Battle Stations! Stand Down! Battle Stations! Stand Down!
I am mentally-exhausted this week, due, in large part, to the bipolar nature of several activities:
Bipolar Activity #1: The Imminent Arrival of 20 Whole (and Quite Dead) Fish
To catch up, see last year's post on this topic. However, as a quick summary, let me just remind you of the following points:
This year, we had about 13 smallish salmon delivered a few weeks ago, when Bee's brothers and teenage nephews were still in town. This worked out well, because all the males helped gut the fish . . . a woodsman-y activity I believe they all enjoyed / were too polite to decline doing.
One of the brothers even bought a few of the fish to take back for summer-time meals. Now, since these fish were smaller, I would have been a little protective about sharing our paltry stash of 13; however, the fishermen assured us they'd be back soon, and were certain they'd have 20 more fish to offer, since that's the cumulative amount for which various friends asked. So, I e-mailed our friends to let them know to be ready for Fish Day, whenever it would occur, and Bee and I went about our daily lives.
Three days ago, the fishermen called. They were in town, thought they had about 20 fish, and could drop them off within an hour. Of course they could, since Bee and I had plans for our first date in months, and wanted to leave the house in 3 hours.
Now, you must understand that dealing with our fish source vaguely reminds me of a Mafia transaction (were the Mafia suddenly Native American salmon-slingers): it's a cash-only arrangement dropped from the back of a truck, you're lucky if the cell-phone number the fisherman gives you actually works, and when he says he'll "be there in an hour" . . . don't hold your breath. But we're hesitant to complain, since -- when it works out -- it's such a frickin' great deal. (And we don't want to end up sleeping with the fishes, in all possible interpretations of the phrase.)
Anyway, Bee and I immediately began calling all our friends who wanted fish to let them know the delivery would be in one (to five) hours . . . which is when we had several friends back out of their orders, leaving us with about 150 pounds of fish to get rid of. We might not normally have been quite so freaked, but it was DATE NIGHT, we needed to leave the house in TWO-AND-A-HALF hours, and there was no way we could gut that much fish that fast.
So we began frantically calling all our friends and asking (begging) if anyone else wanted to buy fish. Between the two of us, we spent an hour on the phone/internet, but . . . we got all the fish pre-sold and ready to be picked up! Plus, I'd gotten the fish-processing table/boards/knives/hose/etc. set up as I was fielding calls! It was a tense few hours, but we were pretty proud of ourselves. Now we only had a few fish to deal with ourselves: the perfect amount to round out our salmon-stores for the year, and perfectly-practical to gut in the fifty-five minutes before we were to leave on our date. Now, if only the fishermen would arrive!
An hour after the Native American Mafia was scheduled to arrive, they called . . . because they were out of fish. They had miscalculated the amount they had, or they had sold everything to someone else, or . . . I don't know (because Bee was too polite / chicken shit to ask) . . . but the fish were gone.
So now we had to humbly call everyone back and cancel. (I felt particularly bad because some of our friends were already halfway to our house to get their fish, since I'd warned everyone, in no uncertain terms, that WE WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO HOLD THEIR FISH FOR THEM and THEY HAD TO GET IT RIGHT AWAY.)
And, as much as Bee and I were a little relieved to not smell like fish guts for the rest of Date Night, my freezer looks woefully bereft of salmon.
Bipolar Activity #2: Will Bee's Physical Health Affect My Mental Health?
I must start by reminding you that I love Bee: he is quirky and affectionate and thoughtful in bizarre ways. But sometimes I just want to throttle him.
One might speculate that a woman wants a man to be sensitive only in regards to her, but manly in all other aspects: ergo, she would be disappointed to find out her strapping husband turns into a whining little girl when he's hurt. That's actually not my problem: I am perfectly confident in Bee's manliness not to mind a little whimpering when he's sick (after all, women also like caring for our big, strong men and knowing they are dependent on us). However, when Bee is sick or physically down in any way, what irritates me is not his whining (because he actually doesn't do it much); what drives me bat-shit crazy is his whole-hearted and passionate belief that Life-As-We-Know-It has ended FOREVER . . . that he will NEVER get better . . . that this ailment will last INDEFINITELY . . . and that we need to rearrange our entire lives because this current malady is UNENDING.
And then three hours later, after he's gone to the doctor/chiropractor/massage therapist and the aspirin/Vicodin/Earl Grey has kicked in, he's on the mend, feeling much more positive and saying, "I guess I'm going to live, after all."
Which is the point at which I want to throttle him, because did he really think that the hip that was out of place a few mornings ago and therefore making it so that he "CAN'T MOVE EVER AGAIN" (as he slowly hobbled around the living room) was really and truly going to necessitate spending the remainder of his life in a wheelchair? REALLY?
Now, Bee is generally in good health; nay, even great health. Closing in on 50, he still climbs trees like Tarzan and moves around huge logs like Obelix. (You'll just have to Google "Obelix" if you don't know who he is because you didn't grow up with access to French comic books [what was your problem?]). Furthermore, Bee truly isn't sick that often.
But . . .
. . . when he is down . . .
. . . I should know not to make any decisions during the early morning hours, when Bee's maladies are at their worst.
However, I just didn't have that luxury two mornings ago (Wednesday), when Bee woke up with his hip and back PERMANENTLY DISFIGURING him when he was scheduled to leave town today (Friday) to do an extra art show. If Bee was NEVER GOING TO WALK AGAIN, I'd have attend the weekend-long art show in his place, leaving him to hobble through the regular Market here. Which means I needed to make sure someone else could watch Mr. C, I needed to set up the extra supplies Bee would need while home, and I needed to figure out where I was going to stay all weekend (because, unlike Bee, I'm not comfortable camping by myself on the side of the road).
And maybe I was just upset by it all because I was kind of scared: I've never gone out of town to do a 2-day (two 8-hour days) craft show by myself; I wasn't mentally-organized for it, and I only had two days to get organized. Also? I'd kind of been looking forward to one last hurrah with Ben and Jerry while Bee was gone.
As Bee took some aspirin and went to a chiropractor, I began psyching myself up to leave town for the weekend . . . which means I thought about having a motel room to myself on Saturday night, and how nice it would be to quietly watch TV and eat take-out and not feel guilty about Mr. C's shocking lack of vegetable-intake for the day or worrying about getting him to bed. (Also? I'm sure Ben and Jerry travel.)
So I got everything settled with how Bee would get Mr. C to a friend's house, how he'd acquire the extra supplies needed here without putting more undue stress on him, etc. etc. . . . and then he skipped back home feeling great after the chiropractor and ready to go out of town for the show, after all.
But it didn't end there.
Of course it didn't.
Because then he had to spend the next few days waffling over leaving for the show late Friday night and hoping to find roadside-camping along the way or leaving at the butt-crack of dawn on Saturday to get to and set up at the show before it started.
And maybe I was just upset by it all because, again, I was kind of scared: I didn't relish him searching for camping spots on a dark Friday night any more than I preferred him to be driving deer-infested, winding mountain roads three hours before his major craft show was scheduled to start on Saturday. (Plus, I didn't want to get my hopes up about an extra night with Ben and Jerry.)
But I just wanted him to make a decision and stick with it.
As of last night, his plan was to leave tomorrow (Saturday) morning. I sighed that he'd be safe in my bed for another night.
Then, this morning, he figured he should leave tonight (Friday) and drive partway there. I sighed that he then wouldn't be rushed on Saturday to get to the show on time.
However, by noon he realized he just didn't want to camp alone, so he resolved to leave in the morning. I sighed that Ben and Jerry had one less night to get their hands on my rapidly-increasing love-handles.
And then, at 6 pm, he decided to leave in an hour, after all . . . and was gone.
And, after a week's-worth of ups and downs, I was left feeling emotionally-battered.
Not to mention a little pissed that I hadn't had any time to pick up ice cream before Mr. C's bedtime.
It is now after midnight on Friday. I mean Saturday. Hopefully Bee has found a safe place to camp, despite the reported forest fires in the area. Hopefully he will easily make it to the show tomorrow (I mean today) with no problems. Hopefully my regularly-scheduled stint at the Market tomorrow (today) will go well, despite the fact that I have to drop Mr. C off across town and despite the fact that I'm borrowing a friend's expensive iPad to take credit card payments, and I've never used it before. Hopefully I will not be too frazzled when I get home (after first re-crossing town to pick up Mr. C and then crossing back to drop off the iPad), because I have to then prepare to leave the next day . . . to meet Bee at the show . . . and then go camping.
Which seemed like a good idea at the time.
And (last but not least): hopefully the caffeine from the entire chocolate bar I downed as a substitute for Ben and Jerry will wear off soon so I can go to bed.
Bipolar Activity #1: The Imminent Arrival of 20 Whole (and Quite Dead) Fish
To catch up, see last year's post on this topic. However, as a quick summary, let me just remind you of the following points:
- once a year, we buy (and gut) fish in bulk
- friends want to get in on the action
- we're never sure exactly when the fish will arrive
- when it does, we must drop everything and deal with it -- like, NOW -- so we don't have 300 pounds of rotting fish-stench in our yard.
This year, we had about 13 smallish salmon delivered a few weeks ago, when Bee's brothers and teenage nephews were still in town. This worked out well, because all the males helped gut the fish . . . a woodsman-y activity I believe they all enjoyed / were too polite to decline doing.
One of the brothers even bought a few of the fish to take back for summer-time meals. Now, since these fish were smaller, I would have been a little protective about sharing our paltry stash of 13; however, the fishermen assured us they'd be back soon, and were certain they'd have 20 more fish to offer, since that's the cumulative amount for which various friends asked. So, I e-mailed our friends to let them know to be ready for Fish Day, whenever it would occur, and Bee and I went about our daily lives.
Three days ago, the fishermen called. They were in town, thought they had about 20 fish, and could drop them off within an hour. Of course they could, since Bee and I had plans for our first date in months, and wanted to leave the house in 3 hours.
Now, you must understand that dealing with our fish source vaguely reminds me of a Mafia transaction (were the Mafia suddenly Native American salmon-slingers): it's a cash-only arrangement dropped from the back of a truck, you're lucky if the cell-phone number the fisherman gives you actually works, and when he says he'll "be there in an hour" . . . don't hold your breath. But we're hesitant to complain, since -- when it works out -- it's such a frickin' great deal. (And we don't want to end up sleeping with the fishes, in all possible interpretations of the phrase.)
Anyway, Bee and I immediately began calling all our friends who wanted fish to let them know the delivery would be in one (to five) hours . . . which is when we had several friends back out of their orders, leaving us with about 150 pounds of fish to get rid of. We might not normally have been quite so freaked, but it was DATE NIGHT, we needed to leave the house in TWO-AND-A-HALF hours, and there was no way we could gut that much fish that fast.
So we began frantically calling all our friends and asking (begging) if anyone else wanted to buy fish. Between the two of us, we spent an hour on the phone/internet, but . . . we got all the fish pre-sold and ready to be picked up! Plus, I'd gotten the fish-processing table/boards/knives/hose/etc. set up as I was fielding calls! It was a tense few hours, but we were pretty proud of ourselves. Now we only had a few fish to deal with ourselves: the perfect amount to round out our salmon-stores for the year, and perfectly-practical to gut in the fifty-five minutes before we were to leave on our date. Now, if only the fishermen would arrive!
An hour after the Native American Mafia was scheduled to arrive, they called . . . because they were out of fish. They had miscalculated the amount they had, or they had sold everything to someone else, or . . . I don't know (because Bee was too polite / chicken shit to ask) . . . but the fish were gone.
So now we had to humbly call everyone back and cancel. (I felt particularly bad because some of our friends were already halfway to our house to get their fish, since I'd warned everyone, in no uncertain terms, that WE WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO HOLD THEIR FISH FOR THEM and THEY HAD TO GET IT RIGHT AWAY.)
And, as much as Bee and I were a little relieved to not smell like fish guts for the rest of Date Night, my freezer looks woefully bereft of salmon.
Bipolar Activity #2: Will Bee's Physical Health Affect My Mental Health?
I must start by reminding you that I love Bee: he is quirky and affectionate and thoughtful in bizarre ways. But sometimes I just want to throttle him.
One might speculate that a woman wants a man to be sensitive only in regards to her, but manly in all other aspects: ergo, she would be disappointed to find out her strapping husband turns into a whining little girl when he's hurt. That's actually not my problem: I am perfectly confident in Bee's manliness not to mind a little whimpering when he's sick (after all, women also like caring for our big, strong men and knowing they are dependent on us). However, when Bee is sick or physically down in any way, what irritates me is not his whining (because he actually doesn't do it much); what drives me bat-shit crazy is his whole-hearted and passionate belief that Life-As-We-Know-It has ended FOREVER . . . that he will NEVER get better . . . that this ailment will last INDEFINITELY . . . and that we need to rearrange our entire lives because this current malady is UNENDING.
And then three hours later, after he's gone to the doctor/chiropractor/massage therapist and the aspirin/Vicodin/Earl Grey has kicked in, he's on the mend, feeling much more positive and saying, "I guess I'm going to live, after all."
Which is the point at which I want to throttle him, because did he really think that the hip that was out of place a few mornings ago and therefore making it so that he "CAN'T MOVE EVER AGAIN" (as he slowly hobbled around the living room) was really and truly going to necessitate spending the remainder of his life in a wheelchair? REALLY?
Now, Bee is generally in good health; nay, even great health. Closing in on 50, he still climbs trees like Tarzan and moves around huge logs like Obelix. (You'll just have to Google "Obelix" if you don't know who he is because you didn't grow up with access to French comic books [what was your problem?]). Furthermore, Bee truly isn't sick that often.
But . . .
. . . when he is down . . .
. . . I should know not to make any decisions during the early morning hours, when Bee's maladies are at their worst.
However, I just didn't have that luxury two mornings ago (Wednesday), when Bee woke up with his hip and back PERMANENTLY DISFIGURING him when he was scheduled to leave town today (Friday) to do an extra art show. If Bee was NEVER GOING TO WALK AGAIN, I'd have attend the weekend-long art show in his place, leaving him to hobble through the regular Market here. Which means I needed to make sure someone else could watch Mr. C, I needed to set up the extra supplies Bee would need while home, and I needed to figure out where I was going to stay all weekend (because, unlike Bee, I'm not comfortable camping by myself on the side of the road).
And maybe I was just upset by it all because I was kind of scared: I've never gone out of town to do a 2-day (two 8-hour days) craft show by myself; I wasn't mentally-organized for it, and I only had two days to get organized. Also? I'd kind of been looking forward to one last hurrah with Ben and Jerry while Bee was gone.
As Bee took some aspirin and went to a chiropractor, I began psyching myself up to leave town for the weekend . . . which means I thought about having a motel room to myself on Saturday night, and how nice it would be to quietly watch TV and eat take-out and not feel guilty about Mr. C's shocking lack of vegetable-intake for the day or worrying about getting him to bed. (Also? I'm sure Ben and Jerry travel.)
So I got everything settled with how Bee would get Mr. C to a friend's house, how he'd acquire the extra supplies needed here without putting more undue stress on him, etc. etc. . . . and then he skipped back home feeling great after the chiropractor and ready to go out of town for the show, after all.
But it didn't end there.
Of course it didn't.
Because then he had to spend the next few days waffling over leaving for the show late Friday night and hoping to find roadside-camping along the way or leaving at the butt-crack of dawn on Saturday to get to and set up at the show before it started.
And maybe I was just upset by it all because, again, I was kind of scared: I didn't relish him searching for camping spots on a dark Friday night any more than I preferred him to be driving deer-infested, winding mountain roads three hours before his major craft show was scheduled to start on Saturday. (Plus, I didn't want to get my hopes up about an extra night with Ben and Jerry.)
But I just wanted him to make a decision and stick with it.
As of last night, his plan was to leave tomorrow (Saturday) morning. I sighed that he'd be safe in my bed for another night.
Then, this morning, he figured he should leave tonight (Friday) and drive partway there. I sighed that he then wouldn't be rushed on Saturday to get to the show on time.
However, by noon he realized he just didn't want to camp alone, so he resolved to leave in the morning. I sighed that Ben and Jerry had one less night to get their hands on my rapidly-increasing love-handles.
And then, at 6 pm, he decided to leave in an hour, after all . . . and was gone.
And, after a week's-worth of ups and downs, I was left feeling emotionally-battered.
Not to mention a little pissed that I hadn't had any time to pick up ice cream before Mr. C's bedtime.
It is now after midnight on Friday. I mean Saturday. Hopefully Bee has found a safe place to camp, despite the reported forest fires in the area. Hopefully he will easily make it to the show tomorrow (I mean today) with no problems. Hopefully my regularly-scheduled stint at the Market tomorrow (today) will go well, despite the fact that I have to drop Mr. C off across town and despite the fact that I'm borrowing a friend's expensive iPad to take credit card payments, and I've never used it before. Hopefully I will not be too frazzled when I get home (after first re-crossing town to pick up Mr. C and then crossing back to drop off the iPad), because I have to then prepare to leave the next day . . . to meet Bee at the show . . . and then go camping.
Which seemed like a good idea at the time.
And (last but not least): hopefully the caffeine from the entire chocolate bar I downed as a substitute for Ben and Jerry will wear off soon so I can go to bed.
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