Angry cleaning can
clear my head, stop the feeling
that I should stab you.
Angry writing brings
back my characteristic
poise. There's a bright side.
When I can't get laid
I have a spotless
house, a current blog.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Saturday, August 17, 2013
I'm honestly really quite happy. Really.
The Old Man turns 38 today. Sometimes it feels like he's one of my children. Rarely, but sometimes. Last night he was mad that it takes the kids so long to fall asleep, and he was mad that they come out of their bedrooms too much after we put them to bed (water, gotta go potty, etc.) We talked about it and I finally got too tired to even think so I just went to bed. The Old Man is right, though. We spend an hour and a half putting the kids to bed and we have no time left to watch TV or to unwind. I felt like telling him that we are the adults and we don't get free time anymore and we need to suck it up, but that wouldn't have been helpful to the conversation. Plus, I didn't want to kill his crazy dream world of rainbows and unicorns and relaxing free time at night.
Next week I am working six days. Unfortunately this is semi-common for The Old Man and I, and makes life quite exhausting. My constant check is to make sure I have enough mental and physical energy set aside for my family. And enough energy set aside to recharge myself.
Right now, it's 6:55 a.m., and my little girl is playing dominoes loudly and I'm trying to write and talk to a three year old all at once.
Constant interruptions are a subtle form of torture.
The Old Man and I are going to a comedy club tonight. He's off today, and will disappear for a while to the gym and/or the knife maker show. Because he makes knives now. Talented guy with hobbies. Good for him.
Next week I am working six days. Unfortunately this is semi-common for The Old Man and I, and makes life quite exhausting. My constant check is to make sure I have enough mental and physical energy set aside for my family. And enough energy set aside to recharge myself.
Right now, it's 6:55 a.m., and my little girl is playing dominoes loudly and I'm trying to write and talk to a three year old all at once.
Constant interruptions are a subtle form of torture.
The Old Man and I are going to a comedy club tonight. He's off today, and will disappear for a while to the gym and/or the knife maker show. Because he makes knives now. Talented guy with hobbies. Good for him.
Friday, August 9, 2013
My Family. As a Unit.
One of those mornings. Nothing to wear. There are three pairs of shoes, two shirts, and four pairs of jeans strewn on my bed upstairs. I am already twenty minutes late to work.
"How do I look?" I ask. I stand in front of my husband and son with a slight protrusion in my lower lip. I sigh, with drama. They are eating eggs with salsa. My daughter is watching Rabbids Invasion on the couch.
My son, who has his shirt on backwards, asks, "What do you want to wear?"
"Jeans."
He looks at my dark wash jeans. "Check," he says. His hair is combed on the right half and sticking up on the left half of his head.
My husband is in his pajamas and doesn't have his contacts in yet, so he squints through his glasses and scratches his unshaven face. "What kind of shirt did you want to wear?" he asks.
"A t-shirt," I say, spreading my arms so that they can look at my black t-shirt.
"Check," says my son. "Necklace? Check. Earrings? Check. Shoes? Check." He shovels in the last of his eggs.
My husband comes up to me and squeezes me in interesting places. "You look fine," he says.
My son says, "You don't look too terrible."
My husband giggles. I giggle as I say goodbye to him and lead the kids out to the car. I notice for the first time that my daughter has her shoes on the wrong feet.
"Come on, Mommy Toon-Ta," she says.
"How do I look?" I ask. I stand in front of my husband and son with a slight protrusion in my lower lip. I sigh, with drama. They are eating eggs with salsa. My daughter is watching Rabbids Invasion on the couch.
My son, who has his shirt on backwards, asks, "What do you want to wear?"
"Jeans."
He looks at my dark wash jeans. "Check," he says. His hair is combed on the right half and sticking up on the left half of his head.
My husband is in his pajamas and doesn't have his contacts in yet, so he squints through his glasses and scratches his unshaven face. "What kind of shirt did you want to wear?" he asks.
"A t-shirt," I say, spreading my arms so that they can look at my black t-shirt.
"Check," says my son. "Necklace? Check. Earrings? Check. Shoes? Check." He shovels in the last of his eggs.
My husband comes up to me and squeezes me in interesting places. "You look fine," he says.
My son says, "You don't look too terrible."
My husband giggles. I giggle as I say goodbye to him and lead the kids out to the car. I notice for the first time that my daughter has her shoes on the wrong feet.
"Come on, Mommy Toon-Ta," she says.
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