And Yet, I Digress....

 It was the kind of week where I swore way more than I should have, and hugged much less than I wanted to. Between heated conversations with my boss out on the acoustically enhanced loading dock, to understaffing so horrendous I found myself stepping in for overtime multiple times. One of my favorite coworkers is grieving the loss of a good friend, who also happens to be my customer as well, and I can't even give her a completely non-covid-approved deep felt hug of sympathy.

These Covid cooties suck. 

I have been finding projects to fill my time when the talk in my head gets to loud. I've had this coffee table in the basement for the better part of ten years. My cousin gave it to me, as she was getting remarried and it had been a wedding gift from her first marriage in 1993-ish. I used it for a bit, but when Oldest was around five he wanted to fix it, and tapped it with a hammer. Needless to say, the glass insert didn't survive his Bob The Builder phase. 

So, it's been in the basement, waiting until it could become one of my projects.  First thing that had to go was the 90's style golden oak finish. 

Paint stripping is not for sissies my friends.  It is hard work. What didn't come off with the stripper my sander made quick work of.  Once stripped down to bare wood, I started with the stain...

The gray stain gives it a more casual look, which is what I was going for.  The Hubs of course didn't like the lighter color, and insisted we do another coat. Three coats later, we ended up with a fairly consistent gray stain, with only nuisances of wood grain coming through.  At this point, I decided to get risky, and add some black accents and a pop of color for the inside.

It took a few tries, and several swatches of colors against the gray to decide on an ultra matte baby blue. 

I spent a few days scrolling through pages and pages of drawer pulls to find the right ones.  It seems I have every expensive taste.  Eventually I settled on this art deco style, rustic, but not too harsh against the gray wash. I also wanted to add small casters to the bottom to make it easier to move since this sucker is hea-vy. But that didn't quite work out.

I ordered the glass from a local company downtown. The fit was perfect and they had it ready in a day for me. 

And as luck would have it, my newest blog books arrived right on time to be the showcase inside the shadow box along with my scrapbooks of our adventures with the boys. It's a coffee table of coffee table books! Win, Win.

I should be happy, right?  Another piece saved from the basement. 

But now we really have no space in the living room.  I mean, like where is the dog going to roll around scratching her back like a lunatic? As luck would have it, the neighbor has been watching my progress and loves the table, apparently it's just her style.  And, she's moving in with her fiancé on the 7th and has no furniture.

I hope she likes double chocolate chip cookies.

**** Ed Note: My blog books have all been done by Blog to Print in the past.  For the "new" blog I decided to go with Pixxibooks and I could not be happier!  The price was in line with other companies and it came in a week.  I receive no compensation for mentioning them, this isn't that type of blog. ****

White Noise...

Returning home from walking the dog, I left the windows open, no one's home. The tiny nuance of traffic on the main drag is far overshadowed by the cheeps of tiny birds, cackles of crows, and falcons crying in the breeze; sounds only interrupted by an occasional child's voice. The dog's already snoring in the corner, sleeping it off until her Dad comes home. Perfect end to an imperfect day, uninterrupted by the chaos of white noise.

The peace will not last of course, as the husband will be home soon. White noise seems to follow him, the television mysteriously left on, relentless ads playing on his opened face book feed, tiny Vegas like sounds of coins being added from his cell phone games. Youngest is just as bad. We listened for days to incessant buzzing as his old phone, screen shattered and unreadable, slowly died on the kitchen table. Funny, for two people so adamant to not be technologically connected, they certainly live with their head in the password protected cloud.

And the peace did not last as they both came home at the same time. Youngest was only here for a few minutes, and his quick exit just adds to the palatable stress between him and the husband. I can see the tiny steps forward, while the husband only sees the bigger picture.

I continue to hold my ground, speaking up when I see something unacceptable. One would not think I would have to remind him that civilized people say hello and goodbye to each other, but here we are. When I said I would not leave the door open for him the other night, he said he'd sleep down at the pond. I reminded him he could sleep in the driveway to avoid randos and wildlife. He miraculously made it home on time instead. Last night he was home 3 hours early.

I find him reading in his car often, deeply lost in a book, enveloped in the warm coma inducing sun shining through the windows, cracked ever so slightly, to venting the permanent smell of marijuana. He's re-registered himself at the local Community College for a start in September. The irony is that he's been registered for months now, but since he did it then because he was bored, he didn't remember. We are scheduling an appointment to sit down with a live person to ensure he's on track and properly registered, so they'll be no misunderstanding of what's expected come fall. I can see all the tiny steps and changes. Hubs can only smell the pot and see and the friendly hooligans coming in and out of the garage.

Oldest will be home for the summer on Monday. A welcome distraction from our regular chaos, but he will be another voice breaking the peace and quiet I so relish in the afternoon. At least until he finds a job to fill his days.

And despite all this late afternoon white noise, I know the evening is coming. The television and computers clicked into sleep mode, and I can leave the windows open. The bullfrogs will soon be filing the night air with their twangy sounds, punctuated by crickets, and the occasional coyote scoring a fresh meal. Shadows of late night dog walkers spread across the quiet side street outside, setting off a few motion sensors as they stroll by. A restorative peace in darkness, before the blue light starts up again along side the morning sun.

I've Been Shot...

 We are perpetually understaffed at work.  If you'd indulge me in some math, there are 30 routes in our office that need 2 days off per week. S0, 60 days per week need to be covered, half of them are Sunday which only needs about 15 people to cover.  So roughly we need 45 days covered a week.  We have 7 substitute carriers to cover them. If each of the subs worked 6 days a week, this would mean at best, 3 people would need to be in on overtime each week.  Currently we have one regular on vacation, and 2 more out with COVID. So, using basic math, this means we need, as an example, this week 21 of us to work our day off to cover everything. 

Twenty one of us, out of 30, more or less every week. And it has been like this for at least the last 6 months.

So, knowing I have 4 auto immunes and that my second COVID shot was coming up, I put in for a sick day afterwards.  It was denied. So I put it in as a vacation day and it was approved.  Not a big deal, but just a pain to backtrack and recode it after the fact. But, if you were management wouldn't you want to know ahead of the game that you were going to be short staffed?

Apparently, not.  Management is adamantly denying that there will be any people out sick afterward the second shot.  Despite that towns have had to close school from lack of teachers, or that we have actual federal policy to protect our jobs from this exact scenario. So when my shot got pushed up a day ahead of schedule, there was no pre-emptive coverage for my being out, as I was expected to be there.

I was not in fact, at work on Friday.  By Thursday night I had the basic overall yuck that everyone else gets, but by morning I was so dizzy I could barely stand up.  I also was having trouble breathing and swallowing because my chest was tight and my lymph nodes were swollen.  It also triggered my digestive auto immunes, leaving me in substantial pain most of the day. 

23 hours post shot I had 102 fever, chills, and could barely walk to the back door to let the dog out. With meds I was able to get it down to 101, and overnight my body was able to sweat it out, just short of changing clothes for a third time.  Gross.

Saturday was my original recovery day, so I am scheduled off already.  Which is good because now the other two auto immunes have left me extremely dehydrated and tired. Monday is my day off, and Tuesday I took a personal day to take my niece to see a college. Hubs is home today so he'll do the driving and light grocery shopping that needs to be done.

My point, if you're still here, is that I KNEW I would have an issue and management adamantly said I was wrong.  That I had no idea how I'd be feeling afterwards.

Okay *Karen* because I haven't lived in this body for 46 years or anything.  

I'll see you on Wednesday. 

Only 10 years, 6 months and 2 days until retirement...

It Started Off So Good...

It was the first really nice day of the season. Seventy degrees, perfect shorts weather. In an effort to heal a jean inflicted abrasion across my belly, I've been donning sweatpants lately, and I was happy at the possibility of wearing something that resembled more of a casual outfit to work, rather than the completely given up on life look I've had for the last 3 weeks. 

I gave myself enough time to shave my legs, an all important detail when sporting the first shorts of the season.  When subjecting my coworkers with the neon whiteness of my winter legs, it's important to not add to their trauma. I found my most comfy jean shorts. They felt a bit off, but that was to be expected, right?  I mean they'd been in the back of the closet for 6 months now. 

The sunshine was slow to come, but once it broke through the clouds it distracted me enough to make several delivery mistakes.  Round and round I went delivering missed packages, picking up hold mail I'd accidently delivered, forgetting newspapers that the same customers have gotten twice a week for the last 4 years. It was embarrassing really, I am better than this.  If someone had pulled my GPS tracked line of travel it would have looked like a schizophrenic squirrel was driving. 

Somewhere between looping around and the detailed family feud of one customer about her dead mother's estate, I noticed a weird breeze and chafing feeling. Upon further nonchalant inspection, I discovered a large rip, leaving the upper backside of my thigh exposed for all the world to see. There was a choice to be made.  Have the Hubs run me pants, or pretend it's the style and carry on.

I carried on.

Determined not to derail the plans for the other half of the day, once back at the office, I headed to the bathroom, duct tape in hand, and fixed the problem from the inside out. Sadly, this is not the first time I've done this. I finished up, headed out, and onto Walmart to pick up some paint for a new project I'm working on.  And that's when I felt it.  The side of the duct tape had started to roll.  It was sticking to the inside of my leg, dangerously close to areas unshaved. What to do? I'm in the parking lot, walking slowly towards the door, trying to casually unstick my leg from my shorts without it looking like I'm picking a front wedgie. Standing in line at customer service I must have looked pained, making tiny steps shifting my hips and butt in an attempt to unstick myself. I was getting weird looks from the other customers.

Shorts stuck to me, dangerously close to giving myself an unwanted wax, legs as white as beacons in the storm, visibly uncomfortable and mentally exhausted, I was a person of Walmart now.  

No going back.

So how is your weekend going?

Filling The Bucket...

April, 2019...

Me: "Eventually you limit your inner circle of people to only those who fill your bucket. Remember "fill your bucket" from Elementary School?" 

Youngest: "Yup" 

Me: "Basically the only people I have now that don't fill my bucket are you guys." 

Y: "Wait. You're saying *I* don't fill your bucket?" 

Me: " DUDE...You don't even clean your own mess up in the kitchen." 

Y: "That's fair. I can't even argue that."

Two years later, here we are. Oldest has, since living and sharing a kitchen with 8 other guys, started to see what he had at home. I get occasional appreciative texts, or impromptu rants about roommates who don't know how to wash a dish.  Do you know how frustrating that is?  Yes, buddy, yes I do.... Oh yeah....

But Youngest, has still a long way to go. To say he's not filling the bucket is an understatement. He's run it dry, and poked a hole in it. Exhausted, Saturday night I told him the door would be locked from now on from 11:30 to 5:30 am.  If he wanted to sleep here, he'd need to make it home before 11:30, otherwise he'd have to find a place to sleep for the night.  It's two fold really, as we have a small house and he's LOUD when he comes in.  I need to sleep, as my auto immunes are in high gear post COVID shot, and I need sleep to recoup. He also needs to regroup and appreciate what he has here, weather he knows it or not. We don't run a hotel.  I am not a maid, or short order cook who leaves food in the fridge for consumption later.  You want dinner?  Be home for it. 

The first night, he was home at 8:30, spent a lot of time upstairs semi engaged.  He headed out around 10pm. There were texts back and forth, assuming there would be a gold star of some sort for being home earlier, until he finally just said ok.  I have no idea where he slept, but he rolled in around 6:30 am and crashed hard in his bed. 

The second night he begged and begged for 12:30.  Not acceptable, but since I didn't have to work in the morning, I acquiesced to midnight. He was silent coming in. 

Third night he left the downstairs door unlocked for himself.  Of course I caught it, and as he walked in at 11:25, we had words. 

Tonight he's thinking he'll be home.  The verdict is still out, but the door will be locked at 11:30.  And I've already checked the downstairs door, so that's not an option. He did however, change his plans and came home for dinner. There was a clear look of relief on his face when he found there was still some left.

And because parenting is freaking hard, setting ground rules comes additional stress, stomach issues and a lack of sleep. I know that this needs to be done. Intellectually I know I need to do this for all of us, for my health, and ultimately for Youngest. I also know that this will likely shift and change when his brother returns home from the city in 3 weeks.  But emotionally I feel terrible.  After everything I've done, there are nights he'd rather be homeless, sleeping in his car, than in his warm bed. That, if given a feasible option, he'd be out of here in a heartbeat, never looking back.  And worse, that he's making choices that he knows stress me out and cause me to get sick, and he does them anyways. 

And then, there's the guilt. The guilt of letting him fail.  The guilt of not doing this sooner. The guilt of not doing more, and the guilt of not doing less. What if something happens to him?  What if nothing happens to him, and he's fine with living in his car eating cheap take out that has no mom love cooked in? What if I really am insignificant to him? What if all the effort over the last 19 years of my life was completely unnecessary?

And what do I have to show for all of this gut wrenching Momma turmoil? 

An empty bucket, with duct tape where the hole used to be.

I have to start somewhere, no?