May 5, 2009 by Marj Hatzell
(Or, Things That Make Me Pull My Hair Out).
See, it’s a good thing I’m this rational, sane woman, ’cause if I wasn’t, folks would really think I’ve lost it. Those of you laughing, STOP IT RIGHT NOW.
Let’s see. There’s the rain. No, it isn’t rain. It’s like one long continuous shower. For hours. And days. And now, weeks. As in, it will rain everyday this week until Sunday. It has been raining for a week already. Why is this stressful? Two words: INDOOR RECESS. Not enough? Two more words: ACTIVE BOYS. I’m pretty certain I will be curled up in a ball sucking my thumb by this weekend. And I’m pretty sure I just saw animals walking down the street two-by-two.
Then there’s my primary doc. Remember I reported about how crappy I’m feeling? And that I was looking forward to going to the doc to get blood work and maybe some answers? Well. I showed up for my appointment yesterday, sat there for a while (typical) and the receptionist finally told me that there was no appointment. And they weren’t going to do blood work, because they DON’T DO fasting blood work. And they didn’t have an appointment available until ten thirty and did I want to wait? Because they AREN’T GOING TO DO BLOOD WORK but I can wait for two hours if I want to. Now, this is the THIRD TIME this has happened. I call for an appointment and some ninny answers the phone and either puts me in at the wrong time, on the wrong day or skips it all together. And to make it worse, my doc (in a private practice) shares a waiting room, receptionist and checkout with three other practices. And that sucks. I like my doc, but I’ll be looking for a new one. I don’t think waiting in the office for THREE HOURS or more is good for my complexion. Or my ulcer. No really, I have one! Go figure!
Then there’s my husband. I love him, really. But these surprise “work from home days” when he just doesn’t feel like getting out of bed and fighting traffic? And I have it planned to steam carpets or run the vacuum or do noisy things? So I can’t do them, even do the laundry, because it makes noise and he’s on a phone meeting. And then he has the audacity to say things like, “WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?” Because all I can do when he’s home is pick up around the house and fold clothes (but can’t wash them until he’s on a break). Since I am totally not a spontaneous person (in other words, I DON’T DO SURPRISES), this is a teensy bit stressful for me. I need to know things, like, twenty years in advance.
Then there’s the whole picking-schools-for-Bugaboo thing. We have three top choices. He has bee guaranteed a spot in our second and third choice schools. But we haven’t heard squat from our number one choice. Numero Uno hasn’t returned two phone calls now. And I’m not sure why. Well, I know why. It no doubt means that there is no spot for him, and they will put me in a pile and get to me when they have a spot. And I really, really, REALLY want him to go there. It is the best case scenario. They have the best behavioral programming. The school is safe, welcoming and warm. The kids and staff are all happy. They have YEAR ROUND PROGRAMMING. Choice #2 has no summer program and choice #3 has only six weeks in the summer (which is going to become choice #2 soon). I’m going to chew my nails off and gain forty pounds from stress eating. Thank goodness for potatoes.
Then there’s the fact that if I had a decent-paying job right now, we could afford a deck AND a swim club membership AND extra private therapy AND a vacation. Instead of having to choose between them. It sucks. The problem is, until Bugaboo is in a full-time program, I cannot return to regular work. His schedule is funky, and no job I know of is THAT flexible. Plus, if he doesn’t get into Numero Uno school, he will have the same funky schedule he has now. Which means, no decent paying job. I’ll have to keep babysitting and tutoring (which I’ve been doing for twelve years now, I’d love a change).
I should just shave my head. It will save me the trouble of trying to do a comb-over to cover the bald spots that appear when I’ve torn all of my hair out.