18 Things To Not Bitch And Moan About

 

All the medicines. It's kind of remarkable really. If you're willing to drop half a days wages at the pharmacy and forfeit your liver, you can totally feel better right in the middle of a virus. See that blue/purple one? That little angel put me to sleep last night and left me there with only one teeny tiny wake up spell. Advil is my new boyfriend.

Animal crackers. This is kind of my favorite food. Bland, easy on the guts, and even 2 grams of protein. It's like eating kale chips, but with less prep time.

This daughter's courage. She got bangs cut last night and she looks smokin'!

 

Number Four). Writing without even trying to be interesting or clever or fascinating. It is good, liberating fun, and I have you faithfuls to thank for reading the nonsense.

Number five). Rest time when the minions allow me to shit shut my eyes for a bit. Like today. And yesterday. They don't mean to be nice to me and give me that break, but still I'm terribly grateful. It gives me what I need to thrive for the rest of the day; not merely survive.

Number Six). Daughter #1 got two new jobs! She will be wrapping burritos at Burrito Del Rio until May when she'll leave us for a few months to go work at a fly-in fishing lodge. I'm proud of her.

**footnote**

(You may well be under the impression that Brian and I, in our flawless marriage devoid of any struggle have birthed four mythical rainbow-farting unicorn (thank you Janice for that vivid image) children who cause us no grief, worry, or embarrassments.

Yeah, no.

It behooves me to explain that I've grown the tiniest vein of discretion in my years of blogging, and don't actually talk about marriage or children here except in pretty and lovely ways. Just in case they meet rich potential partners who google their names and come to this blog and learn of their most stupid, ugly, humiliating moments. Oh, what glorious release it would be to truly pen on and on about raising 3 teens and a boy, but alas- can't be done.)

And if Brian meets a rich, potential partner who googles his name and reads only glowing things? Well then. Hmmmmm.

Number seven). Earlier this afternoon, I thought- "self! You could mention your notable self control with box 'o' wine since you moved it out of your range of vision and don't try out the spigot feature nearly as often now that it's hidden downstairs!"

But as of now, 5:32, I've just tested the spigot on the now bladder 'o' wine (takes up less space when you ditch the box). The spigot is in good working order! This is indeed, good news.

Number Eight). I wouldn't ordinarily be happy about the sun vanishing for 2 days and a cold wind blowing, but I am grateful for the cessation of Micah's ceiling fountain.

Number Nine). Perfect glorious husband just sent a text indicating he has purchased the fluorescent bulbs we need. This means I may be able to function in lighting as early as this evening. Unless, of course, he needs some time to dwell on the replacement procedure.

Number Ten). The geranium that I've not yet killed has bloomed.

Number Eleven). The thrift shop is open this evening. I shall go, hoping to find a Brita pitcher for fifty cents, and will leave with 4 books, a skirt, and a single roller skate or something equally baffling. It's an addiction and I don't want the cure.

Number twelve). My work day is now over. The only signs are a few random sippy cups, a box full of blocks, animal cracker crumbs, and a Mr Potato Head. So, basically it's 17 days to Mexico, because the rest of today is chill. What with my perfect children and all.

Number Thirteen).

That might be all I've got. The cold and flu medication has worn off, and I'm waiting until the midnight hour of NINE to take the sleepy one. Another family communique has plunged me back into elderly parent sadness, regret, guilt, and inadequacy. I'm busy feeling sad and anxious and berating myself for not going home more often. And it's true. I could and I should and I must but I didn't this evening (tired), won't tomorrow evening (appointment) or Friday evening (people. Invited here.). And when the weekend is here, it will still be a struggle. I suck.

Bitch

And moan.

I'm not of the variety to finish this post properly just because I started it out as 18 gleeful bits. You got twelve of the glee variety and roughly 6 of the anxious, moaning type.

18. In 18 days, I will begin to stew about my parents from somewhere that I truly cannot visit them from.

I'm sorry for the suckish end to this otherwise happy day.

 

 

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