I made some special chocolates for my mom after a conversation we had which was as enlightening as it was disillusioning in nature. My mom and Greg, it seems, had been on the pot back in the late '70s. So right about the time they were providing me with their stern parental guidance about my nascent proclivities, they were having their own little den of iniquities going on on alternate weekends while I was staying with my dad. I know they couldn't have still been doing it by the time they were disciplining me for going over my weekly allowed limits at the age of 14.
"Now, don't do this stuff irresponsibly! We're going to have to take it away from you. We'll be much more responsible with it!"
<head thrown back, waving cowboy hat in the air with one hand and smacking my mom's backside with the other>
Anyway, I spent the last couple of days making the oil and putting it in some chocolate candies. I packaged them up in a nice Christmas tin and a boxing it up for shipping. I dreamed last night that I was at the post office explaining all this to the person at the counter. No handcuffs were produced, but I got the impression that I'd said too much when they asked me about the contents of the box. I should have just said, "Chocolates."
Well, I spent the last hour scheduling a home pickup of the package. I had the priority flat rate box already, so that part was easy. Next create an account with USPS. So far so good. Enter information, schedule delivery, all ok. Print label---eeeeerrrrt. Nothing. It billed me and thanked me but forgot to do what it said when I pressed the save to PDF button. I spent the next hour cursing and searching for my "Click n Ship" label. I could have been down to the post office by now and back.
I wound up calling customer service and emailing them at their contact email. I'd still be waiting if I hadn't somehow stumbled onto the trail in the "shipping history" section of my account. Geeez, Louise! I don't know how they expect old people to navigate the circular menus that pop up and offer everything but the "reprint label" option. Anyway, once I found it, it was back on the racetrack. Package will be getting picked up tomorrow.
I'll be attending my depression group tonight--I guess. I'm not sure why. I guess I feel I owe them an explanation before just vanishing. I don't want to create drama, but I'll be creating it if I don't say goodbye or if I do say it.
I just don't feel the group is helping. Nor am I that helpful to the group. I just show up out of routine, because I haven't got anything else better to do. I go through the same routine every week and nothing really changes from week to week. Everybody seems a bit too happy for a depression group.
At the end of each meeting there is a check-out period where everyone is encouraged to state their current mood, post-meeting. Everyone will say the obligatory, "I feel better than before the meeting" or "I'm so glad there's a group like this. I feel so supported, etc." I'm guilty of reciting the mantra, though I feel inauthentic about it. I don't want to make people feel bad, like what they shared wasn't meaningful to me, so I lie and make nice.
It is a Zoom meeting and the camera is on me the whole time. This means that I have to keep a rigid face projecting the appropriate look of hopeful, determined interest with a hint of empathy when the situation calls for it. I feel as fake as a dimestore mannequin. Blah.
I don't want to say all this in group, or let the dark rider run roughshod through their happy little meeting, but I'm just not feeling it. I'm not content, and I don't feel like faking things anymore. We'll see how they deal with my little implosion. Drama. Sheesh.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.