February slump
It happens every year, whether it’s been especially cold and snowy or not. . . the winter blues. There’s nothing wrong, per se, but you start sleeping longer, food doesn’t taste as good as it should, and your usual interests aren’t so interesting anymore.
Last year at this time, we had just returned from a week in sunny, tropical Singapore - and I think that’s why I skipped the whole thing last winter. No trips this year though, and the blues are hitting hard. (I don’t even like to read anymore, and believe me when I say that I have been reading almost literally non-stop since I was six!)
What do you do to beat the winter blues?
Let it be
I do not like the Beatles, but it’s the theme of the day anyway.
One of the things I thought would be much easier about going to school as my sole occupation was the group projects. I thought that since I would have plenty of time to do the work of everyone in the group, I didn’t have to let it bother me when no one else did theirs.
Of course, some expectations can be expected to fall flat, and this turned out to be one of them. Sort of. It might not have bothered me so much that no one was working, if that was all I had to deal with. But it seems I found myself in the absolute perfect storm of disgusting groups.
Person W, a woman, has absolutely zero backbone. Now, if this were a physical class and I could see her shrinking body language and shifty eyes, I could have known it in less than an instant. But it’s not a face-to-face experience, so I was left dangling for four weeks on what turned out to be a string-thin belief that I was working with an intelligent woman who had something worthwhile to contribute. I found out around week four that she didn’t like what was going on. I didn’t find out when I asked her, though: “We could try this, or this, or this — which do you prefer and why?” No, she didn’t answer any of those questions. Or any others. No, I find out because she tells the other class member on the discussion board. In full view of me, of course. Passive-aggressive much?
Mmmmm. . . I can just imagine the type. . . gossipy, bitter, astringent, and naaaaaaasty.
Person M, a man, posted two weeks into this project, after seven days without a single peep, that he was too busy and didn’t intend to be around. He continues to go for as long as ten days at a time without showing up at all. He turns in his assignment two days late. And then he complains that he doesn’t see how he’s going to get a fair grade because I didn’t *give* him a *fair share* of the work.
Did he answer any of the questions I asked him over the last six weeks? Did he respond to me when I was setting tasks and asked for preferences and feedback? Did he respond to anything I said at all? Absolutely not. Look, I don’t have anything against men overall, but I have found that this is very typical behavior for men in a group project setting. They commit to too much in their lives, expect or demand that the other members pick up the slack, and then get all kinds of aggressive and/or whiny when the answer is no.
And yes, the answer was no. I have dozens and dozens of questions, comments, and observations dangling unanswered on the project discussion board right now. They are all there, every single one, waiting in limbo.
Of course, the instructor has been all kinds of unhelpful. I paused long enough to make sure that I’ve done enough to get a grade (any grade, it really doesn’t matter, other than the project I have a 100% in the class and I only need a C overall), and then bowed out. I told my “teammates” they could do whatever they wanted and I’d be back to pick up the final product next Sunday at noon.
I believe in choice. I know that these. . . people. . . can’t make me miserable unless I let them. And I said no, which was so completely absolutely the right thing to do. I’m happy with my decision. What I’m having trouble with is being comfortable with it. I am angry, very angry, and my stomach is bothering me. I can’t relax. I’m not at peace, even though I’ve done the right thing.
I have to figure out how to let it go. I’m not having much success. Suggestions?
You know a man is married to a singer when. . .
I blew out my voice Thursday morning. Thursday night in front of a movie. . .
A: [begins vocalizing gently on raspberries to keep her throat loose]
J: [glances at her, then turns up the volume]
Today I was practicing a new vocal exercise that sounds like I’m repeatedly sitting on a very angry duck.
A: [calling down to the batcave] Does that sound bad?
J: [calls up matter-of-factly] Yes.
It just doesn’t phase him!
Life without a job
I LOVE IT!!!
(As an aside: TrueTech is saving up for a large software package, which is only affordable because of my student status, yay me. Jeremy will need to learn the programs once he gets his mitts on the package, and I’m going to gently - ahem - suggest our website as a guinea pig. Here’s hoping.)
So, I’ve been jobless for two months, and I’m loving it more all the time.
That’s why I haven’t been around here. I’ve been over there.
So, since you saw me last, I’ve quit my job, finished off another 8-week term at school (with two “A”s and an ongoing class), and started to settle into unemployment. That’s the main thing I’ve been doing, really. Being unemployed.
The benefit to giving a really long notice is that I had all kinds of time to transition into this new phase. Prior to this, I’d only been jobless for one month of my adult life, and I was ridiculously miserable; but it looks like four and a half years of reorienting myself toward “significance” as opposed to “success” have been quite effective. I’m okay. I’m sitting at home all day, every day, doing nothing but schoolwork, housework, and cooking, and I’m okay. I don’t even mind being a “kept woman”, which I thought might pose a problem.
Country mouse, city mouse.
We’re in Atlanta, and I’m intimidated.
The hotel is really, really hip. At least 40 stories, glass elevators, glass everywhere in fact, and the people match. Jeremy and I walked in wearing our comfy-but-not-chic travel clothes, hiking backpack, and brown lambskin bag-purse (worn with black cotton pants. Oh, so not coordinated). The first words out of my mouth were, “Jeremy, I don’t have the clothes for this place.” Jeremy knows that this perception does not work out well for us. He’s on his guard. 
We were escorted to our hotel by a homeless man who pegged us as tourists the very second we walked out of the subway system (the MARTA). He led us down a side alley. I don’t know what Jeremy was thinking; all I could do was hold back and keep my ears open for trouble. When I reprimanded him, Jeremy said that of course he would have protected me if anything happened. But he led me down an alley in the company of a perhaps-not-too-sober derelict. (!) Once we emerged from the alley alive, I started thinking about how I could offer the man a tip without offending him. I needn’t have worried. He begged.
This, folks, is precisely why I live in the country. It’s why I give to charities instead of trolling the streets of Claremont looking for people to throw my earnings at. I don’t have a problem associating with people below my socio-economic class. But when someone begs of me, how am I to know whether I am helping or hurting him by handing over money? His words were slurred: he could be drunk, or he could have a disability. He asked for money: he could use it for the homeless shelter, or he could go buy booze. And if he’s going to buy booze, why should I do it for him, when I could use that money to buy myself a sundae??
On the plus side, people here are friendly. It’s one reason why we fell in with our friend outside the MARTA - three people had already spontaneously offered us help, and they all sound odd to us with the “southern accents” (although of course, we’re the ones with the accents here!), so Jeremy didn’t want to be rude and squish what could have been just plain Atlanta niceness. Time also seems to move more slowly here. There was a palpable difference between the aura of the MARTA and that of the MBTA. People seemed much more relaxed. Another interesting contrast: the subway cars were well-cared-for. It seems like in Boston they buy new stuff and then don’t do anything to keep it up, so it just falls to pieces. The cars here were old (I would guess 80s-vintage decorating), but they were very clean and neat, and just looked tended. There was also a man on the first subway stop who was acting as a sort of usher, making sure people were on the right train, using the train map to show them how far to go, bantering with the passengers, and even at one point using hand gestures to communicate with a young deaf man.
People here are really, really nice.
On the other hand, we got here at 11PM, the hotel is in the inner city, and we’re not city mice. I just might like the South. I sure don’t like the city.
We’ll be meeting Yu Jin and Rebecca at the airport tomorrow afternoon: I hope we can get our bearings before then! We’ll definitely be suggesting that we all get ourselves inside where it’s safe very early tomorrow - Jeremy said before sunset, but I don’t think we’ll have to turn in that early. Stay tuned.
More laughs!
Jeremy and Angela are standing in the kitchen, discussing last night [which was not a fight between us]. Angela has been repressing the need to talk so that Jeremy can have some time to think, but talking is starting to come in dribbles. Jeremy gets a juice box from the fridge and starts sipping. I bring you to the middle of the conversation.
. . .
J: I think that’s part of it, but I don’t think it’s the whole thing.
::He stops::
A: I do need you to share with me.
::J offers A his juice box.::
::rolling laughter::
Bad day.
The dandruff that has been plaguing me for the last two winters is back, earlier than ever, and shaping up to be worse than ever. I have tried every single over-the-counter remedy I can find, including making my own shampoo, and nothing touches it. Can I get any sort of response from my doctors? NOPE!
I had blood drawn two weeks ago. I have not heard a thing from my doctor. I’m almost out of this bottle of thyroid meds. I’m going to have to spend all day Tuesday on the phone trying to get these people to do their damn jobs. Again. When I had the thyroid ultrasound, it took me EIGHT phone calls just to get the information into the hands of the right person, and then an additional three weeks to talk to anyone about it.
My face is drying out again, as per winter usual, but again, it’s earlier than the last two years. I just don’t know what to do about it. Anything heavier than a lotion makes me break out, but once my skin starts drying out, lotion doesn’t touch it, and my face gets so dry that I break out anyway. My ophthalmologist swears by flaxseed oil. I’ve been taking it for three weeks, and my skin just keeps getting worse.
The white hairs on my head are starting to come in where they show, not just in the underneath layers of my hair.
One of my birthday presents was supposed to be a daytrip to Boston. I got sick the night before. The other was supposed to be going dancing. But that was because my husband felt that the cotton gauze skirts and dresses I have are appropriate attire for November. I can’t afford dress-up clothes right now. So I’m just going to have to stall and come up with excuses to not go dancing. Even though this was the first response I ever got to seven years of begging.
I am so damn tired of being sick. And gaining weight. And dandruff. And white hair. And dry skin. And doctors I cannot access to save my life. And a husband who means so well, but geez, he can’t escape being a man.
It’s just a bad day.
Chocolate-face
A: I really don’t procrastinate that often, you know.
J: No? ::eyes fall to Angela’s mouth. Short laugh that is swallowed:: I don’t think
A: ::cuts him off:: I have chocolate on my face, don’t I?
J: I was going to come back to that later, after I hadn’t laughed.
::rolling laughter::
All the little pieces
I had yet another appointment today, as I try to unravel the mystery of the lost voice. This is three doctors, one speech therapist, and still counting . . . .
I’ve had thyroid trouble ever since I was diagnosed with diabetes. At the time, I refused medication because the doctor said it could correct on its own. It did. The problem is that I’ve had many flare-ups since then, but they have not shown up in the blood-work. I would start gaining weight, losing my hair, having trouble sleeping, etc. but the doctors keep telling me I’m fine. This time, I lost my voice. I was traumatized; even so, I waited four months before I went to the doctor. Maybe that’s why I lost my voice. God decided it was time to take care of this, now, and (literally) God knows that was the only thing that could get me on it!
So right now it’s looking like I lost my voice because:
1. As confirmed last month, I’m having an attack of thyroiditis. As usual, this did not show up in the blood-work, but my PC ordered an ultrasound that blessedly revealed the problem so that it could be treated. The treatment has only just begun (six weeks ago), but it’s a little better so far. The thyroid is located in your throat, right in front of the vocal nerve. An enlarged thyroid can press on the nerve, which of course is not good. An enlarged thyroid also fills up your throat. It can make it difficult to breathe, swallow, and of course completely changes the feel of speaking and singing.
2. I probably have an asymptomatic acid reflux. I still need to be tested, but it’s very likely, and highly treatable. Acid reflux inflames your vocal cords.
3. My cords are slightly bowed on attack (the moment you start the sound); they aren’t getting a really good, tight contact. This could be due to the natural tendency to compensate when I lost my voice. The speech therapist I saw today gave me an easy exercise I could do to condition my vocal cords to make solid contact on attack, one that involves manipulating a completely natural reflex in a very simple manner. Really cool.
So far, that’s the story. I’m hopeful that this will work out. Of course what I really wanted was one big easy answer, but I’ll take a whole bunch of little pieces too, as long as I can get enough of them to finish the puzzle!