dianaschnuth

Those of you who have been playing along at home know that February and March really kind of sucked.

In the middle of dealing with the gutter that was torn off the roof by an ice dam, buying a new refrigerator, and having the appliance delivery guys hit our house with their truck — in the middle of all that, I hit a pothole on the highway on my way to work.

I was actually on the on-ramp from one highway to another, and was preparing to merge, so I didn’t expect to need to be on pothole recon at the same time. I didn’t even see it coming. Right before the yield sign, right when I was turned around checking traffic over my shoulder.

It was one of those impacts where my eyes immediately darted to the tire pressure idiot light — did I spring a leak? No? Whew, OK. Carry on.

By the time I got home that evening, the idiot light was on. Or was it the next morning? Either way, it wasn’t until lunch hour the following day that I really, really had to put air in the tire. It was obvious. I found a gas station on my way to the chiropractor, and fed the air compressor all four quarters we had stashed in our center console. (I could have used my credit card, but it would have cost me an extra 25 cents.) The front driver’s side tire had gotten all the way down to 17 PSI. Yikes.

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I find that when I can remember my dreams, they tend to have a particular theme or setting over time. This winter, for example, I was having lots of drum corps dreams, mostly of the unpreparedness variety — can’t find my horn or my uniform parts, or I have to play a weird instrument (a valve-rotor bugle instead of a three-valve, or a woodwind instead of brass), or I get lost on the way to or from rehearsal, or I can’t get my gear packed up in time and the tour bus leaves without me.

Lately, I’ve been having lots of college dorm dreams, mostly involving moving my stuff in or out, and either not having enough time or losing track of time. The most recent one was me having to move out of two dorm rooms at the same time the day before graduation, and me having no idea how I was going to get all that stuff packed up and loaded into my Mom’s car in time. There was another one where I moved in and was trying to connect with my roommate, Amy, but kept getting held up by one thing or another and missing her by a few minutes.

What does it mean? What is my brain trying to parse?

I know I’ve been thinking about my clutter lately, and my growing list of tidying-up and cleaning-related activities, so it’s probably related to that. But why would my brain put that in a collegiate setting? Maybe because I felt so behind the 8-ball during my entire college career (except maybe one or two semesters), and that reflects how I feel about getting stuff under control now.

But why would I also have a dream about bringing Snoop Dogg a bottle of marshmallow-flavored rum in bed, then him asking, “But what else can you do for me?”

My brain is a weird place.

It’s been awhile since I’ve been in a multi-day funk. I’m not sure if I’m getting sick, or if I’m extra-hormonal this month, or if it’s a side effect of the medication I’m on right now, or if I’ve just got Spring Fever. Whatever’s causing it, I don’t like it.

Not only am I tired and headachy, but I just don’t give a shit. It’s hard to concentrate. On anything. I’m getting frustrated with things easily, too — my son, my work, my calendar and all its appointments, my dwindling PTO. At least I’m still going to my workouts over lunch, and I managed to repot the plants that the cat tried to kill yesterday. File those under responsibilities I don’t feel like I can shirk, I guess.

I can see myself from the outside, too: making poor food choices in hopes to boost my energy level and mood, knowing full well that a Diet Mountain Dew and a 75¢ goodie from the bottom row of the vending machine will only make things worse. Getting so tired at night that I don’t even care anymore and I stay up until 11pm instead of turning the lights out at 10 like I know I should.

If I didn’t have a needy three-year-old to wrangle, I’d be looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow, curling up under the covers with no alarm and no responsibilities for the day.

But I do. I have responsibilities. So, I can wish for a real day off all I want, but it’s not going to happen. I just have to push through and find something to jolt me out of this tired and disinterested mood I’ve been in. Or more likely, just fake it ’till I make it.

At the very least, maybe I can get my ass to bed at a reasonable hour tonight, so I can manage to avoid being a miserable prick to my family tomorrow.

Every other Wednesday, I go out to lunch with two co-workers of mine. One is a little younger than me with two young children (her oldest was born two days after Connor), and the other has a daughter who just went off to college, plus two grown stepsons from her partner’s first marriage. We all have things in common, but we also have different perspectives on things, which makes for intriguing lunch conversation.

This past Wednesday, we went out to the downtown taco joint and enjoyed the $1 traditional taco special and caught up with one another.

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Last time, two weeks ago, I hadn’t said much. There was too much going on in my life, and anything I said wouldn’t have come out right. Too bitchy, too woe-is-me. That’s not my style, so I just kept my mouth shut.

This time, enough things had at least started resolving themselves that I had some perspective and could put my normal amusing spin on things.

I started with the story about me getting a new primary care provider and getting referred to everyone under the sun — including an endocrinologist for the lump on my thyroid. (I haven’t yet heard from any of the specialists to set up appointments.)

Then I asked if I’d mentioned that a gutter got torn off my house by ice. No? Well, that happened.

Then I asked if I’d mentioned that the delivery truck from Appliance Center hit our house and damaged another gutter while they were delivering the refrigerator that we bought when our old one died the same day that the gutter fell off the house. That was fun. And by fun, I mean not really. (That truly deserves a detailed blog entry of its own. It’s coming soon.)

Oh, and did I mention that I hit a pothole on the highway so bad that the dealer had to replace a wheel on our main car, to the tune of nearly $600?

The entirety of February and the first half of March really just sucked balls.

All these sagas aren’t completely over, but they’re winding down. The car is fixed, and I’m working on getting reimbursed by the contractor who’s doing the highway construction work. The gutters are fixed and better than ever, with a new foam gutter guard to keep anything funky from clogging them up and contributing to future ice dams. Appliance Center’s insurance company reimbursed us for the damage to our house, although we’re still awaiting replacements for the crisper drawers that the delivery guys dropped in the driveway and cracked. And like I already mentioned, I have referrals to medical specialists, but haven’t heard from them for appointments yet.

Spring is coming, snow is melting, crises are abating, and things are generally looking up.

It’s easy enough to say to someone, “We really should get together one of these days and have dinner!” It’s even easier to let that be the extent of it, and not actually plan anything.

The last time we spent an evening with Howard and Sarah, Aaron’s church bike camp counselors from the days of yore, it was long before the time of Connor. Surprisingly, I managed not to blog about it, so I’m not sure precisely when it was. Maybe 2010? We shared dinner with them, played Scrabble and Chronology, and discovered that Howard’s vegetarianism included gelatin when he passed on the Weight Watchers key lime pie we brought for dessert.

That visit ended with the conversation turning to our atheism while Howard was out of the room (Sarah: “So, where do you go to church now?” Us: “Um…”) We worried that we had somehow tarnished the wonderful visit we’d been enjoying, but we really only confounded Sarah with the idea that two people could deconvert from something that was so central to her own life.

Since then, we’ve exchanged Christmas cards every year — ours with photos of our now-expanded family, theirs with the annual update letter. This year, along with their card and letter, we got a note to please call them and let them know when would be a good time for us to come over for dinner so they could meet Connor.

Yesterday was when it finally happened.

We had an absolutely fantastic evening. Connor was well-behaved and only a little impatient, dinner was delicious — polenta with a beef stew and freshly shaved parmesan, along with a salad I prepared — and with a couple extra adults and different kid toys around (hooray for grandkids!), Aaron and I got to have a few minutes to tag-team with Connor-wrangling and actually sit down to enjoy their company in turns.

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Howard kicked off our after-dinner conversation time by reading to Connor, which Connor seemed to enjoy. Howard chose a book I’d never heard of before, entitled The Bog Baby.

We also got to be all grown up and have some coffee before dessert, and share stories of funny turns of phrase that kids say, and listen to AM radio from a few states away. Connor had fun playing their upright piano and going up and down their stairs (counting all the way).

We didn’t get home until well after Connor’s bedtime, and Connor got to bed 90 minutes late… but it was definitely worth the ever-so-slight inconvenience.

And, like Sarah said: next time, we’ll play a game.

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