Talking to myself
It I has been a whirlwind of activity around Casa de Crazy. Mazzy cut her third tooth (finally) on Thanksgiving. My half-sister-in-law’s mother passed away. Thanksgiving was a huge pain in my ass. My mother has officially moved in, already gracing our well-oiled machine with monkey wrenches and noisy cog-churning. We are truly blessed, right? Of course we are.
Over Thanksgiving I discovered that I love bacon and pecan pie – together. It is delicious. Try it. Now. Do. It.
I have been up, and down, and rarely in the middle. My temper is always teetering on the edge of a full-blown bitchsplosion. Oh yeah, that’s good screaming…. I blame my mother. Ha.
There are good things. I just have a hard time recognizing them. I will say that Mazzy keeps me pretty happy. I like her spunk. She is MUCH more verbal these days. Sure, most of what she says is complete gibberish, but she is able to get her point across through a series of hand gestures and foot stomping. I find her rages endearing. It is the same feeling I get when her Daddy completely ignores my tantrums and waits for me to behave like a grown-up. It is another person who just sees me and not my temper or my ridiculously regimented set of personal rules. Awesome.
We have a two-story home and we have recently had to move to the top floor, so we have, like good parents, placed a baby gate at the tops of the stairs. My daughter, in less than a week, has figured out that you have to push the button and jiggle the handle to make the gate open. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! At least she has no idea that you have to pull the handle back while you are holding the button and jiggling to actually get the thing to work. I stay up late at night, staring despondently in the dark, praying for a brain because I know that my kid is going to eat me alive if I don’t have a better game plan than “She does so well on her own, why we don’t let her raise herself and step in at major events is beyond me.” That’s right, my kid will be in school one day. Fear me.
Oh, a brief message: Starbuck’s concept of the Third Place does not mean “Your Place,” so please flush the toilet. You are gross.
I am starting to realize that I clean more than the average person with my schedule. I spent the first few days sad about that, but unable to resist wiping off the counters or scrubbing the tile for even a day, so I sadness turned in to a mad case of the “fuck yous” and I started resenting the rest of the world for being lazy slobs. Because I am crazy.
My brother-in-law is telling people that living here is like living with a clean Nazi. Ha. You stink. No, really, he stinks. He needs to bathe more often. Gross.
It is a weird state of mental affairs when you are constantly switching back and forth between wanting to just quit and taking a giant bottle of Febreeze to everything to gloss over the dirt and neglect in your life. Yep. That is me. A giant bottle of Febreeze. Kill me.
Over Thanksgiving I discovered that I love bacon and pecan pie – together. It is delicious. Try it. Now. Do. It.
I have been up, and down, and rarely in the middle. My temper is always teetering on the edge of a full-blown bitchsplosion. Oh yeah, that’s good screaming…. I blame my mother. Ha.
There are good things. I just have a hard time recognizing them. I will say that Mazzy keeps me pretty happy. I like her spunk. She is MUCH more verbal these days. Sure, most of what she says is complete gibberish, but she is able to get her point across through a series of hand gestures and foot stomping. I find her rages endearing. It is the same feeling I get when her Daddy completely ignores my tantrums and waits for me to behave like a grown-up. It is another person who just sees me and not my temper or my ridiculously regimented set of personal rules. Awesome.
We have a two-story home and we have recently had to move to the top floor, so we have, like good parents, placed a baby gate at the tops of the stairs. My daughter, in less than a week, has figured out that you have to push the button and jiggle the handle to make the gate open. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! At least she has no idea that you have to pull the handle back while you are holding the button and jiggling to actually get the thing to work. I stay up late at night, staring despondently in the dark, praying for a brain because I know that my kid is going to eat me alive if I don’t have a better game plan than “She does so well on her own, why we don’t let her raise herself and step in at major events is beyond me.” That’s right, my kid will be in school one day. Fear me.
Oh, a brief message: Starbuck’s concept of the Third Place does not mean “Your Place,” so please flush the toilet. You are gross.
I am starting to realize that I clean more than the average person with my schedule. I spent the first few days sad about that, but unable to resist wiping off the counters or scrubbing the tile for even a day, so I sadness turned in to a mad case of the “fuck yous” and I started resenting the rest of the world for being lazy slobs. Because I am crazy.
My brother-in-law is telling people that living here is like living with a clean Nazi. Ha. You stink. No, really, he stinks. He needs to bathe more often. Gross.
It is a weird state of mental affairs when you are constantly switching back and forth between wanting to just quit and taking a giant bottle of Febreeze to everything to gloss over the dirt and neglect in your life. Yep. That is me. A giant bottle of Febreeze. Kill me.
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