Process or Pouty Princess

I have to take off at least a few pounds or shop for a swimsuit.  What would you do?

I am HUNGRY.  Which is fine because there is no food in the house.  Except I have children.  Who can still wear last years suit.  Unless they starve.

My son has a cough.  Someone in my house has had a cough almost constantly since February, and it IS allergy season, but no one else has played on a sports team with a kid who, allegedly, has poison ivy and a secondary infection.  WHO ALSO HAS A COUGH.

I have three two pair of pants that fit.  One of them is worn at every edge.  The zipper will not stay up on the other.  Incidentally, they are mom jeans. Because.  I AM A MOM.

I need to pay bills.

I need to shop for food.

I need a shower.

I need to shop for a swimsuit for my husband who needs a new one not because he gained weight, but because we the rest of us voted and it’s unanimous.  We refuse to be seen with him in what he now owns.  Both of those items will probably come as a great comfort to the homeless guy who rifles through our cans on Thursday nights.

Did I mention I want to move?  I have had enough of living with a neighbor in my shirt pocket.  I’ve had enough of not having a closet for my own clothes and having mine hang on a rack next to the dryer.  Population density…. apparently just not my thing.  You know when they say a city has 300 people per square acre or something like that?  If I had to live like that, the stat would be 299.  I would die by my own hand.  Let me out.

Now I know there is a reason things got disorganized.  I want to get at it.  But if I focus on what needs to be done there, the hellions (tongue firmly planted in cheek. No one here has the organization and diligence to earn the title.)  are off smearing around the kitchen and walking past dog messes.  If I sit down to the desk, who in the name of all that’s right, will vacuum, cook and clean.

Right.  You’d think so, but, no.  They don’t have to.

They know their task list.  They are nearly 16.  When I was their age, I had a full time job.  SCHOOL.  When I had my birthday, I got a part-time job.  I also was the only person who vacuumed, dusted and cleaned kitchens and bathrooms. I did the lion’s share of the laundry and ironing.  That started when I was 12.

I was afraid of my mom.

Yesterday, I lost my @#$%.  LOST IT.

That is why I have locked myself in my room.

I have more to do than I physically or cognitively can without doing the picking up, the loading and unloading of the dishwasher.  But we don’t even live like humans.  There is no incentive or disincentive that motivates.

I will not dishonor us all by another such scene, but I will not drain myself of all resources doing what they reasonably can and ought.  And I categorically will not repeat myself.  I am not being around them because the first, “Can we…?” might just send me.

No.  Until you realize that this isn’t THE LOVE BOAT and I’m not Julie McCoy, there will be no further treats.

I’d like to think this is part of the process of adjusting to the new normal and having no support system to speak of.  After all, when the crisis is over, I better just pick up and go on as before.

Other times, it seems I’ve made my bed.  Placed the pea under the high tech mattress myself.  What about it?

I’m going to lie down.

Thank you for attending my pity party.  Feel free to peel yourself a carrot and draw yourself a cup of water.  The squirrels will direct you to the parking area at the rear.

 

 

Comments

  1. Girl. Don’t get me on swimsuit stuff. I’m going to conveniently NOT have time for that mess this year. No way. Nope.

    Keith and I just finished a big fat conversation last night about how kids today are not like kids of the other day. We had responsibility. We weren’t entitled. We knew manners.

    Not so much anymore. And I now sound like my mother.

    I still think you’re a doll. No matter how worn out your pants are.

  2. I feel like we are in the same place. I’ve been throwing myself a big ole pity party for at least a month. I’m almost at the point where I wish I would just get over myself. Which would probably be a lot easier if I could get the people I live with to put up the clothes I folded for them.

I love it when you sass me. Please leave a comment.

%d bloggers like this: