at work.


Work *is* me, though.  I take what I do seriously and personally.  With pride.  Too much, perhaps.  My desk is a mess because I’d rather help patrons or learn my collection than plow through months of mail and catalogs.


If I don’t save the world, who will?  My ego runs rampant, it aways has.  How can I change 33 years of obsessing overnight?  I can’t.  Baby steps baby steps baby steps.  But when you make it a point to walk like you’re carrying a gun, baby steps are very awkward.


Frannie said there’d be days like this . . .

My guru has informed me that perhaps my time in therapy is not best spent bitching about specific situations.  Perhaps, she (not so?) gently suggested that I ask my therapist for techniques to learn to let things go in general.  The thought of doing this made my shoulders and jaw lock in anxiety.  Who does that?  How can I *not* take everything that is going on in my life now right personally?

Those around me are a reflection on me, whether they mean to be or not.  Whether I want them to be or not.  If *you* don’t do it, then I have to, because if it doesn’t get done, we’ll all look like shit, right?  In my mind, this is absolutely right.  Do I let those around me fall on their faces?  . . . but, then, me being me, would feel totally obligated to pick up the pieces for them, dust them off, finish whatever it was that they started, and allow them to take credit for it.  I want to protect those around me, because, in essence, I am protecting myself.  When “you are the company you keep” and, for whatever reason, you’re no longer in control of the choice of that company, how does one reconcile that separation?

I want to protect that which I view as “mine” even if, in reality, it isn’t.

I *AM* the mother fucking Big Fish.  The one that the little fish swim near to keep safe.  When did I forget this?  When did I let that part of me go?

I take such pride in what I do, in what I’ve accomplished, in who I am, in who I will be . . . why am I letting those around me pull me into such an abyss?  I haven’t forgotten how to swim, but the shore seems farther and farther away . . . especially when you’re pulling a boat full of other people with your teeth.

I have forgotten more things than most people will ever learn in their lifetime, yet I feel inadequate.  My mental MS hiccups, while perhaps minor to some people, I find frustrating beyond belief.  I was the walking dictionary, now I practically have to carry one in my purse to remember how to spell my own name.  I finish dinner with my husband, and I can’t remember what we ate, even before I’ve cleared the table.

And what a life that is for him . . . when we chose each other, I was a completely bi-lingual graduate student, who got a professional job before she even completed her degree.  Now there are days that I have no idea how I even got to work.  Scary doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My hyper-vigilance has been replaced by tubs of medication and self-help books that sit, collecting dust, next to my bed.

I’m attempting to rejuvinate myself and my career this year.  Don’t worry, I don’t plan on going anywhere . . . I just want to be *that much* better at what I do.  I want to be kinder.  Wiser.  Healthier.  Happier.  Happier would be very nice.  Relaxed . . . perhaps impossible . . . but it’s worth a shot.

I want to be able to view myself as the kids at work view me.  Good, bad, or otherwise . . . they always come to me.  Why?  Because, whether they know it of not, I *AM* the mother fucking Big Fish.

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