Psych!

As it turns out, I’m having a pretty difficult time getting back into the blogging thing.  I thought it would be therapeutic and wonderful and give me the outlet I needed to get through some of my temporary attitude problem, but I was wrong.  I don’t want to tell you stuff anymore! 

That cute little lapse in judgment that allowed me to let down my walls didn’t exactly turn out favorably, and now those walls have been repaired and are more structurally sound than they were before.  Sound enough that I don’t even want to blog about my shit because I’m not letting you in, Internet! 

My heart’s been waging wars with my head for weeks now, and finally, my head is starting to win some of the stupid fight.  I’m pretty sure the whole trusting people with my emotions thing is something that just isn’t going to happen for awhile. 

So much for getting back into this whole blog thing.  So much for venting and getting it all out of my system and feeling better through writing. 

Maybe I’ll take up boxing.

Month long pity party

For most of September, I went ahead and indulged in the most ridiculous, gut wrenching, heart twisting, painful pity party I can ever remember throwing.  It seemed entirely reasonable, given everything that September continued to throw at me. . . a broken heart, a dead uncle, a grieving father, fleeting thoughts of moving back to Indiana, numerous injuries, and children who seemed to have conjured up the devil himself.  The broken heart came first, and hit me hard, and the rest was a wicked downward spiral from there.

I didn’t intend for the pity party to last so long, but it seemed like every time I started to catch my breath, something else would come along and kick me in the chest, rendering me entirely useless for another few days, until I’d pick myself back up and start to heal. . . and then get kicked again. 

Sometime in mid-September, I just threw my hands in the air and accepted the fact that the whole month was going to suck.  And, so it did.

It’s hard to justify an entire month of sadness, especially when there have been far more seemingly difficult times that I’ve endured much more gracefully.  But, despite sincere efforts to force myself out of it, the actual physical pain associated with my broken heart was a constant reminder that I couldn’t convince myself to ignore. 

I struggled to find the lesson in September.  I told myself over and over again that God wouldn’t give me more than I could handle and that I would come out of this stronger than I was before.  I did everything I could to convince myself that this, too, shall pass.  And, for several weeks, I was afraid it would just never end.  Especially when people started saying, “WTF?  This is not you.  Snap out of it”. . . and my response would be, “I don’t know how”. 

I was starting to hate how vulnerable I had allowed myself to be.  I was starting to hate how much weakness I was allowing to show.  I was retreating from everyone to avoid letting them see me struggle with the pain I was in because I’m too proud to be seen as anything less than strong and unbreakable.

Somewhere in the chaos, in the midst of the hours and hours of conversation my friends endured, in between the millions of tears I cried during the month, and the countless hours I spent furiously trying to find a fix for everything that had gone wrong. . . I realized that I had let go of years of disappointment and pain and had allowed myself to have faith in something that I had no control over.  For the first time since I was 16 years old, I had allowed someone to be close enough to me to hurt me. . . and I trusted, however foolishly, that any pain that resulted would be worth it in the end.

That’s a pretty big deal for a girl who has spent her whole life refusing to trust men, and absolutely refusing to fall in love.  And, someday (not today, or tomorrow, or probably any of October, really), I bet I’ll be glad to know that I’m capable of loving with reckless abandon. . . because, truth be told, I really didn’t think I was.

It sucks that the timing of the situation happened to immediately precede a series of remarkably shitty events that shredded my heart into even tinier sharp pieces that stabbed my chest with every breath, but, now that September’s over and nothing shitty has happened in October, I’m pretty sure I’ll find a lesson in this.  Or at least come to believe that I’m stronger for having weathered the storm.

For now, I’m trying to appreciate that the tears are falling less spontaneously and the ache in my chest is really only noticeable at night.  I’m recognizing that I have an unimaginably loving family of friends who will patiently hold me together when I fall to pieces. . . and who will pretend they don’t even notice it’s happening.  I’m demanding that October bring some peace. .  and desperately hoping to hold onto some of the naive optimism I somehow managed to unexpectedly find before everything toppled over.

Stop. Refocus.

Just when I was starting to feel like I had my life under control, someone who shall remain nameless, TRACY, decided to toss a big pile of bricks on my back.  Which is really nice because I needed to be brought back to real life where sanity is most definitely not an option.  Ever.  Until I die. 

The past several days, I’ve allowed my thoughts to spiral out of control from general happiness with life in general to OH. MY. GOD. EVERYTHING. SUCKS. IN. THE. WHOLE. WORLD. because I no longer feel in control of anything. 

That’s usually how my life works.  There’s an extremely delicate balance that is often hard to find, and once I find it, the slightest breeze sends it all tumbling over.  Maybe I’m balancing too much, ya think?

It’s taken me years and years to recognize chaos before it consumes me, but in the past couple of years, I like to think I’ve gotten better about seeing it sooner and taking the time to stop, breathe, and refocus. 

That’s where I am right now.  Everything seems like it’s spinning out of control, so I’m going to step back and redirect my energy towards the positive.

In the past, this process has usually ended with me shuffling priorities and making some hard decisions about the people I spend time with.  Some people naturally inspire, others naturally drag you down.  I’ve often taken the time to ponder the impact of many of my friendships on my life, and have been known to let friendships fizzle as a result.

Today, it finally (finally!) occurred to me that I maybe ought to focus more on the impact I’M having on THEM.  Am I the kind of person that inspires the people around me or do I drag them down?

Truth be told, the answer varies depending on who you talk to.  Something I get from my disfunctional family is the uncanny ability to support the Hell out of the people most destined for failure.  On the flipside, I’m minimally supportive of the people I believe the most in.  Why is that?

It’s because I have high expectations from the people I respect most.  I expect them to be strong, resiliant, tough, and able to muscle through each and every obstacle that crosses their path.  I expect that of them because I feel like that’s what’s been expected of me, and I feel like I’ve done it each and every time I’ve stood in the face of struggle.

What I’ve failed to acknowledge is that all of those people who I believe to have the strength to forge ahead . . . they probably all have the same desperate moments of panic and fear that I’ve had.  They probably have the same doubt and uncertainty that I’ve faced every obstacle with, and they, too, could probably use the reassurance and inspiration from people who believe in them.  Just like I could.

I get this from my father, no doubt.  My father who always claims to only help those of us who help themselves, but who pays my sister’s rent when she refuses to get a job for several years and then turns around and tells me I’ll figure it out when I call him in tears over something so severe I swallowed my pride to call my daddy. 

I hate when I realize that something about my personality is directly related to my disfunctional upbringing.  It stops me dead in my tracks every time and makes me obsess over how long it took me to recognize and change it.

I’ll be taking some time to refocus now.  To think about my priorities, about where I am in life, about where I should be, about what I should be doing, about who I am affecting and how, and about what I need to do to get back on track.

That might mean more blogging (and if it does, it means boring blogging). . . it might mean less blogging.

 

Come ON.

People.

I love country music.  Like. . . freakishly much for how uncool it was to love country music when I was in high school. 

But, I recognize that there are limits.  And, seriously, people.  Whoever thought it was a good idea to turn an Aerosmith song country needs to be shot. 

*shakes head*

One more reason Indiana sucks

I wouldn’t ordinarily post unpleasant stories without warning, but this is kinda important.  If you’re easily grossed out, just don’t read this or scroll down.  Seriously.

Last week, my brother-in-law was attacked by several men at a pub on the north edge of Indianapolis.  By all accounts, the attack was unprovoked, so it’s difficult to comprehend the end result. . . it’s also really hard to try to understand how this shit just happens in the real world at all, let alone to someone you know and love.

Justin was just a few blocks from home, having drinks with a friend.  When his friend went to the restroom, he was hit from behind and knocked out with the first blow.  A witness said he hit his head on a table as he fell.  The men continued beating him even though he was out cold. 

For some reason, no one stepped in to stop the attack.  The bar staff didn’t intervene until Justin’s friend ran to get the license plate of the car the assholes were fleeing in.  At that time, he was stopped at the door and prevented from getting any identifying information.

Justin was out for several minutes before he awoke in pretty miserable condition.  He was bleeding and disoriented, and had no idea what happened.

The next day, he was examined by a dentist and doctor and the extent of his injuries was shocking.  Justin had 5 broken bones in his face.  He had a collapsed sinus cavity that needed rebuilt to prevent his eye from falling into his head.  He had several chipped teeth.

The pattern of injuries is consistent with having been kicked in the face. 

Justin spent most of a day in surgery last week.  As you can see in the photo, the incision ran from one ear, over the top of his head, and to the other temple.  The surgeon had to essentially peel his face off to correct the damage done.  Not cool.

So, try understanding that this happened to begin with, for no apparent reason.  Then, try to figure out how people stood by and let it happen.  Then, further try to understand how the bar staff didn’t do anything. 

It’s terrifying to think that you could just be happily minding your own business, enjoying time with friends, and get your head bashed in without warning.  It’s infuriating to think that it could happen and people could watch it happen and not do a thing. 

It’s further pretty fucking irritating to think that you might never know who did it or why.

There are undoubtedly people who know who did this.  People saw it happen, saw the guys who did it, saw the car they drove off in.  Something.  Anything.  Any of that information would be helpful.

If you think you might have some information about this, please contact the Indianapolis police department.  If you need more information (where, when, etc.), leave a comment and use your real email address or email me at stephanie_combs@hotmail.com. 

This is the kind of thing that makes me want to move back home and kick some ass. 

We’re thinking about you every day, Justin and Linds.  Hang in there.

All in good time.

I’m not doing such a good job of catching up here because I can’t decide on any given day whether to catch up or just jump to now.  I think I’ve decided that I’m going to behave like your old Great Aunt Betty and randomly stop everything to bust out some incoherent story from 40 years ago about how I had to walk uphill both ways barefoot in the snow to get to school - while I’m supposed to be folding napkins for your wedding reception.  That’s how we’ll catch up.  Randomly.  With no warning.  While I’m definitely supposed to be doing other things that others find more important (it’s going to be a fun day when I finally cross that “blogging from work” barrier).

So, part of how much I’ve changed since I moved to this magical city in Texas is that I’ve learned to express gratitude. 

Generally, my biggest display of gratitude comes in the form of New Year’s letters.  New Year’s is often a very reflective time for me (well, assuming I’m not so drunk I’ve forgotten that I left my keys with the valet and I have no way to get into my apartment at 2am) and I get all sentimental and junk.  So, it’s a good time to sit down and let my friends know how much they mean to me and how knowing them has changed my life.

It’s really a very sweet tradition, and I love when I get all of the, “You made me cry!” responses.  I have always loved making people cry (disregard that time when the means to the end were quite different). 

What I don’t love is when people are arrogant enough to be irritated when I don’t send them a New Year’s letter and then they call me on it and make an issue of it.

Like, seriously.  SERIOUSLY, people.  

This is one of those times when I thought about playing the adoption card.  As in - Gosh, I’m so sorry I didn’t get around to that, but I’m a little busy what with all of these kids I’ve adopted.  And, then watch said jerk feel really bad for being such a jerk.

But, then I decided that anyone who is going to make snide remarks to remind me that I’ve forgotten to flatter them mostly doesn’t deserve much flattery.  So, they can suck it. 

Happy New Year!

The Hoosier State

On the day that I had my stupid dentist appointment, I was really ready to bitch to you all about it. But, now that it’s been weeks and weeks, it doesn’t seem as necessary anymore. So, I’ll just tell you that I went to the dentist for a cleaning, for which I made an appointment. . . and then I had my x-rays and waited and waited and waited until they told me that the hygienist was too busy and wouldn’t be able to clean my teeth that day. I was pretty irritated.

Next topic: Indiana!

So. . . I made my way to Indiana late in August, and it was THE best kind of trip ever in the whole world because it was a surprise trip. It was a surprise to my favorite friend from my crappiest job ever, and it was a surprise to Miss Fred and her brother. Surprises! Surprises! Wheeeeee!

I’m pretty sure my friend has the best husband in the history of the world. He coordinated this super secret surprise just to brighten her day. They were having a party at their place, and he figured it would be a good time to just have me randomly show up. And, so I did. And, it was fun. It was fun when she said, “What are you doing here?!”. He he he he. I like to be a surprise.

It wasn’t as fun when she ran over the cat with the Gator while she drove me all over their gigantic new property. But, except for that, it was fun.

Oooh, but the fun started well before then. You see, when you’re a surprise, things get complicated. There were storms in Chicago the night I flew in. Which is all fine and dandy, except I had a stop in Chicago before I got to Indianapolis. And, Chicago went ahead and made us sit on a plane for 732 hours, and then decided we weren’t going anywhere else.

I followed about 9,026,712 people to the customer service counter to attempt to rectify the situation and find a place to stay for the night. HA HA HA! Funny story. There wasn’t anywhere left to stay by the time I got to the friendly airline representative. And, American Airlines cares so much about their clientelle that they basically told me to shove it up my ass and sent me packing.

I slept on the floor of the Chicago airport that night. And, let me just tell you, it’s not quite as glamourous as you might think. In fact, it’s wickedly uncomfortable, and a little scary.

The most sucky part, though, is that there are several people who would have driven to Chicago to pick me up to save me from sleeping on the stupid airport floor. . . but that would have ruined the surprises, so I couldn’t call and ask them to do that.

Luckily, I met a sweet 17 year old girl who was flying by herself for the first time, and she, too, was screwed, and a little intimidated by the whole sleeping at the airport concept. So, we stuck together, which made it mildly more tolerable. But, more importantly, gave me a photographer.

In honesty, I was happy to spend that extremely uncomfortable, slightly scarey night on the airport floor because seeing a good friend and spending time with the kids was worth every miserable toss and turn. No really, it was.

What would you do for $100?

I’ve always been the kind of girl who simply cannot pay someone to do something I’m capable of doing myself.  This was of particular issue during my last relationship with a man who would rather pay someone than get his hands dirty.  We disagreed a lot about whether to do it ourselves or pay someone, particularly as relates to home repairs.  

Maybe I’m that way because I grew up with parents who were capable of doing just about everything themselves – my dad is a home repair/remodel/build guru and my mom is a wicked seamstress and makes the world’s best sugar cookies.

Couple that with the fact that I’ve been almost poor for most of my life, and you mostly bet that I’m a thrifty girl.

So, I’m not exactly poor anymore, and I can kind of afford to live like a normal person. . . but I don’t think “thrifty” is something that just leaves your blood.  I like to think that I’m a rational human being and can weigh the trouble against the money and come to reasonable conclusions about where to spend a little extra and where to go to the extra trouble.

This weekend, I realized that I might not be as rational as I thought.

For a savings of approximately $100 per dog ($200 total), I spent a total of 5 hours at a vaccination clinic.  This time was broken up into two separate visits.

The first visit was relatively uneventful.  Cleo (my pug) and I signed in and sat in the waiting area for about 2 hours.  She sniffed some of the people, sniffed one of the other dogs, and sat on my lap for the majority of the wait.  When we got in, she got pretty ticked off when they drew her blood, but she was otherwise very well behaved.  No big deal. 

The second visit made me reconsider the entire concept of dogs as pets altogether.  Beans and I signed in, and it was immediately evident that he was not going to do well in the waiting area when he tried to leap from my arms to attack another dog.  Awesome.

We went outside to wait, away from everyone else.  In the 95 degree heat without water.  We stayed outside for 1.5 hours, and then went back in to see where we were in line.  We were 5 away – about 45 minutes.  Since Beans was about to die from heat exhaustion, I decided we’d stay in the reception area (not the waiting area with the other dogs) for a little bit and see if he could handle it.  We spent the next hour and half whining the entire time.  Sometimes barking our heads off.  Sometimes acting like the world was coming to a screeching halt because Mommy won’t let me eat the other dogs!

My favorite part was when the stupid lady came over and said, “Is your dog nice?” and I said, “No.  He doesn’t do well with other people or dogs”.  To which, she responded, “Maybe he just wants some attention”.  Again, I said, “No, he’s not good with people”.  So, what does she do?  She walks over to pet him.  WTF?  I mean, she’s right, he just wants attention, but he’s a very hyper dog and I’m always afraid he’s going to hurt someone, so I’d prefer if strangers just left him alone.  But, nooooo, not this lady.

Naturally, that just got him nice and extra excited. 

From that time on, he needed attention from EVERY! PERSON! WHO! WALKS! BY!  And, if he didn’t get their attention, well, you’d think he was just going to die. 

Worse, anytime someone brought their dog through the door, he would lunge and bark and try to attack them.  It was awesome. 

I eventually caught on and started standing in the corner with him everytime someone walked in so he wouldn’t see the other dogs.  I can’t believe it worked, but it did. 

Nonetheless, we were both exhausted by the time they called our names. 

We headed back to the exam room, and he was really good for the tech.  He didn’t mind the shots or the drawing of blood or the temperature being taken from his ass.  However, he most certainly did not want any liquid shot up his nose, and he turned into a boxing kangaroo just as soon as the (pretty old) vet attempted to give it to him.  Somehow, Beans managed to kick the guy in the face.  Again, AWESOME!

The poor guy gave up and just gave him another shot to do the job, because somehow, Beans doesn’t mind needles.

We were finally on our way, and the vet told me we’re good for 3 years.  We have the magic vaccines that need renewed only every 3 years.  I’m sure they’re just as relieved as I am.

So, here’s the quandry.  I could have taken Beans to a regular vet with a regular appointment and been in and out of there in 30 minutes.  No fighting him to hide the other dogs, no annoying the whole world with our barking and whining, no dog hair all over my person.

That would have cost approximately $100 more.  Probably worth every dime.  Noted.

Fire ants

One thing that is not cool about Texas is fire ants.

I’m currently enjoying approximately 8 fire ant bites on my feet. 

And, just so you know, it’s not pleasant.

Defeated

Life is kicking my ass.

What are the major components of my life?

Family
Business
Volunteer Work
Relationships

What’s the status of each of the above?

Fucked beyond comprehension
Fucked beyond comprehension
Fucked beyond comprehension
Fucked beyond comprehension

So, as if it weren’t enough that the major components are a wreck, someone’s thinking it’s great fun to toss in little sidebar bullshits to screw with me.

LIKE – I’ve had the shittiest day today.  All four of the above mentioned issues caused me stress today.  Generally, I get one or two per day. . . enough that it’s a constant pain in my ass, but usually not so much that it kicks my ass all over the place without relief.  Today was a day that kicked my ass repeatedly until I just gave up.

Giving up entailed calling Mr. Universe, in tears, at 11pm, who talked me through it and brought my heartrate back to normal.

So, newly calmed and feeling capable of having a rational conversation, I called my fascinating, amazing business partner and walked out to my patio to sit and relax.

Oh, maybe 20 minutes into that conversation, I realized what I’d done.

I’d shut my sliding glass door so the dogs wouldn’t bark at the noise outside, and the fucking bar that is intended to keep intruders out, fell down and locked me out of my own apartment.

No problem.  My fascinating, amazing business partner has a key.

Problem.  I locked the second deadbolt after I walked the dogs.  It is not accessible from outside.  A key is worthless.

I sincerely don’t know how I didn’t have a complete meltdown.  Well, I mean, assuming you don’t think that me jumping up and down, screaming, trying to convince my dog to jump and knock the bar out of place constitutes meltdown. 

Assuming you don’t think that having my fascinating, amazing business partner throw her daughter over the rail to me so I could taunt the dogs with her and get them to bump the bar out of place might be meltdownish.

Assuming you don’t think it’s completely insane for me to throw my body weight into the glass door, trying to knock the bar out of place on my own.

Eventually, I figured out that a wire coat hanger would do the trick.  So, my very patient, very loyal, fantastic, amazing business partner went back home, got a hanger, and came back. 

It did get me in, much to my great relief.

It also made me realize that the stupid bar that’s supposed to prevent people from breaking in is about the most fucking worthless thing ever created because if I can figure out how to get past it, surely seasoned criminals can figure it out.

I’m pretty close to throwing in the towel on all of the above.  First, though, I’m breaking that stupid bar off my sliding glass door.

Neglect

Internet, I’m aware that I’ve been neglecting you.  I’m sorry.

As it turns out, I’m boring.

That’s really not true at all. 

What it really turns out is that all of the stuff I have that could possibly be made into entertaining blog entries is stuff I’m not allowed to blog about.

Sincerely, why must you people put such restrictions on me?!

I don’t even have any interesting things to tell you to look forward to.  Because. . . most of it, I can’t talk about!

So, that blows.  And, I know it. 

You should kinda be happy, though, because I’ve been in a really shitty mood lately.  I’ve been in the kind of mood that makes me want to punch people in the mouth for being stupid.  It’s fascinating how many people are really fucking stupid.

If you ever wonder. . .

One summer, about 6 years ago, when I’d finally decided to lose the public accounting gig, I worked for a flower shop, making deliveries.  It was a very good segway into the business I’m now in, so it was good experience.  For the most part, it was a really fun job.  I got to run around all day long, making people’s days.  Ocassionally, you’d run into the odd ex-wife who didn’t want anything to do with the stupid fucking flowers that her stupid fucking ex-husband sent in a desperate plea to get her back.  But, for the most part, people like getting flowers.

The one part I failed to consider before I took the job is that a lot flowers also get delivered to funeral homes.  And, it’s no news that I don’t particularly care to share space with dead people.  In fact, I spend a great deal of time avoiding spending time with dead people.

So, you can imagine, when I made my first delivery to the little funeral home just outside town, walked into the room marked “FLOWERS”, AND FOUND AN OPEN COFFIN FULL OF A DEAD PERSON, that I was a little shaken.  I may have dropped the flowers, run out the door screaming like a banshee, and drove directly back to the shop to demand that I never be sent on another funeral home delivery again.

I don’t much care for dead people.

It may stem from the first funeral I can remember attending.  I very distinctly remember walking up to the coffin and very closely inspecting the corpse for the snakes and worms that my sister insisted crawl behind the glued shut eyelids of dead people.  I was certain I saw something move and I believed her from that day on for many years that what I saw was a snake.  She managed to later convince me that there was a murderous ghost in the basement of my uncle’s house, and that the whole Bloody Mary story was true.  I wonder why I hated her so much.

ANYWAY. 

All of this gives you really good cause to completely understand why my mother would send me the following article just before I take off for the longest flight ever in the world. 

Woman upgraded after dying in economy during flight from Delhi to London

If you ever wonder where my wicked side comes from. . . I think now you know.