Today has been pretty busy, and so-so for mood thus far ... but right now? Right now I just want to stand in the middle of the street and scream like a crazy woman who just broke out of the psych ward and can't figure out why the voices in her head don't belong to her.
I'm pissed. Totally pissed. Lately I've felt really stifled intellectually and creatively, felt like I've got something to do and no way to do it because I don't know what it is. Or maybe more like I want to do something, I want to talk smart with someone ... and there's no one there, nothing to do.
So this morning I got my apartment straightened up, got things put away, and then the air pump in the fish tank broke so Boyfriend had to run out and buy one with money we didn't have so that our poor fish wouldn't suffocate. Yes it's true, if they get desperate for air, they can go to the top of the water ... but there are already too many fish in the tank, and they are all large fish, so they need whatever air we can get them. No problem, and we got it handled, but as Boyfriend was gone and Teenybop wanted to watch TV (heaven forbid she amuse herself for a bit with all the toys we've bought her), I had to sit there in the living room, listening to the buzz of the broken air pump combining with the over-loud TV while they worked hard together to create a lovely headache for me that still isn't gone yet.
It isn't helping that TOM is about make the token monthly appearance next week and my hormones are wild at the moment.
And Teenybop's really late for her nap, and yesterday she didn't get one at all, so you can imagine what going on there if you've got kids of your own.
And then, for the past fews weeks (months?) I've had these three boxes here, that we got from Boyfriend's Mom, little things that she packed up and gave to us in leiu of having a yard sale. I know that one man's junk is another man's treasure, but come on, people. You have to know that it doesn't work quite that way when you're the Boyfriend's Girlfriend and his mother offers you a bunch of crap she's had forever and says, "Do you like this? You can have it for your house ... if you want it." But don't get me wrong, most of the stuff is great stuff, stuff that made my decorator's heart swell with excitement. However, between all the other parts of my life, there hasn't been time to deal with the things in the boxes, so instead I've been forced to look at them all the time while they create clutter and frustration for me to work around.
Who has time to decorate a house, to find a niche for little nick-nacks to live in ... when I barely have time to take a shower in amongst my schedule? Yes, I can hear some of you out there ... "You're a stay-home mom with only one kid who is 3, and that's a virtually self-sufficient age, right?" Wrong. I live in an apartment with two other people: Boyfriend and Teenybop. They both think that their dinner magically appears on the table each night, that their clothes magically get up off the floor and jump in the clothes hamper, magically wash, dry, fold, and put themselves away. Teenybop thinks that her room is the best place in the world ... after all, it is full of toys and has the ability to clean itself!
Not to mention Boyfriend's mistaken idea that our grocery cabinets refill themselves, our gas tank is bottomless ... and our relationship is peachy. Sometimes I want to say, "Hello, dude, the cabinets in the kitchen don't fill themselves. In a home with one income, even my groceries are budgeted right down to the last hot dog or chicken breast, and he informs me that I'll need to make "a lot" today for dinner, and for him to take to work. Now I don't have a problem with making dinner, I don't have a problem with making some for him to take to work. As a matter of fact, I usually pack his lunch for work, too, another thing he never does himself. That's not the issue. But come on man, how do you think all this food ends up in your stomach? Someone has to cook it! Someone has to package it!
And don't put me in the middle of your issues with yourself either! In one breath you tell me how you think you're too fat (even though at most you've only got an extra 20 or so), and in the other you can sit down to a table at McDonald's and polish off two Big Mac's and a large fry, not too mention the room in your stomach taken up by the two huge cokes! And be somewhat proud that you could do it. So shut up, if you really think you're fat and you don't like it, do these two things: 1) take a good look at me, I've got roughly 97 more pounds to lose, and 2) do something about it besides eating salad that you can't even taste through all the dressing (aka "fat) for the occasional "healthy" dinner.
I feel like a pot someone put on the stove to boil, then they put the lid on and left it. And the heat keeps building and building, the steam is getting thicker and thicker, and at some point I just know the lids going to pop off and I'll boil over if no one comes to check on me and turn the burner down.
Sometimes I want to scream.