I can’t stop sneezing. My daughter won’t stop crying. But, hey, the weather is beautiful out today, predicted to reach 80 degrees, some optimistic meteorologists proclaim. (Whatever happened to just calling them “forecasters” anyway?)
My husband would like you to know that he is one terrific guy. Saturday, he set me loose from 10:30 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. I saw a movie (“The Illusionist” which I can wholeheartedly recommend) and shopped at my favorite thrift store and at Marshall’s. As usual, being alone out in the world refreshed me and almost made me ready to face the sink full of dishes at home. In fact, when I got home, I cleaned out my closet.
My daughter is still crying. She’s crying for two reasons. 1) She went to bed last night an hour late because I had to take her to my son’s Judo class last night because my husband went to a meeting; 2) I just snapped at her when she kept repeating the same sentence over and over and over. Why people in this family don’t realize I CAN HEAR THEM the first time, even if I don’t immediately respond is beyond my comprehension. Just because I am not speaking, people I live with appear to believe that I am also NOT THINKING and not IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING.
Now, she’s gone into the other room to play the other computer. Finally, she stopped crying. I have also temporarily stopped sneezing. I have fall allergies sometimes and this year, I sneeze all morning long. My nose itches. Really, it’s quite a delight to be me.
Have you ever heard of Pickleball? It’s like playing tennis with wiffle balls and giant ping-pong paddles. I’d never seen it played before this weekend when we visited friends who have a court in their driveway. I tried to not be jealous of those people . . . and not just because they have at least $100,000 worth of vehicles parked in their garage, but because their pantry is bigger than my whole kitchen.
My besetting sin: jealousy.
And so my day begins with my sober assessment of my shortcomings (snappish, jealous, prone to sneezing, unable to keep kitchen floor clean, impatient) and a pile of used tissues.
My husband, though . . . he rocks. And I’m not just saying that because he told me to.