Stress

I do not handle stress well.

When faced with a stressful situation, some people grow quiet and broody; they tend to retreat within themselves and sometimes, they appear to be so calm that it's hard to tell they are stressed.

I am not one of those people.

No, in addition to the internal struggle, my stress also manifests outwardly and is easily identifiable on sight and as I get older, it's not getting any easier to manage.  I've dealt poorly with stress my entire life; I can remember a teenager who locked herself out of the house moments before she was to receive an important phone call (from a boy, no doubt).  Instead of facing facts, that girl grew anxious and nervous and a panic began to swell within her chest.  Within moments, she was pounding her fists against the side of the house, freaking out because she felt out of control and couldn't deal with the situation rationally.

Moments like that continued to occur throughout my teendom and young adult years until finally, I  realized how freakish I must appear to others and began to make, with much effort, an effort to contain most of the outward physical manifestations of my stress.

Now instead of beating my fists against the wall, I beat up myself internally until my eyes well with tears and my flight instinct kicks in.  Today was one of those days.

Why is it that I'm so good at advising others on how to deal with stress yet I can barely deal with it myself?  Logically I know that (as my Grammy Schell used to say) "it will all come out in the wash" yet when I'm in the moment, I feel like a stained shirt stuck in the spin cycle.

The moment I'm stressed out, I cry and just want to retreat to my bed.  When those around me are stressed out, I really lose it; that fostered guilt is just too much for me to take.

I've tried different methods of stress management, to little or no avail but I'm not giving up; I have a baby on the way and she is, I'm sure, going to cause me A LOT of stress in the upcoming years so I'm determined to find a way to calm my inner demons.

Hmm,  perhaps a move to Skye is in order...

Fire or Ice

Fire and Ice SOME say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice,         5 I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. - Robert Frost Today was my first day B2S and this poem ran through my head the entire day. Perhaps it was the oppression of a 102 degree classroom; perhaps it was the cold sweat for fear of the upcoming unknown. Let's hope that fire and ice play a minimal role this year and that the climate remains comfortable from start to finish. Let's hope.

B2S

It's here.

Tomorrow I go back to school and I'm not mentally prepared - at all.

I woke up today with horrific allergies,  probably the worst attack I've had in my adult life: my eyes are swollen shut, my nose has inflated to twice its size, my head is pounding, I'm having trouble breathing properly and I'm starting to break out in welts.  I'm a mess.

The allergy medication I took has done nothing to relieve my suffering so I'm trying to be proactive by eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in hopes that my extreme case of allergies might ward off or cancel out a future peanut allergy for Bebe - how do you like that logic, eh?

 I think it's time for a nap - who am I?

Learn to Like It

Dear Bebe,

I can't believe I'm about to say this, but learn to enjoy watching televised sports.

Your dad will help with this, don't worry; he's already looking forward to turning you into a Cowboys/Mets/Rangers/Rutgers/PGA/World Cup fan and he's even put in a few requests for little co-ordinating outfits for you so he can dress you for each event accordingly.

Your dad and I were both big athletes back in the day but the difference is that I only played sports - I never watched them,  much like your grandfather, Butchie, who was, apparently, a big stud back in the day on the field.  Butchie and I bonded over episodes of This Old House and while watching our favorite 1983 classic, Strange Brew, whereas your father and his father spent their weekends watching whatever sport was in season.  I think this is what lead to our present preferences.

Well, and the fact that he's a boy and I'm a girl and boys watch sports and well, most girls don't.

But there are exceptions, such as your gorgeous Greek auntie Christina F.  Now, Christina and I have argued this point a million times and I've expressed my dislike of her love for sports. She actually enjoys watching them.  Seriously - she goes out of her way to turn on a Jets game... what girl does that?

Apparently, beautiful ones like her.

And I must admit, I think it makes her life a bit easier than mine and will make her life A LOT easier once she is married because the thing is, all boys like sports (ok, there are a few exceptions but they are VERY few and far between - even scrawny, tight t-shirt wearing hipsters in bands over in Brooklyn like sports).

What boys don't like are girls who whine about their husband's sports viewing or who banish the hubs to the bedroom every Sunday afternoon.  And Monday evening. And during baseball season, every evening.

So, do yourself a favor and learn to enjoy watching sports.  I'll fix you a little treat to nibble on and pass your father an ice cold Sprite and then I'll take your father's wallet and go shopping.

Because no matter how much I think you should learn to enjoy watching sports, I never will.

Love,

Me

Prolong the Inevitable

Dear Bebe,

Someday, unless you're really lucky and find a cash cow to finance your lifestyle (and hopefully that of your parents), you'll be forced to enter a life of servitude, commonly known as the work force.

I suggest that you put this off for as long as possible or avoid it entirely.

There are several ways of doing so: remain a student for as long as possible (a scholarship student, mind you, or one with a stipend), find work on an organic co-operative farm that affords you room and board in exchange for slopping pigs and singing kumbaya, or hopefully, find a way to turn what you love to do into a lucrative money maker that only requires you to put forth limited, spontaneous efforts.

Your father and I have discussed this at length and both agree that as long as you are happy and healthy, we will support your endeavors, with some expectations: you refrain from posing for amateur photographers (mass market trade publications are fine, if tastefully done) and if asked by your grandparents, you ARE a Republican.

Enjoy your life,

Love, me

Advice to Bebe

I'm thinking of re-directing my blog focus and using this forum as an ongoing letter of advice to my future daughter.

Here is my first bit:

Dear Bebe,

When backpacking through Europe with your girlfriends (which you are free to do once you graduate high school), abstain from arguing with Czech taxi drivers over the fare.  Specifically, after the driver spits in your face, refrain from kicking the side panel of his sedan because a). he could pull a gun on you, stuff you in the trunk, and sell you to the sex trade or more importantly b). you risk scuffing the toe of your pretty stiletto and damaging your pedicure, not to mention you'll no doubt limp for the rest of the evening.

Cute boys do not like girls who limp or have ugly feet, nor do they marry ones who spent years in forced servitude.

Love,

Me

Alba Gu Brath, Part I

Good morning, Tobermory.

This was the third stop on our Scottish adventure

and the setting of Lynsey's wedding.  We arrived on 

the Tuesday before the Friday ceremony and quickly

fell in with new friends.  On Wednesday morning,

we hiked the muddiest trail I've ever been on to a 

lighthouse, where we met up with the groom's sister,

brother-in-law, and niece and nephew. 

Leave it to the Swiss to hike a rainy path 

with a 4 year old and 18 month old!

Our days on Mull were spent laughing and

lunching in muddy boots at posh cafes, such as 

this one (that also has a not-so-posh pub attached!)

Some chose to go whale watching while others 

stayed on dry ground for fear of heaving.

On Friday, we cleaned up for the wedding and 

witnessed a memorable ceremony at the village parish;

the Scottish/Swiss ceremony was a success, 

much like the couple itself!

Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Zingg

I drove us to the reception at Glengorm Castle 

in Karen's brother's Land Rover and that was

an adventure on those single track roads!  

Upon arrival, we were met with

flutes of champagne (BeBe thoroughly enjoyed hers)

and a host of kilts and traditional Swiss costumes.

Spending time with my best friends was amazing, 

even though I couldn't enjoy myself in true Ali fashion.

The party really took off when Skerryvore took the stage

and even I braved the heaving dance floor for a few turns;

if you're familiar with Ceilidh dancing, you'll 

understand why I was a bit apprehensive to join in -

the last thing BeBe needs is to be turned into a milkshake!

This picture doesn't even look like us. Pregnancy is affecting us both!

The party raged on until the wee hours of the morn,

but Matty and I were sensible (and sober) so we drove 

back to the inn around 11pm so we could get a good sleep

in order to make the ferry to Oban bright and early.  Karen, 

however, danced the night away and was still fresh faced

at 6 in the morning despite her 4 am bedtime!  Well, almost...

Goodbye, Tobermory! We'll see you again one day, we hope!

Tomorrow, we go over the sea to Skye!