Happy Shit Month.

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I didn’t promise this to be a cheerful post!

First of all, just on a random note. Why WHY is Microsoft Word programmed to double-space my documents immediately? Not in University any more, peeps. I like to write without gaping spaces in my sentences, arranged for potential red-marker comments willy-nilly. Every time I start a document, I have to manually program it to single space. Okay, that’s my rant.

My bestie asked me yesterday if I want to change the month of my birthday. Because mine is in the middle of October, and October officially blows.

This isn’t anything new. I had an immediate family member who used to lose his/her marbles in this month, causing me to play superhero (a role I took upon myself) and bail him/her out. For the record? Nobody can be superhero. There is no such thing, so don’t try. I did for a decade. Doesn’t change shit.

Last year my mother died on October 1^st. My bestie had several family members fall ill and pass in the same month, last year. Among all sorts of other traumatic experiences felt between her, I, and a lot of other close people. Not to mention the effect on my partner (read: support system), who also very much mourned the passing of his mother-in-law-to-be.

So is it an October curse? Or am I simply letting myself believe that so that I have reason for explanation for inexplicable events.

Here’s the thing. I am going to admit this, and it may come as a surprise. I have always hated October. Even as a child. How can this be? Birthday and Halloween all rolled into a month? To top it off, Thanksgiving? Also known as my favourite Aunt visiting and my family gorging on pumpkin pie and turkey – to this day my favourite meal? Sorry, that was a lot of statements ending in an up-tone question.

There has always been this sense of dread and sadness that has entered me, since childhood, in this particular changing of the seasons. All of my sad and bad memories happened at night. Night was not a happy time in my house. And for me, school was not a happy time in my childhood. And with the beginning of cold and flu season, I, the phobic child that I was, was not a happy camper.

So what to do? Call in sick until April? Hide under my duvet until the first sign of summer? Nay, my friends. This is not an option as an adult. It certainly wasn’t an option as a child, though trust me… I TRIED.

I think that maybe this is the year to change things. Mix it up again. Rekindle (or begin…) my love of all things chilly and dark. Up my physical exercise and vitamin C intake. Perhaps check out that tanning bed my bestie has raved about (save the comments on tanning beds. While I’m still consuming tobacco, caffeine, alcohol, nitrates and aspartame like they’re going out of style, I am not one to dis the five minutes of faux tanning).Maybe I’ll take up skiing! Okay, fuck that, I will never take up skiing – that is too cold, damp, and achille-sensitive for me… but you know what I mean.

Maybe, maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe…

Or perhaps I’ll just crawl under the duvet until the alarm rings at 6:30 Monday morning.

Finding no solutions,

Xo

PS

How NOT to Argue With Your Spouse: And other unhelpful tips.

I hate arguments. I am no good at arguing.

But wait a minute... who LIKES arguing, and who indeed is good at it? Hell, I have enough counselling and communication skills that one would think this is something I could potentially be good at. That being said, no one teaches you how to argue without emotion when it's completely emotional. Oh wait. That's probably a good thing, right? After all, the reason we argue is because something or someone has said or done something that has hurt us or caused us to feel badly about ourselves or our actions. Of course, someone can hit a nerve without even knowing it's a nerve. See? Now it's just getting complex!

I have gathered, over the years, some very unhelpful tips at arguing with someone you love. Please, I urge you to read and not follow them.

1. Do not raise your voice. You will only get noise complaints. See, raising one's voice can feel really good. Cathartic, even! But in the end it is jarring, unhelpful, and as mentioned above, you will recive noise complaints. And trust me, having to talk to your landlord about domestic arguments can be AWK-WARD.

2. For those of us riding the menses train, do not argue when you have PMS. I know, I know, the old "Aunt Flo cop-out." But srsly, peeps. It's time to move beyond the stigma and the defensiveness and just admit that for some of us, there are a few days where no one, not even your houseplant, can do anything right. It is not our fault. We are not weaklings because sometimes our hormones take over. It's chemicals! It's science! It's legit cause it's science! I have never once used PMS as an "excuse". Sometimes, it actually happens to be a reason.

3. Do not throw the adult tantrum. This is one I have recently learned. To be honest, I will do anything to avoid escallating an argument. So I will try and stay calm. But secretly, I've always wanted to try stomping out of the house and peeling out of the driveway without telling anyone where I'm going. So one day, I tried it! Let me tell you, wow, that doesn't work. It was so disappointing! It ends up making me feel like a child, it makes the argu-buddy even angrier, and it's pretty hard to pull off. i.e. - You make your grand exit then get to the car and realize you don't have keys and you have to go home and get them. It's the visual equivalent of a ten year old stomping out the door, running away from home and then promptly realizing that he or she has no tools to function, no money, no change of underwear or toothbrush, and that she kinda just wants to go back home where it's safe, warm, and where food is served. When you go back for the keys, the dramatic gesture is so spoiled that you really do just want to shuffle back inside and sulk on the couch.

4. Never. Ever. EVER. Argue via text message. This should be rule number one. Like, rule #1, Letter A, bold and underlined font. And we with cell phones ALL DO IT. The temptation is too great. I don't know about you, but to have the ability to "let it go" and decide to talk when we are next in each other's presence is like dangling a cigarette in front of my mouth when I'm two drinks in. The number of miscommunications I have had via text arguments is staggering. You'd think I would learn from this. Nope, neeeeeever do.

5. Understand that even though you may not be able to go to bed angry, others can. This is, for me, a bit like #4. The temptation to fix things (ahem. "fix things.") before the lights go down is painfully strong. I turn into a collie-type breed where I cannot settle until all my sheep are accounted for. Must. Talk. Things. To. Death. Unfortunately, if you're someone who likes to cool down first, this can be, err, problematic. Ideally there is compromise involved, but until then, all I can say is have a drink, take the dog for a walk, and write pointless non-advice in an underread blog.

See what I did there?

Next up on the PS Guide of Unhelpful Tips: How to talk your way into an anxiety attack... and maintain it for HOURS!

xo-PS

I Shit My Pants: And other tales of woe.

Hola Viewers.

Well, it's been a long time since my last post, my "welcome new year" post that contained a glimmer of hope that some years of crap are enigmas and followed by some years of a bit of crap, but not as much crap as the one before. I'm tempted just to sign off at that.

It's August! We have had our 3.5 weeks of summer weather and now begin the long journey to miserable West Coast weather. Mild, but bad mild. Not like "mild salsa" mild. I say that, because I enjoy mild salsa. Forgive me for appearing negative. I am.

Now, obvi, there have been many highlights to this year so far. I am still in my relationship, I was lucky enough to have a wonderful two week holiday, our dog is still well (knock on wood) and I have a roof over my head and food in my belly. My friend and I have been joking about "first world problems". In other words, if you have food, shelter, and love, any other problem is a first world problem. To a degree, this is a good outlook. For example... my bacon is too hot. I finished my book and can't decide on the next one. I have to go back up to my vacation cabin for another cocktail because I just finished my last one. Definite First World Problems (FWP's). But then there's that in-between shit. The shit that indeed happens alongside privilege, but feels like everything but.

It is becoming increasingly clear that my Smoking in my Pyjamas persona is long but gone. She is here, and consistently unwell. She drinks too much, smokes too much, has anxiety attacks, pops pills, and can't seem to maintain full time employment. But daggammit, that doesn't stop her from trying. I have managed to juggle three part-time/auxiliary/temporary jobs in the past little while. I won't go into detail, but I have been maintaining my ability to work in my designated field. It's just underpaid and not giving me enough hours to live in the lifestyle within I feel accustomed. You know, with food and shit. I jest - my partner is amazing about working consistently and filling in the financial gaps. But my yearning for the ability to work full time and consistently myself... it's not so much about the money. It's a bit more about pride. Oh wait, isn't that one of those seventh deadly thingies?

Okay, plug your ears and close your eyes, because it's been a long time since I've written so I'm going to produce a litany of shameful woe-is-me complaints. See you in the next paragraph. I'm stressed. I have terrible sexual dreams about parental figures. I don't know what job I'm going to have next week, and if it's the one I've applied for, there is a good chance I will fail in attempt to work the full time hours. My partner's family member is incredibly ill. I gained twenty-five pounds but shouldn't be bitching because I still maintain a "healthy" weight. I snapped my achilles in two (clinical term: rupture. My term: FUCK me up the fucking ASS this hurts) doing the only physical activity I have loved to do for the past 25 years. I'll never do that activity again. Physio is expensive. I have anxiety attacks every day, yet for some reason I am trying to lower my SSRI doseage, because apparently I have something to prove. My mother is still dead. I never talk to my sister any more, and she used to be my |person". You know, that person. Oh, and I shit my pants.

What's that? Yes, I shit my pants. Turns out that my guts like to do this new thing now, where when I get really nervous I on a few occasions haven't been able to make it to the (PUBLIC) bathroom in time.

My name is *****, and I shit my pants. Twice.

You haven't heard the last of me....

xo-PS