I am too grumpy to live.
Oh, wait. Still alive. God, that makes me grumpy. I can’t even DIE properly.
Yeah. It’s that sort of a day. I used to be able to blame such things on my dear friend “Aunt Flo,” you know, but once you hit menopause it’s like all PMS, all the time, and people stop giving you the latitude to blame such moods on your hormones… even though your hormones are pretty much completely borked all the time. (Yes, that IS the technical term for it.)
Evidence the first for my hormonal borkedness: A couple of weeks ago Otto haltingly complimented my dewy, glowy face—concerned, of course, that a compliment could easily be turned into a “What, was it awful BEFORE?” kind of situation. I surprised him by agreeing that my face was indeed looking fabulous. That apparently angered the facial gods, or something.
In the space of a week I went from looking like a walking, talking facial line commercial to looking like I have never washed my face in my entire life. I am rapidly closing in on 40, people, and while I have struggled with acne for close to three decades, suddenly—inexplicably!—my face has erupted in a display of angry, red mounds unlike any I’ve ever had before. I have no idea what the hell is going on, other than that looking in a mirror makes me want to cry. Actually, why hedge—looking in a mirror pretty much does make me cry.
I am someday going to die with deep wrinkles FILLED WITH ZITS adorning my face. I’ve always wanted to be cremated, but I feel certain that scientists will lobby to preserve my head and neck so that they can better study the bizarre causes of cystic acne in the old and cranky.
Evidence the second: I was so short and cranky with the children this morning, Monkey patted me and told me “it’s gonna be okay, Mama” and Chickadee just continued crying about how her earlobes were going to get infected and it was all my fault. (She ran out of time to clean around her earrings, because she was busy micromanaging me and everyone else, and no, I didn’t miss my opportunity to tell her so, too, because I’m just that super of a mother.) I may have thanked her for ruining my morning, too. Because she screamed at me. Repeatedly. But she’s 11, so that’s sort of her job. What the hell is MY excuse?
I should’ve gone grocery shopping over the weekend but I didn’t because of everything else we were doing, so I said I’d go yesterday. I didn’t go. I ran out of time.
Last night I went out to run an errand for the PTA that I’d left for the last minute because I’m completely disorganized, and of course what I needed to get was nowhere to be found. Which is my own fault. And the only thing I love more than having to go to Walmart is having to go to Walmart and not even being able to get what I went there for. But at least I bought a gallon of milk, because when there’s nothing to eat in the house, it’s good to have some milk.
It’s been raining for days and my garden is flourishing, so of course it was time for a Hubris Smackdown. Remember last year’s slugs? This year I was SO SO SMART. I carefully put a ring of eggshells around every plant. Slugs can’t cross the eggshells! Too sharp! HA HA HA SLUGS! Except that now that everything is growing like gangbusters, the leaves of 90% of my plants reach back to the ground. Where the slugs can easily hop aboard. And it’s been SO WET that they’re not even bothering to wait until dark—they’re just out there munching away at all hours. They’ve decimated a couple of my spinach plants and are working on the beans, now. I decided I’m tired of wasting beer on them and there’s too many, anyway, so I bought some organic slug killer that needs to WORK FASTER.
Of course, something’s eating my basil, too. And slugs don’t like basil. Some investigation revealed that in addition to the Slug Army, I’ve got sort of an impressive sow bug infestation going on, too. At this rate there will be nothing left in the garden to EAT. (I bought some diatomaceous earth to get the sow bugs, but it has to be DRY to apply it. It’s supposed to rain all week.) And yes, I’m aware that sow bugs prefer DEAD THINGS, but if you are SUPER EXTRA LUCKY like me, they’ll eat young plants in a pinch.
And I feel like I haven’t had a conversation with my husband in months. That’s not true, of course, but in my current grumpalicious state it FEELS true. Or maybe he had a conversation with one of my giant zits and I missed it.