...Drunk Boss is no longer with The Ritzier, and just like that it looks like things may be okay again. Everyone was walking around smiling today, and my very most favorite work-superior looked at me at one point and said "it feels different already, doesn't it?"
Yes, yes it does!
Hopefully whoever replaces Drunk Boss isn't terrible. Just in case, I'm not canceling any interviews just yet.
| | | |
| | |
I didn't want to admit it, but a lot of my depression of late has been work-related, and the reason I didn't want to admit it was a) didn't I just HAVE a shitty job? I'm giving mySELF the side-eye here because I am the common denominator in two back-to-back shitty jobs now and b) Hotter would be pissed at me. But I just can't go on being this miserable, and after last night I can safely say that what is going wrong at The Ritzier is NOT in any way my fault.
The Ritzier is a great establishment, but unfortunately my manager there is a verbally abusive, belligerent drunk. This isn't just my assessment. There have been statements as to his drunkenness made and signed by entire shifts' worth of employees. Upper management has flat-out said things like "this guy needs to go. We are trying to fire him, but he's already threatening to sue us and we need a blood alcohol level to support terminating him, and he keeps evading that. We are so sorry you have to work with him" and "____, what the hell is wrong with you talking to MFA Mama like that?!? That is inappropriate, unprofessional, and constitutes harassment!"
The whole thing kind of breaks my brain, and last night Drunk Boss tried to send me home "for being a whiny little bitch" (I needed a manager override for something and he resented being called to the restaurant because he is always super-busy elsewhere) (by which he means drinking and perusing the job listings on Craigslist), I went to the AGM and tried to quit, he begged me to "hang in there" and talked me down and yelled at Drunk Boss and said he wasn't allowed to send me home for asking him to do his job, and I spent my entire lunch break LITERALLY crying on the shoulder of my gay work-grandpa (that's a story for a happier post but I just love that guy!), finished my shift, came home, and told Hotter I'm looking for another job.
That did not go over well. Hotter's concern for our family's financial survival manifests in the form of a lot of "every workplace has issues!" and "you'll never find a serving job without drama, so why leave a place with benefits?" and "you just need to be more assertive!" (which frankly sounds very victim-blamey to me, that last one, and also really fucking insensitive given that I've been on the receiving end of a lot of violence in my life and therefore REALLY DO NOT ENJOY CONFRONTATION) (plus also I TRY! Last night I stood up to Drunk Boss, with the AGM's support and backing, but you can't reason with a belligerent drunk and I don't think it'll improve the situation any).
So yeah, I'm looking for another job, and Hotter initially tried to be all "I support you doing whatever will help you be happier" (I suspect because I was a total wreck last night and female tears are Hotter's kryptonite) but has, as I feared, devolved into making a lot of "I love you, but..." statements, and yes I broke the Blogging Prime Directive and talked about work, but the worst-case scenario there is that Stalky somehow figures out where I work and I get Dooced and honestly that would kind of be a relief at this point (mind you, being even very temporarily jobless would suck, but I can handle poverty better than THIS). Also? I was maliciously glutenated last night at work (don't ask...I REALLY need a new job) and today everything hurts and tomorrow I'm going to be an emotional basketcase, so that's swell.
TL; DR: My job sucks and it's threatening my relationship, and that is why I am so depressed, and I need my people.
| | | |
| | |
* I found a new blog to read that I am really enjoying.
* I tried a bite of rare steak at work and didn't hate it, but then all I'd eaten was a Larabar each for breakfast and lunch, so I'm not sure it counts. Am a little disgusted with myself, honestly.
* The Ritzier has been slow lately. I'm thinking of getting a part-time job, because Hotter really wants to take a trip to the Arctic Tundra to visit his family and the MFA Minivan is terminally ill and I think one of my front teeth is about to need some serious dental work.
* Coincidentally, today I was offered a job at a strip club. Not taking my clothes off, just waiting tables (in a corset, booty shorts, and leggings). I'm considering it because a) it's crazy money b) I'm flattered, and c) it would be an interesting life experience to have that, if I want to give it a try, has a definite expiration date of sorts (I'm not getting any younger).
* Last time I went to Trader Joe's I bought a jar of cornichons, because they are adorable and I'd always wanted to try them. Then I tasted them, and...WHAT FUCKERY IS THIS? Something tastes like...fennel? Anise? TARRAGON. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
* Big Child's summer program for the gifted had a competition that parents were invited to attend, and I went. Big Child and his partner bombed in the first round but did well in the second. They didn't win or even place, but they weren't in last place or even next-to-last, and Big Child handled it with grace and good sportsmanship. I told him I was prouder of that than if he'd been a gracious winner, because it takes a lot more class, and that I couldn't be happier with him as my Number One Son. I'm pleased to report that thirteen is not too old to hug your mother around these parts.
* Hotter has taken to doing this thing lately where he kind of swings his dick around in a "here is how it is going to be" way and it's not cute. It shuts me right down, because I refuse to fight, especially in front of children, but I'm not sure he realizes the big-picture price of that kind of victory in the context of a marriage.
* I'm still pretty fucking depressed. A longtime friend of mine recently started working at The Ritzier, but we have opposite schedules. Tonight was the first time we've worked together there and she kept kind of poking at me. "Why aren't you more excited to see me? I feel like you should have all of these things to tell me, and you're just...quiet. WHAT IS GOING ON?" I was like "well, Hotter has been sick, and my ex has been a douche,** and I'm a little worried about my mental health because I can't seem to cheer the fuck up lately." Said friend is self-centered enough that she was like "oh" and proceeded to discuss her boy-problems. Which was fine. Or maybe it wasn't? I don't even know anymore.
* How are all of YOU?
** The XY has hit a new low in co-parenting, and I'd be outraged except it wouldn't change anything and I kind of forget how to make the face for that emotion anyway. I haven't written about it on here because I try not to trash my ex online and there is nothing amusing about how badly he sucks as a father of late. It's actually just really sad.
| | | |
| | |
As we were tucking the Littles into bed tonight, Hotter farted.*
"Oh Jesus Christ," I exclaimed, fanning the air while the boys rolled around laughing in their beds with their pillows over their faces.
"It was Little Child," Hotter insisted.
"HIS BODY ISN'T EVEN LARGE ENOUGH TO CONTAIN SUCH FOULNESS," I gasped.
"We're practically the same size," Hotter argued. I lifted him.** "Eh, it's just about true."
Middle Child pondered for a moment, then asked "Hotter? Do you not weigh ath much because you're mith-ing organth?"
I explained that Hotter actually has MORE organs than the average person, since they left the old ones in.
And then I suggested that perhaps he's lightweight because he's full of gas.
I love Middly's logic, though!
* It bears mentioning that this was no ordinary fart. Hotter's chronic GI troubles cause, among other unpleasant things, frequent, loud, FECKING AWFUL flatulence. Or as I put it the other day, when children and their little ears were not present, DEAR GOD THAT SMELLED LIKE SOMEONE LIT A GANGRENOUS LIMB ON FIRE AND TRIED TO PUT IT OUT BY TAKING A HANGOVER SHIT ON IT.
** Yeah, he's lost a lot of weight as a result of said GI problems' recent flare-up. Plus I'm freakishly strong, but mostly the first one. And yes, he has seen a doctor (and a specialist) about this, and they have tried various treatments, but not much helps. The prevailing theory is that between his being diabetic for twenty-some years and vessels that fed his intestines being diverted to sustain the donor organs his guts are underoxygenated and/or have nerve damage, or something like that, although it's sometimes better and sometimes worse, but there just aren't enough people with Hotter's constellation of medical issues walking around for anyone to form more than an educated guess.
| | | |
| | |
Oh, man. Perspective is some crazy shit! Shortly after I wrote my last post, I got glutenated by some pizza that I am guessing was cross-contaminated (it was from a large pizza chain that until last week had managed not to cross-contaminate me, to my delight UNTIL LAST WEEK). As soon as I finished eating I had a horrible stomachache, like I'd swallowed a burning bowling ball, and things continued to follow the usual pattern of glutenation with me of Day One GI Unrest, Day Two Everything Hurts, Day Three EVERYTHING IS A HORRIBLE URGENT TRAGEDY OH GOD WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE CRYING? Day Three reminded me that while I may have a chronic depression issue, at least it does not generally get in the way of my living a fairly normal life. Day Three, though...boy. THAT was in the way!
Somewhere in the middle of the glutenation my ex-husband got up to some fairly epic fuckery.
Hotter courteously waited until the day AFTER that to get sick. And by "sick" I mean "his usual GI stuff got so bad that his electrolytes were out of whack and his BP was low and I invoked the Local Teaching Hospital." Funnily enough, Hotter's sickness came on shortly after he abandoned the gluten-free diet he'd been sticking to and started eating wheat again, and when he went back to being gluten-free things improved again so HMMM! You guys, I swear I'm not going to turn into one of those gluten zealots who claims that going GF will cure anything that ails you from acne to autism. But...damn. *gives gluten the side-eye*
Every once in a great while, when life has been kicking my ass more than usual, I harken back to my fat alcoholic roots and hold a "cake and a six-pack" day wherein I bake a cake for no good reason and purchase a six-pack and silence my internal nutrition nag and spend a day consuming the cake and the six-pack. This year the 4th of July coincided with a cake and a six-pack day, so really it was like I made a birthday cake for America and raised a bottle (or six) to FREEDOM!
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
How are all of YOU?
| | | |
| | |
Yesterday I got a package, and because Hotter is obsessed with mail, and unopened packages, he asked eagerly what it was. "Vitamins," I said. "For Poppy?" "No, for me. Probiotics, to be exact." He looked puzzled. "I take them every day. They prevent female problems, and some studies have shown that they lessen anxiety and help with depression." He pondered on that for a moment, and then said "maybe you ought to take something else for the chronic depression. You're still pretty depressed." I pointed out that I take the maximum dose of the most effective SSRI/norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor for me. "Well, but...like maybe another vitamin or something. I read that sometimes depressed people are low on Vitamin D." Yes, I said, which is why I take 5,000 IU of that per day. "Maybe you need more Synthroid?" I told him that actually according to my most recent bloodwork I could maybe use slightly less, but my doctor had agreed to leave it alone since my mood is so heavily influenced by my thyroid and my heart is okay with things the way they are. "Oh. Well is there anything else natural or whatever?" I told him I also take a shit-ton of fish oil, which is supposed to be a natural mood stabilizer, and Co-Q-10, which allegedly improves mentation in some subjects, and eat a lot of blueberries and take b-vitamins, because those are supposed to fight depression too, and that short of sticking a fork in an electrical outlet to try and replicate ECT there wasn't much else I could do to try and boost my mood while I'm uninsured. "But I guess once I'm insured again I can go back to my psychiatrist and see if any new drugs have come along since we last spoke," I said, and kind of mentally cringed at how flat my voice sounded, even to me. And then I went and laid down and opened my laptop, because if you lie down while awake and stare at the ceiling you look depressed as hell but if you lie down and stare at your laptop you're reading.
Hotter came into the bedroom and stared at me. "What's wrong?" Nothing, I said. "No really, what?" I said I thought I was hiding it better, and then started crying out of nowhere. Crap. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I just want you to be happier, for..." I held my breath, because I was afraid he was going to say "the kids," and my entire goal in life is to not let my mental health fuck up my children, because if I can accomplish that much on top of not breaking any of their bones or letting them catch me at any adultery then I'll be totally winning at life and doing a WAY better job than The Narcissist did. And we all just want to do better by our kids than our own parents did by us, right? "I just want you to be happier for your own sake." I exhaled, and wiped my eyes, and said I just thought I'd been hiding it better. I think at that point Hotter could tell what I was thinking, because he said that I did hide it pretty well from everybody but him, but he noticed and wished I wasn't depressed was all.
The funny thing is, a couple of days ago one of my more bitter co-workers grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me aside. "How do you do it?" she asked. "Do what," I asked in return. "How are you so happy and upbeat all the goddamn time?" I said something about that being what people want from us in the hospitality industry. Later that same night, a guest at another server's table, a little old lady, called me over and asked me what my secret was. "You're just so lively! My goodness, I've been watching you and you never stop! You remember everyone's orders without writing them down and you always have a smile on your face...you're just a delight!" At the time I was actually pretty irritated, because the shift was kind of going to hell and I was trying to do eleventy-hundred things at once and didn't have time to talk to a little old lady who WASN'T EVEN MY FUCKING TABLE, but I smiled and said "caffeine! Enough to give a pony a heart attack," and then scurried away to track down some Dijon mustard for somebody and heckle the kitchen about the ticket time on my large party and steal some soup spoons from Banquets.
So I guess I probably do hide it pretty well, but I'm also pretty fucking depressed, and have been for a while now, and I have no idea what to do about that.
| | | |
| | |
Hotter and I are fans of Orange Is The New Black. Since it's a dramedy about women in prison I'm not surprised that he is keen on it, but I do not generally have the attention span for teevee of any kind (this makes Hotter very sad because he considers teevee to be a Bonding Activity). However, the brilliant writing and extremely high Bad Fun Quotient have won me over in the case of this series, and so it came to pass that a co-worker and I were discussing it the other night after I watched the last new episode (previously she would try to talk about it and I would run away yelling with my fingers in my ears).
MFA Mama: Okay, I finished watching. We can talk about it now.
Co-worker: EEEEEEEE! What did you think?!?
MFA Mama: SO SATISFYING!
Co-worker: INORITE??? Who's your favorite character? I really like Poussey.
Other co-worker: What are we talking about?
MFA Mama and First Co-worker, in chorus: ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK!
Other co-worker, with Judgey Eyes: Oh. I do not watch television. I do not even own a television.
So that's what I sound like. Ooof.
| | | |
| | |
Man, it has been a rough seventy-two hours over here. I was barrelling through an hours-heavy workweek, worrying because the MFA Minivan appears to have a degenerative neurological condition of some sort (all of the dash instruments and now also the transmission have these kind of absence seizures where they just blip out for a second or a few minutes...but only every couple of days so far) and we are broke and I was starting to get one of my laryngitis/bronchitis combo platters and there is drama at work (of the usual hotel restaurant sort, so scandalous but not overly troubling to me).
Then the night before last I got a text from Hotter that Skeeter was MIA. At first I didn't panic, because I've gotten the "Skeeter is out" text before and it's generally followed by "Ha! Got him! What a slut for freezedried beef liver that cat is!" This, however, was different; nobody could recall seeing him that day. His last known whereabouts had been the night before when Hotter and I replaced one of his Soft Paws claw caps. And I? FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. I couldn't breathe, and told my boss I had to leave work. As I drove into our neighborhood I looked in the road, in the ditches, hoping and fearing I'd see Skeeter and be able to help him. In our driveway I jumped out of the minivan and started calling. Skeet always comes when I call him, and part of me thought I'd call, he'd come, I'd scoop him up, and I'd walk into the house and yell at everybody not to scare me like that.
Instead, I found nothing, said some hurtful things to Hotter, filed a missing pet report with the local Animal Shelter, kicked myself repeatedly for not having Skeeter microchipped (I worry that a chip will stick right out on top of his poor scrawny little shoulderblades...but no longer to the point that I am against chipping him) and did a lot of Ugly Crying down at Squatter Workshop.
I just...2014 had already killed off so many people, animals, and things I love that surely that was what this was, and I couldn't. I was not okay. It was...really bad. I kept thinking about Skeeter's soft little body and all of the terrible things that could happen to it, and how the two most likely scenarios, someone nabbing him and something making a meal of him, would leave us always wondering, and how I was never, ever loving anything with paws EVER AGAIN.
At 6:14 a.m. the day before yesterday Middly woke me up yelling. "MOMMY SKEETER IS HOME I FOUND YOUR CAT MOMMY LOOK!" A second later a very dirty, hungry, dehydrated and bedraggled hairless cat landed in bed between me and Hotter and began whirling like a tiny, filthy dervish, rubbing our faces in turn with his cheeks and leaving smudges. "OH BABY BUDDY," I exclaimed, and made an unashamed ass of myself (seriously, I have clearly started to go soft in my old age because YOU GUYS THIS CAT). Hotter and I gently bathed Skeet, and I cleaned the numerous scratches and punctures on his back, haunches, and hind legs with peroxide, and then we all took a nap until our vet's Saturday hours began (as soon as Skeeter finished eating and drinking he burrowed into my arms and fell into an exhausted sleep).
Figure One: Poor Skeet's poor rump. There are also wounds all over his back and legs :(
At the vet, Skeeter was charming and schmoozed the pet nurse and the vet, although he was not very happy with the exams he received at their hands. The vet said he was pleasantly surprised to find that Skeeter wasn't severely sunburned over most of his body (apparently that is the number one concern they have with runaway Sphynx cats and a very real danger), but concerned about the bite-wounds. "The good news is, he doesn't have a fever so I think these darkened spots are bruising, not abscesses. The bad news is, bite-wounds are nasty and a few of these go pretty deep, plus we don't know what bit him or whether it might have rabies." After counting the months since Skeeter's last rabies shot (seven), the vet said that he didn't think it was absolutely necessary to administer a booster shot, but he was willing if I was still concerned. "How much is the shot," I asked, and when he said twenty-three bucks I told him to go ahead and do it. He did absolutely recommend, and I agreed to, a long-acting, broad-spectrum antibiotic injection that should cover Skeeter for about ten days without us having to restrain him while he's sore and freaked out to administer daily oral meds. We also agreed that Skeet needed to go on immediate heartworm and general parasite prophylaxis (Revolution) and stay on it for at least three months, and when the vet said they recommend it year-round even for indoor cats I bought an eight-month supply (buy six, get two free) without batting an eyelash or even asking how much it cost. I questioned that decision a little at the front desk when I found that it would take all of my hoarded cash tips, plus the entire remaining available credit on our "break glass in case of emergency" card, plus everything we had in the bank to cover the bill, but only because I hadn't asked about the cost of the Revolution prior to going with the eight-month supply.
I've been sick as a dog and emotionally hung over since then; I actually called in sick yesterday, which I generally don't do even if I am miserably ill. I spent most of the day curled up in bed with my Skeet, and I think it was good for both of us. Today I am not really any better physically, but mentally it feels like I've got most of the pieces back together, I guess. We need the money more than ever, but the difference between "almost completely broke and my cat is gone" and "COMPLETELY-completely broke but there is a purring kitty in bed with me" makes things seem kind of alright.
How are all of YOU?
| | | |
| | |
| | | |
| | |
