sueeeus

There aren’t very many women where I work. I’ve been the only woman in my group for many years. Recently, we hired another woman. I had a dream where she was one of the main characters. We stopped by her place for some reason, and she had one of those super cool industrial turned living quarters places. It had all these big pipes and valves running overhead and here and there, and was very spacious. It was relatively new to her, and I’m not sure she knew all the workings of the valves and plumbing. When I walked in, I also noticed she had the exact same furniture set that I inherited from my mom. Only hers was pristine, as though it were fresh off the showroom floor. Mine is in the garage, filled with cobwebs, chipped and scarred and battered and very well worn. I was very impressed with the condition of her furniture. Someone who was with us (it could have been me) fiddled with one of the valves, out of curiousity. What does this do It’s just a water valve. Or something. Suddenly, the room was filling with water. There were these manhole looking plugs in the floor and water was coming up quickly. She ended up with several inches of water on the entire floor before we were able to figure out the proper combination of valves to use to make everything drain and go back the way it was. These are some of the hazards with using an industrial space for a home, when the machinery hasn’t been disabled.

I don’t know what that dream is all about. I don’t even know her. She’s in my group, but not my subgroup, so I never see her and never speak with her, unless it’s group meeting day. Even so, we don’t interact unless work dictates a reason. Not that I wouldn’t be friendly. That’s just how things are at my office. We’re sort of autonomous.

I had another dream that featured my brother as a teenager. He had that sparkle in his eye. It was a good-natured sparkle, as though he were happy and amused by something. We were outside the house, maybe behind it, hanging out on the hill. In real life we seldom hung out together, because I was in college when he was in high school. Maybe I was actually my younger sister in the dream. Anyway, he was making jokes or teasing or just being pleasant. This dream was a happy dream, and it makes me happy and sad to think about it. I wish he could have stayed the kind of person he was in that dream. Happy. Maybe if he could have lived longer, he would have found that sparkle again. I miss him.

A part of me wants to think that the dream was his way of reaching out to me to tell me that he is okay now, and not to worry. All is well. If I could remember that dream more clearly, I might know. But the details of that dream escape me, and I’m left with wistfulness and sadness for the beautiful boy he was, and the troubled man he became. I wonder if the sadness will ever go away. I think of him every day. Every single day. More now than before, when he was alive, when I took for granted that he would always be here, at least as long as I would be here. I figured he’d get through the rough waters and things would settle down and all would be well again.

I had a recurring murderous dream that deeply disturbed me. I already wrote about it. I read somewhere that murderous dreams aren’t really about murder, but about changes in life and/or attitudes. I certainly hope so. Even so, those kinds of dreams shake me up. To the core.

It’s late. I should be sleeping. But I have so little me time. Not that I have anything in particular to write about. I’m a good waster of time. I just wasted a good half hour reading through previous posts. Of my own. I ponder a bit over why I would be entertained by day-to-day things that I posted previously. There have been times when I’ve gone through old journals and read them as well. Consuming quite alot of time in the process. I guess it’s not so odd. At least not for me.

Here’s something. I love sentence fragments! Okay, I don’t really. But I talk this way. Sometimes. And it’s kind of fun, even liberating, to write this way. I feel like I’m a kid getting away with something. Something devious. You see, my dad is a linguist. A genius, really, as far as language goes. At one time he could speak, read, and write in 14 languages. Later, he added a couple more, speaking only. I asked him to teach me French when I was a teenager. It didn’t last long. He wasn’t very patient with me. Later, I took a semester of French in college and did quite well. I was the second best in the class. Excellent pronunciation, I was told. I would have liked to have given it more time and become fluent.

Anyway. About language. My dad would constantly correct us. No split infinitives! No dangling participles! Blast! Bloody Barbarian! I don’t actually know what a split infinitive is, or a dangling participle. I know I’ve looked them up before, but I can never keep those definitions in my mind. I can’t keep any grammatical definitions in my mind, come to think of it. Except conjunctions. Know why Conjunction junction, what’s your function First person, second person, third person I guess I could figure out first person would be “I this, I that”, and maybe second person would be “she this, she that” Or “you this, you that” Is third person “Sueeeus this, Sueeeus that” I don’t know these things. I have a worn copy of Strunk and White that I consult if the need arises. But anyway, I don’t care! It’s my blog, and I’ll write the way I want to!

So. I was thinking about dreams and recurring dreams and dream analyses. With a little forboding I mustered up the courage to google dream analysis. According to the experts (insert grain of salt) dreams of murder are about radical change, or the death of an attitude or belief within yourself. I’ve been thinking of making radical changes in my diet. I’ve been daydreaming of making radical changes in my lifestyle. I haven’t actually done either.

I was thinking about those people who get bariatric surgery. It’s scary. One in a hundred DIE from it. The lap band is supposedly the safest and least invasive. Before I read about what a post-op lap band patient eats, I thought it would be the easy thing to do. Physically render oneself unable to overeat. So why not avoid the risk of death by surgery and try the diet alone I read up on the diet they have to follow post op. It’s basically liquid – protein shakes – for the first six weeks, then low carb after that. Needless to say, tiny portions all along. So it seems to me to be very much like what I would call a crash diet followed by an Atkins/South Beach/low carb/diabetic diet. All the experts say not to crash diet. It’s the worst thing. So how can the lap band be a good thing Crash dieting screws up your metabolism. Of course I know it’s true. I’ve done that before, more than once, and did hose my metabolism, more than once. The lap banders do lose the weight. Do they keep it off Do they hose their metabolisms

TV advertises wonder pills like Relacor, Cortislim and Zotrin. A little pill to make you happy and make you lose weight. They call it (Relacor) the happy pill. Can it be that easy I wish. But I don’t think so. I don’t trust it. People died from diet pill crazes. Ephedra I think it makes holes in your heart. I think one of my brother’s (still living) compromised his heart with that stuff. Scary!

The simple answer, although not so simple in execution (for me, anyway), is to eat right, in moderation, and exercise. When I went to Europe the first time, I backpacked for two months. I walked somewhere every day, went outside every day, and ate when I was hungry. I lost 20 lbs and toned up and looked the best I’ve looked in 20 years, all without even trying. That was twelve years ago. The office job is not so good on my waistline. Or my well-being. But it does allow for the roof over my head. With the job comes much stress. Without it would come more stress, but in a different flavor. I’m now daydreaming of a lifestyle and adventure something on the order of Under a Tuscan Sun.

Show and Tell, a fun diversion brought to Blogworld compliments of Blackbird.
I’m partial to Tiffany lamps. I love them! My sister gave me this one. Such an extravagant gift. I love it love it love it! My great grandfather made the little oak table upon which it rests.
This is a much less expensive dragonfly lamp. It’s a torchiere. There used to be a pair, but there was a little mishap not too long ago.

I even have more Tiffany lamps! Well, just a couple, hanging from the living room ceiling. A purposefully unmatched pair. This particular one did much to help my baby through his colic. For some reason, he loved to stare at it and it calmed him down. The other (no pic) is also a pendant, and much less busy, but in the same color scheme.

There is much color at Chez Piggy.

It’s been that kind of a morning…

Where the head is pounding so hard that it wakes you up at 3 am and you lie as still as you can hoping you can relax enough to go back to sleep and pray that the headache will be gone when you wake up, but you finally give up and stumble downstairs to take 4 ibuprofen, yes, 800 milligrams, then lie as still as possible waiting for them to take effect, knowing it will be at least 20 minutes, all the while wondering if you should perhaps go try and throw up because possibly if might make you feel better, and you actually nearly talk yourself into trying it when you hear the baby crying and need to get him a bottle and hopefully get him to go back to sleep so that you yourself can go back to sleep and hopefully, oh hopefully, wake up without the headache.

Where, two hours later, you get up because the baby is up again, and you are blissfully happy that the headache has receded, even though you can feel it lingering and you keep on hoping that it won’t return as you try to calculate through the fog that is in your brain how many hours you will have to wait before you can subject your body to any more ibuprofen.

Where you call in sick to the office, but you have to keep the baby home all day too, because, after all, he started all of this, with the pink eye and germs he brought home from daycare, and he can’t go back for 24 hours.

Where he feels fine and wants to play and you’re miserable with aches and pains and congestion and phlegm, all on the way to a full blown sinus infection, so you barricade him into the living room with the sofa making most of the barricade and you lie down so that your body spans the rest so that he is fully enclosed and can play with a pile of toys while you try to sleep a little bit more, just a little bit more.

Where he plays with the lid to his drum and decides to bang it on your head. Oops, says his expression, but not really.

Where he thinks it is not much fun at all to be confined to a play space with his mama when there is a whole house to explore beyond her.

Where you finally think you are ready to handle some coffee and toast, because your tummy is grumbling and your head is starting to pound again, but you’re not sure whether it will help or hurt, but you don’t dare anyway, because you don’t want to make any noise since the baby finally fell asleep for his morning nap, so instead you go whine about it all on your blog…

It’s been that kind of a morning.

February Theme: All of Me.

Up close and personal. A forty year old complexion. One might be able to see the wrinkles if it weren’t for the water retention.

Up close, it looks kind of scary to me. All these bumps and lumps and things. And fuzz in places. I don’t like to look up close.

I don’t wear foundation. The thought of colored goo all over my face kind of grosses me out. I don’t use fancy schmancy cleansers and products. I just never got into all that personal care stuff. Probably because at the core, I’m lazy. I wash my face every morning with soap and water. Once in a while I might use lotion, if it’s winter time, the skin is dry and scaly, and if I remember. Usually, I don’t remember.

I don’t use makeup remover. Well, I do. It’s called a pillowcase. What little makeup remains by the end of the day accompanies me to bed. I don’t wear very much makeup. Eyeliner, brow pencil, a little shadow, mascara, and lip color. I use that all day lip stuff, so it goes on once, and if it lasts, it lasts. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I’m not the glamour girl of my youth, and I can’t be bothered with using much of my precious time on appearance. I give it the bare minimum effort.
I think I’m aging rather gracefully, even so. I’m not complaining. But then again, I don’t look too closely.

• I have post nasal drip. Again. I hate post nasal drip.
• Sometimes my dreams are so realistic that they freak me out. Sometimes I wake up my husband and tell him about my dreams and make him assure me that they’re not real.
• Sometimes these dreams are so realistic that I don’t believe him when he reassures me that it wasn’t Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the pipe wrench.
• Sometimes I think I have a recurring dream, but I realize it might be that I’m dreaming that I’m dreaming. And this freaks me out as well.
• Sometimes I get deja-vu. Like right now. And this sort of freaks me out too.
• When I have a night like last night, I wake up wondering if I’m losing my mind. Or if I should call the police. Or at least say a few Hail Marys.
• How does one pluralize Hail Mary, non-possessive Hail Maries
• I believe there’s more to seeking pardon than chanting.
• Is a person responsible for what they dream
• Maybe I’m a reluctant psychic. (More freaking out.)
• Perhaps I watch too much TV, especially CSI.
• The latter is the most plausible explanation.
• Perhaps I am becoming mentally ill.
• Also plausible.
• Could be more freaking out if I don’t stop thinking.
• The baby woke up crying at 3 a.m. Heart wrenching crying. Was he dreaming bad dreams Is he mentally connected to me Did I dream the bad dreams before or after he woke up I don’t remember.
• He’s got five teeth pushing through at once. It must not be very comfortable. Poor little guy.
• If I really did have a recurring dream, should I look into it further Dream analysis
• I wonder if dream analysis is a bunch of hooey.
• Or not.
• Again, too much TV. Maybe I should write for CSI. I have material.
• I need to load up on some romantic comedies or slapstick or anything light-hearted.
• Inspector Clousseau, I need you.
• I don’t always have bad dreams. Sometimes they’re quite nice. Most times they’re decidedly odd, but not without explanation.
• I think I need to change shampoo for a while. My hair is all limp and doesn’t feel fresh, even though I just showered.
• I am so tired.
• When the mascara brush barely grazes the surface of the eye and the eye tissue instantly gets all gooey, it probably means it’s time to get new mascara.

I wonder if that ref was BLIND. No way was that a touchdown. How lame!
Things were going so well, but I have to say, there were quite a few questionable calls. In Pittsburgh’s favor. What’s up with that
But what the heck. Who cares. It’s just a game. We had fun.

It’s Superbowl Sunday and the boys are ready. Go Hawks!
Check back in a few hours to see if they’re still smiling.

Nine Thousand Two Hundred Eighty point Two ounces. One Thousand One Hundred Ten point Five hours. Seventy Two point Five gallons. Forty Six point Three days. These are the numbers of my commitment to nourish my baby with mother’s milk. Mother’s milk drawn drip by feeble drip from a disappointingly under-productive set of double-dees. Oh, sweet nectar of life. How hard you made me work for you. Two rounds of galactagogues. Four pumps – the first pump didn’t cut the mustard, and we had to bring in the big guns. The second was a hospital rental while I scrambled to find my own on eBay, the third. Then one night, a few months later, during the midnight shift, the belt slipped from the shaft and the workhorse would work no more. Enter the fourth, another rental to see me through while my workhorse companion traveled to the land of Medela for service, because it is nigh unto impossible to acquire a simple little part to fix it oneself. No, one must have factory authorized service, shipping and insurance, for over a hundred dollars. (To their credit, the pump returned fully refurbished, with all new parts, shining as though it were brand new.)

It’s been a long journey. I was heartbroken that my beautiful boy wouldn’t nurse. Heartbroken. It’s not that big of a deal, people would say to me. An entire generation was raised on formula, when breastfeeding was no longer de la mode, my doctor told me. But it was a big deal to me. It mattered to me. I wanted that full natural mother experience. I wanted the labor. I wanted the natural delivery. I wanted to breastfeed. Those first post-partum days were difficult for me. I struggled with such a load of self-inflicted disappointment. Disappointment that I didn’t labor. The baby didn’t even drop, let alone get ready for any journey out. He was quite happy where he was, or perhaps he was too big to drop. He was 10 lbs 7 oz, after all, at 39 weeks. No contractions. No labor. No natural delivery. Scheduled C-section at 39 weeks. And then, where was the milk The lactation consultants assured me that the baby was getting what he needed from the measly drops of colostrom that my defective mammaries produced. They were wrong. How disappointed I was with the supply issues I faced, on top of everything else. I didn’t even produce enough for a normal sized baby, yet here I was trying to feed my supersized child. I couldn’t do it. Even with the help of galactagogues, and pumping for hours upon hours, I still had to supplement with formula. It was exhausting, to have to pump so frequently and for such a long time. Sleep when baby sleeps, everyone told me. But I had to pump. Because I wanted to hold him, and try to breastfeed him, when he was awake. I was so stubborn! I wanted him to have the benefits of breast milk, and by golly, he was going to get it. Again, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have been so neurotic. I should have gotten some more sleep.

He did nurse a few times. I have a wonderful and warm memory of those few precious moments where we bonded, skin to skin, baby to mother, the way it was supposed to be. For that experience, I am forever grateful.

In the early days when life was little more than a blur, I told myself I could do it, I could make it to two months. Poor little big guy was a colicky boy, to top things off. Because I needed to experience a screaming child wailing for hours upon hours, who would only settle down if continually bounced. And I had plenty of time and energy for that, between feeding attempts and pumping. Obviously. Of course.

We got through the colic, and I set my sights on six months. It seemed like forever, but they say that six months is the magic line where health benefits are evident. Six months. I could make it, I told myself. And I did. I found a routine, finally, where I could get some sleep, not nearly as much as I’d like, but enough to keep my sanity. I managed to supply 75-80% of his milk needs, in the first six months.

Having a routine helped, so I made a new goal. One year. Twelve months. You can do it, I told myself. There were many times that I nearly gave up. But I persevered, and I made it. After he started solids, at six months, and after the second round of galacatogues, I was eventually able to supply nearly 100% of his milk needs.

Looking back, I’m not sure why I was so resolute. Perhaps it was because I had been barren for so many years. Perhaps it was because I knew that this might be the only child I could ever have, and this was a one time opportunity. I do have a strapping healthy boy, and I am grateful.

If there is a next time, I don’t know that I’d make this kind of a milk commitment again. If there is a next time, I will maintain the hope that my baby will nurse, I’ll pump to avoid engorgement, and I’ll start the fenugreek early. If there is a next time, I may not keep as copious notes.

What an exciting topic for me! I love leather! I love bags! Excuse me while I hyperventilate. Okay, I’ve caught my breath. Bags! Leather! Oh, dear, here we go again.

I must preface the dissertation with the information that, although I LOVE bags and leather, especially good leather, I’m very frugal and deny myself the truly exquisite. I admire the truly fine and exhorbitantly expensive from a distance.

I used this bag all summer. It’s a fun style and a fun color, and has a surprising amount of usable space. But I am fickle, and I am through with it. I am thinking of sending it to a certain somebody who has a raspberry hat that it might match quite well. It doesn’t seem quite her style… Yet, one word, and it’s in the mail!

I have returned to this bag, which I grew weary of and stashed away for a time, knowing I would one day return. This is a souvenir I bought in Paris. How cool is it to say, in an uppity nasal voice, when someone admires it and exclaims, ooh, Paris, when they see the word embossed in a chic and understated type on the front, Oh this I got it the last time I was in Paris. Implying that I often go to Paris. Of course, I work with men, and when I go out in public, wait, I almost never go out in public… Suffice it to say, nobody’s ever noticed. But I love it.

It’s probably on a par with the brands one might find at Target here, for all I know, but all the same, it’s leather, it has a nice finish, and I like it. It’s not perfect, but it’s got some good features. It can be worn over the shoulder, or backpack style if absolutely necessary (although the latter method is not very elegant, especially on someone of my size).

Look! It has a matching wallet with a well thought interior configuration. Yes, it was extra, but I was on vacation, and when will I ever go to Paris again I was just daydreaming this morning that my sisters and I could take a trip to Paris and see the sights, admire the paintings in the Louvre, nibble on delights at the corner cafes and stroll along the Seine. That would be a fine thing to do, indeed.


I’ve had these for quite a while. I’m thinking of putting them on eBay, because I never use them and there’s little point to holding on to them. I couldn’t quite muster the resolve to give them to Goodwill with the others I let go recently, so they are hanging in the office, waiting to learn their fate. The satchel/briefcase is big. The leather is extra thick and strong. It’s not a name brand bag, but it was still very expensive (to me), when I got it. The other is a Coach bag. It was my ultimate dream bag for years, and then I found it at a thrift store (still very expensive, by thrift store standards). I had a copy that I had been using, then switched to the real thing. I actually liked the copy better.

Go see Blackbird for more Show and Tell!