Great haircut, nifty pictures, stunning juliana, as always. Still want Teppy pictures, too.
Thinking all the good thoughts I possibly can for Sean and S, and, beth, if you decide to do some kind of grocery gift-card-thingie, I can kick in a bit. Just email me.
Also, so very very very glad for Raq's clean biopsy.
Completely OT selfish self-pitying soon-to-be-deleted rant ahead:
I fucking hate bedrest. Everything about it. I hate the enforced inactivity, the enforced inactivity warring against the nesting instinct that can't let me sit for more than two minutes without noticing how filthy the floor is, how dusty everything is, how many piles of books and CDs and miscellaneous paper there are, the obsessive fretfulness about the toxic apartment that doesn't let me write or draw or do anything creative or constructive with my time.
I'm underfoot and making it harder for Hec to concentrate on cranking out the first draft of the book, which really needs to be done before the Halloweenie arrives, and I hate feeling like a needy leech and a creative impediment. I hate that every time he asks how I'm doing, all I can do is complain about the messy apartment and how it depresses and upsets me, which complaint depresses and upsets him. I hate craving his company constantly because I never see anyone else, because all my non-Buffista friends have full-time jobs and little kids, most of the Buffistas either live way outside SF or have several jobs, and now all my Faire friends are spending all weekend in Gilroy at the workshops and rehearsals I can't go to. Hate the mess, hate bugging Hec about it, hate asking others for help with it, hate the loneliness, hate how cramped and domestic my world is, hate that I can't ever get outside my own skin anymore.
Also, I keep having creepy explicit sex dreams and fantasies that fill me with horrible guilt because I'm under doctor's orders not even to have an orgasm because it's all connected and I could end up in premature labor.
And it's all nothing compared to the people whose friends have lost babies, who have lost their own children, who've been waiting for biopsy results and their final round of chemo and the next trip to the ICU, and I feel like the whiniest bitch in creation.
Not looking for hairpats, just venting. I'll probably delete in a few minutes. I just needed to vent.
JZ, I think you're tops. And your venting is totally within reason. If you were ventilating, however, I would be concerned.
Hate the mess, hate bugging Hec about it, hate asking others for help with it,
Aw, honey--this is all totally understandable. Hec's proably better than most men at dealing with the emotional side of all this and he loves you and knows this is all for the health and well being of the baby. I'm sorry you're feeling so confined. It sucks and blows. But don't feel bad about asking for help--that's what you should be doing. Lots of folks understand the situation you're in and they WANT to help you. They would LOVE to help you. Hell, if there were those silly fly-over states between us, I'd be over there right now, rubbing your shoulders or sweeping your floor.
I had a long weekend of bedrest and thought I was going to scream my head off.
Also, I keep having creepy explicit sex dreams and fantasies that fill me with horrible guilt because I'm under doctor's orders not even to have an orgasm because it's all connected and I could end up in premature labor.
See, I know you're among the radical progressive Catholics, but this sounded like something so old-school and ruler-weilding-nun-induced that I just had to giggle. Somewhere my Aunt Mary Jo (of pope-killing fame) is nodding in approval. YOU'RE A SACRED VESSEL, WOMAN! CUT THAT SMUT OUT!
Sweetness, you get to vent.
Vent away, JZ. Wish I could drop by to distract and entertain.
((JZ))
Yeah, when I was laid up last week, the messy apartment made a everything that much worse for me.
JZ, love you, sweetie.
Sweetness, you get to vent.
What they said.
Also, you should have package soon. Ok. That won't solve everything, but it's something.
The sex dreams are nothing new -- they've been going on since I hit about 18 weeks, which according to a couple of the books I've read is totally typical. And up until two weeks ago, I was quite enjoying them. The horrible guilt is all brand spanking new and scientific: it's DOCTOR'S ORDERS, my goolie needs to be in a state of perfect quiet and stillness, and now I can't shut my sexy lizard brain off and it's going to kill the baby, the doctor said so.
And what kind of gassy nasty bitch whines at her husband about not folding his T-shirts when he has a book contract, an already-spent advance, and an iron-clad deadline hanging over his head (plus 50% custody of a high-energy child for whom he is now the sole caretaker during that 50%, on top of the bedbound bitch and the book contract)? I just feel like a completely shitty, useless hausfrau vampire.
