I have been rushing everywhere since December first. The only time I wasn’t running around trying to finish something was when we got sick and stayed in bed for three days.
There’s still so much that needs to be done. wrapping, deliveries, find a cake, blah blah blah blah…
The old fart in me wants to run and hide and wait for all of this to be over. It’s the second time that christmas feels like a chore.
This morning there was a tv ad where they show a mom who just gave birth holding her baby in a hospital bed with the dad standing and hovering. I cried. and don’t ask me because I don’t know why. Maybe the tears know. After all, they decided to fall, I didn’t even feel like crying.
I am so tired. And I have posts written in my fish notebook that I am so excited to type but I can’t find the stupid notebook. And I can’t remember any of my brilliant strings of words, so I’m typing my bitterness away, wasting your time, and blah blah blah.
Tomorrow the Mister’s cousin is coming and he has to pick her up at the ungodly time of four o’clock in the morning. Thankfully she’ll be staying with someone else, because I really don’t feel like tidying up right now.
Why is it that when you date, those boys woo you to the high heavens? Now that I’m married, I do chores and feel like a house elf for a couple of hours everyday. I could take a helper but I don’t like strangers in my house. A once a week cleaning lady is nice, except that would really make us more like pigs because we expect someone to clean up all the mess for an entire week. Also, the phone calls I get from the Mister is the result of more work for me..very rarely do I get calls where he just tells me he misses me or some such smush-smush that makes me feel funny inside.
I haven’t sent out christmas cards because I marked all the envelopes, but all the cards are empty.
I ran out of olive oil today but I didn’t go to the supermarket because it’s the only thing I need, and I’m not in the mood to put clothes on and run out in the heat just to get my one liter bottle of oil. I asked the Mister to get one on his way home but I doubt he’ll remember.
When you’re married, your Mister forgets a hundred things you need for the house. But he remembers your birthday and he kisses you in the morning and tells you i-love-you-birthday-girl and you feel funny inside.
And your Mister hates you for coming home late but is stupendously happy when you present him with a red die-cast car with its tongue sticking out. And if you proceed to tell him how you swiped it from under another customer’s nose because it might be the last one you could buy, his eyes will gleam with boyish wonder. And then when you go to bed that night he will thank you with feelings before he shuts his eyes to sleep.
