Operation Pink Herring

Taking Charge of Your Insanity

So, about that Oscar the Grouch post that's been decorating the top of this page for the past way too long: I was feeling mighty grumpy that day, as the title suggested. The day after I wrote it, I went around kicking random household items for being so goddamn IN MY WAY all the time. I came close to crying about thirteen times the week, including the moment that I found out there was no new episode of The Ultimate Fighter and when I realized we had no iced tea mix. And then (gentlemen folk avert your eyes) I got my period. Collective palm to the forehead, if you please.

After nearly thirty years (hear me saying the number out loud?) of being a lady-type person you'd think I would be able to recognize some good old fashioned PMS, yes?  But now that we're here in TMI territory, let me tell you something else: I kind of sort of went off the pill in May.

Before you start clapping your hands and throwing pacifiers at me, please know this: we are not "trying." Yet. But, at some point in the soonish (but not TOO soon) future, we would like to maybe think about doing that, so I figured I'd stop taking the pill just to see what would happen. Plus, my prescription ran out three weeks before my annual lady appointment and I didn't feel like calling the office ahead of time to request a special advance refill, so there was that. 

I had credited the pill with keeping me to a handy and convenient 28-day cycle and preventing babies, and not much else. And then I stopped taking it, and you guys... it's been bad. Thanks to your comments on this post I have procured and almost finished reading Taking Charge of Your Fertility, so I understand that my body is a scientific marvel of feminine power, blah blah blah. But tell that to everyone who has to interact with me when I'm riding the hormonal roller coaster, because hoo boy. I turn into this caricature sitcom version of a PMS-fueled bizzotch and even I don't want to be around myself. I have to stifle tears over everything from SPCA commercials to perfectly benign emails. The cat yowling when I get home is enough to set me into a three-day rage over how nobody appreciates anything I do. I watch Bobby Flay's Thanksgiving Throwdown Special and suddenly have an insatiable urge to eat an entire pan of roasted brussel sprouts, despite the fact that I've never before had brussel sprouts or pancetta in my life. After about five days of feeling like a bona fide crazy person I'll start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, please dear baby Jesus, my homicidal mood swings might mean I'm about to get my period.

And then, yup. DURR. Well, who'd have thunk it?

I'm not really sure what the point of this whole story was, but one thing has become pretty clear: when we do decide it's time for babies, I am going to be one fun pregnant person.

The grumpy cyclist

An acquaintance came into my office yesterday and told me all about this shuttle I could take home instead of riding my bike.  I would just need to walk a block over to the shuttle stop, wait outside for the shuttle to arrive, and then I could ride it to the stop that is only a block and a half from my house.  The shuttle comes every half hour, she told me, and it's great!  And then you wouldn't have to ride your bike in the dark!

 

Well, thanks. Except instead of walking a block, waiting up to half an hour, and then walking another block and a half, I think I'll stick with the bike, which I have to wait zero minutes for and takes me directly to my doorstep in less than ten minutes.   

 

I know that people mean well, but this kind of "suggestion" really annoys me.  This same lady is also extremely concerned that I have been riding my bike about 5 miles to a class after work once a week.  The ride kind of sucks because it's uphill on the way there, but it takes only about 15 minutes more than it would take me to drive and park, plus it means I don't have to feel guilty for not going to the gym that day. And better yet, I don't have to deal with parking when I get home at 9:30pm.  Yes, it's dark, but I have a super nerdy red flashing light on my helmet, another light on the front of my bike, and I am careful.  

 

Last night I did decide to drive to the class because: 1) I'd gotten about three hours of sleep the night before thanks to a raging case of insomnia and the idea of moving my legs made me want to vomit, and 2) it was pouring rain.  I made it home a little faster in the car, but then I had to drive around for 25 minutes looking for a parking space. Finally I gave up and parked the car in the no-man's-land ghetto and had to walk five blocks home.  I don't think trekking through the ghetto alone at 10pm and leaving my car there overnight is any safer than riding my bike home in the dark.  

 

She means well, I know that.  She insisted on driving me to this class two weeks ago when she ran into me in the parking lot after work, even though I politely protested and reminded her that if she dropped me off, I'd be left with no way home and I would really be fine on my bike.  No, no, she wouldn't hear of it.  In the time it took to cram my bike into her trunk, I could have been three-fourths of the way there and she could have been home.

 

Before I had my bike, a girl at my old job used to be horrified that I walked to work.  "Don't you have a car?" she asked incredulously. Yes, I do. However, parking costs $120 a month here. I live less than a mile away, I like getting the exercise, I like not paying for gas, and I like not killing the planet. I am more than capable of walking, I told her (politely).  Every time it would snow or rain, she'd say "You walked in THIS?" when I arrived. Yes, I walked today.  I've been walking since before you worked here, and I'm still alive.  Occasionally, if it was really, really pouring, I'd drive.  But honestly, when you have to walk to wherever your car is parked, and then walk again from the parking lot to the office, driving really isn't saving much time in the rain.  "But what about when it SNOWS?" she asked.  Well, in the time it would take me to shovel out my car and navigate the unplowed city streets, I probably could have walked in.  And then after work, I'd have to shovel out another parking space, if I was lucky enough to find one, to put my car back in.  So...I'm fine, thanks.

 

 

I am really not sure why this sort of concern bothers me so much.  I hope and assume that it comes from a place of caring, but it feels an awful lot like judgement; like their way is the right way and my way is the wrong way and I should change to make them feel better.  Instead of making me feel happy that they care enough to be concerned about me, it makes me feel rage-y because you know what?  You're not the boss of me.

******************

Five minutes after I published this post, Joel sent me a link to this article which illustrates reason number five (right behind exercise, saving money, saving the planet, and saving time) I prefer biking or walking over driving around this city: $252 parking ticket!!1!  NO THANK YOU.

 

So much to say

My mom asked me a few weeks ago if I'd lost interest in my blog. The short answer is, no! I haven't! Not at all! 

The longer answer is... long. And I don't know if it matters. For one thing, I don't really have time to write at work any more, which is where I previously did most (all) of my blogging. "I just don't have time" isn't really a valid excuse, though, because I have plenty of time after work. I just have a hard time convincing myself to start up the computer at home when there's laundry to be done and a Tivo cache that isn't going to watch itself. I've long been a believer in guilt-free blogging, so I try very hard not to let myself feel bad about letting the space between posts slip from days to weeks. But I miss it. And the longer I go, the more overwhelmed I feel when I do get the urge to write something. Where to start, when a month has gone by? I don't delude myself into thinking that anyone is really dying to know what they've been missing (hint: not much), I just sort of lose my place and then wander away to eat another of the cookies I made this weekend. They're pretty goddamn delicious, if I do say so myself.

Anyway! The point is, I haven't lost interest. It's just the ebb and flow of internet life, with an extra side of ebb. To try to snap myself out of it, I'm going to let go of my perfectionist tendencies, which dictate that things I write should ideally have a beginning, middle, and end, and you know, make sense. Poppycock, right? Being less hard on myself has only been a goal of mine for the past two decades, so I'm sure it will be no problem at all.

The point of that point is, I do miss you interent.

Hey, want to see a picture I took?

The end.

See, this is working better already.