Dear government of Quebec:
After months of politely reminding me to send you the cheque, the least you could do is cash the damn payment for my taxes already. You’ve had it for a month.
No love,
Me.
PS: If there was such a thing as interest to collect any more, leaving the money in my bank account to create sweet compound cash love would be swell, but there isn’t, so just take it out so that I stop worrying about if the right amount is still there.
Apology received. I had to demand it, but I got it.
If you think you perceive an insult, even an unintentional one, talk directly to the person who originated it and work it out. Do not use me as an intermediary. Do not hand the emotional burden to me. It is not mine. It is yours. Do not insult me on your way to insult someone else for the insult you perceived which was clearly not intended as such.
I have zero tolerance for drama — zero. If you initiate it, and try to draw me into it, I will not stand for it. I am not a doormat for people to walk over, to suck up their resentment about something that does not directly involve me. It may come as a surprise to some that I’m demanding to be treated as an adult after years of biting my tongue. I am fully within my rights to demand an apology for something that treats me as incidental and not worth the civil considerate adult treatment that others merit. Familiarity breeds contempt, or so the saying goes. I’m tired of being walked over by people who don’t see me as an individual with rights and feelings because they’re too close to me.
The day is totally shot, and I’m livid about that as well. I don’t have work days to waste.
We’re back. Yes, we decided to drive to Toronto, stay one day, then drive back Saturday, and then HRH would drive four hours in the opposite direction to work on Sunday. It was ultimately his decision, and I can understand why he did it: to stay home would mean everyone brooding and a totally ruined family vacation this year.
Well, things weren’t great yesterday, being the day after the drive home, what with everyone being stuck in cars for long periods of time, and both Liam and I with really bad colds, and sleep being not restful. Scarlet and Blade made us dinner on Saturday night after we got home, which was unexpected and so kind, and then again last night, and just before that they even tried to kidnap my son in order to give me fifteen minutes of peace with a cup of hot tea. It would have succeeded, too, if I hadn’t just put him down for the night, two hours early. As it was, I loved the tea, and the thought, and the caring.
I thought today would be all right. Or better, at least. And it’s not, because I just downloaded five days’ worth of mail and found a deliberate insult waiting for me that has made me see red. What little benefit I got from the weekend has been totally ruined. And I use the same phrase I used in the first paragraph to make a point: All that effort, down the drain.
I am livid. And I’ve calmed down to this point, after an hour. I can finally string vaguely coherent words together. I don’t think I’ll be able to work today, I’m so furious.
Email is such an easy way to take calculated shots at people. You don’t have to look someone in the face when you insult them. It’s cheap, and it’s cowardly. And everyone I know and call family or friend should know better.
Don’t expect to hear from me again for a while.
I had an incredible morning. It’s sunny, there’s a good breeze, I got three pairs of pants that fit — on sale! — and I got gifties for both my guys. I’m so excited about one of them, because it pertains to music-listening in the car. (Yay! Yay! Finally! Ssssh — HRH doesn’t know and won’t till tomorrow morning.)
And then I got home and found a message on my machine from HRH. Who, incidentally, got home last night later than he’d expected, because the ostensibly easy build went wrong thanks to bad measurements taken by the quotes guy, and then was told that he had to pack the truck for a long-distance two-person build today. The message informed me that some of the wrong stuff had been packed for today’s build and neither of the guys caught it last night. So he’ll have to drive four hours out to wherever it is to finish this build on Sunday.
Yes. You read that correctly. On Sunday. One of the days that’s part and parcel of our booked vacation.
I could scream. I don’t even know what’s going on this weekend any more. I don’t know what can go on.
I’m so angry that I’m trembling.
I am so very, very tired of life kicking us and our friends when we’re down.
Know what I hate? I hate it when something totally beyond your control — like, oh, say, the lodge where you booked your retreat cancels your four-day booking because their water supply has had to be turned off for some reason — ruins something for which you’ve spent an awful lot of time and energy organising — like, oh, say, your annual spiritual retreat with ten other people.
Sometimes, life really, really sucks.
Fine. We’ll go to visit my parents instead, because HRH couldn’t get an extra day off at Thanksgiving, and the retreat will be rescheduled for later this fall.
I accept it. I don’t have to like it. (The rescheduling part, not the being able to visit my parents after all part.)
Goodbye, Internet; I am about to stab my very noisy whiny router with something blunt but dense in order to cause as much damage as possible. Or possibly just turn it off.
When I need to take another break, I will turn it on again in order to do research on a replacement router, because I can’t take this thing much longer. It sounds like I’m working next to a vacuum cleaner. It somehow was left on for four days straight while we were gone (although I could have sworn I turned it off like I do every night, being obsessive about things like that, particularly before a long weekend away) and we came home to the thing sounding like it was revving up to take off from Cape Canaveral, complete with threatening an explosion midair. It’s worse than it’s ever been, and I want to kill it dead dead dead because it’s getting into my brain and I can’t make it stop. Not even playing Zombie Chickens at top volume masks it.
So joy: a new router gets added to my list of things I need to buy for the computer when my cheque comes in, right below that new stick of RAM.
I’m not saying much these days because the things I want to say aren’t very helpful to anyone. I’m tired of being the responible person in almost every situation I’m involved with. I just don’t have the energy any more. I’m tired of drama; I’m tired of crises; I’m tired of people taking things the wrong way. I’m tired of people insinuating that they’re annoyed at me doing responsible things, but not stepping up to the plate to do it themselves instead. I’m tired of other people taking and not giving back.
So if you come to me and ask for help or input or anything along those lines and I tell you no, it’s not personal. It’s self-preservation. (And frankly, it’s to protect you too, because I don’t want to lose it somewhere along the line and take you out.)
This is not in response to any one thing that has happened, so everyone thinking “Oh no, this is my fault” can just stop now. This is just me drawing the line out loud.
More writing today. I’m taking Liam over to his grandma’s when he wakes up from his nap, then Mousme‘s coming over to jam. I, of course, will be working. Because that’s all I seem to do, whether I’m in my office or not.