The Roller Coaster

So, after my last post, which was all about how much of a PITA winter is to my psyche (for the umpteenth year in a row), you are probably all out of patience with my ramblings. I know I am. But that's Anxiety talking, and Anxiety can go take a flying leap.

This post is different; it's one of those rambly-but-funny ones of the ups and downs of a day in the life.

My mom nagged suggested I take the final step with HSBC to get my old car's** title (or the declaration that they have no claim to it) so I can get rid of it. I've been trying to find/obtain the title for three years, and the car hasn't run for two. This time, Mom went so far as to sent me the address of the nearest HSBC branch. Grand.

To do this, I need to make sure I have the proper documentation. The car's VIN, my current ID, the current(ish) registration, the name-change paperwork, and may as well throw in the death certificate for Laston for good measure; everyone else seems to need it. So I leave the house in South Snohomish County, go to the courthouse in Everett (in "freeway rain") to get a copy of my divorce decree and my 2nd marriage certificate (I probably have those somewhere anyway, but I may as well have them all in one place).

Hey, as long as I'm here, I should talk to the Treasurer for the county about getting the property taxes put in my name, since Laston never paid them and I tended to ignore or destroy the (mostly junk) mail addressed to him in the early months after his death. I had already had a stress-out when I saw that their website said that "installment plans" are one full year, and they haven't answered my inquiry email. So I talk to them, and "of course, we can help you set up a reasonable payment plan, Mrs. Kirkland; we'll send you a payment book next week." A few tears of relief, an offered tissue, and a smile from the person in charge. Good.

Now, down to Redmond (via Lynnwood, where Home Goods does not have my favorite olives in stock, dammit) to HSBC. Once I'm done there, I can pick up the groceries at Trader Joe's and the kids' requested dinner at Fred Meyer in Totem Lake on the way home.

Oh, look, HSBC and Trader Joe's and QFC (also a Kroger company these days, and therefore has the same chicken strips the kids like from Fred Meyer) are all in the same parking lot! Awesome!

But "I'm sorry, Mrs. Tincher? Oh... Mrs. Kirkland. So HSBC Auto Credit doesn't really exist anymore, my branch manager is in a meeting, and the other managers are both on vacation this week. Let me see..." He makes a couple phone calls and finds out the current customer service number for old HSBC Auto Credit customers. Yay! But it's in New York City. Boo, I'll have to call Monday.

Trader Joe's and QFC go well though, and now we have a fruit tray for Second Christmas tomorrow morning. Cool. I go home (via Woodinville, where Home Goods does not have my favorite olives in stock, dammit). And my FitBit tells me I've reached my goal for the day.

I get home. Abby puts away groceries while Lizzy and I go to Mom's to practice piano (on Lizzy's part) and regale Mom with this story (on mine). We get the mail on the way back, to find... that the social security overpayments they said they were taking out of February's payment will be taken out of January's instead. Awesome.

It'll work out somehow; it always does. But what a crappy end to an up-and-down day.

**2002 Mitsubishi Lancer ES sedan. This is the car that Abby's dad and I bought when I was three months pregnant with her, in May 2002. My first new(ish) car. I paid it off long after he and I were divorced, and I had been married to Lizzy's dad Laston for almost two years, in January 2009. I took the payoff information and my ex-husband to a Notary to put the title in my name, but no-one told me (or I don't remember) that we had to file that with the Department of Motor Vehicles, so there is no lost title to find through them. And we lost the copy we had during one of our moves, Laston and I. I have torn the house apart looking for it, been to any number of government agencies trying to get a copy, sent emails that received no reply, tried to wade through the worst IVR system I've ever heard, etc. 

Messy Mental Musings

Warning: this post will ramble.

It's been a Potato Chip Effect or Dropped Spoon kind of week and its only Tuesday. Actually, it started Saturday, when I told Facebook to eff off for a day. Some people thought this meant I was staying off entirely, and sent me little I-thought-you-were-off-Facebook texts when I was on later, which were not helpful. So I ignored them; better that than biting their heads off.

Physical health is generally measurable and treatable, and there are specific goals (reduce pain, close wound, clear infection). But mental health is a slippery beast, and while it may not hurt to know that mid-December is always a problem for me even before Laston's illness, it's isn't something that my fairly logical mind can really grok as a useful data point. Until I sit down and write it out, of course.

When you have even mild mental health issues (hello, Seasonal Affective Disorder, anxiety, and emotional exhaustion) on top of things that are still sometimes considered to be mental health issues but aren't (like ADHD or ASD), the tendency is to try to analyze, at least for me. How much of my emotional exhaustion (it's not really compassion fatigue because that implies I'm less able to feel compassion than I was) is due to winter? To financial stress? About things that are neither my monkeys nor my circus? To grief? To living with children? To being a single mom on a budget? To missing a deadline because I couldn't log in? To fretting about my friends who are also having hard times, in different ways? About my mom's recent knee surgery, even though she's fine? To feeling guilty because my friends have it worse so what am I complaining about? About the things my country is doing to people who are not straight white males? About the little things, like head colds and power outages and traffic snarls? To my therapist being out of town for the holidays?

It doesn't really matter how much of each issue is affecting me in what way. But try telling my busy little brain that in the moment. It's just as effective as telling Meltdown Lizzy that her art project can be fixed; you have to step back to a place of calm for it to even register.

I did that today in the car on the way to school. I said to Lizzy that we need a plan for when mom loses it, because otherwise I'm Shouty Mom (who nobody likes) or even Weepy Mom (which unnerves them somewhat). What can we plan for right now, when I'm not Shouty or Weepy? "Um..." Lizzy says reluctantly, "We could like do chores before you get Shouty."

Well, that's terrific, but I've been trying to get you to do that for years and it hasn't worked yet. "Maybe you could use one of the code phrases? Like "Potato Chip Effect?" So we know when you're about to be Shouty Mom?"

The child is a genius. Now to get my brain to notice the path and act accordingly before I start being Shouty. If I can expect Lizzy to do this, I can expect me to do this.

And now I'm going to sign out before our second windstorm in the past five days causes another power outage. Because if I typed all this and didn't save before Mother Nature gets Shouty, I'm going to Drop Spoons loudly and all over the floor.

Are You Kidding Me?

You see, today is Abby's SIXTEENTH birthday.

I Know. Sixteen. Shut up.

She's a good kid. In fact, she's pretty freaking awesome. She's a good sister, a steady B student (except in performing arts of any kind, when it's all As all the time), a person who is aware of her privilege and lifts others up, a helpful
classmate, an energetic performer, a natural comic, a decent artist,
fun to be around, an excellent storyteller, kind, funny, reliable, and sweet. That's how most of her fellow performers describe her - energetic and sweet - and one of the leads in her last show said she is "the best damn extra ever."

Oh, I know she's not perfect. Her room is stupid messy, she never sees things that need doing around the house, she picks at her sister and gets offended when sister gets tired of it, and avoids helping by playing with grandma's cat.

But she's SIXTEEN. That's normal.

And it's awesome.