Blog Vomiting

I hate my life. I hate being home with the kids all day. I hate that I’m the one responsible for the majority of the housework even though I also work 30 hours a week outside the house. I hate that my kids don’t listen to me. I hate that my husband doesn’t listen to me, turning every issue I have back on to me and blaming me for whatever problems I have with him. I hate that he never, ever, EVER apologizes to me when he’s done something wrong. I hate that he can’t even admit that he HAS done something wrong.

People think I’m kidding when I say I want to run away, but I honestly do. I can’t stand my life right now and at the moment, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to get any better any time soon and I’m not sure how much more of this shit I can take before I go completely batshit insane. I’m so stressed out. I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want to see anyone, I just want to be left the fuck alone. I’m taking everything very personally, unless people are talking to me in the gentlest of tones, using non-accusatory words and I know it’s because I’m stretched as taut as I can be. The lightest of touches is going to make me snap in two.

I can’t seem to make my husband realize how stressed I am by all of this. When I do talk to him about it, he suggests that I get a full-time, week-day job, which would be great except that I can’t find anything that would pay enough to have both kids in day care. Working at night and all weekend long (seriously – 19 hours on Saturday and Sunday alone this week) is burning me out. I never have any time to myself except for Friday nights and by then, I’m so fucking strung out that I wind up having a few drinks and being completely overwhelmed and going home before I take all my frustrations out the people I’m hanging out with.

Things need to change soon.

Tales From The Big Box Store

I’ve been working in the pharmacy at The Big Box Store lately. It’s good, mostly, except for days like today, when I worked with the least talkative man ever. The man doesn’t make any chit chat – no “how was your weekend?” no “So, do you have kids?” Nothing. Just eight hours of silence. You’d think that would be relaxing but really? Not so much. It kind of creeps me out. The man doesn’t say anything. Regardless. It’s a nice change of pace from cashiering; it’s busy and there’s a lot to learn, which means my shifts go by quickly.

But man, there are some people out there on some serious-ass drugs. I fill a ton of prescriptions for Metformin and various statins. Lots of anti-depressants and anti-psychotics and anti-anxiety drugs, too. But mostly what gets filled, and not by me, since it’s a controlled substance, is oxycodone. That shit flies out of the store. And some of the people taking it have been taking it for years. The pharmacist told me that there are some doctors in the area that just keep prescribing it for people, who don’t care or don’t realize that their patients have been on this stuff for ages. It’s ridiculous.

I also get a lot of men of a certain age coming in for Viagra. Damn, that shit’s expensive. Fifteen pills? $225.25. That’s $15.01 per hard on.

I always feel a little odd when I ring them up and tell them to have a good night. Frankly, I just don’t want to know what kind of night they’re going to have, thank you very much.

Dream Space

I’ve never been particularly ambitious to run my own company, start up something in the garage (or shed, since I have no garage) or invent something that will save the world.

But I have always wanted to own my own book store.

I know just what it will look like, too.

It will be in an old building, maybe a small workshop type of space, something with wooden floors and nooks and crannies. Bookshelves will be nicely spaced, so there’s room for people to browse back to back without doing bumping butts with each other (unless you like that sort of thing, of course, but maybe that behaviour isn’t really suited for a book shop). The lighting will be good but not glaring and the shelves will be well-organized but not sterile.

There will be lovely leather armchairs placed under windows and in alcoves so you can drop into them and peruse your selection for a minute or an hour. There will be tables for those who prefer to read that way, with good lamps on them.

There will be tufted ottomans and squishy green velvet love seats. And there will be a cat. A big, fluffy, friendly cat who sleeps on the chairs and keeps the mice at bay.

But mostly there will be the books. New books, used books, old books, books of all types. Books on shelves that reach to the ceiling, complete with ladders for easy access.

It will be cozy and quiet and welcoming and it will feel just like home.

Sweet Child o’ Mine

I’ve hesitated in writing about this because the subject makes me feel horrible, but it’s been hanging over me for months now and I have to get it all down.

I’m taking Boo in to have her evaluated. Her behaviour is out of control much of the time. She cannot tolerate any frustration at all – the slightest thing sends her into paroxysms of rage, shrieking and crying over tiny impediments. She does not listen to anything she’s told; if I tell her to stop running in the house, she will stop but within half a second, is tearing around the house again. When the Bug is colouring, Boo will rip the crayons out of her hand because she wants to use it. Mind you, she’d been happily been using another colour moments before, but because the Bug has it, Boo wants it. Even though I generally buy them their own toys (2 sets of crayons, 2 of the same doll, within reason, of course) Boo always takes the Bug’s things.

Lately she’s been biting the Bug. The other day, she bit her so hard that the Bug has a mark on her back, five days later. She hits her a lot, although the Bug gives back almost as good as she gets, minus the biting. Lately, the hitting and biting has really been escalating. Whenever Boo gets frustrated with the Bug, instead of screaming at her/about her, she now hits or bites.

The not listening to me thing took on terrifying proportions the other day. I decided to take the girls to the beach – they’d never been to the ocean before and it’s been ages since I’d been. We drove down to East Lyme, CT and for a little while, we had a great time. We’d been there about two hours when Boo decided to go get a bucket of water. I got up to follow her. The beach was packed, so I had to look down to avoid stepping on people and when I looked up, she was gone. I walked down the beach for a minute to see if I could find her but when I couldn’t, I went to the lifeguard. He radioed it in and a bunch of lifeguards and park rangers immediately fanned out and began looking for her. I think it was the longest 20 minutes of my life until they found her, four life guard chairs down the beach, still dragging her little green bucket. I hugged her and hugged her and cried.

What was so infuriating about this incident is that not half an hour earlier, she’d done the same thing. I found her in a minute that time and impressed upon her that she had to stay with me because of all the people and all the water around. She’s constantly taking off, running out the front door, dashing away from me in parking lots and the market and nothing I say will make her stay with me. I know this is pretty typical behaviour for someone her age (4.5) but combined with all the other things she does, it’s just one more in a list.

She’s defiant and destructive a lot of the time. Her favourite word is no and her favourite thing to so is run away from me, hiding whatever it is she’s not supposed to be doing. She rips up books, she’s torn the legs off two plastic baby dolls, she’s destroyed just about every toy I’ve bought her. She’s snuck crayons into her room and drawn murals on the wall. The most disgusting thing is the poop. When she’s mad at me or frustrated or just generally pissed off, she goes upstairs and poops in her closet. A few times she’s smeared the poop on the walls and on the window screens. It’s disgusting. And yes, I’ve bought locks for the closet.

It’s not like she’s not getting attention from me: she is. I take them to the library and the park and we play outside. I read to her and play with her when the Bug naps, so she gets some one-on-one time with me. But I do have to occasionally do things like laundry and dishes and make meals and pee. And when I do those things, she gets in trouble.

I’m at the end of my wits here. I hope the woman I’m seeing on Thursday can help. I don’t want her medicated, I just want some help. I hate the way I feel when Boo is acting like this. I hate how enraged I get by her continuous bad behaviour. I hate that I can’t take her anywhere without worrying about whether she’ll melt down or run away. Most of all, I hate the guilt that’s eating me up over all of this.

Of course, as I sit here typing this, she and her sister are having a very elaborate tea party at my feet and have been doing so for a good 20 minutes now with only a few minor whinges….

Pictures Of You

While I was at BlogHer, I took some time out with Kerri and Rachel to go to Millenium Park. It was hot. It was shiny. And I forgot my sunglasses. But while we were trying to take pictures, we stumbled upon this guy who had an amazing camera. And he took this shot of the three of us. And I don’t think I look like the side of a barn in this shot. So I’m posting it on here. I’m the one in the middle.

Please. No mocking.