Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion . . . . I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward. - Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
Yeah, I know…my blog has been neglected. A lot has happened that I should have blogged about. Wailer turned a year older and celebrated with the party of the Gods…a CHOCOLATE party. It was divine. Chocolate flowed from a fountain, 10 pounds of chocolate to be precise. And there were birthday guests too- several giggling, chocolate-filled little girls who had no intention of ever sleeping. Ever. The house was on estrogen overload. Poor Big Dog.
What else has happened? Hmm…oh yeah! More broken bones! Rough Stuff broke a toe. I know…not major, but it was enough to result in yet one more visit to urgent care and one more visit to the orthopedic specialist and one more stupid blue protective shoe. I swear Skiffy and Rough Stuff are in a competition to see who can self-destruct first.
So where was I? Oh yes, the blog. Neglect. Irresponsibility. Self-doubt. Frustration. Blah.
Well, in honesty people…suck it. You see, I’ve been tired. Hella tired. A real special kind of tired. This semester of school is killing me. Seriously. Killing me. One tedious assignment at a time. I am so tired I could sleep standing up. I’m so tired I could…well let me tell you how tired I was yesterday.
Yesterday, I got out of bed tired to the point of tears. And nausea. I showered, put on makeup and proceeded to take Skiffy to physical therapy. Of course, because Skiffy and I LIVE at physical therapy. I came home from therapy with enough time to work on homework for an hour before the next appointment but I couldn’t quit yawning so I wasn’t very productive at finding the answer to the very important, life-altering question about Lindblom’s theory of mutual adjustment. (Sorry, world of public administration…I have failed you.) I was about to leave for the next therapy appointment and to drop Skiffy off for color guard practice and to drop myself off for class, also known as four-hour-lecture-about-really-boring-public-administration-policies, when I decided I should go freshen up.
Freshen up? Did she just say that? Why yes, yes I did. Do people still do that? Why yes, yes they do. You know that feeling when you are just flippin’ exhausted and your makeup looks all icky and your eyes are sagging and your fat cheeks are drooping and your hair is flat and you just feel disgusting? NO? Then you don’t have a herd of kids. That moment requires some vain attempt to freshen up and look alive.
Anyhoo, I blotted my makeup, applied more blush, and added deodorant. But that didn’t really fix the situation. I decided I needed a less frumpy shirt. Then I decided my distressed capris looked a little too distressed and I would feel better in jeans. Then I had to decide what shoes to wear. I tried on the oh-so-comfy, but frumpy, brown Skecher’s sandal, and the so much cuter black, beaded flip flop. I decided the comfy, but frumpy, brown sandals were perfect.
So, I’m driving down the road just cruising along chillaxing to Bob Marley when I approach the traffic circle and it happens. As I press on the brake, something feels off kilter. Something is not right. Something is just…ahh shit. I wiggle my toes and press them into my shoes. Sure as shit, the toes on my left foot press into the soft comfy footbed of my brown sandal and the toes on my right foot press against the hard, flat bottom of my beaded flip flop. “Filth and foul and filth filth foul...we have to go back home” I screeched.
Now, like any well developed, responsible grown person, I laid blame on the nearest human being I could find. “SKIFFY, HOW COULD YOU LET ME LEAVE HOME LIKE THAT?!” Like any witty, smart ass teenager she said “because you’re 37 years old, Mother. I thought you knew how to dress yourself.”
Sigh. Actually, I didn’t sigh. I mumbled something in my head that should never be repeated.
I am that kind of tired, folks. Too tired to think straight. Too tired to function. Too tired to dress myself. A real special kind of tired.