Hormones + Stress = Snapping at the Bank Teller

So, the other day I was stressed out at work. No, let me rephrase that... I was fuming mad at work. (I'll spare you the details) Time comes for me to go home and I was almost over it, but not entirely. I made a stop by the bank on my way home to deposit some stuff for work and found all three lanes containing two cars a piece.

I've been trying to figure out a strategy for making my bank run as quick as possible. For a couple of months, the lane closest to the building seemed to move more quickly than the others because I figured out that one person was running that lane and one person was running the other two lanes. It made perfect sense to pick that one. So, that's what I did that night. As I was sitting there, the cars that had been doing their business pulled out into traffic again and the cars behind them pulled up. And two more new cars pulled in behind those. In the meantime mine hadn't budged.

"Ok," I thought, "If I would have picked either of those lanes, I would be in the same spot as those cars. So, if I make it out before them, that means that I picked the right lane."

A few more minutes passed and the cars I was watching were now at the sucking pipe things, giving their stuff to the bank. And I was now still one car away from the window and getting more and more impatient.

What happened next? Well, to sum it up, I decided to play musical lanes and finally ended up in my original lane. Had I stayed in that spot the whole time, I probably would have been on my way home.

Leftover fumes that I thought I had left at work turned into a raging bonfire. I was mad at my boss, I was mad that I'd had a cough for 4 weeks and still wasn't over it, I was mad at myself for switching lanes, I was mad at the stupid bank patrons who had more to do than a simple deposit and kept sending the pod-thing through the sucker, and finally, I was mad at the bank for not having enough people working that night so I could get home faster.

My anger finally rested on the cute little bank teller who took my deposit. Because I was close to the window again, she could see the irritation in my face as I said not-very-nicely, "You guys need to have more people working here at night. This is ridiculous."

She looked surprised for a second, then walked off to deposit my checks. When she came back, I fully expected a big, fat crusty from her. Or at least a cold look of indifference. But when she gave me my receipt, she smiled and told me to have a good night. And it was genuine.

I felt like the biggest jerk. I started bawling. I bawled until I got about halfway home. Part of me wants to blame my behavior on the surging hormones of pregnancy, and maybe that's partly the reason why I acted the way I did. But the bank teller's reaction to my outburst made me realize that although it might be harder to repress emotions and hold back anger right now, it's still possible.

Now I just feel embarrassed. I go to that bank about once or twice a week and there's no hope of her not recognizing the lime green VW beetle that I'm driving right now.

I need to give her a Christmas card.

O Tannenbaum

So, last year immediately after Christmas, Steve and I went looking for a cheap, pre-lit tree. My mom has a white one that she puts different colored ornaments on every year, and I've fallen in love with it. I decided I really wanted a white one and talked Steve into it. We went to Target, found the ONLY one they had left, and got it for like, 75% off. Sweet deal. I went home, put it in the closet and anxiously waited to put it out. In the meantime, I picked out decorations for it and got even antsier to put it up.

About a month ago, Steve and I were talking about where we were going to put the tree:

Steve: "How big was it again?"

Me: "I don't remember, lemme look." [looks in the closet at the measurements on the box] "Whoa, it's 7.5 feet tall. I don't remember it being that big."

Steve: "How wide is it?"

Me: "AHH! Five feet in diameter!"

Steve: "There's no way that's going to fit."

Me: [whimpers] "Yes it will. I got stuff to put on it. We're putting it up."

So the night before we left for Mississippi, I dragged it out of the closet myself, put it together myself, and decorated it . . . myself. And voila! Barely enough room to get into the kitchen, and inches away from touching the ceiling, but it's UP!

Still searching for a skirt. And presents. If anyone knows what Steve wants for Christmas, please let the rest of the family know!