Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

I had this whole idea in my head to talk about how difficult it can be during the holidays to bounce back and forth from family to family, all the while trying to keep everyone happy but barely underneath the surface you are CRACKING THE FUCK UP and I don’t mean in a laughing manner. So you smile and make nice and (attempt to) say the right things and then as soon as you get into the car to haul ass to the next person’s house you rip into each other pointing out all the wrong things said and the passive aggressiveness that was so OBVIOUSLY overlooked and why can we just run away to a tropical island for the holidays and oh look… we’re here… time to SMILE!

But I erased most of it. And started over.

Because here’s the thing… I used to have a huge family. A big group of loud people who congregated in the kitchen with big voices and even bigger glasses of wine. We were all throwing ingredients into each other’s dishes and telling stories at the same time and stepping over dogs camped out on the floor hoping for a bite of whatever was making that delicious smell. It was the kind of relaxed and loving atmosphere that only a family that honestly enjoys each other’s company can produce.

Three years ago, my family and Patrick’s family all came down to Augusta for Thanksgiving. Patrick was going to be on call and there was no getting out of it, we just had to stay down there. Thanksgiving is, traditionally, my very favorite holiday. Because it’s just about family. And being together and lots of good food. You can’t go wrong…

While everyone was in Augusta, a new plan was formed. Thanksgiving would stay as an all together holiday! (For the record, I will remind you that my parents and Patrick’s parents live about 5 minutes apart but that up until this point we had kept our holiday celebrations decidedly separate. I’m sure this was somehow my idea… the good ones usually are.) But from this point on, Thanksgiving would simply rotate houses. And at that time, nobody had a clue the heartache that would be in store for us over the next few years.

Cut to this year; the full circle has been made and Patrick and I are once again on deck to host Thanksgiving. I sat down and started counting and menu planning for this most festive occasion and had a bit of a panic attack when I realized we were looking at a mere SIX PEOPLE and for some reason, I found that… depressing. After the year we’ve had and losing people so central to our family, I’m not prepared for a small and quiet Thanksgiving. I think that this year, more than ever, we need a crowd and a boisterous environment. I crave the confusion of too many people in the kitchen and everyone talking over each other.

So I brought in ringers. I badgered Patrick until he caved and invited a whole slew of cousins. Loud ones. With lots of new stories. Hopefully next year there will be a baby for everyone to fuss over but for this year? I just wanted there to be noise. None of us are ready to accept a holiday without it. It’s too soon.

And maybe this can be our new Thanksgiving normal. Because I genuinely like these people too.

I have a to-do list that is threatening to knit itself into a scarf, come to life and wrap it’s asshole self around my neck and choke the life right out of me. I have deadlines and projects and dirty laundry and kitchen clutter and holy guacamole woman why have you not fully unpacked your bathroom items from that cruise!?!?

But something is… off. I don’t know how to describe it. Or at least I didn’t until I had kind of an epiphany yesterday afternoon. As I described it to Patrick (pre-moment of enlightenment) Wednesday afternoon “I feel kind of ambiguously sad and grey. Like I really want to smile and be peppy and witty and cheerful but the ability to do so has literally left my body. I think it’s somewhere in the Caribbean and I think I need to go there immediately and retrieve it. If I’m not mistaken, it’s next to my dignity that I left in the piano bar when I decided to start singing at the top of my lungs.”

He simply asked me to also try and recover some of the $500 I spent in the spa while I was at it.

A couple of hours later I was sitting at home making a grocery list because all the food in our house had gone bad and there was no way I was eating scrambled eggs and bacon for dinner a third night in a row and I caught a glimpse of my calendar sticking out from under a few magazines on the coffee table. The calendar that hasn’t left my side in almost 6 months because it was where I tracked every shot, pill and doctor’s appointment. That’s when sometimes in my head clicked and I realized what was going on.

Did I mention to you that we had decided to take a month off? Well… that’s not entirely accurate. My RE suggested that we take a month off and enjoy our trip and have a little break. Which… as previously discussed… led to the massive rum binge of October 2009. (As well as the aforementioned loss of dignity when I mistakenly believed myself to posses Stevie Nicks-like vocal abilities)

But previous to this “vacation” I had a routine. A natural progression of my life on my radar and every single day, every needle full of hormones I (by which I mean Patrick) shot myself up with was a step on the path to a goal. A lifetime goal, not a short term goal. First, we tried to get pregnant, then eventually we succeed, I’m pregnant and then we are parents. Steps one, two, three, all the way to a thousand. But a break? That wasn’t on the agenda. And the “break” is causing me so much anguish and floundering about that I don’t think it was a good plan. I could have gone without the rum. I could have done the shots while we were on the boat. I would have happily done that if it would have meant that I wouldn’t be feeling the way I am right now. It’s just so… non-specific. I’m empty and lost and without purpose right now. I know no other way to explain it.

In the grand scheme of things, it isn’t such a big deal. A month, 6 weeks at the most, and then I’m back on track. But those words are kind of empty when I hear them come out of my mouth. They do very little to fill what is a surprisingly large void. I’m usually so good at finding at the non-suckitude in life, I’m generally a positive person. And yet here we are…

What’s the deal?

I’m feeling neglected. It has been several days since anyone has offered me a fruity beverage or alerted me to the existence of a buffet… I am now operating on a rum deficiency and that is a tragic way to go through life my friends. I’ve glimpsed the other side and I’m not afraid to tell you… I may chuck it all and go work for a cruise line. I can mix drinks with the best of them, I could TOTALLY be a bartender.

Patrick, of course, is not interested in the plan and does not relish the thought of becoming a single parent to two dogs and two cats so I SUPPOSE I shall make this sacrifice as I am a good wife who is willing to do things like that.

STOP LAUGHING AT ME… I can be a good wife! It’s down in there somewhere.

I don’t think I could work on a cruise ship because we got off that damn boat on Sunday morning and it’s Tuesday and I’m still a little off-kilter. And rum for breakfast has NOT helped in the least. It pairs so poorly with Cheerios and I can’t bring myself to buy the Fruit Loops it so obviously calls for.

So sad. Remember when I was here…?

These, and a certain Piano Bar featuring the most adorable and talented damn musician I’ve ever come across, are my new happy places.

I suck at waiting. And until yesterday morning, that’s all my life had revolved around. Waiting for the next shot. Waiting for the next ultrasound. Waiting for the next round of bloodwork. And then finally, waiting for the words you are begging the universe that you won’t hear.

Not. Pregnant.

Really? Then please tell me oh great and powerful nurse… WHY was I so sure? WHY was I so tired? WHY was I considering setting up shop in the bathroom? WHY did I want to cry every time my damn cat ran across my chest?

It’s incredible what our minds can do to us. The tricks they play on our bodies.

I’ve tried. I’ve tried all the optimistic answers. I’ve tried joking about how much rum I’ll be able to drink. I’ve attempted to put on a happy face and just look forward to a fabulous trip all over the Caribbean. I smile and nod when people tell me how much more fun I’ll have now that I know I’m not pregnant.

But between you and me? It’s all a pack of lies. I WANTED to be pregnant on that boat. I WANTED to have to order a virgin strawberry daiquiri. I didn’t consider the timing inconvenient. I didn’t mind that it would maybe make for a few rough nights of nausea. WHO FUCKING CARES.

When you want something with every fiber of your being the way I want to be a mother, the details are so unimportant. So don’t tell me that this was “my body’s” way of making sure I was able to enjoy the trip. Don’t click your tongue and make sympathetic noises all the while telling me how it will all “work out”.

Because guess what? It’s not fucking working out! I’m still not pregnant. And the amount of chemicals I have pumped into my body over the past six months should have guaranteed otherwise. I’m a pin cushion. I’m a fucking science experiment and I can barely hold my head up in the afternoons anymore. What is this overwhelming desire I cannot fight to just curl up?

I confess… this is taking forever to type as it occasionally dissolves into something along the line of thissssssssssssss.oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

No, really, that just happened for real.

Maybe this vacation is the answer. I’ve never been one to think that people needed to escape from their lives but what has mine become? It revolves around shots and pee sticks and doctors appointments and cycles.

What’s the date today? No idea. Will Cycle Day 37 be sufficient for you? No? Then we probably don’t have much to talk about right now. I’m afraid I’ve become the worst version of myself. I can reign it in every now and then. Because believe it or not, the inner workings of a Busted Uterus and Punk Ass Ovaries are NOT the scintillating conversation starters my RE has led me to believe.

I’d tell myself to get a life but I’m incapable of following that up with “in my uterus.”

Bon Voyage…