one of THOSE weeks

Usually I’m a pretty patient person, I tend to take everything in stride and have a Pollyanna-like disposition when it comes to staring trouble in the face. I didn’t receive the “Merry Miss Sunshine Award” at Camp Coleman for being a party-pooper. My stress levels are almost entirely self-inflicted 99% of the time when others are involved and around the house, well… I didn’t pen my blog under the name of chaos for nothing.

This was one of those weeks when the hand-basket took the express lane to Lucifer’s summer picnic in the park. I can’t say that there was one instance or two that put my status quo in the red, it was an accumulation of nit-picking, love-taps, and general disobedience that tipped the scales and sent my sanity into a downward spiral.

The Farmers have been watching Speilberg’s Animaniacs lately and I’ve come to the shocking realization that I was watching not only my children but myself. Yakko, Wakko, and Dot are my farmers. I, unfortunately, have narrowed myself down to either Dr. Otto Scratchnsniff or Slappy the Squirrel; Nurse would be great, but who am I kidding here? I’m either trying to make sense of the crazy or a crotchety old woman without an ounce of humor to be found.

Wednesday was melt-down day and not one of my finer moments, I might add. What was worse than giving up was that fact that given the ‘night off’, the only thing I could do was fill up the Focus at a Maverick station and head for the boulevard. There was nothing I wanted to do. Nothing at all. Shopping would only infuriate me more, what I liked wouldn't fit or its too expensive and other, happy people would run the risk of witnessing or becoming a victim of my venomous attitude. I even lacked to patience to hang out an hour and a half to catch a chic movie to escape in. Not wanting to make the ten o’clock news as a stay-home mom gone berserk, I headed home just as frustrated as I left. Grabbed my iPod for some girl-rocker angst (anything else and I would be in tears) and shut myself in the bedroom, buried underneath my white quilt and a dozen odd pillows, like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Minus the man part, the crystals, the solitude… It was what it was and the best I could do at the moment.

You men-folk who happen to still be reading this full-on estrogen dump might wonder why I or your significant other could or would or does flip out. Here's a clue. See below.

Muuuhhhhahahhahha! Laundry Horror.

Straight up, no rocks to water this disaster down. I did send it through Photoshop to emphasize the wanton destruction of a once orderly laundry room. Clean clothes, dirty, stinky, smelly, puke and poo laced clothes, all living together in a happy place under the stairs. I suppose this would qualify as a particular melt-down moment... add this with that, shake and stew and that's the recipe for psycho-mom.

Thursday was a little better, I’m striving to breathe deeply, find my inner chi and repeat the mantra, “Twenty-six days, Twenty-six day, Twenty-SIX days.”

While getting my morning news (I at least pretend to know what I'm talking about) I came across the obituary for Randy Pausch. I had heard of his Last Lecture, but never really watched it. Today I did and it was just what I needed. From his own words, he's not presenting anything new and he won't be the last. I already know the gist of it, I'm living the gist of it and somehow I forgot, letting myself get bogged down in the little things that don't really matter.

This afternoon, Miss Is and I made a bread-cake like thingy for an E.Q. BBQ. It was fun and I felt better. I bought a new pair of shorts, stylish sunglasses and lipstick. Very girly, very much needed. The laundry room remains untouched, racetracks line my staircase, and I still breakup non-fighting fights started for no other reason than to fight but not to fight. Twenty-six days, I can handle that.

Labels: Farmers, Random Thoughts