Post Christmas

Seems like every blog could be about motivation these days. Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me (plenty of people seem to cheerily blog without issue). Other times I think of what I really want to write about and then I'm stuck in the same place--can't write about what's really happening! I suppose that's what a journal is for, but that has collected a fair bit of dust these past few months, as well.

Alas. So, what else is going on, then? Christmas came and went. Santa was extremely good to us (more on that later). Saw my family briefly, and that went without drama. Have about a week before work begins again (sigh, second busiest time of the year when the students go back to school for the Winter semester). My job is now permanent, so that's a pretty big deal.

Not sure what the next year will bring. Sometimes it seems I'm just plugging in time, and I wonder what it's all for. I often think it's because I'm always in some kind of transition; spent a year waiting for my job to become permanent or be dissolved, always waiting to start a family, waiting to go on vacation, waiting for the weekend, and just waiting, waiting, waiting.

I am more hopeful than I come across, but it's a tiny kernel I hold deep inside in case the world leans out to snatch it from me when I'm not paying attention.

Motivation

It's been difficult motivating myself to write these past few months (read: year).

And it's incredibly unmotivating not to be able to write why.

On the inside cover of a Jodi Piccoult book (my current favorite author), she has written that her family life is so boring and uneventful she doesn't/can't draw story ideas from them.

My life is the opposite. There are too many incredibly "real life" events affecting me, my only option is to "fictionalize" these experiences as a form of expression and release. And I can only do that in the creative writing course I'm currently taking.

The creative writing class I'm in is a work shopping type of class. All the students submit "stories" and everyone in the class critiques the writing for grammar, plot, story arc, etc. Both full stories I've submitted are an attempt at putting to paper my real life experiences because I can't write or express myself in any other way.

What is challenging and ironic is how other students will comment on my "story" as not being authentic or believable--which clearly is not the case. There is a staggering difference of ages in the class, and I would say most if not all of these students don't have enough life experience to appreciate what I might be writing about.

I suppose I should be grateful for some form of expression, as other than the occasional therapy, I'm stuck internalizing everything that is happening to me.

I'm not even journaling anymore--couldn't tell you where my current few journals are (I keep more than one).

I know to a certain degree I should just "get over it", but that's always easier said than done. When you're in a rut of a large magnitude, it's hard to see your way out.

Time for a new post

Maybe a longer one by Thursday at the latest!

: )

I am 36, afterall.

After a brief hiatus, I feel motivated to write again. The words have been percolating and I feel a brew coming on because I've been reading Amanda's blog about her pregnancy, which is a genuinely happy, inspiring thing.

I think I'll begin preparing for the Fall creative writing English class; I have to create another portfolio to get into it, which is due by August.

Despite all the nastiness around me (not referring to any lovely pregnant ladies I know), life must go on.

Picture this

There's this thing I do where I ask myself if I can picture something becoming a reality in an attempt to determine the likelihood of it actually becoming a reality. Like when I was dating Rob and would sleep over, I would look around and see if I could picture living there with him, or being married to him. Now I look around and try to picture a child stumbling across the furniture, or me having a big belly and waddling around in discomfort, or us getting up in the middle of the night or morning to soothe and feed a wriggling baby.

I always wonder if I have a hard time picturing it, does that mean it's not going to happen? For the most part I think the answer is yes. And I never seem to revisit the picture to determine if I have been right or wrong.

For a long time I've thought I wouldn't be able to have children...and I seriously doubt I'll be able to. I can't picture our spare bedroom as a babies room. I can't picture a baby pulling themselves up to stand on our coffee table, and I can't picture me coming out of the bathroom holding a stick with a couple of lines on it, or a plus, or however "positive" happens to show.

And I really think I should just give up trying altogether. Just accept it's not going to happen because I can't picture it. Give up the grief of it.

Regardless of how I've ever come across or been labelled, I've actually persevered through all of the shit that has been my life and continues to be thrown my way. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have continued to work on myself; I wouldn't have gotten remarried; I just wouldn't be.

I'm turning 36. That seems a little old to be trying anyway. It's not like I'll be able or willing to afford several thousand dollars to force nature's hand, or able to afford a nanny or two for some inevitable batch of triplets.

I really thought I'd be a good mother, too.

I generally try not to beat my head against the same wall over and over again expecting a different result. After trying and trying to get a job in communications, outside of broadcasting, I finally gave up when it was obvious I didn't have the experience. I finally accepted I didn't have what an employer wanted.

I'm closer to accepting my ovaries don't cooperate.

Why should they, anyway? Life isn't fair. The greatest injustice is we someone learned it should be.

I've had enough happen to me to know the scales are not balanced and they never will be.

Karma is simply not a bitch.

And hope is not a strategy.

Exhale

Friday.

A day off.

After managing a cumulative 10 million dollar deposit over the past three weeks, I get to release the breath I've been holding while I waited for something major to happen. There were definitely stressors, but overall the Winter Fees project was well handled and successful.

Today is my day to relax. Let my shoulders come down from my ears, take a deep breath--exhale.

So far, it's been a perfect day.

I awoke naturally at 8:45, having unplugged the alarm clock the night before. Breakfast was with the kitties, Reynold and Ophila (I slept over at Jorge and Mike's Thursday night) and Reynold was acosting the cereal bowl I was holding as I tried to eat my Oatmeal Cranberry Crisp around her imploring chin. While I checked my email and Facebook, I mentally calculated how much time I had to sit about before I needed to get ready.

I would be heading out to Airdrie to pick up my new pair of glasses. After ordering them the previous Saturday, I was excited for them to arrive. I secretly always wanted glasses before I actually needed them. I always liked the dual personality aspect that glasses afford a person, like a Superman/Clark Kent kind of thing. I think glasses on a person makes them look intelligent and vulnerable at the same time, which I find sexy.

And I wanted to squeeze in a Costco trip before meeting my Robert for lunch downtown at the Oriental Pheonix. And still leave time enough for lounging about in the afternoon. : )

Picking up the glasses went quickly; I thought they were lovely and had a hard time not checking myself out every time I stopped at a red light. Costco was bloody outstanding. My intention was to buy only healthy almond and pecan nut clusters and granola bars, but somehow I made it to the cash register with a pair of chocolate brown ladies Dockers, a sporty summer skirt, two sweaters, a work out shirt and a fitted black outdoor padded jacket.

None of which I could try on, as Costco doesn't have change rooms, and all of which look fabulous here at home! Seriously, the pants are my new favorite, being the pefect length, comfort and style; the sweaters are flattering--one a rich leaf green, dual zippered, the other a soft black form-fitting turtleneck. Nevermind the prices, you know how great the prices are at Costco. I still have pieces of clothing I've bought from Costco that look as great as the day I first got them (for some reason I hear this last bit in the voice of Gilbert Gottfried, probably because I recently watched the roast of Bob Sagat featuring Mr G.)

What kind of karmic shopping bubble was I in? Will I ever fall into it again? What are the actual odds of picking out six pieces of clothing, tops and bottoms--nothing tried on--and have it all fit perfectly? Remarkable.

Lunch with Robert was lovely, as always. He looked handsome in a sporty white, blue and green vertical striped shirt from Gap; he kept telling me how fashionable and "arty" I looked. : ) After a tea and a trip to the British store in Eau Claire (mint Areo bubbles for me and a mint Flake for Rob), I got gas (as in, filled up my car), renewed my registration, purchased cheap movie tickets from AMA--and now I'm on the couch (in my new pants/sweather combo) with a cheerful orange candle burning slowly on the coffee table next to a chilled Smirnoff Ice.

Seriously.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Right now just can't get any better.

Six months of bliss

Rob called me twice at work last night. Once at 5:30 (when I was supposed to be off) and again at 6:30 (45 minutes before I actually left). He offered to put a meal in the oven for me, knowing how long it would take before I'd actually get to walk through the door.

As I drove home, fatigue was pulling at my arms and legs from a particularly hard work out on Sunday, and I could feel the tension from the day ebbing in my shoulders. I found myself speeding as I repeatedly glanced at the clock and mentally timed out how much evening I'd have left before needing to go to bed and begin the next day. Finally in the driveway, I hunched into my coat from the brief exposure to the wind and minus something or other temperature before turning the key in the lock.

The house was dark but I could hear soft music playing in the living room. I turned the hallway light on wondering where the heck Rob was and why he'd left my meal unattended in the oven. Orange candle light flickered from the kitchen table outlining his cheerful face next to a bouquet of tiny orange roses.

I mentally scrambled to figure out if I'd missed anything important and coming up empty, thought of the date. It was the 26th. Ahhhhh....we'd been married for six months. : ) After a sweet hug and a few kisses, I opened the musical card on the table featuring a lyric from Call and Answer by Barenaked Ladies:

"so if you call, I will answer
and if you fall, I'll pick you up
and if you court this disaster
I'll point you home

I'll point you home."

Sweet Robert.

It has been six wonderful months indeed and every day I'm thankful I married such a fabulous, handsome man I now call my husband, my partner and always, my love.

All anyone can do

What we refer to as the "change period" just wrapped up at work. I could wax on about why or why not we refer to the first two weeks of university as the change period, which culminates on the last day of adding, dropping courses and paying fees (this past Friday), but that's really beside the point.

My point being, I made it through. At least two hours of overtime every day, partial breaks, millions of dollars cashiered, balanced and deposited--I was in charge of the fees side of the house managing a small team of people--and we did a great job. The whole operation was relatively smooth. I kept the area organized and we're on target in terms of payments left to process. My boss says I should feel a sense of satisfaction; she felt confident I had things well under control. But after all the anticipation and anxiety surrounding the arrival of this month, it feels anticlimactic now that it's over.

But I may just be reacting to finding out I'm not pregnant (once again). I suppose it's not been that long, 3 months if you're counting, but after the concerted effort of trying not to get pregnant when you're younger, you hope it will happen quite easily once you decide you're "ready". All the while in the back of your mind you wonder if you even have the option. Will the second friggin line ever show up?

The whole process is stressful. Timing things out, waiting, testing. Not drinking. Not eating Caesar salad. Not taking advil. Is this a symptom, is that a symptom? You start to understand how a woman could have a hysterical pregnancy. Never mind all the people who get pregnant no problem, despite weight, how much they drink/smoke/do drugs, while some perfectly healthy people have no chance at all.

How does a person come to terms with this? Or anything else for that matter? There's no such thing as just "relaxing" and "letting it happen." Never mind if you're me. I'm methodical. Linear. There is a logical way of approaching things; it does not involve going with the effin flow. No pun intended.

Is there really a larger plan? Is it more likely that life is a random series of tragedies, luck and nonsensical events all strung together?

Mah.

And I'm reminded of the wasted years. 7 wasted years. If I had those seven years back, Rob and I could have had more time together before attempting a family. Maybe I'd be up right now blogging about how our second baby is keeping me up at night instead of bemoaning my circumstance in a dimly lit room tap tap tapping in front of a glowing monitor. Sigh.

My ex sauntered into the fees area of the University on Friday. We saw one another, I turned my head and kept on walking. Less than a minute later I looked over and he was gone. I have no idea why he was there. What would I say anyway? How's your second wife--the woman you cheated on me with? Do I want to hear if she's pregnant or that you might have twins because that's how life works?

Maybe I just shouldn't watch Grey's Anatomy or ER before bed time. There's some unrealistic nonsensical bullshit. This is where a person gets ridiculous expectations of everything tying together in karmic fashion. I can also blame years and years of reading Harlequin novels. Maybe if I hadn't repressed my teenage angst in stacks and stacks of trashy romance, I'd have had sensible judgement and seven more fertile years.

Maybe I just have to get over it, because hope is what I do have and you can't be all that self indulgent because it just doesn't get you anywhere.

You have to choose to be optimistic.

And remember the good things.

Good friends.

Good family.

A good husband.


"To bear up under loss.
To fight the bitterness of defeat and the weakness of grief.
To be victor over anger.
To smile when tears are close.
To resist evil men and base instincts.
To hate hate and to love love.
To go on when it would seem good to die.
To seek ever after the glory and the dream.
To look up with unquenchable faith in something evermore about to be.

That is what anyone can do, and so be great."