When I got up this morning, I was full of plans to go back to bed.  Less like plans and more like plots, if you will.  I was struggling with plots to go back to bed, because bed was really where I wanted to be, and it seemed like if I could just get the three older kids off to school, the youngest might sleep in just a tad longer and I would be able to be back in bed in like…an hour and a half.  That’s not…so very long.  I was looking forward to it, anyway.  Then, just as Princess Zurg was going out the door, Girlfriend woke up and wanted a sandwich.  So that was the end of my plotting.

You know, there are some days when I don’t even have to ask my children what they want because I already know.  “Whatever will be more trouble for you, Mom.”  Who wants a sandwich at 8:30 a.m.?  People who want to cause trouble for their sleepy moms.  “No cold cereal this morning, thank you.  That would be too convenient.  Oh, and did I mention I don’t want the sandwich you’ve already started making, the same sandwich I’ve wanted every time I’ve asked for a sandwich for as long as you can remember?  I want a completely different sandwich.  I’m just feeling…restless, you know?  It’s time for a change.  Can you dig it?”

I was so serious about going back to bed this morning that when I got dressed–because I feel like I have to be dressed when I walk my son out to the bus, I’m just…puritanical that way–I didn’t bother to put on a bra.  That’s hardcore for me because the only reason I need to wear a bra in the first place is to signal to my body that I am awake.  I’m wearing a bra, therefore I must be awake.  This morning I was clearly in denial of being awake.  And yet here I am, three hours later, still awake and I still haven’t put on a bra because that would be like admitting defeat.  Now I’m thinking, is not admitting defeat a sign of wakefulness?  I think it must be.  Clearly the undergarment situation needs to start matching reality, or nothing is ever going to get done today.  And there is a lot to do.

The housekeepers come on Wednesday.  I have not done a very good job of keeping the house reasonably tidy over the last couple weeks.  I’m just tired.  Everyone treats my flat surfaces like their personal…what’s the word?  A word for a place where you just set stuff down and assume that someone else is going to deal with it.  The people I live with are like the private-home equivalent of people who toss their styrofoam cups out their car windows on the freeway.  There is, seriously, no consideration as to what the appropriate final destination of an item might be.  Newspaper?  Floor.  Homework?  Floor.  Empty envelopes?  Floor.  Junk mail?  Floor.  Shoes and clothing?  Floor.  Wet towels?  Floor.  Candy wrappers?  Floor.  Used napkins?  Floor.  Packing material?  Floor.  Toys?  Definitely floor, duh.  (Where else would they even go?)  Dirty dishes?  Floor.  Empty soda cans?  Floor.  Books and magazines?  Floor.  Tape measure?  Floor.  Screw driver?  Floor.  Video games and DVDs?  Floor.  Refrigerator magnets?  Floor.  Blankets and pillows?  Floor.  Pens and pencils?  Floor.  Stuff I never use but took out of the box anyway for no discernible reason?  Floor.  Floor.  Floor.

Just tired.

You know what the advertising material for my housekeeping service told me?  That they wanted to make my home a showplace that I would be proud to invite people to visit.  That was the word they used, “showplace.”  That should have been my first clue that I was not the target customer.  What I really need is a magical spell that will respond every time someone tries to put something that doesn’t belong on my floor on my floor.  It will just bounce off the floor and smack them right in the face.  Then a mystical fist will appear out of nowhere and punch them in the groin for good measure.  I’m just thinking outside the box.  Come on, people, we put a man on the freaking moon and we still haven’t invented mystical fists of groin-punching for home-based litterbugs?  Maybe we just don’t want it badly enough.

I should start unloading the dishwasher.  But first I’m going to need to put on a bra because I’m still not convinced that I’m not going back to bed any minute now.

I just got a call reminding me of the appointment with my life coach tomorrow.  Tomorrow is supposed to be my final life-coaching session in which we assess how far I’ve come and reaffirm my plans for future success.  This appointment was originally supposed to take place a month or so ago, but life got in the way.  Anyway, when we planned this final session, I was feeling pretty good about how far I’ve come and my plans for future success, but lately I’ve been feeling not-so-successy or far-come and more like…ah, what’s the phrase I’m looking for?  A big lazy waste of human cells.  I get no satisfaction from my meager efforts anymore.  I washed three load of towels this weekend.  Big effing deal.  You know what my problem is?  It’s like I’m trying to drive up a steep hill in a Geo that’s running on a quarter-gallon of gas.  I am a Geo with a quarter-gallon of gas.  There is no point in starting.  Because did I mention that the hill has no top?  It’s just all incline.  All incline, no top.  That’s really more like a wall than a hill.  I’m a Geo driving up a wall.  Why am I driving up a wall?  There’s no point.  And here the metaphor grows tiresome.

Time to put on my bra and get to work.

 

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