Sunday, August 19, 2012


I had a Bad Sleep.
On a Saturday night--which is my most treasured sleep night. Meaning--I don't crash into bed after a day of 'oh my god how am I gonna get all this done on time', stuffing my face with a dinner I barely remember eating, say good night to Mike on the phone and then fall into bed, face down.
On Saturday, I read a bit longer. I light a candle. I fall asleep slowly, reviewing the day that was all mine.
Not last night.
Last night, the college, whose back-end I face in the courtyard of my condo, had a delivery truck dropping off goods AT MIDNIGHT. I awoke, groggily, to the sound of a truck beep-beep-beeping, backing up. Thought I was dreaming.
I wasn't.
I have to say, with all the stress impinging on my life right now, I came right unglued. I seriously did.
I got up.
I put on my robe over my pajamas (striped bottoms, long, and a cute gray and white tank.) Put on shoes. Got my keys. My phone (for the camera). STALKED across the parking lot, vibrating with rage. Snapped some pix, to make sure I wasn't hallucinating the sound, or having a vision.
Luckily, I did not run into anyone on my way in/out.
Came back inside. Uploaded photo. Banged off an absolutely furious email to my property managers, cc'ing our condo board (I'm on it. I'm royally pissed).

Tossed and turned, but got myself back to sleep. Fitfully.

Fast forward: Sunday morning. 7:15 am. I hear beeping. I wish I was kidding. I look out the window, having been awakened from some weird dream where alot was going on (my power was also off, I discovered, when I looked at the clock to reference the time of this beeping. I knew it was 7:15 because I picked up my phone and looked at it. And LOOKED AGAIN, blinking incredulously that I was actually hearing a delivery truck at this ungodly hour. ON SUNDAY.

Repeated routine of the previous night, except this time, I completely lost it on the hapless chef (I live behind the cooking part of the school). Something about "Do you know what time is it for the LOVE OF CHRIST?" while he simply shrugged. Really, how seriously could he take me? A woman, hair dishevelled, taking pictures with her phone, in a robe and pajamas, yelling almost incoherently on a sunny August Sunday morning.
I go back inside. Repeat email procedure. Like, a really unhinged email about how upset I am and what are they doing about this and blah blah blah...and yes: I TOTALLY 'sweated the small stuff' in a big way this weekend.

I will say this:
Work has been inhuman, my family obligations are beyond what any normal person could handle, I'm at my wits end being without my husband and I'm done mentally.
Just done.

It's Sunday night, I was grumpy all day from my broken sleep, I just worked on a file, and since I nagged the hospital endlessly, I now have my second CT scan tomorrow first thing. Monday morning, the day where I normally hit the ground running at work. Instead, I'll be on a table having another stupid procedure to tell me what exactly? I'm not happy. With any of it. Not running (I didn't run today. Ran yesterday. It sucked. Royally). With the summer I've had. With being so whiny and feeling so goddamn overwhelmed at work and just bitchy at life in general.
I'm doing the "okay just three more days of work, you can do anything for three days, but sometimes I just have that feeling of "f(ck it I can't".
But then I clean the kitchen, organize paperwork, fold clothes, eat dinner, and just..breathe.
That's all I've got for you tonight. No glossy words of wisdom, no answers, no positives.

I'm going to bed.

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