Retirement Rehearsal…

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the fourth month of self-imposed retirement. It’s been a bit of an experiment that’s garnered varying results.

Being at home reminded me of my days living in a small town where I watched my neighbor sipping coffee, looking out her window as I walked to my car to go to work. I envied her ability to stay home with the children, she envied my ability to get away and be in the land of adults. Neither lives were perfect but we could never fully appreciated what we had knowing there was an alternative.

Staying home intentionally this year was a mixed blessing. I worked at my domestic skills for about ten minutes. I made lunch for the eight year old and dinner for all (occasionally) struggling to remember some old standbys. It was hit or miss on the meal front but the laundry was almost always done on a regular basis, the dog got walked and the groceries were purchased but I never felt fully immersed in the life of leisure for many reasons.

1) I’m untrained. I have no idea how to budget time, organize tasks, and pace breaks without wrapping it around or incorporating it into a full time job. The lack of structure has me making up weird rules. I’ll watch 2.5 hours of TV starting at 12:30PM then I’ll do some writing. After TV I turn to my computer and check in on the Crazy Days and Nights blog, then Lainey, then more gossip sites until any task or schedule in my head has been erased and I look up in a panic to learn it’s time to pick up the eight year old at school. Time wasted: all afternoon.

2) I get more tense than when I’m working at a full time job and it paralyzes me. My brain gets so incredibly busy when it’s not focused. I spin. I have piled on all kinds of extra work that I can’t get to because I’m worried about it. Sure it’s volunteer/creative in nature but my ideas won’t churn and my brain shuts down at any concrete/creative thought. I don’t remember experiencing a ‘block’ like that before. If it was over and above a full time job my gears would be shifted to accommodate extra ‘stuff’ but with no structure my brain won’t let anything in, never mind process it. The false rules interject in my timelines and WORD stays open all day with cryptic, bullet points of what should be amazing ideas lined up like a grocery list. Bright and early tomorrow is when I’ll start. (It’s 9:41AM and I’m doing this instead).

3) Guilt is menacing. The break is partly medical, mostly mental and it’s completely the wrong time for me to not be working. We have bills left over from the reno and although the husband has been reassuring, it’s still not the best time to be off. Sure mentally if I had been working I would be curled up in the fetal position rocking myself to sleep every night. I have just not been capable of working and the guilt is crippling. It’s the worst kind of Catch 22. Work will make you crazy and you will be crazy if you don’t work.
4) I enjoy the pressure of cooking for other people but I can’t relax. Try eating something with the cook staring you down, anxiously pacing, waiting for any sign of a positive or negative response. I stand by with apologies and excuses at the ready. It would be an excruciating experience for the tester/eater. We don’t host a lot of dinner parties.

5) Germs keep finding me. It’s inevitable, the minute you get off the ride of working life the germs invade. I’ve had a month long flu followed by a couple of days off where the flue germs left and the cold/allergy germs took up residence and took over the lease. I feel like a walking bug motel, the NO Vacancy sign flashing. It’s hard to get anything done when your brain wants to sleep away the endless snot-filled throat-clearing.

6) The right stuff. Being on the right crack helps to see how much damage the wrong crack caused. It’s like cleaning up after an all night party. Sure it was good while it lasted but is it ever worth all the work required after WITH a hangover? The wine diet did not work. The eat-what-you-want-when-you-want diet did not work. The crying-and-complaining diet caused more problems than anything and the wrong crack made it all that much worse by adding another twenty pounds of misery. Pure, fat misery. The right crack has allowed one part of my brain (a small but chubby part) to focus on losing those pounds, but I’m still on my way back from the two years of semi-insanity. Imagine a hangover after a two year binge. It’s an exaggeration but that’s how I feel, especially because of #3.

I’m starting a contract on the last week of May and instead of relaxing and taking advantage of the time I have I’m panicking about all the things I promised to do for others like writing, some volunteer directling and apartment painting. Heck, why not add another few weeks of guilt and procrastination? Of all the accomplishments I wanted to attain during my practice run at retirement guilt and procrastination have become my greatest achievement.

It Was 20 Years Ago Today!

Actually, 20 years ago and two days ago today the twenty year old was born.

Blah blah, birth story….blah blah….big hopes and dreams…blah blah…her looking up at me when she was two years old yelling, “I are NOT SMART!” (Like we had insulted her by suggesting she was)…blah blah…At five, “Can I have a brother?” “No” At eight, “Now? Now can I have a brother?” “No” At ten, “Can I have a brother now?” “Um, apparently”…blah blah…”I WON’T go to that camp for the summer!” blah blah…”I will NOT come home from that camp. EVER.”

Add a whole bunch of “I love you”s and “I hate you”s and that pretty much sums up the first 20 years.

Now I’d like to learn to be more of a friend and less of an authority figure in her life but she’s resistant.
She can still use some guidance and a kick in the pants every once in a while. I just wish it didn’t have to still come from me. I like her and want to be a friend who can offer guidance and kick her in the pants every once in a while … at a peer level.
It would be worth the 20 year wait.

“I Need A Rock”…

“A rock?”

“Yeah, I need a rock for school. We need to find a rock that fits in the palm of our hand and we’re going to learn to take care of it”, said the eight year old.

“Will you help me find one?”, he asked.

“Um, no”, I answered. “But I’m sure if you go into the gravel pit -the one sitting on our driveway you’ll find at least one”.

“OK”, he yelled as he ran outside.

Moments later he came in with a small rock. It was smaller than the palm of his hand and he seemed a little anxious.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It might be a bit small and it’s dirty. I’ll go clean it up”, he ran upstairs.

I went back to what I was doing which was my daily scan through Facebook to check up on friends, colleagues and the 19 year old (she’ll be 20 tomorrow but that’s another story). I was just checking the newsfeed when I heard the blow dryer. I did a quick inventory. The husband’s hair has never been near a blow dryer -his hair is practically shaved. The almost 20 year old hasn’t lived at home since last summer and the dog and cat wouldn’t willingly use something they routinely run for their lives to get away from.

That left me and the eight year old and I was at the kitchen counter.

As I rose to investigate I heard it stop and the eight year old descended the stairs, we met half way up/down depending on your state of mind.

“What was that?” I demanded.

“I needed to clean my rock”, he answered.

“With a blow dryer?” I asked.

“First I had to wash the dirt off and then he was wet so I had to dry him”, he said looking at me like I was nuts.

“It’s a rock”, I said looking directly into his eyes because if I was crazy I wouldn’t make eye contact. I read that somewhere.

“No. He’s JR and he’s my friend and I have to take care of him”.

I was still processing that information when he ran to get the tiny Snoopy book case that is shaped like a doghouse. He grabbed some tissues and shoved them into the little opening and put his rock in it. He strutted past me triumphantly.

I wonder if that kind of nurturing exercise will lead him to want to look after the dog and the poop in the yard and remembering to feed the cat and vacuuming the cat hair.

Probably not.

Big Toe in the Water…

I spent a day testing the temperature of the new job I’m starting in late May/June. The start date is a little vague, it’s kind of up to the little girl who is preparing to be hatched, whether she’ll arrive early, late, or on time and when she feels ripe enough to face the world and bless us with her presence.

Yes, I’m covering a friend’s maternity leave for six months (more or less depending on how mom and baby get along) and the job is a bit different from what I’m used to. I’ll be in the post production side of the TV show and just a little bit of directing but still exciting and challenging in a more reasonable 9-5 Monday through Friday mode that won’t keep me in my car in traffic all day.

Change is as good as a rest, ‘they’ say.

I’m enjoying this current extended time off especially since the weather is changing but there is something hanging over me that is demanding my attention. The government keeps asking me about their money and when I expect to submit taxes and all that jazz and stuff and junk. I’m independently employed, usually, so I file with the husband in June. We can’t file one without the other, because we need to cancel each other out- or something much more technical sounding that I virtually ignore whenever our (tall, handsome, patient) accountant talks income.

Last year was different. We moved out of the house, then moved out some more then a little more then pitched a tent, cleared out the basement and moved the rest until there was nothing left but the cat, 12 contractors and occasionally a front end loader and random fresh bins. Everything went somewhere in storage containers and we decided that with all the stress and discombobulation we would just file two years worth of income tax together this year.

Cue this year:
If you find filing your taxes every year to be stressful, tiring and anxiety-inducing you can picture me (like the phony face above but in scream mode) trying to tackle two years worth. Which contracts did I work on two years ago? Where are all the invoices tucked away in the computer? Did I ever get a child-care receipt from that day camp? Ahhhhhhh!!!!!

How easy it now seems to just go in the backyard and just sit, leave the pile of receipts in that cardboard box where envelopes divide the parking receipts into their proper years and separate the lunch receipts from the working expenses.

I seriously do not have the capacity to concentrate on addition for hours on end. Most of my receipts are under ten dollars and that makes for very long columns of small numbers and the only thing that gets taxed is my memory work. I’m in TV, people. We are not supposed to be able to do math, it’s a pre-requisite for employment! Every year (except last year) I vowed I would stay ahead of the game, keep clear records, not GO THROUGH THIS AGAIN. But, well, I’m GOING THROUGH THIS AGAIN.

If I were back at work I would be in progressive, working-mother mode: get up, get clean, make lunches, get to work, you know the routine, then I would come home, help with dinner (stop laughing) and set aside time to just DO THE DAMN TAXES. Instead I have all day to do them so I spend all day avoiding the task. Suddenly I get into magpie mode and get distracted by random shiny things (like laundry), gossip sites, long phone conversations, it’s the last thing on my mind but the heaviest thing on my shoulders.

Knowing how unpredictable pregnancies are I should be concentrating on getting things done so that when I go back to work the added stress of completing taxes isn’t coming with me. What is wrong with someone who needs to wait until the last minute to complete a task, is it the thrill of the deadline or a weird victim/defeatist complex (I will fail and get in trouble, it happens to me all the time)?

If you have the answer to that (and are a certified chartered accountant who specializes in freelance television jobs), please reply ASAP.

“You Can Hate My Hair…”

(said the eight year old as we walked to school this morning).

“But don’t hate my heritage”.

I think he actually made that up himself.

Nothing To See Here… Move Along Citizen…

Grrrr.

For the first time in my entire life I felt I had a haircut I could actually enjoy/live with/capture on film.

When I told the husband I could almost maybe stand to have my picture taken he fell over and ran to get the camera. He knew the window of opportunity would be brief and my fickle little heart (two sizes too small) could change my mind in the beat of my too small heart.

“Herestandbythewindowtocapturesomesunonthesideofyourface”, he instructed.

“Do NOT make me look old. Sunlight makes me look old!”, I instructed back in his face.

“OKhowaboutyoustandbythekitchenandkeepthesuninthebackgroundlikeabacklight” he quickly suggested.

“I’ve had the flu, I’m exhausted from the experience of being sick, dehydrated, drained of all bodily fluids recently -so try to make me look good!” I growled and barked.

Then I smiled sweetly and he snapped away.

I am smitten with 30 Rock and Tracy Morgan/Jordan and his character. The tagline under the heavily photoshopped photo should read…

I love photoshop so much I’m going to take it behind the school and get it pregnant, ‘cause people, I only look good with an airbrush!

With access to my account the husband can control what pictures go in my header. If it’s a blonde smiling in a phony way -it’s the husband’s version of me and believe me it’s better than the real thing.

Yeah, So I Took a Month Off…

… which extended itself to three months and will probably continue more or less until summer!

Sometimes you just need to walk away from your responsibilities and since the eight year old never ceases to be demanding I decided to neglect the blog instead.

I’m nice that way. See, I’m avoiding writing about me -not avoiding writing for you. There’s a difference.

So where have I been.

I had to go on a bit of a journey -had to go deep- to find my self esteem. Somehow it went missing and I was so busy beating myself up about it I lost my nerve to look for it. Yes. Some people call it mental illness. I like to call it ‘that thing which knows no boundaries and doesn’t play nice with others’. Mostly I avoid any living forms for fear of what may come out of my mouth. Usually it’s just non-stop banter to ward off any questions, but I can’t get used to people looking at me with that special ‘How are you, REALLY?’ look, like they have to be careful how they speak to me in case I go off or something. It makes me feel weird (which admittedly, I am).

I never wanted to out myself admit to being a psycho but sometimes you just have to be honest with yourself and others and to let them see you have a sense of humour, even about your own derangement. Now after several months I’m feeling better than normal (which believe me says a lot!) and my energy is coming back, too. I’ve lost 25 pounds and the new crack is an answer to prayer.

So to happier stuff…
The eight year old is sporting a ‘90’s haircut -yes the husband took him to the old Italian guy who dyes his own grey hair (badly) and gives haircuts by the numbers. The boy’s resembles a four on top and a two at the sides. If you look at Dilbert in the cartoon you’ll see what I mean. I’m not too fond of this dated look and think the boy needs a faux hawk or something more radical. Thank goodness it’s baseball cap season!

The husband works day and night and sometimes I let him out on good behavior. He’s finally sent the gonad-mobile (‘88 Mustang Cobra) to the doctor for some plastic surgery and a pedicure. It should be ready within weeks and I noticed more weighty tomes (gonad-mobile magazines) littering the table tops all over the house. Mike the project manager for the house that is not complete gave the husband a toy Mustang in a grey colour and keeps encouraging him to get black wheels instead of shiny chrome ones. Can you say ‘twelve year old boys getting their first you know what’? They even giggle like girls on the phone.

Hockey season is done! I didn’t get the mother of the year trophy, not that one exists, but I attended several SEVERAL games to watch the eight year old score on his own net and meltdown in front of a crowd.

“That’s my boy!” I cried, loudly.

He actually did score on his own net during play-offs, once. It was the only day his Oma came to watch him play. Kind of sad/hysterical. Everyone assured him that even the pros do that, even his DAD has done that. He went on to score a spectacular goal (four games later) when they lost the championship game. The husband added some new scars to his face during his playoffs. Three stitches in the forehead pushed him to go out and get the visor replaced on his helmet (Vanity! They name is the husband!). Didn’t help him, though, the next game he took a puck in the throat, got the wind knocked out of him but went on to get a hat trick. He talked like he was from the old country for a week. He’s fine. He can still cook dinner.

Speaking of food, I’ve been acquainting myself with this new (unfinished) kitchen, learning to cook with gas and not injure or kill people. The first attempt was slow-cooked pulled pork sandwiches and only one person (a two year old) got sick, but she didn’t eat the pork. Unfortunately she had a stomach flu bug which has now traveled through and visited everyone. Weeks later I’m just recovering from my recent bout that found me face down on the bathroom floor one rainy afternoon. I no longer have a claw-foot tub with dirt multiplying underneath it (discovered in the pre-renovated house after a fainting spell) no, now I see all the dirt under the vanity. Conclusion: Don’t do that cooking thing again and pick up a broom for heaven’s sake.

What have I missed with you?