Ever feel like you’re losing your mind? Like, this is it. This is what they talked about in Girl, Interrupted. You just know your brain is swirling down the toilet and sucking your sanity in with it. And you’re left with one crossed eye, a sideways ponytail and a missing sock. Crazy.
The turn of the decade was, apparently, a monumental shift in my existence because it’s been nothing but chaos ever since. I mean, hey, I’m breathing. Which means I’m alive. Which is good. And I’m no stranger to chaos. I’d most likely be lost without it. But life has been testing me lately. I mean, my patience has had a cheese grater taken to it and all that’s left is a little nub. A nub of patience. That’s not a lot. It’s only a nub. And my calendar looks like a 1st grader’s 100-word essay. Writing in four different directions, in three different colors, with a splash of white-out here and there. Birthdays. Meetings. Baby showers. Portrait sittings. Parties. Meetings. Conference calls. Cakes. Cakes. Cakes.
I could probably go without saying that there has been a kerfluffle thrown in here and there. I probably could. But I won’t. Instead, I’ll tell you ALL ABOUT IT THEM.
Kerfluffle Numero Uno: Look, I was lucky to get ANY laundry done. I could’ve forced my children to wear their PJ’s to their respective places of cavorting, but nay, I resisted. Mainly because they were out of PJ’s too. But, not the point. I DID THE LAUNDRY, DAMMIT. Er, ya now, most of it. I will accept no nagging in any way, shape or form that will in any way, shape or form belittle my efforts at providing my family with smelly-good and bacteria-free clothing to wear. Well, ya know, at least in public. So, yes, Darling, I’m aware that your socks may have exited the washing machine claiming a different spot on the color spectrum than that which they claimed when they entered. But you’re secure in your manhood, right? Well, then. Wear the pink socks. Quitcherbitchin.
Kerfluffle Numero Dos: The package said 350 for 25 minutes, not 325 for 50 minutes. Oops.
Kerfluffle Numero Tres: Our perfectly-working air conditioner was scheduled to be serviced the other day. I was home, conveniently, with both my girls and all 6 dogs. Service Guy pulls into our driveway and I immediately go out the garage to greet him and send him out the back way to the air conditioner unit and manhole-that-goes-beneath-our-house-that-I-don’t-go-near-because-SPIDERS and tell him that if he needs anything, just let me know. WELL. Service Guy’s eyes begin to bulge from his sockets and he slowly backs away and I’m all Whoa Dude I Know I Don’t Have Any Make-up On But TACT Would Be Appreciated When Viewing My Face and then I realize that my oldest gem of sweetness has opened the door, allowing 4 of our 6 beasts out. Service Guy is terrified of dogs. I’m sure 4 approaching pit bulls really made his butthole pucker up.
5 minutes, 32 wirdy dords and 6 hasty apologies later, I corralled them back into the house and went about my business.
Service Guy left roundabout 3:00.
Chris got home at 5:00.
Chris: Why isn’t the air conditioning working?
Me: Whadaya mean it isn’t working?
Chris: It. Isn’t. Working. That’s what I mean.
Me: Oh. Uh. Oops.
*insert fake, overzealous smile so as to distract from the fact that I wasn’t paying a dang bit of attention to the air conditioner or fan or compressor or whatever I was supposed to pay attention to*
Chris: You didn’t realize that?
Me: Well, I mean. I was hot, but I’ve been cleaning and I’m always hot when I’ve been cleaning and I just thought I was, ya know, hot because I’ve been cleaning and……..your toilet’s clean!
Chris: Oh my effing GAWD!
We still don’t have air conditioning. Two days later.
Now, here’s the thing. My husband is not exactly the next Derby jockey. He’s 6′ 2″, er, something like that, and weighs more than the average man. And, well, what I’m trying to say is…….fat men don’t like hot.
For example, my husband limits our window for Mawm Visits To PA to late fall, all of winter, and possibly January. Because OH MY GAWD SHE DOESN’T HAVE AIR CONDITIONING. Apparently, to fat, Southern men, windows don’t count as air conditioning unless there’s a large unit sticking out of it that is plugged directly into the wall and has a thermostat on it.
This brings me to my point. IF MY AIR CONDITIONER IS WORKING JUST FINE, THEN DON’T FIX WHAT AIN’T BROKEN.
The wrath of hot Chris will fall upon thee.
Also, I need to pay more attention.
My apologies for being an absent blogger. I’m trying to schedule the Crazy and contain It to Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, but ya know. It’s Crazy we’re talkin’ about here.