Wanted: A naughty cup of tea with a bergamot bite.
I’m on my knees.
I’m begging for relief.
Aching for that particular and distinct pleasure that only a true acolyte of the libatious arts can attain. But alas…
My cup is empty.
I am truly lost without my Earl Grey Crème.
The week I learned that Teavana was going to close its doors, I went straight to the mall, plunked down a piece of plastic and ordered an obscene amount of tea–something near 7 pounds–because that was the minimum I could order to get 30% off the total price. I did not even look at the receipt when I signed it. No price was too high a cost to pay.*
You think 7 pounds doesn’t sound like a lot? Imagine the backpack sized tea parcels they gave me–I’m sure I looked like a tea mule smuggling fine grade, uncut pure leaf addiction–I’d show you…but I drank it all.
In less than a year, my precious was gone.
I swore I wouldn’t buy anymoretea until I have drunk some of the thousands of other teas in the many, many containers I already possess.
You think I’m kidding?
I’ve stuck by my resolution not to succumb to temptation. Not to bend. Not to splay myself prostrate crying
“Why have the tea gods abandoned me? WHY?”
I’ve been sucking down Twinnings Chai to sublimate my desires. I sugar it. I even use the latte foamer that makes me feel like a pampered princess…until I have to clean it.
IT’S ONLY DAY THREE!
I am now hunting for a replacement.
How hard can it be to find a fragrant facsimile?
A delicious doppleganger?
A tantalizing taste bud teaser to pleasure the palate? A tea that will make me whimper when it’s gone bottom’s up!**
I’m putting out an ad to the area tea purveyors:
“I’m a sweet young thing looking for the bad boy I’ve been missing…oh where, oh where is my Earl Grey Crème?
Fortunately, the internet is ready to cater to most discerning clientele.
*I lied. I did look at the receipt. The total was shocking, and this was after the discount. And, though I did not faint, it was only because I was afraid I would drop my complimentary cup of tea in the process.
**I want a tea that will own me, make me say “Thank you! May I have another!”
***This post may be a sign that I need an intervention…or a really dominant cup of tea.
I was going to title this 2017 – A Year in the Crapper and include an appropriate photo, but my friends tell me I overshare.
So, here’s my modified letter to the world:
2017 KINDA SUCKED
It took a whole year of bad things happening for me to put my finger on exactly what was wrong…
2017 – LIKE TREE-EATS-ROOF KINDA SUCKS!
Yeah, yeah. Having a tree drop on your house in a sh*t storm was a pretty big effing clue. But you could just chalk that up to really bad luck and shrug it off. If it weren’t for all those bad juju kinda things that kept happening.
I TRIED 2017. I REALLY DID.
I tried traveling to exotic locations and exploring for fun and adventure. I generally learned there is a diminishing return on happiness. The farther away we got from home, the more likely we were going to need an E.R. trip or an intervention. We are now circling the drain of 2017 and sticking mostly to home as a result.
My son loves to go places and sleep outdoors.
Or so I thought.
Instead, what I found was photographic evidence that my son just likes a variety of places he can write calendars–or, if not writing them, he is contemplating it with a fistful of markers or crayons awaiting his next fix.
My son discovered a love of popcorn. That was a new obsession.
This really was his primary food source in 2017
Camping meant lots of time spent popping this way.
But despite the happiness campaign the people at Orville Redenbacher are pitching, popcorn can’t fix everything.
Not even calendars can do that.
It also took me nearly a year of misery to realize something…
Despite the occasional flashes of joy and happiness I managed to capture…
In most of the photos I took of my son…he was not smiling.
He was there. But he was an unwilling participant in:
Mommy’s Campaign for Happiness and Symptom Control.
If 2017 were a fairytale–it was the Hans-Christian-Andersen-dark-with-a-side-of-maniacal-laughter kind. And it would have opened with this line…
THERE ONCE WAS A HAPPY BOY…whose mother tried to address his recurring rage-outs with a wave of pharmaceutical fixes.
We tried several different combinations of psychiatric panaceas. If a drug caused a side effect, we gave a pill to fix the side effect – or in theory, that’s what it was supposed to do. Instead, it produced yet more side effects that, surprise, surprise, we’d try to address with more medication.
It was the loopiest, saddest, roller coaster of a year you can imagine.
Part of me wanted to believe this was a transition year. That turning thirteen and becoming a dreaded teenager was the root of this particular evil. But after several incidents of biting in school this fall, I decided to stop the massively medicated merry-go-round–at least in part.
We backed off the majority of his drug trials. He is back on the two drugs that have the fewest complications and I just deal with side effects that only have him crawling up the walls and not sleeping instead of the combo-platter pharmacopeia backlash that produced jittery anxiety, biting, and head bashing, among other things.
I now take comfort in momentary joys–as rare as a solar eclipse and therefore exponentially more cherished in their singularity.
But when added up in seconds, the joys of 2017 could not outweigh the sorrows.
In this year, I have watched my happy boy transform in a downward spiral of misery and depression, taking me with him.
Then I had to leave my job to take care of him. Because, once he outgrew his handlers, I was the only one who could get him off the bus.
I left a good place to work for a life of uncertainty and near-poverty that allows me to work from home in the hours that my son is in school.
The only upside to this stress? I have spent less time developing an ulcer over the toilet tank of a government where The Great Evil and his Cabal of Cackling Soulless Ones are stirring a sh*t stew for the masses to swallow.
So, 2017–that’s it! I am out of it: Out of work. Out of patience. And now, out of time.
I AM DONE, 2017.
I AM DONE WITH YOU.
I am coasting the rest of this year and hope that 2018 has some upside that I just can’t foresee or imagine. But I doubt it.*
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*In a traditional end-of-year review, I usually take a light-hearted look at the craziness of my life. 2017 hasn’t been so much crazy-fun as it has been crazy-needs-to-be-committed. I’m not going to pretend otherwise and that’s my gift to you. Some years, all you can give is the honest truth…even if it is wrapped in a craptastic bow.**
**Seriously, though, being sick with cough and congestion this past week may have affected this year’s letter. Perhaps after I finish coughing up a lung, I’ll find my happy place again?
It is done. My time is up and I’m moving on…but to what? That is the bajillion dollar question.
If you are like me, you crave continuity, reliability, and a steady, if somewhat monotonous, source of income. I like knowing there is going to be a paycheck at the end of two weeks.*
Those days are over.
This summer, before a tree derailed my free time, my only daycare option—aka Grandma—indicated she’d actually like to enjoy retirement before my son drove her to drink or broke her into kindling. (Or words to that effect.) The countdown ticking off the hours I could still work outside the home finally clanged its leaden clapper.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”
So, I did what any sane individual would do. I panicked.
I spent a few hours…well, days really…maybe weeks…okay, I spent a lot of time devolving into a gibbering hot mess of indecision and fatal thinking:
How will I make rent?
How will I feed the mammoth I gave birth to?
How will I give up diet cherry Coke?**
This is what I do before I am capable of rational thought and planning. I engage all my worst coping mechanisms: I late night binge-watch television; I avoid responsibility; and, above all, I deny that anything is wrong.
I apparently can’t skip this step, as much as I want to, or as healthy as making sane, grown-up decisions would be, I need to stew.
But the time has come to pull on my big girl britches.*** It is time to get serious.
It occurred to me that I could have a little fun before I left my job. What were they going to do? Fire me?
Monday…I declared it officialScarf Day.
Tuesdaywas myFifties Throwback Tuesday
Wednesdaywas a hastily pulled together PatrioticSend-Offbecause I couldn’t find the costume I wanted to wear.
Thursdaywas my pride and joy—I wore myHarry Potter-Themedcostume.
Do you know who I am? Bonus points if you get the in-joke with the locket. Hint: my last name is a clue.
Friday—words do not do this justice, I think…
It isWith Sadnessthat I depart my place of work. May I be remembered kindly…if a bit weirdly…by those I leave behind. And hopefully the blue hair spray will eventually come out.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*I’m funny that way.
**The original title of this blog was going to be “Support My Coke Habit–GoFundMe” but I decided this might not translate well if people didn’t read past the introduction.
***Big girls do not wear panties—it cramps their crack style.
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