May is not a happy bunny this week. For, oh, so many reasons. Hey, I know, let’s have a kvetch festival!
Work, now. Work is very irritating on many levels at the moment.
To begin, my commute (over an hour each way) sucks great green fermented jockey shorts. It’s Proper Hot for once and every bus and train in the city smells of feet, armpits, and, sometimes (dear Christ, people, bidets are an unmitigated good. Install and use, please) groins.
Then there’s Alpha Boss. About 80% of the time I like Alpha Boss and think she’s just great. But this week, I am annoyed with the both of us. She forgot I was on a particular task-force pilot-scheme thing, and came dangerously close to telling me, very gently and sweetly, that I was telling fibs about being on it, and then when I provided documentation that proved that a) I was on it and b) she has known about it since March, she then pointed out I hadn’t checked with her about anything I was doing for it, so no wonder she didn’t think I was on it, and anyway, I had been doing it wrong for three months as she’d instigated a new protocol in April. Of course she hadn’t told me, I wasn’t on the task-force, was I?
What I had not done was email my requests to her. Her desk is next to mine, so, without thinking, I just made the special noises with my mouth that humans have been using to communicate with for thousands of years, and she would make noises like ‘yes, sure!’ in return. And I am very cross with myself because I know her, and I know she doesn’t always remember conversations a few weeks later, and I know I should email her over every. Little. Fucking. Thing. Despite the fact she sits next to me. I’ve been down the path of ‘no evidence of your request’ with her before, so this is a complete farty FAIL on my behalf.
I went to the loo and tried not to have an anxiety attack, and then later, when I was sitting very quietly at my desk, she asked if I was OK, and I said, calmly, ‘I’m just very annoyed with myself for not writing those emails.’ At which point she looked a little wibbly herself and retroactively approved my spreadsheet. Um. Yay?
Only by that point I was at the stage of my own particular anxiety bender where everything and everyone is somehow contaminated, and I can’t get away from it because I am the contaminant, so damn.
H and I have been fighting, ooh, every other night or so this week. It started the night we got back from our appointment with The Professor, which left me up to my oxters in the Slough of Despond, with occasional side-trips into the Vale of Humiliation. H was feeling amorous, which was fine by me, as I find That Sort Of Thing a great comfort and stress-reliever. However, just as we were clambering into bed together, H decided to initiate the tender rendezvous by bringing up the subject of my (not that he put it this way) baby-killing lardy arse and how did I feel about that? The poor eejit thought he was being all supportive and good because he was showing he cared and wanted to ‘talk about it’ and share emotions etc. (as opposed to pretending it had never happened and no one felt anything about it anyway). Seriously, H? As foreplay? The thought is good but the timing is atrocious.
So we had a row about the fact it didn’t occur to him that this was Not A Good Time to discuss such an emotive and painful subject. And then we segued into a row about how we row, just for old time’s sake. Since when we’ve had a row about sex, a row about how to put a duvet-cover on a duvet, a row about spending Sunday at my mother’s, and a row about good old ‘you never listen to a word I say anyway, so why do I bother talking to you at all’. Yeah, it’s all sweetness and light chez nous.
(I still don’t really understand what in buggery fuck he thought he was playing at, talking to me about miscarriages and my weight with his hand on my arse).
Speaking of weight, I have stuck to the Annoying Book’s plan with rigid devotion for an entire week, and I have lost six pounds and two ounces in that week. My God, that’s nearly all of the misery-weight I’ve put on since the end of October.
I know it’s probably un-clever to know this, and to have failed completely to put it out of my mind, but if the October pregnancy had made it, I would have been giving birth at some point over the next few days. The Official Due Date my charting website flashed in my face when I clicked the button for positive pregnancy test, based on ovulation, was 3rd of July, 2010.
Um. Does anyone else think that may be why I am so very fucking hard to live with right now?