what does an elephant say?

last Thursday, a group of my coworkers participated in an annual charity event celebrating Halloween. prior to the event, we are asked to donate bags of Halloween candy (no gum, and new this year, no hard candies). we take about an hour in the afternoon and stuff little bags with Halloween candy. this year, we stuffed over 150 bags to be donated to Child Haven, part of the Clark County Department of Family Services that provides temporary housing, care and treatment for abused, neglected or abandoned children between 3 days and 18 years of age.

the majority of the candy bag stuffers were women, and moms. however, we were graced by the presence of a 40-year-old single, childless high maintenance bitch. said bitch first noted that we should be providing doggie treats … hold on, it wasn’t that bad. she was referring to a women’s shelter that allows pets. great concept, wrong charity. blah, blah, blah, we candy bag stuffers for the most part ignored her comment. then the conversation turned toward what our children were going to be for Halloween. i noted Punkin was going to be an elephant, as the Middle (with twins) provided two perfectly good hand-me-down costumes (the other one is a dragon or maybe a dinosaur) sized 12 to 24 months. my coworker with twins was featuring a baby Yoda and a baby Darth Vader as her husband is a Star Wars freak. (i offered the elephant and dragon costumes for her use next year.) another coworker with a toddler was dressing her son as Super Man (or boy, or toddler … suffice to say big “S” and muscles.) the 40-year-old, single, childless high maintenance bitch responded with (direct quote), “If you were a good mother, you would make your kid’s Halloween costumes.” my response was, “If you were a mother, you would know how mean that comment is.” ok, i went for the childless factor. not nice. but her comment was like a twisting knife in my stomach. she proceeded to describe how she makes Halloween costumes for her dogs. my response, “That’s because you have time.”

Punkin was very excited to put on his elephant costume this morning, until we put it on. “Off, Mommy.” real tears. that’s what makes me feel like a bad mother.

the grass is always greener

the weekend turned out worse than anticipated. in addition to the usual chores, we also cleaned the pool filters. normally, the filters are a quarterly ordeal. Sunday, they were cleaned out of necessity because it appeared the system was clogged. El Jefe’ stated if we called in a repairman, the first question asked would be if the filters were clean. we cleaned the filters, and el Jefe’ only had to make one trip for pool supplies, and now the system has pressure. the only trade-off was our time, and we weren’t able to carve jack-o-lanterns.

i awoke Sunday morning very early, stewing about our back yard, and wasn’t able to get back to sleep. we live in the desert. when we first “landscaped” our back yard in early 1998, less than half of the minimal square footage (not acreage by any means) was dedicated to grass. as the years passed, we made modifications to the landscaping, each time reducing the amount of lawn. by the time we built the pool in the fall of 2000, approximately 350 square feet of lawn remained. and since that time, we have struggled to keep those piddly 350 square feet alive. we have resodded at least once, maybe twice. ok, admittedly the lawn has not been fertilized in a couple years, and we religiously follow watering restrictions, which means occasionally we can be watering three times a week when daily temps are consistently in triple digits. i think approximately 20 square feet of lawn remains. the rest is dirt. and Punkin wanders across the dirt to get to that remaining patch of grass.

i broached this subject with el Jefe’ during breakfast Sunday morning. we have resodded before, but obviously it was unsuccessful. that was pre-Punkin, when we had more than two hours a day to labor together. i am convinced the ground needs to be tilled, regraded, and additional top soil added. i offered to pay to hire someone to do it. El Jefe’ doesn’t want to spend the money, even if it is my money. and he doesn’t lose sleep over it, either. he has offered his weekend time to accomplish the lawn replacement. so now, instead of spending Saturdays working overtime at his paying job, he’ll work Saturdays at home in the backyard.

ok. i’m a cynic. i predict we’ll have 40 square feet of lawn this time next year.

happy (kind of) friday

for most people, Friday signifies the beginning of the weekend. two days that you don’t have to go to the office. two days that you don’t have to “dress for success”, whatever that means. to me, it signifies the beginning of two days of chores. i relish the fact that i don’t have to shower and wear clothes that are professionally acceptable. i do not miss speaking to clients for two days. but there are things i dread. the tedium. i water my plants at work on Fridays. by the time Friday rolls around, i’ve all ready done a couple loads of laundry. i try to get another one completed on Friday, so i have more time to do several on Saturday. and there’s usually a straggler load that must be completed on Sunday. if we have fresh fruits and vegetables, i prepare and freeze food for the Punkin Saturday morning. i do this in between diaper changes, books, and toys that frustrate him. i do dishes after every meal and snack, or four times each weekend day. we go to the grocery store, typically as a family; if el Jefe’ goes into work Saturday morning, we go to the store Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. if i need to shop for Punkin, or a present, we either squeeze it in before the grocery run, or save it for the other day. after the grocery store, i prepare and freeze food for the Punkin. we try to take the Punkin on an outing each weekend. sometimes we make it to the park twice, sometimes only once. when the weather was warm (hot) we swam in the pool. last weekend i was nauseated 24/7, so the best i could manage was a trip to the mailbox, and a walk around the block with Punkin on his tricycle. when Punkin is napping, we pick up dog shit, clean the pool, iron, and sometimes i get a glorious nap. i water the plants at home on Sundays. and there are occasional phone calls and visits.

although that was a long rambling paragraph, and not necessarily all inclusive, it doesn’t seem like much. but it completely consumes the weekend. frankly, other than the time dedicated to Punkin, it’s not a lot of fun.

who in their right mind dreads the weekend?

bringing tears to my eyes again

it seems a lot of folks who spill their guts in their blogs are depressed. or have been depressed. or are suffering from depression. or are medicated. or are in remission. it is something i share (in terms of the disease) yet something i don’t really talk about (in terms of sharing my experiences). been there, done that, better, but just hanging on. i have reasons to live, now, which makes things a little easier, but i have the disease. if i don’t think about it, i don’t consider medication an option in my current state. if i don’t think about it, i don’t worry that Punkin will suffer with this disease. if i don’t think about it, i don’t consider the prospect of el Jefe’ being a single parent.

Heather featured this article from the Times-Picayune today. it hit me as hard as Scott Adam’s Good News Day.

bringing tears to my eyes

i think this is a day or two old. i found it through Jason Kottke, where i am never disappointed by what i find. art, science, politics … an incredible eclectic mix. the story itself is heartwarming and interesting in its own right, and then you add Scott Adams, creator of Dilbert, an ICON in the engineering community.

i lost it several times during the comments. there are plenty of opportunities to lose it (i believe there are over 900 comments.) i just normally don’t put sarcasm and wit in the same package as heart-rending, tear-jerking affirmations of love, happiness, and hope.

i think i need to read this everyday. or maybe its just raging hormones.

speaking softly without the big stick

thank you Crazy Hip Blog Mamas for including me on your blogroll. i seriously began to doubt my limited tech-savvy skills, figuring i couldn’t even copy and paste correctly. then i figured, oh well, i’ll keep this up. i may be talking to myself, but it is an outlet and infinitely more socially acceptable.

i had a diary as a kid. it was covered in pink faux leather and had a little gold lock and key. i think i left the key attached to the latch, for fear of losing it. i was trusting back then. (that was before i confirmed my mother steamed open my mail, incoming and outgoing, to and from the Middle and my junior high friends from summer camp. i knew enough and threatened her with the Federal offense she was committing. Loving relationship, eh?) i recall the diary was a fad, that i diligently made daily entries for maybe a week or two, and then eventually i lost interest. even when journaling was recommended by a professional for my psyche, in the days i was so eager to please adults and authority figures that i was a freaking anorexic, i still lost interest. there is very little documented evidence of my thoughts, my dreams, my stories. that’s ok. as much as i would like to make a difference in this life, i’ve come to realize when i make my mark, it will be rather silently and touch a select few.

i’ve got a good husband and a great kid. if that’s the best i can do, it’s still pretty damn good.

just do it

i haven’t cut my hair in over a year. just slightly over a year. October 8, 2005 to be exact. the occasion was that my entire family was in the same state, in the same town, at the same time in something like seven years. there had been a marriage, and four children born in those seven years. we gathered together, the twelve of us, to commemorate the event with an informal family portrait. i left work early that Friday to get a hair cut. Great Clips. just cut it so i can still put it in a ponytail. i lost several inches, i was still able to pull my hair back into a ponytail, and probably most importantly, i did not end up with an embarrassing “do” in the family photo, but it was nothing to write home about.

over a year later, and i am still wearing my hair in a pony tail. i could braid it, if i had an extra fifteen minutes and the patience to do so. i think i can count on one hand the number of times i have worn my hair down in the past year. but i still want to be able to get it out of my face. and i still remember the days a hundred years ago when my age was in single digits, and the hairstyle my parents approved of invoked “Sonny, this is the Ladies Room” when i entered a public restroom. cruel, and obviously it made an impression on me.

i really want to cut it. i want to have an easy, carefree hairstyle. i don’t want to spend any more time on chick maintenance. i gave up the hair dryer when i was in high school. i gave up coloring the grey when i was in my 20’s. i want smart, sassy mom hair that does not scream “OVER 40!” and i don’t want my face to look fat.

El Jefe’ has offered to be a guest stylist at the Klampett Family Salon, but the attachments just don’t go that high for my taste, and knowing my luck i have big dents in my unknowingly misshapen head.

ugh. vanity.

social occasion anxiety

Punkin was invited to his first birthday party yesterday, other than family and his own. it’s a Curious George-themed second birthday party for a girl in his class. (an older woman!) she has been at Punkin’s day care since he started, and that i’ve discovered is rather rare. the kids seem to come and go and the weird thing is, some come back after being away a month or two. it makes me wonder about the parents’ circumstances, but it really is none of my business. and the teacher turn-over crisis was limited to his eight-month adventure in the DragonFly room.

i rsvp’d around lunchtime today. i secretly hoped no one would be home and i could just leave a message. antisocial chickenshit. i believe her mom answered. she acted happy that we would be attending. i asked if we could bring anything special. she said she had everything handled; she’d pick up the cake in the morning, and we were having cheese and meat snacks and grapes. she asked if that was ok. of course! Punkin will eat just about anything … perhaps the rumor of being vegetarian precedes me.

i went to Target over lunch and i had no clue where to begin. i mistakenly started by looking for a pair of jeans for myself and fortunately gave up after perusing a sale rack or two. no, not maternity jeans (not yet!), but suffice to say with my lack of the shopping gene, i’ll try to squeeze into the ones i have for the next week or two. i ventured into toys, thinking something would strike me that was not too girly and age appropriate. yeah, right. i didn’t want said gift to be too educational, as i didn’t want to seem too preachy as a parent (and a first-time parent at that). i didn’t want said gift to be too noisy (i know better. noisy gifts are given by childless aunts and uncles and grandparents.) and not too expensive, but again, i hadn’t a clue what is the appropriate amount to spend. i opted for a Curious George book, and small stuffed Curious George, which is rated for 3+ but hey! it goes with the theme, right? and a gift receipt.

i’m certain neither Punkin nor the birthday girl have this much anxiety and self doubt brought on by the occasion. and i hope they never do.

i'm a Toys R' Us kid

as i was washing dishes, i happened to notice our stainless steel kitchen sink is stained. coffee stains. kind of a henna patina. the sink is only a year and a half old, and stainless steel, and therefore should not be stained. we had to replace it when Punkin was only a couple weeks old. it started with a leaky faucet, dripping faucet, soaking the cabinets faucet. trust me, you really need a working kitchen sink when you have an infant. when el Jefe’ started the project, i knew we were in for numerous trips to Home Depot, because no home improvement project is complete in a single trip. it’s a fact of nature. and home improvement projects require many beers … don’t start unless you’ve got a 12-pack in the fridge. we opted to replace the extremely worn white porcelain sink in addition to the faucet. in order to get the sink to fit, we bought a special diamond blade to cut the granite counter tops (second trip). fortunately, we were able to borrow the accompanying tool for the special blade. the third trip was for a colored compound to patch the granite, which wasn’t available at Home Depot, but Lowe’s had something, although both establishments recommended we call in a granite expert. what patron who shops at Home Depot or Lowe's actually has access to a granite expert? in the end, all was right in the universe because the home improvement project took three trips and looks less than perfect.

so the stainless steel sink is stained. rather unremarkable. but at that moment, i realized it is my sink, and not the sink in my parents’ home. (of course not. my mother would never allow her sink, stainless or not, to be stained. obviously she spends more time cleaning up after her cleaning lady than i do.) i am a homeowner. technically, i don’t own my home but i’ve been paying mortgages since the early 90’s. the feeling was not one of satisfaction, or accomplishment, or security. it was more of the realization that i’m supposed to be a grown-up.

not recognizing myself: part 2

so i’m approaching week 9, or something like that. i know when you’re supposed to start counting, but it defies logic, especially because you start counting before conception. and i’m really not counting, because it still seems unreal, and i haven’t been to the doctor yet. i had a miscarriage in 2000. Thanksgiving weekend in the year 2000, to be exact. at the time i’d all ready had my first appointment, but i think the miscarriage occurred a week or so later, in my 10th week. when i was pregnant with the Punkin, i remember my first appointment was around week 11 and i commented that i had never made it that far before. so as i wait for my first appointment, i think about the days and weeks and wonder if i’ll make it to that first appointment. and then i know at that first appointment i’ll be scheduling an amnio and ultrasound, and then it will be real. real scarey, because there is more waiting for test results.

i let myself go the past couple months. maybe i can blame the Clomid? sounds like a good excuse. but the fact of the matter is most of my pants don’t fit. all ready. i saved nearly all my maternity clothes, so i’ve got a dated wardrobe in boxes, but i’m afraid to break into them just yet. once i do, my more astute coworkers will know my secret, and i’ll have to wear the same clothes for the next 7 months. most of the shirts and sweaters are pretty universal, but shirts are not the problem. the pants are not universal. i’ve got a couple potato sack-shaped jumpers to get me through a couple days a week, but i’m having a hard time finding the motivation to shave my legs and the weather is turning cooler. i guess i can resort to tights.

these are not the whinings of a self-proclaimed low-maintenance woman.

paying the price

milkin' it. a day for me.

el Jefe' said i was still running a fever this morning. i couldn't get my act together quick enough to take a shower. i wore a shirt from yesterday. i noticed my pants had a stain on them, though i thought they were clean. so i dropped off Punkin at school, and got a decaf white mocha and a donut on the way home. i finished a book, which i'm pretty sure i had read before. couldn't have been that bad; i couldn't remember the ending. i watched a movie or two on cable, made myself an egg salad sandwich, and made two batches of food for Punkin (apple sauce and yams).

however, it was not without cost. earlier this year, el Jefe' and i attended a wedding for some friends of ours. a real wedding, where the bride's parents fork out a bunch of dough! a real wedding, where the bride and groom registered for gifts! we opted for steak knives (two sets) as a gift. i recalled some old tradition about knives and pennies and weddings (but not much else), and as we are friends with both the bride and the groom, the patently female gifts didn't seem right, and i wasn't about to get them a set of sheets. this wedding gift inspired el Jefe' to replace our divorce-wear knives. most of the divorce-wear knives still matched, but through wear and tear we ended up with a very extensive set of butter knives. none were weapons. no danger of cutting an appendage, much less the meat or vegetable in need of slicing.

the divorce-wear knives were replaced with "the best knives ever made" according to the saleswoman at Dillard's. el Jefe' has cut himself a time or two, but so far i've used them without incident. until today. i was cleaning a knife from yam production, which doesn't need to be sharp to cut through cooked yam, but there is not a designated yam knife in the set. i sliced my thumb. i looked at it, voiced an obscenity, and proceeded to slice through my index finger. the cuts were inconveniently located, so that pressing my thumb and index finger together made one digit bleed more. i eventually got the bleeding slowed down such that holding my hand above my head did the trick.

other than that, it was a good day.

slow motion without additional insight

i'm so tired.

i don't feel well. scratchy throat. fever and chills. i don't want the Punkin to get this. with all my procrastination, dissatisfaction at work, and lack of achievement, how can i continue to function with less?

is it depression? is it the pregnancy? so many questions (and question marks) and no answers. no enthusiasm. i recall folks saying i was very mellow when i was pregnant with the Punkin. even-keel. el Jefe' was amazed/impressed at how i handled stress during those months. i don't remember being this tired, this exhausted. certainly my career and emotions were in a different place. a different time. it all seems so long ago.

i did get through the bitch receptionist at my gyn-ob's office. i actually left two messages, one with the bitch and one with another glorious soul, saying that i needed to speak to my doctor about my prescription for Clomid. (it was generic Clomid, and my crappy insurance didn't cover one red cent of the $5 pill.) he prescribed it because my hormones were out of sync and i was having excessive bleeding. i guess it worked. anyway, he suggested a handful of doctors including one he was in practice with for a couple years. i have an appointment in a little over two weeks, and i was told he'll accept my crappy insurance.

i'm slightly relieved.

a recluse without the cats

i went to a conference for the past day and a half. it was a technical conference, and for the most-part, i was bored to tears. the topics were as dry as they get in the engineering realm. the speakers were painful to listen to between monotone delivery and English as a second language. i did not socialize at the social hour, nor during the breaks, nor in the hallway when roughly half of the other participants were out there socializing because they were bored to tears as well. i spoke to less than a handful of people. and i spoke to very few of my coworkers.

why am i so distant? ok, i wasn’t about to get all liquored up at the social hour, but that only explains two of the twelve hours of opportunity. yes, i’ve got a secret that i don’t care to share right now, but it has to be so much more than that. am i afraid my job dissatisfaction will show, will blurt out inappropriately like an obscenity from someone possessed with tourettes? and do i care if it shows? how can i not be miserable? is it only my paying job outside the home, or is it more?

is it me?

tv or not tv

i miss the second nap.

lately, it seems, Punkin misses it too. after el Jefe' picked him up from school (daycare), Punkin would get an hour or so nap before dinner. i'd come home, enter our home quietly, and hear the tv (news). the front door would be unlocked because Punkin was in his crib and it was safe to have the front door unlocked (no escaping!). i could deal with my many bags, my purse, my gym bag and wet bathing suit, and my important bag of shit (brief case). i could change my clothes alone. it's not like i could sit and read, decompress, but i didn't have to be instantly on my mom game.

Punkin doesn't get to watch tv, and probably won't for another year. the tv (or two) is constantly on at my parents' house, but we work to distract him from rotting his brain. the two times it has been on in our home while he was awake were for a little Super Bowl party with my parents, and for a recent Monday Night Football game when i was out of town on travel. i've read it's potentially linked to ADD, or ADHD, and really, Punkin is amused without it. he plays with toys, or we read books, or we go outside and watch for airplanes or motorcycles.

i'm not big on network tv. i get the deer in the headlight stare and nod when my coworkers and colleagues talk about 24, or the Amazing Race, or American Idol, or whatever. i don't think i'm missing out on anything particularly entertaining. but i rarely get to see a movie on cable from beginning to end. it usually takes three viewings to see an entire film. we've been to a movie theater once since he was born. we got advanced tickets to a matinee of Pirates of the Caribbean 2, but i had to leave before the end of the movie fearing they'd be holding Punkin for ransom at daycare because i was late.

so i miss the mind-numbing effects of tv on myself, and the escape that a film can bring.

and the last half-hour before Punkin's bedtime is occasionally dangerously close to melt-down. and i physically have to wake him up in the morning. i'm not sure it's because it gets light later, or he's not getting enough sleep.

i want more sleep even though my body is pretty much incapable of 8 hours a day. i want my mind to be empty. i just want to relax.

no title

i have yet to post a photo in my profile. i have to admit i am not very photogenic, and having low self esteem does not help, either. i take great pride in that i am low maintenance, no hair dryer, no make-up, haven’t colored the grey in fifteen years … i wish i looked better, but i obviously have not invested the time, effort, or money into the products. at least el Jefe’ doesn’t seem to mind (he thinks i’m cute, and it is part of my character) and at this point Punkin doesn’t know enough to judge. eventually i’ll find something to post.

the lack of a photo in my profile is part of the anonymity. i haven’t told a soul i’ve started this blog, including el Jefe’. i’m not sure how i would explain my comments to friends or family. i currently control the tidbits of my life i share with them, and those that i share in this blog, and the sets are mutually exclusive. i also have lost touch with the majority of my past, probably consciously. i haven’t been to a single high school reunion, and doubt i ever will. i’m about as happy as i’ve ever been in my life, which isn’t saying much, except i was miserable growing up and have no desire to turn back time and relive my childhood, my teen age years, or high school, or college, or my first marriage. i’m not ashamed of who i was back then, nor am i ashamed of who i am now even though i still don’t know what i want to be when i grow up. mostly, i’m not interested in them.

no face. no name. no audience.

tick tock

time is so precious. every second that ticks by is gone. forever. irretrievable. yet i can waste it, consume it, regularly, especially and nearly exclusively during the work day (my paying job outside the home). this was never a problem before Punkin, before i became a mom. now i can piddle away a day, five days, with very little to show for it. i don’t have an excessive amount of guilt because i have given (gift, donation) over the past twenty years of my career. i also see those who have given far less over the span of far fewer years, who seem happy (happy!) and seem to be able to look themselves in the mirror every morning. i rationalize that being a slacker is acceptable. i do not blame Punkin; he represents more of a milestone in my lack of career motivation that the instigator.

clocks used to tick. i used to have a “digital” alarm clock in my bedroom that clicked as the minutes changed. now the minutes disappear silently. i’ve never been able to control the passage of time. maybe that used to be a desire, a secret wish of mine, but like the majority of the aspects of my life, i’ve given up.

realistic? laid-back? or slacker?

don't let the price fool you

i just finished reading “Plays Well with Others” by Allan Gurganus. he writes about a writer who is given blue thank-you notes as his departing gift from North Carolina/welcoming gift upon entering New York. he discusses what it is to be a writer, and as a side-bar, what a thank-you note should contain.

that is about the extent of my writing: thank-you notes. i contributed to a continuing short story with some fellow campers before i was a teenager, and wrote some depressed poetry when i was in high school, but the only writing i do on a regular basis are some very thoughtful thank-you notes. (this bog doesn’t count because it is still in its infancy, and again, i cannot put myself in the category of writer due to lack of self esteem, audience, and the fact i have been an engineer too damn long). my mother drilled it into my head that the least you can do is send a thank-you note. i do it out of obligation, but i do take some pride in my thank-you notes. my father-in-law (who happens to be in the newspaper business) compliments them at least yearly so i must be doing something right.

Punkin’s shower and subsequent birth announcement resulted in the most thank-you notes in my history. (maybe there were more gifts after my first wedding? my second marriage was legalized at a drive-thru, which tends to result in very few guests and gifts, but this one (the second, to el Jefe’) has lasted longer and is way more fun.) anyway, i sent out birth announcements for the shock value, and ended up getting gifts in return. my minutes out of the house with a newborn consisted of a stroll to the mail box. every package brought a new sense of terror. quit sending gifts to me (my kid)! i’m trying to breast feed and stay sane while sleep-deprived, and now you’ve made me guilt-ridden by sending me (my kid) a gift and i have to write a thank-you note somewhere in between the three-hour wake, eat, play, sleep increments of the next twenty-four hours or so. looking back, it was slightly irrational, but very demonstrative of my OCD tendencies.

the psoup un-trademarked thank-you note template:

Dear Xxxx,
Thank you for the adjective yyyy. It is such an adjective gift. I’ve needed/wanted one for quite awhile now. Your kindness and generosity are greatly appreciated.
Insert paragraph about tedious mundane details in your life like weather/job/chores, etc. if space allows.
Again, thank you for the adjective yyyy. It was so thoughtful of you to remember/commemorate the occasion.
Love to you – Zzzz.

i don’t know if that meets Allan Guganus’ criteria, but it’s the least you can do.

just psoup is just ok

i'm home.

Punkin is sound asleep. el Jefe' went back into work tonight. he needs to work this weekend. he feels guilty. i guess i can understand it from the male ego perspective, and he not only cares about his job outside the home, he enjoys it. (novel concept!) seems like we live our lives in shifts. certainly a schedule, but not one of our own. he'll work, i'll do laundry, we'll get groceries, and it's time once again to open the Klampett family salon (for el Jefe')!

i've tried to be a little introspective, but i didn't discover any answers. i'm not the happiest person, never was. i share lack of happiness, low self esteem and depression with the best of them. is this the commonality shared by tortured writers? and how dare i even consider myself among a category of women, moms, writers? i have a uterus, a kid, and a baby blog, but i work full time outside the home, haven't taken meds in 10 years or been counseled in 5, and haven't had the nerve to post a photo in my profile or register my blog. i don't even have a flickr account. loser!

but i post pretty regularly, despite six planes, two hotels and three time zones this week. that's gotta count for something.

seven hours from now ...

at 5:55 am (pacific time) this morning, a glob of toothpaste plumetted to the lapel of my black silk shirt. i have this great AquaFresh toothpaste (Extreme Clean) that i take on travel. it came as a sample with the newspaper one day. i'm so happy it is under 3 oz. and i have a quart-size clear plastic bag. it's very pepperminty (extremely, you could say). i don't do spearmint. yuck.

i tried approximately 4 times to soak the toothpaste glob out of my black silk shirt. i finally gave up.

we worked from 6:30 am straight through our lunchtime presentation. i dribbled alfredo sauce on my pants, just in case the toothpaste was lonely, then off to the airport. i got on the standby lists because the thought of arriving in the midwest at midnight local time was less than pleasant. i succesfully negotiated both lists, but flights were running late (a half-hour here, and hour there) ... so now it is midnight in the midwest. i didn't have time for airport food and i was actually looking forward to the snack box. i even had a five in my pocket. no such luck, but my consolation was that the flight was only an hour long. Fritos, cashews, peanut M&M's, and the banana that i pocketed at breakfast comprised my dinner. i realize no one cares to read about my meals, but it appears no one cares to read about my life, either.

this is the glamor of a mom who works outside the home.

the oh so nice man who is my boss on these audit trips asked if i was interested in his position as he is retiring in two and one-quarter years. i thought it was funny that he referred to the time that way, but then i still refer to Punkin's age in months. maybe that will change when he (Punkin) turns two, and maybe that will change when the oh so nice man is only two years away from retirement ... maybe he'll start counting the months. i was flattered and maybe a little tempted. but i can't think about my life two and one-quarter years from now. i can't think of my life eight months from now, or thirty-three weeks from now. i can barely plan ahead for my next meal (obviously).

no wait. it will be a five dollar "complimentary" breakfast at the hotel. aren't you impressed?

the downside of access

i felt relieved at the end of today's 11-hour work day. turns out we are meeting at 6:00 am tomorrow to get ready for the day's festivities, concluding with a lunchtime presentation. then it's to the airport for my two-legged flight to the Midwest. approximate ETA midnight. at least i'm supposed to have free high-speed internet at the next hotel on my tour. yippee skippy.

i handled some home office project work this morning, the unrewarding roadway project that never ends. my own little purgatory. final plans over and over and over. stupid questions; stupid requests. my favorite was from my boss, copied on the e-mail chain: can you (me) schedule a meeting about this next week? i'm the one that's out of town, clocking long days, with no access to files, and limited access to telephone and e-mail during normal business hours. sure, you bet, i'll schedule a meeting. it took the client project manager, Doofus, FOUR tries to send out the correct Outlook calendar appointment. is it any wonder why this project cannot go to construction? and Doofus's boss, Kenny Loggins, is asking me to evaluate something as complicated as parting the Red Sea. 1) i have no idea how it is done. 2) i have no idea why you would want to do it. and you want to know how much it will cost to part the Sea, and when the Sea can by parted by next week. jesus. maybe he can help.

i think the highlight of my day was the cookies. yes, multiple cookies. a chocolate chip, an oatmeal raisin, and two snickerdoodles with sprinkles. i'm not drinkin', and the folks i'm with don't order dessert, and i haven't found a vending machine, so i have resorted to this.

four cookies and still no miracle.

an antidepressant analogy

it just wasn't any fun today.

i have a hard time sleeping in hotels. the temperature is either too warm and stuffy or too cold. the ventilation system is too loud. the tv is too bright. i cannot coordinate my use of pillows (too many, and i suffer from a stiff neck from the tower; just one is a pancake). so i didn't get a good night's sleep and i was wide awake at 5 am.

the work day went from 7 to 7. finding files, reviewing files, interviewing project managers, logging results, and establishing ratings per the checklists and guidelines. it is not difficult, but it was nearly 12 hours of information overload. i had a hard time acting positive and enthusiastic. i have homework. and i just want to go to bed.

usually i am rejuvenated in a career-sense by these trips. new enthusiastic faces, different projects, and a sense of satisfaction. so far, i'm not feeling it. i'm dreading the next leg of my journey; two flights through two time zones for an all day meeting regarding the awards program on Friday. and you'd think i'd be all energized by the hotel's free high-speed internet that i connected to on the first try!

the up-side is lost, rather like a trazadone/pamelor/zoloft-induced haze. this is functioning without the fun.

not recognizing myself: part 1

how did i go from being a workaholic, driven overachiever to the slacker that i’ve become? i used to be consumed with my paying job, my projects, my assignments. i used to do it on salary, and when projects allowed, i used to do it on overtime. overdrive. ten hours a day. six and sometimes seven days a week. i could focus, and would focus on perfection. and i found some reward, some satisfaction in my projects, my work products, and my paycheck. i honest to God felt euphoric after a submittal, and got goose-bumps driving by one of my projects under construction.

when i first came back to work (paying job) after 12 weeks of leave after Punkin was born, i came back full time. i was in the office four days a week (i used to stay at home with the Punkin on Wednesdays). i’d work longer days (longer than the standard 8 to 5), try to get in an hour or two on Wednesdays, and an hour or two on the weekends. then i found it hard to get any work done at home. i continued to bring work home, and at first i felt guilty, and then i stopped caring. i used to describe myself as being an ok mom and an ok engineer. and somewhere down the line, i stopped caring when i was in the office. i don’t care about the projects and the work products, as long as they get done (and just done. no perfection here). i honestly feel as though i’m just doing time.

i don’t see any light at the end of the tunnel in terms of hope at getting that spark back. i don’t know if i even want it back. in light of a potential sibling for Punkin, my only motivation is just to ride it out. i know i am incapable of being a stay-at-home mom (as i feel just barely capable of being a mom). but how am i going to continue this zombie-shuffle through my life?

P.S. el Jefe’ couldn’t help but notice my abstinence from alcohol this weekend (other than Mom Beer, aka Old Milwaukee NA). he is psyched and happy and looking forward to Punkin being a big brother.