Birthday Eve 2015
The night before my birthday, and I'm too twitchy to sleep. I'm not sure why. There are fun plans for tomorrow, but not like . . . not supremely exciting. Not like, Bob comes to visit or other far-away friends.
Not even a grand meal- the Japanese lunch I was envisioning is probably simplifying somewhat. But we had so many grandiose dinners- hell, I had three in a row last week! I don't mind simple. I get to continue the tradition I made up two years ago, to eat something raw at every birthday. First venison tartare, then beef heart tartare, tomorrow sashimi.
Hell, maybe we'll just have that and rice. That's fine, too.
Tomorrow afternoon, nap or laze for awhile, then off we all head to Camberville for a NYE party. I hide somewhere or duck out for the countdown/kiss part- I don't celebrate NYE. Still don't. Doubt I ever will, though maybe eventually I'll pick up my parents' traditional New Year's puzzle. It's kind of adorably geeky introvert. I'm seeing its charm more and more as I age, as raucous parties hold less appeal to me than quiet conversation over a tasty dinner.
Naw. I was always wired that way. I can only handle wildness when it's mostly friends, or strangers that don't flicker on my threat scale. I wonder if Tiger knows I have one, too- it's just got a very different zero point to his.
He took me to the mall today, to make a new friend. Actually two new friends, they were having a sale at Build-A-Bear. I now have a pretty blue and yellow dragon from the How to Train a Dragon series that I've named Swift Flight, and a brown sloth named Caramella. Swifty and Cara for short.
I have $6 left towards the next outfit or critter, too. I'm thinking about Snoopy, so's I can give Cara's Joe Cool outfit to him, and then getting her the Frozen dress or snowflake shirt and silver pants she was eyeing.
I dunno. I'm doing a project that'll net some actual money, but it'd probably be best if I can put as much as possible of that check towards the Flea. Tiger has Flea money set aside, but he'll probably need that for bills instead. Poor boy is eternally poor, it seems. Despite spending a lot of this year working like a demon.
It doesn't matter much. I can sew all my critters cute outfits. I can make my own Snoopy, even, though I doubt I can find that cool soft glittery fur that Build-A-Bear has.
They do also say that Care Bears are coming- first Tenderheart and Cheer, then many more. Wish Bear? Oh, I hope so! I would love to make my own Wish Bear and Swiftheart Rabbit- I'd love that so much more than buying them on eBay, though I do eye vintage ones now and again. They tout being smoke-free homes, but what other scents are stuck in them for years? Possibly the artificial stinks that I'm allergic to? Possibly other weird smells? Who knows?
"They look just like the 80's ones!" says the excited Build-A-Bear employee to an obvious fiftysomething woman ahead of me in line. He'd dismissed me long ago, thinking me certainly too young to know the magic of Care Bears.
I'm shamed to silence by my stupid baby face. I think about the Care-A-Lot playset and Rainbow Cloud Car and EVERY SINGLE POSEABLE CARE BEAR that's set out at home, where I can play with them as much as I want. And I do. I still do. I have to rebuy the Lamb Care Bear Cousin, the one I got in the very early days of eBay is in sorry condition. Need a better one, and maybe start chasing after the missing accessories, and then my Poseable Care Bears collection is complete.
Well, no dumb human characters, and no Cloud Car. Do I want the Cloud Car? I'm not sure. If the Build-A-Bear Care Bears are exact replicas of the vintage stuffed animals, then I would like one or two of the vintage outfits for them- they had a hole in the tummy to display each Bear or Cousin's belly-marks. I'm confident I could make similar ones, though, with modern velcro and such.
I'm . . . I'm better about my baby face than I used to be, though. I have a use for it, just as it slips away. I'm pretty sure Tiger's parents know I'm older, but they don't know how much older. They will soon enough- I know me, I know I'm going to crow about being 40, and then his sister will see.
I think it'll be okay. I think they know I'm not a cougar just using their hot son for over two years' worth of sex and will toss him aside when he gets too old for me.
I think I'm far more concerned about the other little morsel of info I've been keeping from them all this time- that little marriage thing. But . . . hm. They're Catholic, but they're not as religious as I'd feared. They laugh about Catholicism openly. I don't think they'd find out, shriek "Adulterer!" at me and ban me from their lives. I could be wrong, but I don't think so.
The barrier to coming out as Poly is the same as ever. My mother. My fear of my mother hissing at me, "well, if you want to throw away your marriage, go ahead!" (again) and ignoring all the bits I'd say first about how this is always how it's been and we're happy and well no, actually we're deliriously happy and our marriage is strong like tree, and and and- well, fuck you, this is our thing!
She could surprise me and shrug and say something about how she and Dad take in a girl now and then. She's just . . . yeah. Gonna unpack that more with a shrink, don't need to paint myself into a weepy corner tonight.
There's only one thing about turning 40 that's fucking with my head, I think. I'm super looking forward to my forties, even more than I was looking forward to my thirties, but. :/
The end of my fertility approaches. Why do I care? Why did I only start caring at thirty-fucking-five or whatever it was? Why am I increasingly sneakily hopeful at the prospect of a broken condom?
For most of my life, I thought my mom had me at 40. I learned just a few months ago that no, she was 39. That jarred me. At the time she said it, my first thought was, "Oh shit, I'm already past the point of no return."
I'm not. I know I'm not. People have healthy babies well into their forties, some even into their early fifties. It's just the chance of fuckups that get higher, complications that can cripple or kill me or the little one.
I could continue to pretend I might be rich enough for adoption someday. That just seems more ludicrous with every passing year, as things like "house" or "car" or "a week in Disneyworld" seem to slip farther and farther from my grasp.
I can continue to fantasize about foster care, and foster care that turns into adoption- look how fast Becca went from howlingly lonely to mom-of-five-teenagers to grandma.
Mostly though, I just have to suffer through this season, knowing in a few months I'll be a depressed, housebound mess who'll be so fucking relieved that my crazy might end with me.
In a related note, on Coyote's urging, I'm going to (fucking finally) try the pills route soon. Psychologist to get a diagnosis, Psychiatrist to get the brain pills, then a lifetime of talking it out and checking/changing meds. But if it can bring me closer to functional year round, I'll fucking take it.
I don't make resolutions, that's part of my refusal to do NYE things. I don't make goals, because depression is always telling me there's no point, since I fail at everything I try.
But I can make wishes.
I wish that I would feel more of the joy in this amazing life of mine in 2016.
I wish that I would strengthen, in body and mind in 2016.
I wish that I would do more than one money-making thing in 2016.
I wish that I would paint more in 2016.
I wish that I would weave more in 2016.
I wish that Coyote gets healthier, Tiger gets a stable job that he enjoys, and that we get a wonderful (nonhuman animal) pet in 2016.
I wish that we would all go camping (at least) once in 2016. Yes, Coyote's girlfriend too. I can go chill in the woods or stare at the fire or up at the stars when she annoys me.
I wish for peace among all nations and races in 2016.
Amen.
Not even a grand meal- the Japanese lunch I was envisioning is probably simplifying somewhat. But we had so many grandiose dinners- hell, I had three in a row last week! I don't mind simple. I get to continue the tradition I made up two years ago, to eat something raw at every birthday. First venison tartare, then beef heart tartare, tomorrow sashimi.
Hell, maybe we'll just have that and rice. That's fine, too.
Tomorrow afternoon, nap or laze for awhile, then off we all head to Camberville for a NYE party. I hide somewhere or duck out for the countdown/kiss part- I don't celebrate NYE. Still don't. Doubt I ever will, though maybe eventually I'll pick up my parents' traditional New Year's puzzle. It's kind of adorably geeky introvert. I'm seeing its charm more and more as I age, as raucous parties hold less appeal to me than quiet conversation over a tasty dinner.
Naw. I was always wired that way. I can only handle wildness when it's mostly friends, or strangers that don't flicker on my threat scale. I wonder if Tiger knows I have one, too- it's just got a very different zero point to his.
He took me to the mall today, to make a new friend. Actually two new friends, they were having a sale at Build-A-Bear. I now have a pretty blue and yellow dragon from the How to Train a Dragon series that I've named Swift Flight, and a brown sloth named Caramella. Swifty and Cara for short.
I have $6 left towards the next outfit or critter, too. I'm thinking about Snoopy, so's I can give Cara's Joe Cool outfit to him, and then getting her the Frozen dress or snowflake shirt and silver pants she was eyeing.
I dunno. I'm doing a project that'll net some actual money, but it'd probably be best if I can put as much as possible of that check towards the Flea. Tiger has Flea money set aside, but he'll probably need that for bills instead. Poor boy is eternally poor, it seems. Despite spending a lot of this year working like a demon.
It doesn't matter much. I can sew all my critters cute outfits. I can make my own Snoopy, even, though I doubt I can find that cool soft glittery fur that Build-A-Bear has.
They do also say that Care Bears are coming- first Tenderheart and Cheer, then many more. Wish Bear? Oh, I hope so! I would love to make my own Wish Bear and Swiftheart Rabbit- I'd love that so much more than buying them on eBay, though I do eye vintage ones now and again. They tout being smoke-free homes, but what other scents are stuck in them for years? Possibly the artificial stinks that I'm allergic to? Possibly other weird smells? Who knows?
"They look just like the 80's ones!" says the excited Build-A-Bear employee to an obvious fiftysomething woman ahead of me in line. He'd dismissed me long ago, thinking me certainly too young to know the magic of Care Bears.
I'm shamed to silence by my stupid baby face. I think about the Care-A-Lot playset and Rainbow Cloud Car and EVERY SINGLE POSEABLE CARE BEAR that's set out at home, where I can play with them as much as I want. And I do. I still do. I have to rebuy the Lamb Care Bear Cousin, the one I got in the very early days of eBay is in sorry condition. Need a better one, and maybe start chasing after the missing accessories, and then my Poseable Care Bears collection is complete.
Well, no dumb human characters, and no Cloud Car. Do I want the Cloud Car? I'm not sure. If the Build-A-Bear Care Bears are exact replicas of the vintage stuffed animals, then I would like one or two of the vintage outfits for them- they had a hole in the tummy to display each Bear or Cousin's belly-marks. I'm confident I could make similar ones, though, with modern velcro and such.
I'm . . . I'm better about my baby face than I used to be, though. I have a use for it, just as it slips away. I'm pretty sure Tiger's parents know I'm older, but they don't know how much older. They will soon enough- I know me, I know I'm going to crow about being 40, and then his sister will see.
I think it'll be okay. I think they know I'm not a cougar just using their hot son for over two years' worth of sex and will toss him aside when he gets too old for me.
I think I'm far more concerned about the other little morsel of info I've been keeping from them all this time- that little marriage thing. But . . . hm. They're Catholic, but they're not as religious as I'd feared. They laugh about Catholicism openly. I don't think they'd find out, shriek "Adulterer!" at me and ban me from their lives. I could be wrong, but I don't think so.
The barrier to coming out as Poly is the same as ever. My mother. My fear of my mother hissing at me, "well, if you want to throw away your marriage, go ahead!" (again) and ignoring all the bits I'd say first about how this is always how it's been and we're happy and well no, actually we're deliriously happy and our marriage is strong like tree, and and and- well, fuck you, this is our thing!
She could surprise me and shrug and say something about how she and Dad take in a girl now and then. She's just . . . yeah. Gonna unpack that more with a shrink, don't need to paint myself into a weepy corner tonight.
There's only one thing about turning 40 that's fucking with my head, I think. I'm super looking forward to my forties, even more than I was looking forward to my thirties, but. :/
The end of my fertility approaches. Why do I care? Why did I only start caring at thirty-fucking-five or whatever it was? Why am I increasingly sneakily hopeful at the prospect of a broken condom?
For most of my life, I thought my mom had me at 40. I learned just a few months ago that no, she was 39. That jarred me. At the time she said it, my first thought was, "Oh shit, I'm already past the point of no return."
I'm not. I know I'm not. People have healthy babies well into their forties, some even into their early fifties. It's just the chance of fuckups that get higher, complications that can cripple or kill me or the little one.
I could continue to pretend I might be rich enough for adoption someday. That just seems more ludicrous with every passing year, as things like "house" or "car" or "a week in Disneyworld" seem to slip farther and farther from my grasp.
I can continue to fantasize about foster care, and foster care that turns into adoption- look how fast Becca went from howlingly lonely to mom-of-five-teenagers to grandma.
Mostly though, I just have to suffer through this season, knowing in a few months I'll be a depressed, housebound mess who'll be so fucking relieved that my crazy might end with me.
In a related note, on Coyote's urging, I'm going to (fucking finally) try the pills route soon. Psychologist to get a diagnosis, Psychiatrist to get the brain pills, then a lifetime of talking it out and checking/changing meds. But if it can bring me closer to functional year round, I'll fucking take it.
I don't make resolutions, that's part of my refusal to do NYE things. I don't make goals, because depression is always telling me there's no point, since I fail at everything I try.
But I can make wishes.
I wish that I would feel more of the joy in this amazing life of mine in 2016.
I wish that I would strengthen, in body and mind in 2016.
I wish that I would do more than one money-making thing in 2016.
I wish that I would paint more in 2016.
I wish that I would weave more in 2016.
I wish that Coyote gets healthier, Tiger gets a stable job that he enjoys, and that we get a wonderful (nonhuman animal) pet in 2016.
I wish that we would all go camping (at least) once in 2016. Yes, Coyote's girlfriend too. I can go chill in the woods or stare at the fire or up at the stars when she annoys me.
I wish for peace among all nations and races in 2016.
Amen.