I’ve realized over the course of the last few weeks that there are a number of things I want to get off my chest. And you know, for SOME reason my therapist refuses to meet with me every single day. And so I turn to you, dear Internet, for my absolution needs. I think that’s fair.
What you need to understand about me is that I have perfected the art of guilt. Consider me a trifecta of self-condemnation: I’m female (lord knows there was never a man who felt badly about anything that didn’t result in physical pain), I was raised Jewish (need I say more?), and I’m a mother (two kids = four times the guilt!).
The end result is that some of the things I feel badly about are bona fide issues, and others are not. But they ALL contribute to the ulcer I’m nurturing.
Tonight I give you… the quick run-down of minor issues that currently plague me. Please try to contain your enthusiasm as I deepen and strengthen our relationship with my openness.
* I have not vacuumed in several weeks.
* After miscalculating the timing of sending something to a friend, I had to ruin the surprise entirely and fill her in, due to MY blunder.
* Due to my own insomnia and fatigue, I have allowed Monkey to sleep in pull-ups this week because I didn’t want to deal with possibly changing sheets in the middle of the night.
* I’ve switched to buying organic milk for the children, but am now only giving them half as much, to offset the price.
* And I’m agonizing over whether to let Chickadee buy hormone-laden milk at school.
* Nor am I unaware of the irony of insisting on organic milk to accompany neon-colored pop-tarts.
* I am often jealous of people I love.
* I had ice cream for breakfast today.
* I was irrationally angry when Yahoo! customer care informed me that there is currently no way to remove yourself from someone’s contact list once you’ve granted permission.
* Rather than wash beach towels every single day this week, twice I let the kids take sandy and muddy towels to camp a second day.
* (I’m still working on prepping myself to confess slightly more important stuff….)
* My ass still hurts. Why do I feel guilty about that? Oh wait… that’s not guilt, that’s just pain. Hard for me to distinguish the two, sometimes.
* I am dying to know who is reading me from playboy.com. Is it someone who works at the magazine? A bunny living in the mansion? Heff?? Show yourself, torturer! (Now I feel guilty for outing you, but geez.)