It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m exhausted. I’ve been up since way-too-early, and I’ve worked my ass off today.
Although I’ve never been a nap person, days like this make me envy the teenagers in the house who seem to be able to sleep at all hours of the day and night with no thought as to whether they’re snoozing away the best years of their lives.
My exhaustion is my own fault. I’m still not used to the kids being back at school, and my sleep schedule is a wreck. I stay up until midnight or one because I forget to go to bed, and then I’m up at 6:30 to make sure the kids get up. (Unfortunately, my body doesn’t recognize weekends, so I’m up at the same time on Saturday and Sunday.) Thursday morning I got up after about five hours, got the kids off to school, and then spent four hours wearing out my brain trying to track down a glitch in my Sims 2 game that was less of a glitch and more of a total and repeated implosion. Although Roxanne is a very pretty girl, my patience was beginning to wear more than a little thin. And I know this because I was having that old, familiar, computer programmer fantasy about beating her with a baseball bat, setting her on fire, and hurling her from the roof of the highest building in the vicinity. Obviously, around here, that would put me on the roof of someone’s house, about 15 feet off the ground. It’s only in moments like this that I regret our decision to move to a small town.
Scratch that. Small towns also suck when your step-son has to choose between a racist and a thief when he wants to “hang out” with someone after school. I’m just glad the boy takes every opportunity to tell the racist he’s full of shit. Also that he’s big enough to back up the things his mouth dishes out.
It was kind of an exciting weekend. On Thursday, Hubby handed over the finances to me, and by the time I went grocery shopping on Friday, I had a tentative budget laid out for the next six months. I’ve never been in charge of the money before and I was an English major so I don’t really math, but I’m not kidding when I tell you that I am no-foolin’-good at this shit. Of course, it helps that I have occasional leanings toward “hard ass,” and that I have absolutely no problem telling anyone “no.” If there’s no money for the step-brats to have a soda, then they won’t be having a soda. Lest y’all think I’m just a total beeyotch, I should clarify that these particular brats get $20 a week in allowance if they make their beds, and that I don’t get a damn soda, either.
I spent today crawling around on the floor in the kitchen washing cabinets and baseboards and cleaning out the refrigerator. By the time I was finished, I had used up every foul word I’ve ever heard and some I haven’t — most of them twice. Although I think it would do the people I live with some good to occasionally be on the receiving end of my ire, I am thankful that I did all of this while I was alone in the house. By the time everybody got home from school, I was coming back to myself enough to deliver only one lecture, and that one (I swear) was in a normal tone of voice. I do have to admit, however, that when Step-son came in, I immediately made him take a tour of the kitchen and act utterly impressed. I instructed him on how to properly do this in almost exactly the way my mom did about 35 years ago when she was teaching me:
“Okay, now open the refrigerator. Doesn’t it look terrific? Tell me it’s amazing. Tell me it’s so shiny that it looks brand new. Say ‘ooh, Angie! It’s astounding!’ Very good. No, you’re not done yet. Now, be observant, and look around you. Tell me–with enthusiasm–what you see. Very good. You’re a very smart boy. Exercise this new skill often and you will go far.”
He giggled a little (partly because he’s a teenager and partly because his step-mother is a freak), but I think he learned something.
Meanwhile…Jesus, I’m tired. And I need a shower before the bleach starts to eat my skin.