I have been a big ol' bag of bitch lately.
I am a bitch on wheels that can not be pleased.
I don't know what it is! I am blaming it on winter though.
You can blame anything on winter.
Like I'm pissed at Time Warner Cable because they suck a million nuts, and I want to burn down their headquarters. As they put me in prison, I'm just going to blame winter.
When I make Fatty Leg Soup because he keeps dragging the rubber trap from the sink all over the house, I will blame winter.
When Michael comes home to find me drunk and disorderly and Henry playing in the knife drawer, I'm going to blame winter.
Last but not least I'm going to blame winter when I burn my house down because I can not get it clean enough. Organized enough. Together enough.
To hell with it, I say.
Seriously folks, this is like nesting on methamphetamines.
And my nesting was pretty bad. Picture in your mind a giant, sweaty pregnant woman in the middle of August in North Carolina (are your boobs sweating yet?) schlepping back and forth to Target to raid the home organization aisle.
Of course we needed big pockets on our fridge. To hold a bunch of crap. Now the crap just hangs on our refrigerator, in stead of in a pile on the kitchen table.
Of course the drain stoppers needed their own little holder. And the scrub brush could not just be carelessly laid in the sink. It needed a home too.
Of course we could not continue hanging the kitchen towel where we had been hanging it. It needed a specific and designated location.
And you have no idea how many times Henry's clothes were washed, folded, rewashed, refolded and reorganized. Our linen closets were sparkling, closets organized. It was an organizational dream universe. Michael just went right along with it, even as I washed every piece of laundry in a 20 mile radius and shrank all of his work pants.
This is worse than that.
My need to clean, organize and declutter is so bad, it's like my organs are itching. I'm going to blame winter when I sell half of our things so that I just don't have to look at them anymore.
I just vacuumed the house. This morning I had to stomp down the urge to do it all over again. Come spring we will have no carpet left. Just some sad little strings held together by spit-up stains. Michael and Henry are afraid to sit still for too long. I may start dusting them or Lysol wiping their faces.
It's a serious problem.
Maybe I should go back on the meds.