It's 3:22 in the morning, and I'm awake- annoyingly awake.
What better time to find silly things to do, such as send an e-mail to my future-40-year-old self?

I've got your holiday spirit right here

This is a little something for all the poor saps out there (like myself) who don't have enough vacation time to take off the entire week between Christmas and New Year's Day.

It's the crap-crappiest time of the year
With me “what the hell”-ing
When everyone’s telling me
“Be of good cheer”
It's the crap-crappiest time of the year

It's the crap-crappiest season of all
While my project’s a beating
At least there’s no meetings
Or consultants who call
It's the crap-crappiest season of all

Oh, there'll be details for cursing
And headaches for nursing
And waving my fist in the air
I’d rather go for a nap
Than keep drawing this crap
All while trying to make myself care

It's the crap-crappiest time of the year
My whole team’s on vacation
I have no motivation
But I am still heeeeeere
It's the crap-crappiest time of the year

Oh, there'll be details for cursing
And headaches for nursing
And waving my fist in the air
I’d rather go for a nap
Than keep drawing this crap
All while trying to make myself care

It's the crap-crappiest time of the year
I’ve go so much to do, yet
I want to say, “screw it,”
When deadlines are near
It's the crap-crappiest time
It's the crap-CRAPpiest time
It's the crap-CRAPpiest tiiiiiiime...of the yeeeeeeeeear!

Oh, for crap’s sake. I need to stop this whole “dream interpretation” thing- I am falling under the influence of chicanery and silliness. There are no answers to the "meaning of life" in my subconscious.

But it's still entertaining.

Friday night, I had a dream where I actually woke myself up by screaming. That has never happened before. In the dream, I was in our house, cleaning up around the kitchen, when I heard the front door lock rattle. I thought it was ManThing, and went to go open the door for him. Instead, it was a female zombie, who came into the house, and started shambling towards me. That’s when the screaming started, and continued until I found myself awake (and a wee bit embarrassed).

I’m not too sure how these interpretations mesh with the terror factor of the dream, but, again, some of them are quite fitting with what’s going on in my waking life…

Is there some activity, which you used to find interesting and exciting, yet now are finding dull and boring?
Have you become almost overcome with boredom recently?
Do you feel under the weather and tired- walking around like a zombie?

I have recurring dreams about losing a tooth, or losing several teeth. Wednesday night’s version began with me feeling as though I had a loose tooth. Then, I felt a small, foreign object in my mouth; a shard of a tooth that has a filling in it- in both the dream and reality. This was followed by more of my teeth crumbling, and me spitting the pieces and blood into a sink.

Out of curiosity (and a bit of boredom), I decided to look up what this might mean. I realize that trying to interpret “dream symbols” is hokey, yet it was a little unsettling when I came across the following explanation…

“When you have [a tooth loss dream], ask yourself where, in your waking life, you are not expressing yourself, or where you are holding back from speaking out, or where you are not being heard or where someone is belittling you and treating you like a child, not respecting your views. One of these is likely to be the case.”

How about “many of those are likely to be the case?” A little creepy, really, how close to home that hits…I have to keep reminding myself that dream interpretation is for entertainment value only.

Yesterday, I “allowed” myself to make some “frivolous” purchases at the art supply store, such as canvases and paint- but I have no idea what to make. It has been so long since I sat down and made art just because I wanted to, that I don’t know where to begin. My cat isn’t the most interesting subject.

I know that I have to just start something, and make myself keep going. Art is like music or sports; you have to practice, or you’ll lose the ability. I’ve been away for a long time.

I wonder if I should get a cape, too?

I had written a post last night, about how there was cake in the office and I didn’t tell any of the designers about it because I figured if they get to have fun at work, they don’t need cake.

Then the stupid power went out because it was sprinkling outside, so I lost my tidbit of literary genius.

Cough.

So, instead, I present the following.

Beginning this month, TBAE has announced that it will issue every licensed architect a permanent plastic pocket card as proof of registration. I absolutely must find some opportunity to whip out that card while saying, “stand back, ma’am. I’m an ARCHITECT.”

If I had a kid, I’d get 6 weeks off work, no questions asked. What do I get if I have a mental breakdown? Nothing.

I am losing the battle again. Last night I couldn’t bear to look at the latest Architectural Rec0rd. They had a piece on “emerging architects.” These are people my age, who are doing what they love to do. It was too much. In order for me to move out of where I am now, I have to work even harder; I have to do something on the side in order to prove myself where my “real job” will not allow such proof to occur. The problem is I have nothing left when I get home.

A few months ago, I stupidly joined the office’s design forum group. I thought it would be a good way to move me closer towards my goal of becoming a designer, but instead all it has done is turn me into a glorified secretary. It has also driven the wedge further between what I do, and what the actual “designers” do. Everything is focused upon either current in-house designers, or about-to-graduate hot shots from architecture schools. There is nothing for us wannabes.

There needs to be such a thing as an architectural therapist. I need someone to talk to who knows what the industry is like, who isn’t connected to me through my job or by friendship, and who actually has any interest in hearing all of my crap- even if it’s only because I’m paying for them to listen. I’m tired of bringing my friends down, and I’m afraid of who it might get back to in the office if I bitch too often or too vehemently. A regular therapist is ineffective; it’s difficult to just spew forth all the emotions when I have to stop and explain all the terminology, protocol, and hierarchies that are inherent in the job. I just wish I had someone to talk to about it all, when the drugs aren’t working as well as they should. Engaging in self-destructive behaviors such as eating cookie dough with a glass of wine only serves to make me fatter. It doesn’t solve anything.

I’ve been at the same place for a year now, and I still don’t have even a full week’s worth of vacation time built up. It’s my own fault, between trying to find out what was wrong with my stomach, getting my tubes tied, and now trying to get my damn leg fixed. It will require surgery to accomplish the latter, which will have the unfortunate results of using the remainder of my sick and vacation time, and putting us further into debt. ManThing remains optimistic that I can have the surgery, and we will still have the time and money to go to Germany next year. I honestly don’t see how that can be true.

Six months ago, I could walk without hip pain. Four months ago, I would have hip pain after walking more than a mile, but it would go away with some rest. Now, I can’t walk without pain. I can’t lie down, sit on the couch, or swim without hip pain. As of Tuesday, the pain has spread to my knee as well. The pain wakes me up at night if I roll over on my leg the wrong way. It burns while I sit at my desk. The pain has become such a constant part of my days that I’m thinking of naming it, much like Philip has named his stomach ailment.

I just want to be happy, but I’m beginning to think I don’t know how. Nobody can teach that; not even a “Happiness For Dummies” book. I keep anchoring my hopes to certain events that I think will make me happy; but then they pass and I feel the same.
Finishing architecture school was the first: I didn’t realize I would trade creativity and periods of daytime freedom for constant tedium and cubicle imprisonment.
Getting off the Pill was next: Nothing has changed. Still fat. Still moody.
Getting my MINI was the most recent: I absolutely adore my new car; probably much more than I should love an inanimate object, but it has resulted in $110 of additional cash outflow each month.
The current hope I am clinging to is the hip surgery. At this time, I don’t even know if I’m a candidate or not. I never thought I would simply want to walk without pain. Until a few months ago, it never even occurred to me that it would be an issue for me at age 31.

All of these things combined caused me to exhibit the compulsive behaviors of a bulimic or a drug addict today- I meticulously planned my crying fit so that no one would know. I managed to stave off the inevitable until lunch, so I wouldn’t waste company time. After blowing off a lunchtime design forum group meeting, I went into the restroom to gather paper towel to catch the downpour, then stealthily snuck down the back stairs to my car. My car is the only place I can be alone. I didn’t even care that it was cold. Though I really wanted nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed forever, I had my crying spell, then went back to the office to falsify “normal” for a few more hours before escaping into the relative comfort of a weekend. I will spend the weekend forcing myself not to feel guilty for not working, even though we have a deadline next Thursday.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.