Figuring out what I wanna be when I grow up.
Oop..I AM grown up...

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Holy Hell I'm Tired

I have officially over-extended myself today. Okay, it usually goes a little something like this: during PMS, which can last anywhere from 7 to 14 days (yeah, nothing but good times), karen becomes so apathetic, blah, and of a all encompassing "who gives a $^*!" type attitude, that lots of important household tasks go right down the toilet. This can include laundry, general cleaning, dusting, regular dish washing, making quality dinners, putting any clean laundry away, etc, etc. And then, the black cloud passes by, and I am overwhelmed with the knowledge that my house has turned into a dump, the children had to wear underwear that was probably already worn today, and my husband has probably been forced to go without underpants altogether. OKAY THEN, time to get to work.

So, I put away a laundry basket that was brimming with clean towels, sheets, pillow cases, dish towels, and some precious clean clothes for the kids. Then I did four loads of laundry, hung two of them out on the clothesline to dry, and put the other two in the dryer. I patiently endured my son's rage when I insisted on washing the underpants he was using as "violins" for his stuffed bears, and I even endured some typically earthy conversation with my daughter ("poops are slimy," she casually informed me, as she ate her lunch. While this may indeed be a "given," I'm not particularly thrilled about these types of topics, but then, I'm all grown up for the most part).

I artfully concocted a banana bread pudding, which handily utilized all the end pieces of the many loaves of cinnamon/raisin bread my son consumes. The end pieces, apparently are too disgusting to even consider eating. Then, I zipped out to the grocery store with my daughter, because I am insane, and I HAD to have FRESH BASIL for the super yummy tomato gratin dish I made. This trip to the grocery store pretty much sucked: no fresh basil. So, go to another store right? Well, here's the problem: we also went there for ice cream. Once I picked up the tub we'd chosen, my daughter became SINGLE MINDED with her need to EAT THE ICE CREAM. Before I paid for it: "I can eat ice cream now," said Ella.
Me: "I have to pay for it first!"
Ella: "THEN I can eat it?"
Me: "We have to go home, and then I'll make you an ice cream cone."
In the parking lot..Ella: "Can I have ice cream now?"
Me: "We have to get home first."
Ella: "But I WANT ice cream!"
Me: "WE HAVE TO GO HOME FIRST, SO STOP ASKING ME FOR IT, OR YOU WON'T GET ANY! about we go to another store so Mummy can find basil?"
Ella: "I just want to go home so I can eat my ice cream!"
Me: *grumble, grumble.*
At home..Ella (in a sing-songy voice) "Now I can HAVE ICE CREAM!"
Me: "yes, yes, you can have ice cream!!!!"
Ella: "can you get my ice cream?"

Okay, so, no fresh basil. I hate being thwarted. Made a really nice dinner, then put on ugly clothes in order that I might PAINT THE BATHROOM. And here's the pathetic part:

The bathroom had already been painted. Back at the end of March, I picked out this browny pink colour, and the man slapped the paint on for me. I loved it. I said to my Mom (who was sick, and afraid to come over because my kids had their millionth cold); "you'll have to come see my new bathroom colour! I love it!" I was all excited about it. I never choose colours in this pallette. I think it was called 'rum raisin' or something like that. Anyhoo, then my Mom went into the hospital. And then my Mom died.

As time passed on, I started to hate the colour. It was now the colour of the room that I painted when my Mom was really sick. It was the colour of the room that my Mom never got to see. It was eerily like a colour of lipstick my mom would wear. Get it the f*** off my walls. And so I forked out a good chunk of money for a new can of some colour called 'popped corn.' White, in other words. I was slapping the paint on that room, and thinking about how my inlaws, without saying it, couldn't fathom my need to repaint a just-painted room. So, like a little mantra, as I painted, I kept saying to myself; "MY house, MY grief." And so then I finished painting. And then I cried.

And now I am mucho tired! Holy frock. Still, I only have three weeks to catch up on my neglected housework until PMS sets in again! Good times, girls, good times.

*I am NOT checking this for typos.


  1. No witty comment here. Just empathy. I've cried over much much lesser things, but I guess telling you that doesn't help much at all.

  2. nah, it helps. Empathy is always good, and seems to be in short supply in the world!


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