So…. are you all getting sick of my move yet?
It’s OK. I know, I know. No, no, don’t try to tell me you’re still here – I can see you all fleeing from the scene on my stats. Fuckers.
ANYway, I’m slowly developing a plan of attack.
Yes, sure, it would probably be good for me to just relax, be patient, understand that this will take time and go with the flow.
It would also be helpful for me to grow another set of hands, and that’s probably more likely.
So, my Plan…
- Get house cleaner. I’m having a hard time coping with the idea of this being a ridiculously frivolous expense and the fact that I’m not quite sure what our budget/finances are going to be like just yet (I mean, obviously I think everything will be fine or I wouldn’t have made the move – but I don’t know exact amounts, etc. etc. – which kind of freaks my anal ass out). But I also don’t see me getting through the next two weeks without some help in the damn house. Real help. CAPABLE fucking help. And saying you washed the bathroom and got “everything except the toilet and the floor” cleaned… well… sweetie… that’s just not going to cut it.
- Spend days off doing kid friendly stuff. My mom has some saying about teaching a pig to sing and getting your shoes muddy and pissing off the pig – or something. I think that applies to taking the kids shopping. Or antiquing. Or on an 8 hour errand run. New plan of attack is kid friendly, play heavy, and short “errand” trips when necessary on the weekends.
- Take gross advantage of the Avitables’ generosity and my husband’s time at home. There is still a need for long errands and elaborate, kid-free shopping. Especially when you have a 50% larger house that remains basically empty and undecorated (except for that one beautiful picture that has been hung perfectly centered – using a measuring thingie and EVERYTHING!!!). So, if someone says “listen, I’ll sit with the kids for a few hours” – I’m going to let them. If the husband is home and I have time, I’m not going to feel bad about going out to get some things done. He’ll survive and so will I with a few minutes less of “quality watching TV together” time.
- Speaking of guilt – it’s time for Saint Britt to take a break. I hate asking for help. I will only except help if it is forced upon me. If you say “how can I help?” or “can I do this?” I will undoubtedly tell you that I am fine and there’s nothing even if I am hanging on by my fingernails. That kind of “nobility” and “retardedness” is going to kill me. I am going to try really, really hard to let go of my raging fears of being an inconvenience or a weakling. For at least a couple weeks. Or, you know, a good stretch of days. Hopefully. Maybe.
- Get my happy ass to a Church. Every time I think that I’ll never find anyone like me – someone with kids who also likes to let loose once and a while and have a good time – I smack myself in that “you shoulda had a V-8″ way. I’m Catholic. Church is a gold mine for partying parents when you’re Catholic.
The final part of The Plan involves a hobby – but I haven’t the slightest fucking idea what kind of “interests” or “hobbies” I have.
Do you think there’s a Craigslist group for Aggressive Midget Shoppers?