The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

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My friend C. came to visit with her family yesterday. It was her son's hockey tournament that brought her four hours south, and she asked if they could stay with me. I hesitated because I do not have an extra room for guests and always feel uneasy about giving anyone the couch or floor, but when it was clear that she had no intention of staying at a hotel, I put on a smile and opened the door.

What I do when company comes is this: I go insane over cleaning and I cook until the stove looks to give out. I got down on all fours to scour the baseboards, and I bleached everything in sight. I made three dozen oatmeal cookies, two pumpkin loaves, a dozen brownies, an apple pie, a vat of caramel sauce, a chickpea dip and a twenty pound lasagne. By the time they arrived my legs were killing me from standing in front of my kitchen counter where I had been chopping, peeling and stirring for two days. It’s gotten so that my expectations of myself are killing any kind of good time to be had.

My ‘thing’ with friends is that I cook, and as such, when they visit they expect to be fed. They don’t say it out loud, but I know the expectation is there, so the idea of ordering pizza doesn’t often occur to me. The baking from scratch is a fine idea when you don’t go crazy like I did, and now I have pumpkin bread and cookies up to my eyeballs, and I can’t eat them.

For nearly a year, I’ve been experiencing occasional bouts of intense pain in my abdominal area. At first, I wrote it off as an anxiety attack, but then in May, after a particularly difficult bout of it, I went for an ultrasound and was told I have gallstones. First of all, I was amazed by that, and second of all, I felt like an old lady. When did I cross the line into the area where I have to start worrying about this kind of thing? So, after about four months of mid-section quiet, I began to think I’d licked it, that my gall bladder was doing fine and that it had forgiven me for my previous life as a consumer of all things fried and wrapped in foil. This was a mistake on my part.

Last night, after a power walk with C. around my neighbourhood, the two of us got ready for bed. It was determined that she and I would share the master bedroom, with the kids and male counterparts spread all over the floors and couches of the house. As I went to lay down, I began to notice a little discomfort. An hour later, I was awake and full of intense pain. I had nowhere to go in the house for solitude, given that most rooms had people in them or close to them, and I elected to tough it out, hoping that my constant turning about would not disturb her. This attack was random, seemingly out of the thin, blackish air, and I desperately wanted to cry in self-pity and anguish, but could not. By seven thirty in the morning, I had not slept a wink and all the children began to awaken. There would be no sleep now.

I am not a good patient. I lack patience at the best of times but if you throw in a bit of pain, I’m as scary a customer as you can imagine. The fact that C’s daughter is a petulant, snotty, annoying young lady didn’t help much, and her ridiculous questions and pouty expressions had me making some fairly angry and acidic exclamations. Why don’t you use the door in your room which connects to the bathroom? Why are the cats eyes blue? Why does Katriona keep following me everywhere? To which I angrily replied, in order: because I don’t want to, did you seriously ask that question?, and she’s three and she worships you, so be grateful because I suspect it will be last time you get to experience it. Most kids annoy me, to be honest, especially when they're like that one.

I was planning on making quiche for breakfast, until C. nervously told me that her husband didn’t think ‘real men eat quiche’, and I asked heatedly ‘Does he eat eggs, cheese and pie crust?’. She blushed and said yes. Then he eats freakin’ quiche! But I did not make it after all. The pain, and the annoyance, had me whip out three boxes of cereal onto the counter with a wave and directions to the bowls before I collapsed onto the couch. C’s family are meat-eating animals, the sort of people who would not touch my chickpea dip because it looked ‘yucky’, but would inhale a bag of potato chips in three minutes flat. To say I was annoyed as well as uncomfortable would be an understatement.

Mostly, though, it was the pain. I am not even convinced it’s my gall bladder, because the pain was everywhere, rolling about, hitting my back, my ribs, my stomach. I didn’t know what to do about it other than wait it out, so when C. told me that they had actually wanted to go out for breakfast, I nearly kissed in her in gratitude. They left well ahead of schedule, and I fell into bed wishing to be unconscious for at least three hours. I got one, but that was something. I felt badly after the pain subsided for being so short with her daughter, even though I still think she is one of the most insufferable kids I’ve ever known, but I am the adult and I should have been able to be gracious under pressure. That said, this is a kid who tried to tell my daughter to ‘get lost’ in a voice which was not meant to be heard by adults, and who sneezed without covering her nose, letting everything fly where it may. My wee one, seeing this, said in her little voice, ‘wow, that’s really disgusting’, and that made me laugh until the pain started up again.

Tonight, out of nowhere, for no reason I can come up with right away, I flipped out on my beloved M. He was getting ice-cream for himself and the wee one, and I started to quiz her on her counting (parental homework due tomorrow, as per her teacher). M. told me to stop because he wanted to eat his ice-cream in peace and we’d do it after, and I defiantly said ‘NO’, we’d do it then. He barked at me, and I started slamming things around. He told me to settle down, and I slammed things some more before disappearing upstairs for the evening. Maybe it’s because I am physically unwell and am feeling sorry for myself at the moment, but his tone, the way he attempts to wield authority over me, rubbed me in all the wrong places. I don’t tolerate that kind of thing, and there are other ways to ask me to do things. I do not feel particularly remorseful about my angry reaction, though. I am still angry, and I am still sore, and frankly, I am not feeling the love from him at all. As I type, his office door is closed and I take that as a passive aggressive move to keep me out. He’ll say it’s to stop the attention-whore cats out, but I know which kat he really wants on the other side of the door. Sometimes, he is only thinking about himself, and as much as I want to think him perfect, it wouldn’t make any sense to try. He’s got issues just like I do, and he really needs to grow up.

When a random attack hits, I just want strong arms around me to tell me I’ll be alright.