Maybe I Am Beige Now Too

Had a hard few days. I'm putting WAY too much pressure on myself lately, to work from home and mind Monkey. It's getting harder, too, as he gets older. I end up getting nothing done. I half mind the baby, half work, and half go crazy. I'm swimming through mud.

Mr TC and I take it in turns to get all morose. It's been his turn this week, my God he looks so pale and awful, depressed and fed up.

Buoyed from the fucking incredibly insightful comments on my last post, I rang Sandi (that silly masseuse!) to tell her that I won't be using the voucher, maybe she could offer my friends their money back. She was quite cold, I was quite weepy from calling my favourite auntie to tell her she can't come up and visit me tomorrow. (I blamed Mr TC, but the reality is I just don't want to see anyone. Ummm, anxious, much?) Anyway, I told Sandi exactly why I got so upset. She denied it, which made me turn into a kid again and doubt my whole reality. It was weird ... having this nitpicking conversation with a massage therapist about the state of my husbands tumours. I mean, seriously. I softened my tone, and brought it back to my reality on a daily basis of people putting in their two-cents worth. I just wish she could have owned her stuff, instead of flitting around. She said I "misunderstood" what she was saying .... she also said she hardly slept all weekend because she felt so bad. I believed that bit, for she is a mainly nice person. Just fucking dumb. She kept telling me what the internet told her ... finally I said "Sandi! Do you think you are telling me things I don't know?? This is our life! We have been living this every day for five months!"

She shut up. And offered me a limitless supply of massages, which I shall never redeem. Because she's a liar liar pants on fire sitting on the telegraph wire.

___

Recently, I received an email out of the blue, from someone I had never heard of. She said her name was Kate, and that she had been reading my blog for a while. She told me all the wonderful stuff, (how cool I am, naughty cancer, I rock, etc) ... and asked for my address, because she lived near the HERSHEY FACTORY in AMERICA ... and had a crazy idea that some chocolate might make me feel better. Now. My dilemma ..... on one hand, she could be some 47 year old, obese, psychopathic guy living in Sydney with a penchant for redheads, OR, she could be the real deal. My brain was chanting "HERSHEYS. HERSHEYS. HERSHEYS."




She. Sent. Emergency. Supplies. OMFG.


And, when I wear my "Go Away" t-shirt so much it needs a wash .... (and I SO will. I have B.O. issues - ask my sisters. It's like, I have man glands or something. I actually have to throw t-shirts away after a while, because they just stink so bad. Or, I have to soak them in disinfectant. Good grief, is NOTHING sacred with me? No?) ...

I can swap it for this one ...




Thank you, oh Kate from It Is Tuesday, Right? For the hats and the Monkey rattle too. Totally was a bright ray of sunshine, in our otherwise fucked week. I have been on the recieving end of quite a few goodies in the mail, I am so lucky and blessed. You American chicks are so freaking generous. I think I'm an American at heart, I have always felt like I could live in Tucson. I don't even know where the fuck that is!



The hilarious thing? Mr TC thinks all the parcels recently have been from the same person. I pressed him on it.

Me: "Who? Who do you think the parcels are from?"
Mr TC: "Ohh, you know hon. That woman from your email support group."
He does not understand the concept of blogging. That's ok.