I’m Tired

Not So Wordless Wednesday is dead. I just took it next door, stuck its head in the pond, and held it down until the bubbles stopped. Hopefully it wasn’t faking me out, because I’d hate to have to chase it down and do things The Hard Way.

Today has been… you know what? We’re going to skip right past craptacular and go for fucktacular. Today has been fucktacular. And it’s not even noon.

I discovered this morning that the Extra Large setting on my washing machine holds 16+ Folgers canisters of water. The reason I say sixteen “plus” is because I can’t get to the water under the agitator. I could use a hose as a syphon, I guess, but frankly the thought of starting a suck on a buttload of gray, somewhat soapy water is very unappealing to me.

The straw that broke this camel’s back is the washing machine dying while full of clothes and water.

(Know what I do when I get really down? I get gross. I just microwaved a plate of chicken nuggets shaped like Mickey Mouse, soaked them in buffalo sauce, and I’m dipping them in blue cheese and shoveling them in. Next? Probably mixing chocolate chips into a jar of peanut butter and eating them with a spoon.)

The other day I realized that while on Permanent Press the washer wasn’t advancing through the cycles. If I turned the knob manually it worked, so I got that load done. The next day (yesterday) I used Heavy Duty, and for the load of Livvie’s bed sheets it worked fine. The next load in was the whites. I didn’t pay attention. I made an ass out of U and Me both. This morning I went to move the clothes into the dryer and noticed it was still full of water and hadn’t moved from rinse to spin. I turned the knob to spin. Nothing. Machine won’t even drain.

The other day I was informed that I was Chinese Cursed (“May you live in interesting times,” in case you’re not aware), and I’m beginning to suspect that’s true.

Man. Who the fuck did I piss off?

Ok, there’s a list. But still. Someone hates me THIS much?

Over the course of the last week, well, you know a lot of it. Some of it I had to promise not to discuss with anyone. Some of that was pretty devastating to me.

I also had to deal last night with my husband’s request for me to start packing heat when I play outside with the kids. Heat of the 50000 volt kind, but still heat. He watches too much news, you see, and since we live on a property that’s visible if you drive past our street, and anyone can see us outside playing, he wants me to be able to defend myself if someone decides to do Something Stupid. Like try to immobilize me and take the kids. We went ’round and ’round, because I’m not exactly comfortable having a TASER within a child’s reach, and he then took a moment to tell me that my excuses for not wanting to carry it were, “lame” because a kid can’t release it from the holster.

I love it when someone tells me that my feelings are lame.

Because the shit hit the fan between us so recently, and I don’t want to make things worse, I agreed to keep it attached to the back of my pants. So if you happen to drive through rural NC, and you see a chick playing with two kids in her yard, complete with Cozy Coupe and tricycle and a buttload of other toys wearing a large black weapon on her hip: that would be me. I’m glad that in less than a month he’ll be home 24/7, and this won’t be an issue. However, even though I agreed to carry it to keep things from blowing up more than they had, that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use it. I do. So don’t be driving here to test me. You see, I won’t be satisfied with simply dropping you from 15 feet. If you give me a reason to fire the damn thing at all, given the way my life has been going, you can fucking well believe that once you’re down I’ll walk over and press the electrodes themselves to your groin and keep pressing the trigger.

Where was I? Washing machine. Broken. Money. Wet clothes. Wringing by hand to get oceans of water out of them so the dryer won’t have to work for 5 hours straight.

I’m fucking tired.

Here’s the deal though. My hands aren’t strong enough to wring the clothes out properly. Now, my grandmom had a wringer that she used to crank to get the water out of her hand washed laundry, but I don’t have one of those. I was using my bare hands, and realizing how weak they are pissed me off.

Pissed is better than depressed. I don’t care what anyone else thinks about that one. Pissed is a motivator. Depression just sucks you down until you find yourself sitting in one place for so long that the carpet under you is clean, and you’re not.

I wouldn’t have known how weak my hands are without this happening. I’m not willing to let them stay that way. So right now I’m going to clip my weapon to my hip and take the kids outside to play. While they play I’m going to take the pruning shears to the shit that’s grown all to hell out there.

I’m stuck with my back being weak due to an injury. I’m not letting the rest of myself fall apart in response.

While I’m out there I’ll try to figure out how the lawn spontaneously generated Legos from one day to the next.

I’m thinking someone went all Sutton Hoo with their Viking play set.

Have a nice one.