3 months ago
Friday, July 24, 2009
Moved!
You can now find the new, improved (still working on and will probably change themes fifty times in the next two days) Pretty Nameless on its own server and all. Thanks Mom! Now I just have to figure out how to redirect this one.
Moving!
As soon as I pick a template that I like and get it uploaded, Pretty Nameless will be moving to it's own domain. You'll be able to find it at www.prettynameless.com, and I'll actually be keeping up with it and trying to do more with it.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Binge and Purge
No, I'm not talking bulimia, although I did toy around with that a bit as a teenager. But then someone told me it would rot my teeth and I gave it up. Who wants to be rail thin but toothless? Kind of a crappy trade-off. Kind of sad though that, prior to informing me about the tooth rot issue, I was told my esophagus would get destroyed and I didn't even think twice about that. After all, who cares if I don't have a pretty esophagus and can't speak! Ah the vanity of a teenage girl. So I gave up puking and took up dropping acid and walking twenty or so miles in eight hours a few times a month. Best diet ever.
The binging and purging I'm referring to is that of my stuff. Stuff, junk, that I've collected over the years. I binged when we had money. I have enough Bath and Body Works lotion moisturize the entire alligator population in Florida for a year. Stockpiles of food I don't even like, clothes I've never worn, and votive candles I'll never light because Jake would use them to start the Great Poconos Fire to rival that of O'Leary's cow. That's just the stuff I bought. Forget about the stuff I've saved "just in case." Bottle inserts from when Jake was still using a ba, coffee cans, plastic containers, old school assignments, phone bills from over a decade ago. The list goes on and on. I live in a relatively small area, and the clutter was out of control. It never bothered me until about two weeks ago. Then I just snapped.
I started throwing out shit like you wouldn't believe. Two huge garbage bags of clothes went to goodwill and another huge bag in the garbage (I didn't think anyone wanted to wear my old underwear that were reserved for that most wonderful time of the month, or the pajamas that my naked butt slept in for years). Every single sock (of which I used to have two full drawers) that had even a hint of a hole went in the garbage. The big bin of "maybe I'll find their mates someday" socks? Gone, after I used them to scrub the floors of course, in a random effort to be more environmentally conscious, or conserve money on paper towels.
I discovered a few things. The most shocking was that there is a floor in my bedroom. The second most shocking was that I actually feel a lot better when every surface of my house isn't covered with random stuff. It's kind of liberating to get rid of crap. I still have a long way to go, but eventually I'll get down to having just the stuff I actually want, and not the stuff I feel obligated to keep because I spent money on it at some point. I'm sure that this sudden motivation to clean everything in sight will die off sooner than later, so I'm trying to make the best of it while I can.
The binging and purging I'm referring to is that of my stuff. Stuff, junk, that I've collected over the years. I binged when we had money. I have enough Bath and Body Works lotion moisturize the entire alligator population in Florida for a year. Stockpiles of food I don't even like, clothes I've never worn, and votive candles I'll never light because Jake would use them to start the Great Poconos Fire to rival that of O'Leary's cow. That's just the stuff I bought. Forget about the stuff I've saved "just in case." Bottle inserts from when Jake was still using a ba, coffee cans, plastic containers, old school assignments, phone bills from over a decade ago. The list goes on and on. I live in a relatively small area, and the clutter was out of control. It never bothered me until about two weeks ago. Then I just snapped.
I started throwing out shit like you wouldn't believe. Two huge garbage bags of clothes went to goodwill and another huge bag in the garbage (I didn't think anyone wanted to wear my old underwear that were reserved for that most wonderful time of the month, or the pajamas that my naked butt slept in for years). Every single sock (of which I used to have two full drawers) that had even a hint of a hole went in the garbage. The big bin of "maybe I'll find their mates someday" socks? Gone, after I used them to scrub the floors of course, in a random effort to be more environmentally conscious, or conserve money on paper towels.
I discovered a few things. The most shocking was that there is a floor in my bedroom. The second most shocking was that I actually feel a lot better when every surface of my house isn't covered with random stuff. It's kind of liberating to get rid of crap. I still have a long way to go, but eventually I'll get down to having just the stuff I actually want, and not the stuff I feel obligated to keep because I spent money on it at some point. I'm sure that this sudden motivation to clean everything in sight will die off sooner than later, so I'm trying to make the best of it while I can.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Catching up
I've been ignoring this blog lately because I've been working on another project and trying to survive day to day with the crap hand I've been dealt. Also because no one really reads it anyway, so it's not likely to be missed. Still, I like to actually write my random thoughts out every now and then, so I'll keep up with it for a few days before I wander off again.
It's summer, which is a bad time for me because of that whole reverse SAD crap. I can't just have normal SAD like everyone else, I have to be miserable in the summer. It's the whole extra daylight crap. The sun and I have never been good friends. Just to make sure I haven't forgotten this, the rotten prick burned the hell out of my shoulders despite liberal use of sunscreen. I am painfully peeling. Not attractive at all. So of course I get more depressed when the bastard stays in the sky for an extra three to four hours. Who wouldn't? That is way too much daylight for any person to have to endure. Because of it, I get massively depressed come four PM, when it's supposed to be getting dark out. This continues until I go to bed.
But Jake seems to like summer. The carnivals, the park, his new-found love of the beach (between this and his dislike of pasta, if he didn't look so much like me, I'd have to question the hospital to ensure there wasn't some sort of baby-switching fiasco going on), staying up later because I can hardly convince him that it's time for bed if the damn sun is still shining. He loves it. Although he's suddenly decided that the pool is an evil entity, AFTER we got season passes. So while he's awake, I make an effort to hide my disdain for the season. But being broke this year, it's a lot harder to pretend I'm happy. I can't take him to half the places he wants to go. There will be no water park, no Dorney park, no daily runs for milkshakes. It makes me sad. I hate telling him "sorry baby, we don't have the money for that."
So I'll be much happier when summer is over and it's too cold to do anything. Also, once October comes, I'm that much closer to having a job again, even if only for six weeks. I went off on some random tangent here, I'm not sure what my original point was. Once again, I'll try to keep up with this blog for a week or so at least, but beyond that I make no promises. Sometimes I do just run out of things to say, or just don't care enough to say them.
It's summer, which is a bad time for me because of that whole reverse SAD crap. I can't just have normal SAD like everyone else, I have to be miserable in the summer. It's the whole extra daylight crap. The sun and I have never been good friends. Just to make sure I haven't forgotten this, the rotten prick burned the hell out of my shoulders despite liberal use of sunscreen. I am painfully peeling. Not attractive at all. So of course I get more depressed when the bastard stays in the sky for an extra three to four hours. Who wouldn't? That is way too much daylight for any person to have to endure. Because of it, I get massively depressed come four PM, when it's supposed to be getting dark out. This continues until I go to bed.
But Jake seems to like summer. The carnivals, the park, his new-found love of the beach (between this and his dislike of pasta, if he didn't look so much like me, I'd have to question the hospital to ensure there wasn't some sort of baby-switching fiasco going on), staying up later because I can hardly convince him that it's time for bed if the damn sun is still shining. He loves it. Although he's suddenly decided that the pool is an evil entity, AFTER we got season passes. So while he's awake, I make an effort to hide my disdain for the season. But being broke this year, it's a lot harder to pretend I'm happy. I can't take him to half the places he wants to go. There will be no water park, no Dorney park, no daily runs for milkshakes. It makes me sad. I hate telling him "sorry baby, we don't have the money for that."
So I'll be much happier when summer is over and it's too cold to do anything. Also, once October comes, I'm that much closer to having a job again, even if only for six weeks. I went off on some random tangent here, I'm not sure what my original point was. Once again, I'll try to keep up with this blog for a week or so at least, but beyond that I make no promises. Sometimes I do just run out of things to say, or just don't care enough to say them.
Most Likely To Survive
I have anxiety/panic disorder. While it can be frustrating to start hyperventilating because the TV remote has been misplaced, or to have a full blown anxiety attack every time I look at my bank statement and realize I can't survive another two weeks, I find that there are benefits to being afflicted. One advantage is that I am far more likely to survive some sort of attack than someone who doesn't suffer from this disorder.
In one of my many psych classes, my professor discussed a theory that states those who suffer from anxiety/panic disorder exhibit the same hair trigger "fight of flight" response that helped early man survive. In a way, I take it to mean that my sympathetic nervous system is somehow less evolved than non-sufferers, which is kind of insulting. But in another way, it means I have somehow managed to retain that piece of genetic code that allowed us to make our way to the top of the food chain in the first place. What this also means is that if the wooly mammoths or dinosaurs make a comeback, I will be more likely to survive than those who don't panic over the existence of, say, fruit flies.
This hair trigger fight or flight response works well for me even in today's society where the constant threat of invading tribes or saber tooth tigers isn't looming. For example, I am terrified of things that sting. I was stung once when I was seven years old, and that was enough. Because I am so attuned to my sympathetic nervous system, I can flee from stinging insects long before anyone else around me is even aware they are present. I can distinguish the differences between the buzzing of a bee vs. that of a fly, a hornet vs. a hummingbird, a less threatening bumblebee vs. one that will aggressively destroy me if given the chance. A split second after hearing its approach, I can grab my kid and be locked safely in the house.
Of course, there are times when my "fight" response kicks in and it would be better to just keep my mouth shut. I got into a cursing match with a guy in the McDonald's parking lot who tried to tell me how to parent my child once. The other day, I screamed at a prick who ran the stop sign. Both our windows were down and he told me to shut up. Of course I cursed at him, then worried that he would chase me down. He did look like the type to take girls back to his house and eat them for dinner (and not in the good way). One of these days my brain's desire to fight the wrong battles rather than let things be and flee is going to get me into trouble.
But I can still console myself with the knowledge that, should aliens invade or mountain men try to drag me back to their cabin for supper, I will be more likely to survive than those of you oh so normal, non panicky people. So go ahead and live your happy lives, free of tachycardia, breathing into bags, and head spinning terror. Because when the shit hits the fan, and it always does, I'll still be standing while you're someone's dinner!
In one of my many psych classes, my professor discussed a theory that states those who suffer from anxiety/panic disorder exhibit the same hair trigger "fight of flight" response that helped early man survive. In a way, I take it to mean that my sympathetic nervous system is somehow less evolved than non-sufferers, which is kind of insulting. But in another way, it means I have somehow managed to retain that piece of genetic code that allowed us to make our way to the top of the food chain in the first place. What this also means is that if the wooly mammoths or dinosaurs make a comeback, I will be more likely to survive than those who don't panic over the existence of, say, fruit flies.
This hair trigger fight or flight response works well for me even in today's society where the constant threat of invading tribes or saber tooth tigers isn't looming. For example, I am terrified of things that sting. I was stung once when I was seven years old, and that was enough. Because I am so attuned to my sympathetic nervous system, I can flee from stinging insects long before anyone else around me is even aware they are present. I can distinguish the differences between the buzzing of a bee vs. that of a fly, a hornet vs. a hummingbird, a less threatening bumblebee vs. one that will aggressively destroy me if given the chance. A split second after hearing its approach, I can grab my kid and be locked safely in the house.
Of course, there are times when my "fight" response kicks in and it would be better to just keep my mouth shut. I got into a cursing match with a guy in the McDonald's parking lot who tried to tell me how to parent my child once. The other day, I screamed at a prick who ran the stop sign. Both our windows were down and he told me to shut up. Of course I cursed at him, then worried that he would chase me down. He did look like the type to take girls back to his house and eat them for dinner (and not in the good way). One of these days my brain's desire to fight the wrong battles rather than let things be and flee is going to get me into trouble.
But I can still console myself with the knowledge that, should aliens invade or mountain men try to drag me back to their cabin for supper, I will be more likely to survive than those of you oh so normal, non panicky people. So go ahead and live your happy lives, free of tachycardia, breathing into bags, and head spinning terror. Because when the shit hits the fan, and it always does, I'll still be standing while you're someone's dinner!
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthing Day to Me
Tonight I held my three year old for the last time. When he wakes up in the morning, he'll be a four year old. Technically, not until 7:56 PM tomorrow, but I'm not going to make him wait until then to open his remaining presents. Today was his birthday party in the park. Half his little friends didn't show up. Hopefully that will change when he starts elementary school. But he still had a great time. The thunder storm held out until the very end of his party. We came home and I attempted to assemble a Hot Wheels trick track. I think there must be something in the "y" chromosome that makes this task a lot easier, because try as I might, I still didn't get it to work the way it's supposed to. I also discovered that I still suck at Operation, even in the shape of Spongebob. You'd think several decades plus a few years would have given me the fine motor skills to extract a wrench from a cardboard cutout patient. Good thing I never wanted to be a surgeon.
I can't believe how fast he's growing, or how far he's come. Enjoy some of my nostalgic trip down memory lane.
Birth
Three weeks
Four Months
First Birthday
Eighteen Months 
Second Birthday
September 2007
Third Birthday
TodayMelancholy
My little boy is going to be four on Sunday. He's gone from a 3lb 5oz preemie to a 38lb preschooler. He had a traumatic birth. We both did. I wonder if that's why he's such a stubborn kid now. Preemies have to be stubborn, they have to be strong-willed, or they can't survive. To be so tiny, not even supposed to be out of the womb yet, and have to start fighting for your life, it has to have a long-term impact. Maybe when I'm ready to pull my hair out because he refuses to listen to me, refuses to eat anything other than chicken nuggets and turkey dogs, stands firm in his belief that he has radioactive blood and can swing into action at any moment, maybe I should stop for a moment and remember that the reason my son is alive today is because of that very strong will to have his own way. Maybe I should also remember that he gets a lot of his stubborness from me.
I always get a little melancholy around his birthday. I remember in vivid detail every moment of the terrifying day and a half before he was born. I remember being all alone the night before and the night of his birth, after my mom left. Night one- alone, hooked up to monitors, listening to my son kick and hiccup, unable to sleep, wondering what was going to happen. Night two- alone, sick on the mag drip, delusional belief that it was all a strange dream and Jacob was still safe in my belly, wishing that someone would tell me what was going on, wishing I wasn't so alone. No one should be alone after giving birth, especially after giving birth and having your baby taken off to a NICU, and not being able to see him for over 24 hours.
And here I am, four years later, still alone. At least I have my son sleeping in the next room and I know he's safe. I have family, I have friends. I love and I am loved. But I am still utterly alone.
I always get a little melancholy around his birthday. I remember in vivid detail every moment of the terrifying day and a half before he was born. I remember being all alone the night before and the night of his birth, after my mom left. Night one- alone, hooked up to monitors, listening to my son kick and hiccup, unable to sleep, wondering what was going to happen. Night two- alone, sick on the mag drip, delusional belief that it was all a strange dream and Jacob was still safe in my belly, wishing that someone would tell me what was going on, wishing I wasn't so alone. No one should be alone after giving birth, especially after giving birth and having your baby taken off to a NICU, and not being able to see him for over 24 hours.
And here I am, four years later, still alone. At least I have my son sleeping in the next room and I know he's safe. I have family, I have friends. I love and I am loved. But I am still utterly alone.
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