It has been a rough few weeks.
Shortly after I posted about my cats running away, and having to decide what to do in terms of proceeding with infertility treatment (Spend A Ton Of Money or Embrace Being Crazy Cat People?), I found out that my 21 year-old, barely-high-school-educated, below-the-poverty-line-living, Long-History-Of-Familial-Manipulation-And-Poor-Life-Choices sister is pregnant (a “one in a million chance”, due to a medical condition – so this is TRULY A MIRACLE. Blech.) I dealt with this unfortunate situation first by shoving it into the I Won’t Think About This Today, I’ll Think About This Tomorrow Or Maybe Never Until I Have Bleeding Ulcers section of my brain (which lasted, like, two days), and then by getting drunk on whiskey and ginger ales, and ranted and raved and cried and then dryheaved until at least a good portion my misery was forcibly excised from my person and psyche. Because, you know, that’s a totally healthy and appropriate way to deal with such things.
My parents, who have a habit of burying their heads in the sand when it comes to the (repeated) shenanigans my sister has pulled and how they have enabled her to do so, apparently have a very difficult time understanding why this development is so hard for me to accept and just be happy about. Even though they know, to an extent, the fertility difficulties I’ve had. So I’ve decided to distance myself from the dysfunction, because I just don’t have it in me to be The Good Daughter anymore – it’s a role I’ve played for too long, because it made everyone else comfortable, but gave me the runs and panic attacks. I am D O N E. So it’s kind of nice and freeing, to know that I am now the child that is the Asshole and accused of Tearing The Family Apart, and not really giving a shit. Is this what it’s like to be the black sheep? Hm. Because I’m sleeping pretty well at night.
In the midst of all of this fine holiday fun, I was informed that my job was in jeopardy due to unexpected budget cuts. After two weeks of waiting and speculation and daydreams of just saying Fuck It and moving off the grid to a hippie commune where I’d raise goats and grow my hair out, I found out that my position was safe (which, whew!), but now I have two months of sharing a cubicle with an angry, soon-to-be-jobless colleague, which makes the air at work kind of, um, toxic. And I know that makes me sound like a Dbag – “Your totally shitty situation makes me uncomfortable!” – but negative energy flying around your head for 8+ hours a day can really take a lot out of you. (But hey, now I know that we can afford to spend A Car Payment and A House Payment’s worth of cash each month so I can jam some needles full of Wake The Fuck Up, Ladybits hormones into my own person! YAY.)
Wedged into the middle of all of this was a somewhat hastily planned, quick weekend trip The Hell Out Of Town (which helped me keep my head out of the oven), and I found myself finally coming face to face with my longtime bloggy friend and future virtual doula Zakary, after three years of Not At All Bizarre In Theory internet friendship. A blurb in the middle of this sad little pity party of a post does not do justice to how much chill, low-key winedrinking beerdrinking fun I had with Zak and her awesome family (that I wanted to adopt or shove into my suitcase and bring home with me), but suffice it to say that it was all amazing and did my head immeasurable amounts of good. Also, her family are very good sports about letting a strange lady come into their house. (AND, Z’s hair is really long and super pretty in person.) (PLUS we saw Napoleon, which was FUCKING AWESOME, and I took it as a sign that good things are coming. Like, Noah:Rainbow::Me:Black Squirrel. Or something.) But then I had to come back to Houston, where it’s hot as balls and there are no Napoleons OR Napoleannes, and Real Life was ready and waiting to smack me across the face.
The cherry on top of this clusterfuck sundae of emotions is the end of the Space Shuttle Program, with the safe landing of STS-135 Thursday morning. I woke up at the crack of dawn to watch the landing, and shed a few tears, but I know it really hasn’t hit me yet, that it’s Over. A lot of deep thoughts and pretty words have been said about the end of the shuttle program, but I can’t add to them because I’ve already used the word “fuck” enough on this blog for you to know that chaste eloquence is not my bag. But y’all. I was a (very small) part of history, and I’m proud of that, and now it’s over, and I’m kinda bummed. So there.
There is no real point to this post, other than to purge a bit, and to give somewhat of an explanation as to why I’ve been laying even lower than usual. No news isn’t necessarily good news, my chickens. But here’s to things looking up (FOR THE LOVE OF BACON, PLEASE START LOOKING UP), right? **furiously knocks wood**
Butter On My Sweet Potato 