Sunday, December 05, 2004

I told you so

I told you so. I told you so. I told you so!

There. That's a bit better.

It's been a crappy weekend full of crap. My tongue is raw from biting it those many times I almost said "I told you so" but kindly refrained.

It has something to do with how the balcony door decides to blow open all by itself to let in the cold and the snow, and how we're going to fix this problem. Frankly, I no longer remember what it was I told that was "so" — but I needed to say it here to get it out of my system.

This weekend has included much coldness, more child-tending, more tension headaches, less sleep, and considerably less productive work than originally scheduled.

I'm mad that when Helena's home for a day during the week, it's assumed I can drop work, and then that my proclamations that I need to make up some work time go unheard. Well, they're not taken seriously, anyway. And then I get to feel guilty for being a spoilsport too, unable even to enjoy a movie rental and a bottle of wine.

I'm mad that I had to write a test for a job I'm applying for. Because nobody told me anything about writing a test and returning it Monday morning when we were in contact earlier this week to set up an interview. And mostly because I'm sick of this test-writing process. Makes me feel like I'm in high school. But I'm an adult and a professional. Nobody would ask me to write a test if I were applying for the position of chief financial officer.


But I really want this job. For a gazillion reasons. This job could be the coolest job ever.

And then the bank might give us a mortgage so we can buy a house and live happily ever after, and that would be very good too.

I'm mad that I'm getting so mad these last few days. I hate that side of myself. I never knew much about this side of myself at all till recently.

Last night, for the first time ever, I felt old. Not like a grown-up, but like what I imagine most women are trying to express when they obsess over their age. My hands, once beautiful and delicate, are dry and scaly and cracked. I'm not taking care of myself the way I should.

On the up side, Helena was exceptionally cuddly this evening, and spent more than an hour just dozing off in my arms, not wanting me to put her down. And even though this cuddling cut into my work time, the therapeutic benefits were vast and immeasurable.


Anonymous said...

I had a maddening weekend too! My husband's in Rome (curse him!), the boy is taking his sweet time getting well (double curses!), it rained all day yesterday, and what little time I found to write was frittered away with writer's block and my mother calling at an inopportune moment (how do I learn to tell my mother I'm working?!? Especially whan my "work" isn't earning any money?).

Erg. Where do you PUT anger when there's barely room in your life for you?


Isabella K said...

Thank goodness my mother didn't call yesterday, or I would've — I would've TALKED to her.

The smart aleck answer to your question is to put your anger into your writing, your art, your work, whatever. Failing that, put it in your blog. Or someone else's blog.

My brain, contrary to my instructions, has been scanning my anger and sending it to my stomach for storage, where it feels like a very tight and heavy ball on the verge of imploding.

It's times like this I miss yoga (where'd I ever find the time for that?), but I don't think it's quite "violent" enough to help at the moment.

I feel like digging my leather jacket out of storage and heading over to that dive of a bar to pick a fight. Wanna come?

Or maybe a trip to Rome would give me perspective.

Anonymous said...

Hee-hee. Blogger bar brawl! Say that five times fast!

After posting that comment, I made myself go over to the phone and call the babysitter so I can go to my bellydancing class on Tuesday. I had been feeling so sorry for myself that I was just going to skip class and wallow. But that's just really extra stupid.

If you do go to Rome, take me, okay? :)