Ch-ch-ch-changes

I had a job interview Monday, and I felt pretty good about it when it was all over. Now it's the lovely waiting period, as they interview all the other people who want the job, too. And again, the skills tests were a joke. Apparently 90% of office workers are idiots, because the tests I've taken are so simple that I can't believe that they're some sort of qualifier for even an entry-level position. And this was not an entry-level position.

Believe it or not, I actually think this company's business is neat-o, and would like to work there. I was told that it would be 1-2 weeks before they contact any short-listers, so I have my fingers crossed. And my toes crossed.

::

There have been a lot of life transitions going on lately, not only in my life but also in my friends' lives. On the one hand, there's been loss, the most recent being the mother of my friend J. I feel so strange about it, and I never even knew the lady. I guess that, with my own freaky half-acknowledged grief going on, I don't know how to feel about someone else's loss.

And on the other hand, there's new life coming along. My friend Cat is pregnant after like, one month trying. Yeah, yeah, I know; one of "those" people. But I thank God that there are some people out there who DON'T have to go through the hell that is infertility!!! I'm very excited to have another little one joining our strange extended family.

Cat, bless her heart, was a bit apprehensive about telling me she was pregnant, and enlisted our mutual friend Cheri as a go-between. Silly kitty! As if I'd be upset over someone I love getting a cool present like a Kogojira.

::

I babysat my nephew Miles for a few hours today, and I am a puddle of warm, melted sugar after having a newborn cuddled against my chest. Smelling that little place on his neck by his shoulder. Feeling those tiny fingers curling around my own. Heck, even now I feel nostalgic about having the scent of curdled formula on the sleeve of my shirt after an unexpected spit-up incident; it's been a long time since I had that smell on me. Although I admittedly like older kids better, there IS something about teeny babies that's very sweet.

::

It's always a little weird to me, how few of my friends had any exposure to babies before they had their own. And then there's me, the woman with no children, who actually knows about them. I grew up with a close relationship to my younger cousins, and helped to care for most of them. An older cousin lived with us when I was in high school, and she got pregnant and had a baby. Believe me, when you're 17 and there's a newborn in the house, you get a fast and thorough education on childcare because you're a built-in alternative caregiver; I knew about colic and teething long before I lost my virginity. And then I was a nanny/nurse for a year to a newborn, for a married couple who were friends of mine. The irony is never lost on me that, as a non-parent, I'm assumed not to have any "real" knowledge about kids, when I actually know quite a bit.

TTC dream?

Last night I dreamed about an ex-lover, that we went to a porn theater together. Now, I mean the old-fashioned places that were actual small movie theaters that just happened to play dirty movies. So we sat next to one another, and covered up our laps with a fleece blanket. Why fleece, I don't know; maybe it was cold.

Anyway, no, it WASN'T what you're probably thinking. There was no hanky-panky going on; we both kept our hands, and other various and sundry body parts, to ourselves. However, unbeknownst to me, he was keeping his hands to himself, but they were very busy hands. After a few minutes, he shoves back the blanket, hands me a specimen cup with a semen sample, and leaves. I remember that it was a fairly large sample, being 6mL. And yes, somehow this spec. cup had gradient markings on it, so small as to show mL, that I could read. And in a dark movie theater, to boot. I remember feeling quite happy in the dream, because I could rush home and insem. now that I had this lovely fresh sample.

My subconscious is at work, and it isn't even being subtle. I'm 36 days past my miscarriage, with the never-ending cycle. I know the spiel: things aren't normal after a m/c, especially one that was nearly a 2nd trimester loss. I might not ovulate for a couple of cycles. If I do ovulate, I could have a totally short, messed up luteal phase. Etcetera. But I just want to bleed, so I can start a nice fresh cycle, one in which I could TTC, if the stars and planets and life are aligned correctly. And for about 5 days now, I've had a snail trail of fertile cervical mucous, which makes me wonder if this cycle might be getting close to finally ending in the next couple of weeks or so.

I haven't really thought much about sex, nor had an active libido, until the last couple of days. Yes, Ye Olde Libido has returned, and with a vengeance. But the thing is, I feel slightly guilty about it, like having a sex drive is somehow disrespectful. How weird is that?!?

I swear I'm not drunk

Today's random thought #109: Wouldn't it be cool to see a psychobilly or gothabilly band where all the members dressed like luchadores?

Rock Lobster Jello?

Am I the only person who thinks that Jello Biafra (Dead Kennedys) and Fred Schneider (The B-52s) sometimes sound eerily alike, both while speaking and singing? I'm just sayin'.

::

About 10 years ago, I took a pleasure trip to Atlanta with my best gal-pal, Cheri. The friend we were staying with (Drew) is politically active, and had a Green Party function the same night we were arriving. Thankfully, our arrival time would be too late for us to attend; so, we were given directions to a nightclub where an after-rally party would be held. Cheri & I would meet Drew there, and start our mini-holiday revelry.

By the way, I'm not a horrible, evil person who despises the Green Party, or anything green. I just think that political rallies are right up there with old-fashioned tent revivals. With both, there are a lot of orators making pretty speeches and/or hollerin' hellfire and damnation. Both the preachers and politicians make promises they can't personally keep, and tell you that their way is the only way to true happiness and security. I'll pass on both, thanks.

Anyway... So Cheri & I get to Atlanta, find the nightclub, and meet up with Drew. Drew practically drags us the back of the club, where there is a semi-private little alcove. He quickly explained that Jello Biafra was a speaker at the event and so had come to the party/club. And since Drew was one of the organizers, he could introduce us to Jello. Of course we were a bit excited; I mean, all of us had been little punk freaks in high school, and getting to meet Jello Biafra sounded really cool.

That is, until I actually saw him. The reed-slender, hot, angry punk god of my teens had been replaced by a plump, middle-aged man wearing the most god-awful paisley shirt I'd ever seen in my life. Really, there's just no excuse for paisley, is there? And then he opened his mouth, and began channeling Fred Schneider. Except Fred's not dead. I had startling visions of him singing "Love Shack Uber Alles" or something like that.

We were introduced to Jello, and Cheri got an autograph on a Camel bar napkin, the only paper product to be found in the place. I declined an autograph, as I don't really care about them unless they're in a book. We did polite chit-chat for a few minutes, then Cheri & I wandered off to check out the dance floor and shake our groove thangs.

I thought that was that: we'd met a punk icon, had a new anecdote in our repertoire, and were now poised to get on with our mini-break. But I was oh so wrong, as the "best" was yet to come. It was now quite late, and we were thinking of finding someplace to get some grub. Drew had apparently suggested this to Jello as well, and received a favorable response, because the next thing I knew a small group of us were arranging carpools to go and eat. We were going to have Jello for breakfast. (To be continued, as I have to go pick up a youngling from school!)

I got a callback

Good Lord, I can't believe it. At 5pm-- yes, people, at the end of the typical business day-- I got a phone call from one of the companies to which I sent my resume. The lady who called asked if it were a good time to do a telephone interview... of course I said yes! We talked for about 10 minutes, and at the end of it, she asked if I could come in Monday afternoon for another interview, and to take skills tests.

Everybody, cross your fingers, toes, eyes, etc. that this thing goes well Monday! I feel a teeny bit hopeful, since I obviously at least passed her 1st hurdles in the phone interview, and get to go in for a face-to-face. I know there's no guarantee, but I'm at least getting to put my foot inside the business' door.

::

Oh yeah... Happy Valentine's Day. It's really a meaningless day for a singleton like me, but I suppose some of you might be looking forward to romantic dates tonight. I'll be watching movies about love gone wrong; kinda appropriate for a bitter single gal, don't you think?

Catharsis

Last Wednesday I poured out a great gush of emotional dirty dishwater. I got an outpouring of love and support in return, and I am deeply appreciative. Thank you, my lovelies. Something even more amazing happened, though, the next evening.

My mom picked up both seasons of "Dead Like Me", and we've been watching a couple of episodes every night. One episode had ended, and before I started the next one, she asked if we could talk. The next thing I knew, my mother and I were going in deep, much deeper than we've ever gone in my entire life. The last person I ever thought would be my sharing ears and ready shoulder, was on spot. We talked for about an hour or so, and it was absolutely fantastic.

I feel purged. I mean, I know I'm not "cured", because my issues are still there. But the act of sharing my fears and feelings with someone who cares has eased me more than I thought it could. Since last Thursday night, I have felt so much more relaxed. My emotions, while still high, are a slightly more manageable high instead of being so tumultuous that I feel like I'm drowning in them.

The whole experience was surreal. My mother is an old-fashioned repressed kind of woman, in that she doesn't go around saying "I love you" and giving hugs & kisses; she shows her love in the things that she does and the thoughtful gifts she gives to her friends and family. I know she loves me, even though I can't remember the last time she actually said the words.

I, on the other hand, am a toucher. I make her very uncomfortable with my constant attempts to hug her, give her smooches, and my near-daily statements of love for her. Yes, I try to do things to please her out of love and respect, but I believe that saying the words is important, so I try to do it just about every day.

Can you imagine the two of us sitting down and having that super-charged conversation? Talking about my miscarriage, and how sad, angry and helpless it makes me feel; how it makes me feel like any future pregnancy will be filled with fear; the fear that perhaps there won't be another pregnancy. Talking about my unemployment, and how much this continuing situation chips away daily at my sense of self-worth and confidence; it's like the feeling of being the last kid chosen in gym class, when you go out for dozens of jobs you're qualified for, but don't get any of them. Talking about how hard it's been NOT to use alcohol or cigarettes as a crutch, and how I struggle each and every day not to give in to the urge to smoke.

To be precise, I can't really say my mom and I talked. It was more like, she gave me an opening, and let me talk at her until I ran down. Oh sure, she inserted the right sounds when appropriate, but what she did was let me vent and rant, all in the safest of environments. It was absolutely perfect, and just what I needed.

Of course, I thought the timing a bit suspect, coming as it did the day after my post. I suspect that she either has found my blog, or that one of my RL friends gave her a call or shot her an email to tell her that I was cracking up. I don't know, but whatever it was, it was just right this time.

Seven long days

I can't believe it's been seven whole days since I've written anything. I've looked at my blog, read other people's blogs, but when I contemplated writing myself, I just got a squicky feeling in my stomach and had to quickly go watch another episode of my latest comedy addiction, Goodness Gracious Me, to bolster my mood.

As I said in my last post, I've been sick with the crud. I finally felt okay and up to going out, so I went over to my cousin's house Sunday to watch the Superbowl. It was just a small gathering, being my cousin and her husband Jim, one of their teen sons, and Mum & me; just a little family get-together with food and The Game. And when I say "family", I don't mean the kind of family that you have to put on your best manners when they're around. No, I'm talking the kind of family who wouldn't even blink an eye if I suddenly sat on the floor of their den, took off my shoes and started painting my toenails. That kind of family, comfortable and well-loved.

For some reason, we were to arrive several hours before the game. So we went over around 3pm, and so it began. There was far more food than six people (the son had a friend over) could eat, but we did our best. And as Jim is addicted to golf, we watched that before the Superbowl started. As usual, I poked fun at the golf announcers and made my cousin giggle. As usual, the boys were off playing "Guitar Hero 5 Trillion" (number may be exaggerated), and making me feel old by popping out to ask me, "Hey, do you know this song by, uh, Pat Benatar/ Rev. Ho./Ramones/etc.? Was this, you know, popular when you were a teenager?"

Sidebar: See, I'm the "cool" cousin--okay, I'm really just the "weird" cousin-- who listens to all kinds of music, so even though my cousins have never heard of most of the music in GH, they know I probably know most of it. And I do. Even the grotty speedmetal stuff.

Anyway, it was a typical low-key visit, hanging out waiting and killing time until the game started. Then finally, it was on. I was watching hot guys in tight clothes sweat, run, and jump on one another. It was great. I mean, people kept talking about "downs" and "incomplete passes" and silly things like that, but I didn't let that distract me from the important task of finding out which team the hot mocha-skinned guy whom I spotted during the national anthem played for, so I could cheer for them. Yes, I am that shallow and uninterested in football, that I chose my team based on a pretty face. Most of the time I don't even know which teams are playing in the effing game until it starts. But I loooove watching the Superbowl. I know it makes no sense at all. I know.

All was fine. The game was on, excitement in the air, yadda yadda yadda. Then a good bit into the second half, I started feeling antsy. Jim was drinking more than usual, and I could tell he was quite tipsy; it started really irritating me for some reason. Everything started irritating me. I was nervous and on-edge, and felt like I was going to have a panic attack. I quietly went and told my mom that I really needed to leave soon, and that perhaps I could leave and then come back for her when she was ready to come home. We only live about 10 minutes away, so it wouldn't be a real hassle. But she wouldn't go for that, and since we were in her vehicle, it was her call. She insisted that it wouldn't be all that long, since there was only xx minutes left in the 2nd half.

I was quietly, and completely, freaking out, and I have no idea why. Then I started thinking about my m/c, and it got worse. The effing wall of control was shattering, out of the blue, while I was at a mini-Superbowl party. And I hear my mom get the bright idea to make a cake. A cake. An effing cake that they have to send the teens out to get some of the ingredients for. I point out that I really need to get home ASAP, and that if they do this cake thing, we'll be there for at least an extra hour. I get hushed and shushed, and told to be patient.

I guess in a way, it was my own fault. I should have made it clear that I REALLY needed to go, that it wasn't just one of those, "I think I'm ready to go," kind of things. That I was on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown. I found the most isolated spot I could in the den, and closed in on myself. The game ended, finally; my team lost. I didn't really care at that point. Now I had to wait out the great cake experiment.

I closed my eyes and just tried to chill out on the giant leather couch. I could feel tears burning in my eyes, and I felt like I couldn't breathe. Then my face felt hot, and I somehow knew there someone standing over me. My eyes popped open, and there was tipsy Jim, waggling his fingers over my face the way a teenager would to be annoyingly playful. I screamed out, "JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!" and everything went quiet. I covered my face with my hands and just sat there until I regained my composure. We left shortly after.

I am emotionally raw. I can still summon up the wall, but it has huge, jagged cracks and holes in it now; its integrity has been compromised. I just don't feel like I can deal with people very well right now, unless everything is very superficial and non-personal. I want to talk, but at the same time I don't. When I do want to talk, I don't know who to talk to. As much as I love her, my mother is so repressed & uptight that she could swallow coal and shit out diamonds. My friends are all so busy with their own drama and grief that I feel selfish and uncomfortable talking to them. I'm so financially screwed right now that I'm literally lucky to have a roof over my head, so going to a councilor isn't even remotely an option.

And what would I say, anyway? "I feel really sad and angry all the time and I don't know what it's all about. I don't sleep anymore. I've never eaten this much before in my life. If someone looks at me crosseyed, I feel like I'm going to burst into tears. Yes, I had a miscarriage 24 days ago, but how can I be this messed up from that? Is that it? Is it more? I don't know. Can you help me to fix me?"

I am so screwed.