An Entire Post About Annoying Elevator Behavior

Here are some things that piss me off about the elevator: 

People who take the elevator to go up or down one floor.  Seriously?  Unless you are physically disabled, old, or pregnant - It won't kill you to take the fucking stairs.

People who board the elevator and without even looking you in the eye say something like, "Four, please."  What the fuck do I look like?  A bellhop?  Do you see me wearing a stupid hat and brass buttons? I don't work in the elevator.  I don't live to serve you.  Press the goddamn button yourself.

People who look into the crowded elevator with a disgusted look on their face and proclaim, "I'll wait for the next one."   I'm sorry, do we smell?  You caused the elevator to stop and then you reject it?  Fuck you.

Similarly, people who with ten suitcases, a pallet of boxes or an extra 300 pounds or so that try to squeeze into an already crowded elevator.  No room for you and all your shit. Wait 20 seconds for the next one.   

And also - dude who says, "C'mon in, we got room!" and then backs up and presses you against the wall.  Hello?  This physical space is already occupied. 

People who stand directly in front of the doors while waiting for the elevator.  This goes for the subway too.  Please, back your ass up and allow people to disembark. 

People who hold open the elevator in order to keep talking to someone in the hallway.  By all means, finish your conversation.  I'll wait. After all, my life is not as important as yours. 

And there you have it - a complete bitchfest about the elevator that doesn't even include things like bodily functions and mundane comments regarding the weather or what day of the week it presently  "feels" like. 

I should probably just take the stairs...

It's coming back

The crazy.  The irritability.  The psychosis.  Oh no!

I have experienced nearly a year and a half of absolutely symptom-free PMDD, but even though I am still nursing, I can feel it beginning to rear its ugly head.

We watched Silver Linings Playbook on Friday night.  And though I was relieved that it isn't at all similar to my "novel," the subject matter still made me a bit uncomfortable.  Girl acting like a total pyscho-bitch, the struggle of whether or not to take the meds, etc, is all too familiar.  My case is not that extreme, thank God- but it is there enough to strain my relationships and significantly affect my life.

One long-term romance did end over my "craziness" and refusal to medicate. (Or did it?  He is a pathological liar who is crazier than I will ever be.)  But still my role in our cancelled wedding and train-wreck of a relationship makes me paranoid about driving Tim away. 

To compound the worry: hormone free birth control (the copper IUD), is apparently, after 2 attempts - not for me. I am researching other options and hoping I land on one that doesn't aggravate the condition.

Some of the smallest everyday occurrences are beginning to irritate me, some of which are completely unavoidable.

Here are some common triggers:

• Septa passengers;
• Nail biting, nail picking - anything involving nails;
• Whistling;
• Movies with explosions;
• Movies with screaming;
• Movies with car chases;
• Bad movies from the 80s and 90s;
• People who ride bikes on the sidewalk;
• People who walk too closely behind me;
• Sports talk radio;
• The elevator.

My God, the elevator!  I could write an entire post about annoying elevator behavior. 

Here's Why...

I love Tim. 

Conversation we had late last night on the death of rapper Chris Kelly from Kris Kross:

Should we get all our cheesy jokes out of the way now?

Ok...

Kris Kross'll make ya, slump! slump!

He got totally krossed out.  

At least he will never ever miss the bus again.  

That's wiggeta wiggeta wiggeta wack.  

Are we done?  

Yeah.

Also, I mean no disrespect - whichever one you are - the dark one or the "hot" one with the shaved eyebrow.  You graced my bedroom walls back in the day and brought back the 90s in a big way today.  May you rest in Peace.    

I want a new drug

I just discovered a new way to get high. 

Now that I have been THC free for quite a long while, I had sort of forgotten what it feels like to walk around kinda fucked up and out of it.  Until this morning, when I "woke up" from a long night of not really sleeping because my child seems to have suddenly lost her goddamn mind. 

I had convinced myself at some point around 3 or 4 a.m. that I needed to "cleanse" her nursery with sage because an evil spirit must be possessing her.   This, of course, is insane.  The demon that turns her into Mr. Hyde's baby is a little bit of gas in her tummy.  Tim has even composed a song, "Just a fart"  that he sings as he dances her around the room.  (Lyrics: shh! it's just a fart; calm down, it's just a fart; it's ok, it's just a fart, justa fart, justa fart.)

Anyway, this morning, as I was lying there in the haze of confusion/sleep deprivation, I was thinking about my to-do list for the day.  I keep putting it off, but I really need to write my application essays for that Masters program.

I only need to answer two simple questions, but I just can't get it up for it, and I don't know why.

I also thought -I really need to call my mentor back, but I have been putting that off too...

And then I had an epiphany not unlike that moment of clarity you get when you are really stoned and are suddenly on the outside looking in: 

I don't want to call James because I don't want to hear what James is going to say.

(James is going to say, "Don't apply for that Masters program.  It's a waste of your time." James is going to say - "You need an M.F.A., not another worthless, meaningless masters degree you are getting because it's free.")

Goddamn it.  Imaginary James is always right. 

I've been brainstorming for ways to make more money outside of my job - and sculpey sales is not the answer, (although I made $40 bucks last week).  Deep down I know that the answer has something to do with creative writing... publishing, teaching, running workshops, something.  But I know it's going to require a lot of work, a lot of balls, and unfortunately - a lot of money up front.

I did some research this morning on an MFA program I had considered before I got pregnant.  The timing wasn't right and for some reason I can't even remember, I put the whole idea on the shelf.  Today I saw those three magical words of possibility: "currently accepting applications..." and immediately began crafting an inspired, passionate essay. 

This is more like it. This feels right. This is what I should be doing. I've never been so sure about anything in my whole life.  Application is progress.  Wish me luck.   

RHQV

Yesterday baby Q turned six months old and I wore a pair of pre-pregnancy pants to work.  She got four shots at her checkup last night (17 pounds, 6 oz, 26 inches tall) and woke up with a fever this morning.

It's her first one - and we would know, because we take her temperature a lot.  Every time she seems out of sorts or uncharacteristically grumpy, the thermometer goes in her armpit. Apparently, fevers are pretty freakin' obvious.  Now we know. 

I asked Tim's opinion on whether to give her some Tylenol (also a first) and he asked if we should crush one up and put it in her milk. (Don't worry - when he saw the horrified look on my face, he assured me that he would have googled it first).  

But she picked a good day to be sick - it's beautiful out. I took her for a walk to the grocery store (where else when you are playing housewife?) and stopped in Starbucks to grab a cup of coffee.

And here is something...while at Starbucks, I'm pretty sure someone tried to pick me up.

It was, of course, another Mom.  Expensive stroller, all dolled up, the whole bit. We talked about babies for a while and then when I turned to leave, she looked disappointed and hesitated a bit like she was about to ask for my number.

I still had my groceries with me and I wonder if she peeked into my stroller basket, saw the organic peas and thought I was one of the Real Housewives of Queen Village.

Q's school pictures came with a coupon for 25 free "Mommy cards."  I investigated and learned that mommy cards are business cards for mommies.  You use them to set up play dates.  The whole mom dating thing is really bizarre and the other city mommies make me feel inadequate.  It harkens back to dating in my 20s.

We met a couple who lives a few blocks away when we were out to dinner a few weeks ago and I felt obligated to tell the wife (who had a gigantic diamond on her finger) that "we're only renting."

I wish we could afford to buy a house in our neighborhood- but the fact is - we can't.  We can afford a beautiful house in a lovely neighborhood in the suburbs, and I need to be satisfied with that.  I noticed yesterday a slump in Tim's shoulders and I realized it is a direct result of the pressure I've been putting on him to somehow find a way for us to stay in the city. 

Note to self: Tell him (sincerely) that anywhere we can be together is home for me. 

I don't want to date those snobby mommas anyway. 

P.S. Q hated the peas:

Be Careful What You Wish For

Two posts ago, I wrote about how I wanted to start doing some sculpey again and perhaps some academic pursuits. 

Well, the universe answered. 

I was at a Christening on Sunday when my phone started blowing up with texts telling me that Tastykake promoted my Krimpet cufflinks on their official Facebook page. 

Of course - my Etsy shop was in vacation mode and all the listings were expired, so I had to scramble to get them back up.  Over 400 potential customers visited the page. Talk about a kick in the ass.  Thank God for it, but it's hilarious how many people I know who follow Tastykake on Facebook. 

In the academics department - last week I sent an email to ask a question about the Masters program I am thinking about.  The fall deadline was March 1, so I indicated that I'd likely be applying for spring.  He wrote back and said that they would make an exception for me if I get all my materials together by the first of May. 

And just like that, balls are rolling again whether I am ready or not.  I'm willing to give everything a shot as long as it doesn't affect my most important project ever, who is currently working on rolling over and sprouting some teeth:

Leaning In and Getting Slapped

If I had bought a physical copy of Sheryl Sandberg's book, Lean In, my highlighter would be out of ink. 

Here is the last thing I highlighted: 

"Aggressive and hard-charging women violate unwritten rules about acceptable social conduct."

This very obvious sentence struck me today because of a conversation I had with a co-worker yesterday.  She is older, has alot of experience, and currently holds the job I want - Senior Writer.

I've made it fairly well known that I would like to be a senior writer and would like assignments that put me on that path. It's my career goal as far as work goes - and I've been pretty vocal about it. 

We had a long conversation and she gave me a lot of frank and helpful advice, which I appreciated.  There was one thing she said, however, that just didn't sit right - and it refers directly to the Sandberg quote above. 

"You going around saying that you want to be a senior writer...is not really appropriate." 

It is not appropriate because I haven't been in the department all that long.  It has taken her decades to reach this position, I need to "put my time in," etc.  

I have to say - I respectfully, but completely, wholeheartedly disagree.  What's so wrong with trying to reach my goal with ambition, to seek out challenging assignments that prove I can do the job?  Yes, I don't have "decades" of experience, but I do have at least one decade.  (more than the prerequisite 6 or 7 years the position requires, by the way)  And I do have a Masters in writing.  And I do have a vast knowledge about the institution's past, present and future gained from years reading and re-reading its official publication.  And most importantly - I have the talent.  

But yet - for reasons that Sandberg outlines in her book, I am afraid to say it.  Why can't I just say that I'm damn good at what I do?  And while I agree that I might need a few more years of experience - I don't think "a few" means ten or twenty.  Because, c'mon man - Funk that.  

I don't know if I will ever be a Senior Writer or its equivalent in some other industry.  I just hope that if I don't achieve my goal, the reason will be something out of my control and not simply because I didn't try, or I didn't have the balls. 

Here's a story about my man:

A few years ago his company wanted him to go to China for a year.  He agreed, but he laid out his conditions.  He wanted a raise.  He wanted to be flown home for major holidays.  He wanted the entire year treated like a business trip - meaning all meals, transportation costs, housing, everything, basically - paid for by the company.  He also wanted, on top of his salary, a bonus that matched his salary for one year upon his return. 

The balls on that guy!  And guess what - they said yes.  

I would have never even thought to ask for all that stuff.  My attitude would have been, "Oooo yessir! thank you for the opportunity! I'll learn Chinese!  I'll pay for the classes myself!" 

Therein lies the difference.  

And I'm not sure I know how to get past it.  And I don't know how to avoid it for my daughter.

But I think the answer is something like leading by example, and to keep pushing for what I want at the risk of being called "inappropriate." 

End note: Fortunately for us, Tim's company didn't get the China job and he didn't have to go. Instead the trip got pushed back a year or two, and he only had to go for a month.  This was in the beginning of our blossoming romance, and you better believe we cost his company a freakin' fortune in long-distance phone calls.