“Oh Hullo!” Ok, so that wasn’t exactly youtube-drunk-kitchen cute – but it’s the most I can muster after my third bowl of three-serving cereal mixed with dangerously ripe bananas. Of course, I’d much rather it was Coco Puffs in chocolate milk (my 3pm afternoon-slump-staple at work) rather than the high-fiber cardboard mixed with questionably-cholesterol-reducing O’s swimming in milk that I’d been trying to shove down the kids’ throats since morning.
Kids’. Aye. I may be generous with hyphens, but that ain’t no misplaced apostrophe. I haven’t however come up with a name for the lil’ byte, so let’s just move on to the usual programming of self-pity and focus on me, shall we?
Two years since my last post and
amazingly sadly enough it would have been a series of re-runs. To work or not to work. Oh the guilt! The conflict! That is, of course, until last month when I did what any sensible working parent with a mortgage would do in this economy – I quit. Cold tofurkey I did (I need to stop reading vegan blogs while wolfing down last week’s achari chicken takeout.)
The plan? Ummm yeah. I was kinda thinkin’ of just wingin’ it, ya know? *gasp*
It’s been a whole month now and I’m still suffering PTSD. No, nothing remotely awful happened at work. My family was/is well and healthy. And yet, I felt like if I had to live that life for a second longer, my guts would implode and I would be swallowed alive by the earth beneath me into a bubbly purplish-orange core. Ok, I only fantasized that, and since things didn’t quite pan out that way, I quit. It (death) was a rather irrational fear for me to have possessed considering I’d been a mindless, soulless zombie for so long. But hey, if I knew how to think with my head, I wouldn’t been in this position right now would I?
And what position is that exactly? Carefully dragging my butt from one section of the couch to the next to preserve guest-worthy level of puffiness (of the the couch cushions – ending corruption would be a more realistic cause before any chance of salvaging my butt). Is it possible to resist the urge to introduce a butt reference when cohabiting with three boys? Is it possible to stay asleep knowing that there’s an unfinished tub of chocolate ice-cream lonely in the freezer? Excuse me while I pretend to search for answers. I bet with my net I can get those things yet. (Note to self: Get a real book woman. Saving may be sexy these days, but using the coupons magazine to cover up the doodles on the coffee table is getting quite old.)