I slept through my alarm, you guys. I stole 15 extra minutes of blissful sleep while my clock radio blared classical music for the rest of the house to enjoy at 6:45 am. I wear earplugs, so this has always been a risk, but I’m a very light sleeper and I usually wake five or six times a night no matter what and I’ll take them out when I see the clock read anything later than 4:00 am. Just in case. Last night, however, I slept like a log. Like a rock. Like a normal person.
school yesterday in the most magnificent mood. She had had a great day. Her friends were nice and played with her and everything was grand. She was happy. She said she told her one friend that if she wasn’t nice to her that she wouldn’t come to her birthday party and she wouldn’t buy her a Monster High doll, which is basically bribery and I told her that I was glad she stood up for herself but she shouldn’t bribe people to be her friend.
It’s a start, anyway. She took her happiness into her own hands, called her friend out, and worked out a solution. Even if I’m not 100% sold on her methods, it’s a start. We’ll work on delivery as we go.
festivities, AH and I set to some back-breaking manual labour in the form of a complete front door makeover. Since moving into our home five years ago, we’ve despised our front door. A builder-selected forest green, a shade not resembling anything that has been in style since the early 90′s, and only then in folk art and floral upholstery. It was ugly, is what I’m saying. Between the green paint, the sad, boring windows, the chipping brass handles, the thick crust of dust from living in a construction site for five years, and the peeling paint from around the frame, the doors were practically begging for a makeover. IN ENGLISH.
This is the only photo I could find at the last minute. Unfortunately it’s in black and white, so you won’t be able to fully appreciate the green. But you can see the grit and grim, the flaky paint, and the windows, which look like sad, weeping eyes.
An old friend of mine from high school days lost her daughter yesterday morning. She was only a few months younger than Eirinn. I never met the little girl and, truth be told, it has been probably 10 years at least since the last I spoke to my friend in person. These are the days of Facebook, and so I’ve followed her daughter’s struggle from a distance. I’m not good in these situations. I never know what the right thing is to say or how to behave or even what to do with my arms.
I didn’t even have the courage to ask her what exactly her daughter was fighting against. All I knew was that her beautiful, truly gorgeous, little girl, with a mop of curly hair and a smile that stretched all across her doll face, was pictured with wires and tubes, and then with a bald head. She was only a few months younger than Eirinn, clearly struggling with all her might against something very serious, and yet I never once saw a picture of her without that smile.
I know it’s hard to believe, given the abundance of charm I spew all of this place, but I’m sort of a forgettable person. Now, now, I’m not saying this to illicit sympathy or disbelief, I just am. It comes from years of Blending Into The Wallpaper training and not saying any words outloud with my mouth. I don’t go out, when I do, I don’t say much, I don’t eat lunch in the breakroom, I don’t attend after-work social functions like staff appreciation days or Christmas parties, I don’t play sports or belong to any clubs or groups, and I don’t really keep in touch with anyone. I’ve made myself forgettable. That was sort of the end-goal and hurrah! I’ve succeeded!
“Your face looks so familiar.”
Oh, little tooth. You were the first one up and so you are the first one out. You will be missed. I’m sure your adult counterpart will be a worthy substitution, but your vacancy will be ever-present in our hearts and our minds forever. Rest in peace, wherever you may lay.
I think she finally got sick of me asking if I could wiggle her tooth for her, so she just pulled it out herself. She says it just popped out, literally hurling itself from her mouth into her hand several inches below while she was in another room, but I think she just yanked it out to get it over with.
I’m sick and tired of these freeloaders hosing off us. No job, they don’t pay rent, their food is served to them and their clothes are washed and folded. Heck, they don’t even BATHE themselves. Sweet life, huh? They literally have to do nothing to earn their keep but be cute every once in a while, and even that’s not mandatory. I’m insanely jealous. They fight with each other, they just chuck their dirty underwear wherever they see fit, and they whine an awful lot. Sure, they’ve got a lot going for them – they can be sweet, they make me laugh, and they make for a great excuse to watch G rated digital animation – but that can only take them so far.
There comes a time in every child’s life when they have to start earning their keep. For my kids, that time is now. They now must do chores, or face the consequences (no reward at the end of the week and a look of grave disappointment from their mother). Dun dun duuuuun.
I’m that sort of tired where your eyes burn and the skin and muscles and blood in the area surrounding your eyes also burns and you feel like if you don’t go to sleep RIGHT NOW your eyes just might burst into unholy flames then and there and that might just be a sweet relief because surely you’d pass out from the pain and any sort of unconscious is sleep enough.
But it’s not from lack of trying because I’m going to bed at a reasonable hour and waking at my usual alarm-driven hour. My nights have been fitful and restless, which is part of the trouble, but it is the days that have run me down. Work has been busy. I don’t talk about work here because I like being employed, but if I remain vague enough, I think I could safely say that I am exhausted and it is because work has been busy, for a variety of reasons.
Alright, I have a confession. I have no idea how to take care of my skin.
::watches all the men turn and run out the door::
Anyway, I don’t. I’m 32 years old and I wash my face with what I assume is meant for teenagers. That is, when I haven’t run out and just use whatever’s in the shower that will foam. Bar soap, liquid soap. I’ve been known to use shampoo on occasion. It’s the worst when I’ve run out of facial cleanser (that’s fancy grown up lady-person talk for face soap) AND I’ve run out of my regular soap and I have to use AH’s soap, so I spend the rest of the day smelling like I rubbed my face in a man’s armpit. A fresh, clean armpit, but a manly armpit, nonetheless.
A coworker told me yesterday, in one of those moments that required wisdom, that we should never beat ourselves up about a mistake. Everyone makes them, even those don’t who want to admit it. Chances are, whatever mistake you’ve made can be corrected. It’s just a matter of sacking up and fixing it.
I’ve felt lately like all I’ve done is make mistakes. Poor decisions, inappropriate reactions, and mistakes. I’ve been going too fast or too slow or not at all, backward when I should have gone forward, looked down when I should have kept my head up, lost in my own thoughts when I should have been listening, yelling instead of speaking. I’ve been angry, just angry, and I have no idea why.