She can't help it and neither can I. Whatever that means.
Scheduling change: My nervous break-down has been postponed until next month. No sense falling apart until I can actually use paid leave. After all, I don't want to cause myself even more stress. The point of a nervous breakdown is to be like Humpty Dumpty and somehow get put back together again.
Oh, wait...all the King's horses and all the King's men COULDN'T put Humpty together again. Scratch that, don't want to be like Humpty.
Stress? What stress? Wouldn't YOU like to know? You know who you are. Even though this sounds like the rant of a paranoid mad woman...ok. Maybe it IS the rant of a paranoid mad woman.
I will not be discussing the elephant in the room.
Instead: I blame my crazed ravings on the continuing slow demise of my computer. The HP techie phone consultant said it sounds like the sound card is going out. Well, that doesn't sound so bad, I thought. I didn't realize that "sound card going out" is a euphemism for "your computer has the ebola virus, shingles, and an embarrassing venereal disease and will shortly be dead". But Mick translated for me and since the surgery is too expensive and there is no public option, we are just going to hold the computer's hand and bow our heads in prayer. Folks, the mouse I am using is a tiny hot-pink mouse that came in a box with one of Sam's Bratz dolls and it works better than any of the other spare mice (?) that we have lying around. I'm thinking of taking it to work each day with me because the mouse on that computer is a contributing cause to my mental deterioration. That, and trying to remember who pooped when, how much, and what did it look like. And remembering to never use the word poop, which is difficult for me. Luckily I can say it, I just can't use it in the log notes.
The hot tub is broken again, about the third time in less than two months. We are slow learners. Sam had just about stopped squeezing ink from her markers into the hot tub water and had begun dumping every bottle of whatever in instead: shampoo, body wash, lotion, and then I caught her with nail polish remover (she did not succeed in dumping that), but she just didn't stop and the water became disgustingly scuzzy, so we drained it, she turned on the jets, and yes, once again we blew a heating element. Slow learners, slow learners. Our hot tub guy put the control panel in the breaker box a couple of years ago, but are we smart enough to lock it? Let's just say that this is the third heating element we've gone through in short order.
I'm caught up on laundry. It is not put away, but it's not as stacked up as it normally is. But this is only Monday, as I write this. Friday will be a different story.
My sewing room is...depressing. Sam's clothing is...depressing. If I could do a magic trick, one little, specialized magic trick, it would be able to conjure underwear out of thin air. Sam wants to wear big girl panties. She will no longer wear pull-ups. And no, she will not stop tearing her underwear apart. Don't ask me. Don't ask Mick. We still don't understand why. One of the people on Mick's crew mentioned that she takes a medication to stop her from picking. Of course, she was picking her own skin apart. Also, it's probably a psych med, which in this country means that when I take Sam to her up-coming doctor's appointment, I will probably be given a referral instead of a prescription.
Note to self: Do Not schedule nervous breakdown to coincide with Sam's doctor's appointment.
I could go on. And on and on. Taxes still to do, Sam peeing in her garbage can tonight (though, frankly, that's better than what Mick dealt with when Sam tried to take her broken box spring and put it on the picnic table to lie on), and it's Spring Break for the kids, pet puke, oh, and I tried to jog the other morning and the state of my body is an embarrassment. Pain, it caused me crippling pain. Humiliating. I'm going to go crawl off to bed.
There it is: fast, annoying, and nonsensical. What can you expect from a woman barely hanging on to her sanity?
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