One Whipped Mother

Yet More Indications That I Am Not Well

I just spent an hour writing about my inevitable descent into the murky underworld known as Kookooland (no, I'm not talking about Australia, even though Mel Gibson was raised there), but it was lost, as many of my writings are, due to "a serious error" with Microsoft Works Word. It shuts down, and I lose everything.

So I'm rewriting this, and to be honest, it isn't half as good as the first go around. Oh, and lookee here -- Blogger's on the fritz again and won't let me publish. [This entry was written around 10:00 a.m. -- it is only now going live -- it's almost 5:00 p.m. Blogger can bite me.]

This really isn't helping my desperate attempt to hold on reality.

So not only am I sleep-deprived beyond what any human could possibly handle without completely chewing one's own arm off, but I must deal with the stress of not being able to write freely, without fear, and that's bad. Between the aforementioned, my cough, my hatred of the current administration, I am ready to slip into that white jacket and spend the rest of my days rocking in a corner.

The following incidents are yet more proof:

1) While stealing one of my kids' Halloween cupcakes late last night, I sang a little song of praise to my treat. And as I sang my song in whispery, tremulous voice (cupcake, cup of cake, I love you), I was startled by my oldest daughter's raucous laughter. I whirled around, cupcake pressed against my nose (I smell my food before consuming, though I try not to do that in front of others), and ran from the kitchen, humiliated, full of shame, and convinced that the end is nigh.

Normal people do not sing to their food.

You might be saying to yourself, "Well, that's not so bad," but wait...there's more.

2) Dinnertime can be an especially stressful event in my household -- too many people to feed, all with very specific likes and dislikes, all whiny and tired and hating what I've prepared -- and the night before last was one such stressful time. The kids were fighting, Mr. Butler turned up the T.V. volume to an ear-blasting level, my husband was applying a finishing touch to the new fireplace/entertainment center thing he'd built, and the fumes were making me gag. No one would come get their dinner, so, after ten minutes of repeatedly asking everyone to come and get it without result, I screamed obscenities and threw a porkchop across the room.

Remember now, I'm severely sleep deprived. It's not in my nature to assault porkchops.

Well, that got the family's attention, and they all trickled in, my husband sheepishly folding napkins, putting out silverware, and I continued dishing out food as if nothing had happened. But the T.V. was blasting, the kids still name-calling, Mr. Butler pulling on my sweater and whining for me to "habloo" (which means that he wants me to pick him up -- he's got the vocabulary of a slow twenty-five year old, but he still says "habloo") and I was trembling, seething with rage. My youngest daughter, Ariel, innocently crept up behind me and said, "Is that my plate?" to which I answered with an incomprehensible, shrieking "Indeed!" spittle flying from my twisted mouth.

Indeed? What the hell was that all about?

My husband asked me that very same question. "What are you, a starship commander?" he said.

I am the captain of the Starship Enterprise, and I not only fling porkchops, I sing to my food as well. Tell me that isn't insane.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 10:27 AM