So the husband has been gone. To a sales meeting for his company. He travels a lot, and though I don't like it, I have gotten used to the splotchiness of his attendance here at home. I can handle every kind of meeting EXCEPT sales meetings. They grate on my ever-lovin' nerves. Every year at this time, my knuckles turn white and every nerve that I have is clawed out of my spine. Can't explain what it is about them that makes me get all Mr. Hydey, but let's just say it ain't pretty.
Not to mention that when he is away, I have to take over fire making duties for the fireplace. And since Arkansas decided to get all cozy with Antarctica this week, not having a fire wasn't really an option. One teensy problem. I don't make fire. When the Good Lord was doling out the spiritual gifts, He didn't bless me with fire making. Not.tat.tall.
Add a go-round with a stomach virus that was hell-bent on stealing the one strand of joy that I had left intact, and I was an ever-loving mess.
So I went to bed.
Because it's what I do. I draw great comfort from my flannel sheets and my remote as it flips between vH1 specials and Food Network cake decorating challenges. It's therapy. Therapy that wears cozy socks.
The children are usually patient during my days of psychosis that drive me to my hermitage. They often times pile up in bed with me and
talk so loud that I can't hear my shows and it is all I can do to not boot them out of my room head first snuggle up. But when that gets old, they head out for their own entertainment.
Like rendering Superman helpless.
Poor guy. Arkansas must be low on kryptonite.
Later I walked into the kitchen to find something to feed the offspring, because I heard somewhere that even if you are snuggling flannel sheets, you still are required to provide some kind of nourishment for your children other than Slim Jims and Fun Size Snickers.
And I walked into this.
That horribly terrible thing growing on my knee?
It came from me thinking that I was 13. And that I could still skate like a tween. Yep. I said SKATE.
News Flash: I can't skate like I am 13. And I have the big ole purple people eater on my leg to prove it.
But I'm sure I looked all kinds of graceful when I fell.
I'm just sure of it.