Here's The Deal....

"If the advice of the stars has still somehow failed to bring you happiness, don't worry: There's probably just something terribly wrong with you."

Although I'm not a fan of admitting to being an unreasonable asshole, today it's a tad too glaring to overlook. When I reiterate that my 'Ol Man and kiddos are hands-down the greatest thing on the planet - it's not even slightly in an effort to convince myself. Rather, I look at their sweet faces in utter shock as to why/how in the hell they put up with me.



They say patience is a virtue. This is one such virtue I quite apparently do not possess. If wrath were a virtue, I'd suggest my overabundance of this would somehow offset the others. Alas, this is not the case. Time and time again, I take a mental inventory of my subscription brimming with issues. Time and time again, I declare "officially" that I shall make a conscious effort to not be such a raving lunatic. It seems "effort" is yet another spice someone forgot to toss in with the other ingredients when I was in the incubator. How does one, more specifically THIS ONE, stop the cycle?

Do I have stress in my life? Oh my, yes. Any more than your average bear? No, not really. So why, then, do I still act out like a hormone-ravaged tween when the tiniest thing pushes my buttons? Especially when that same tiny thing is looking at me as some sort of superhero goddess with wee stars in his giant sapphire blue eyes, and all I find myself doing is shrieking like a coked-up banshee and immediately hiding in the garage on a self-inflicted time-out? Further - when the hell did this all happen? I was truly convinced I used to be a pretty easy going, happy-go-lucky sort of creature. Perhaps that was yet another fallacy I dreamt up in the hopes of avoiding the current harsh realization that I'm a prick. It only adds insult to injury when, occasionally, I'm reassured that all this is justifiable because of circumstance. No circumstance could possibly make my mood swings OK!



Here comes the lame ass justification ANYWAY: I fear that much of this is the direct result of the facade I offer up Monday through Friday during business-ish hours. As I've been running later and later each day through fault that is all my own, those hours are continually likely to change. I am at a loss for how to create much needed balance. As is entirely evident through the plethora of posts to date, I am a hot mess. A smorgasbord of dysfunction and contradiction. For the sake of a paycheck, I am just barely able to maintain a professional presence (though the professional appearance has spiraled off into oblivion and the odds aren't favorable for it's return). Even then, I have moments of psychoticness that I promptly patch up through increased levels of caffeine and nicotine.

Have you found yourself in a situation where you need to transport water from one point to another and are completely lacking the necessary receptacle? I picture the water as my own personal chaos. What would normally be anything from a fish bowl to a toilet represents my sanity. With this sanity not readily handy, I reach for, say, a plastic grocery sack only to find that it's riddled with holes from shoving far too many heavy items into it while in the midst of a panic attack at the self-checkout the day before. At the end of a pitiful day, with the aid of knock-off Scotch tape, cleverly placed staples, old file folder labels, even some pre-chewed watermelon bubblegum for flair - the bag has reached it's functional limit and the water bursts out all over the driveway. Beyond the hopes that I at least exterminated a handful of those damned, feisty red ants gathering at my feet, I've come undone.



The almighty $ trumps the emotional health of my family. That's some fucked up shit right there. Only one of the three of them had any say in getting stuck with Kitty. That same one still has yet to pack up in the night and flee. I know this because I routinely double-check. Calgon refuses to take me away because it's been furiously scrambling to secure rescue for the rest. I still maintain it would be easier to contain the madness of one with chains, heavy duty twine or zebra print duct tape, but I suppose I can't be such a control freak when I can't so much as control myself.

In lieu of fixing any of my own problems, I thought it would be nice to plan a vacation for my family. More specifically, my family's vacation from ME. I haven't ran this idea of sheer brilliance by any of them, so the hope is always that the surprise will outshine the shock/horror. I understand travel agents are pretty well required to work miracles, so the first step is to locate some sort of Disney Pixar Cars-themed cruise for the boys. It would naturally have to be staffed by the good folks of The Love Boat. I can't say I've noticed any of them are terribly occupied these days, so that should be easy enough (Did you ever notice they were ALWAYS taking care of random and seemingly orphaned young'uns?).



And My I.D.S.T.? I shall arrange to have him and a "Bro" of his choosing shipped off in luxury with their motorcycles and an endless supply of booze to a safe and professionally closed course in some island location surrounded by pretty, young eye-candy (***EYE CANDY ONLY! NOT TO BE CONSUMED!!!*** I'm really trying, here, so don't fuck with me***) and catered with award winning BBQ delights and constantly streaming ESPN on movie-theater-sized screens (with X-Box capabilities, of course).



Now comes the difficult part.... How long am I willing to release the hostages for, and how much jail time would accompany the sum of money I'd have to "acquire" to make this shit happen? I've said it before and I'll say it again: A gal's gotta dream.

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Kitty

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Here's The Deal....

"If the advice of the stars has still somehow failed to bring you happiness, don't worry: There's probably just something terribly wrong with you."

Although I'm not a fan of admitting to being an unreasonable asshole, today it's a tad too glaring to overlook. When I reiterate that my 'Ol Man and kiddos are hands-down the greatest thing on the planet - it's not even slightly in an effort to convince myself. Rather, I look at their sweet faces in utter shock as to why/how in the hell they put up with me.



They say patience is a virtue. This is one such virtue I quite apparently do not possess. If wrath were a virtue, I'd suggest my overabundance of this would somehow offset the others. Alas, this is not the case. Time and time again, I take a mental inventory of my subscription brimming with issues. Time and time again, I declare "officially" that I shall make a conscious effort to not be such a raving lunatic. It seems "effort" is yet another spice someone forgot to toss in with the other ingredients when I was in the incubator. How does one, more specifically THIS ONE, stop the cycle?

Do I have stress in my life? Oh my, yes. Any more than your average bear? No, not really. So why, then, do I still act out like a hormone-ravaged tween when the tiniest thing pushes my buttons? Especially when that same tiny thing is looking at me as some sort of superhero goddess with wee stars in his giant sapphire blue eyes, and all I find myself doing is shrieking like a coked-up banshee and immediately hiding in the garage on a self-inflicted time-out? Further - when the hell did this all happen? I was truly convinced I used to be a pretty easy going, happy-go-lucky sort of creature. Perhaps that was yet another fallacy I dreamt up in the hopes of avoiding the current harsh realization that I'm a prick. It only adds insult to injury when, occasionally, I'm reassured that all this is justifiable because of circumstance. No circumstance could possibly make my mood swings OK!



Here comes the lame ass justification ANYWAY: I fear that much of this is the direct result of the facade I offer up Monday through Friday during business-ish hours. As I've been running later and later each day through fault that is all my own, those hours are continually likely to change. I am at a loss for how to create much needed balance. As is entirely evident through the plethora of posts to date, I am a hot mess. A smorgasbord of dysfunction and contradiction. For the sake of a paycheck, I am just barely able to maintain a professional presence (though the professional appearance has spiraled off into oblivion and the odds aren't favorable for it's return). Even then, I have moments of psychoticness that I promptly patch up through increased levels of caffeine and nicotine.

Have you found yourself in a situation where you need to transport water from one point to another and are completely lacking the necessary receptacle? I picture the water as my own personal chaos. What would normally be anything from a fish bowl to a toilet represents my sanity. With this sanity not readily handy, I reach for, say, a plastic grocery sack only to find that it's riddled with holes from shoving far too many heavy items into it while in the midst of a panic attack at the self-checkout the day before. At the end of a pitiful day, with the aid of knock-off Scotch tape, cleverly placed staples, old file folder labels, even some pre-chewed watermelon bubblegum for flair - the bag has reached it's functional limit and the water bursts out all over the driveway. Beyond the hopes that I at least exterminated a handful of those damned, feisty red ants gathering at my feet, I've come undone.



The almighty $ trumps the emotional health of my family. That's some fucked up shit right there. Only one of the three of them had any say in getting stuck with Kitty. That same one still has yet to pack up in the night and flee. I know this because I routinely double-check. Calgon refuses to take me away because it's been furiously scrambling to secure rescue for the rest. I still maintain it would be easier to contain the madness of one with chains, heavy duty twine or zebra print duct tape, but I suppose I can't be such a control freak when I can't so much as control myself.

In lieu of fixing any of my own problems, I thought it would be nice to plan a vacation for my family. More specifically, my family's vacation from ME. I haven't ran this idea of sheer brilliance by any of them, so the hope is always that the surprise will outshine the shock/horror. I understand travel agents are pretty well required to work miracles, so the first step is to locate some sort of Disney Pixar Cars-themed cruise for the boys. It would naturally have to be staffed by the good folks of The Love Boat. I can't say I've noticed any of them are terribly occupied these days, so that should be easy enough (Did you ever notice they were ALWAYS taking care of random and seemingly orphaned young'uns?).



And My I.D.S.T.? I shall arrange to have him and a "Bro" of his choosing shipped off in luxury with their motorcycles and an endless supply of booze to a safe and professionally closed course in some island location surrounded by pretty, young eye-candy (***EYE CANDY ONLY! NOT TO BE CONSUMED!!!*** I'm really trying, here, so don't fuck with me***) and catered with award winning BBQ delights and constantly streaming ESPN on movie-theater-sized screens (with X-Box capabilities, of course).



Now comes the difficult part.... How long am I willing to release the hostages for, and how much jail time would accompany the sum of money I'd have to "acquire" to make this shit happen? I've said it before and I'll say it again: A gal's gotta dream.

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