Saturday, February 02, 2013

Cloudy with a Chance of Losing My Shit

I'm anxious. Really anxious.

The entire month of January, I struggled with it. First we decided to put the house up for sale. Then we had to get it ready. Then we had to keep it ready.

I've become a crumb crusader, a dirt dictator, cruising the house for the slightest little thing out of place. There's a tipping point when you have three kids, two dogs, two frogs, a cat and a hamster. Impeccable floors quickly turn into sullied wastelands of hair and food and lego with hair and food in it. And then it takes forever to get it back to near perfectness again before the next visit.

We've had something like 15 showings in the last 2 1/2 weeks. I've lost track now. There's one at least every couple of days, but usually every day - sometimes more than once. But no offers yet. Nobody has wanted to buy this house and save me from my neurotic self. Some of them think about it but don't end up biting the bullet. One couple was here for nearly the entire scheduled hour before deciding the place was "too much house" for them.

Um, hello? The listing says it's 2,000 square feet, right? It says it has four bedrooms, right? Why did it take you an hour in my house to figure that shit out? Meanwhile, we're driving in our car with three kids and a couple of dogs, going through the Tim Hortons drive-through so often we've probably paid for someone's college tuition by now.

And one of the dogs farts a lot no matter what we do to his food, and it's a really bad fart, ok? The kind of fart that makes your eyes burn. And the other dog is a puker. She throws up when she gets nervous. And you know what gets her nervous? FUCKING CARS, THAT'S WHAT. She hates them. She shakes when she looks at them. She becomes a ten pound vomit maker. It's like an ice maker except disgusting and not at all like an ice maker. So one farts, the other barfs, we ask ourselves how we ever became dog people, the kids fight about who has to hold Pukey McSpew on their lap this time and people are in our house for an entire hour so they can decide they don't want it.

So yeah, I'm anxious. Really anxious.

Know what else happens when I get anxious? My hands break out in this awful eczema-like rash. So they break out, then dry up, then crack and bleed. It's really attractive. I'm a sexy stress beast who desperately needs to find time to get a haircut and has hands that look like she's having a religious experience. I've thought about using my divine stigmata powers to see if I could impress people enough to get free coffee at the drive-through, but I think I need to actually be religious to pull that off. Also probably be in a Dan Brown novel. And maybe actually being Jesus would help a lot. But I'm pretty sure I'm not Jesus because I would have cured my dogs of their unpleasant digestive issues by now. That's one of the perks of being the messiah.

And the other thing I can't do very well when I'm this anxious? Write. I can't write a damn thing. I get blocked and I mess around on Facebook posting pictures of shaved llamas.

Admittedly, that came across far dirtier than I intended it. I really meant shaved llamas, not shaved hootenannies. See how my mind went there? That's how I know I'm not Jesus. Well, and the lack of beard, I guess. But if you give me a few years and some menopause I might be able to pull that off.

Back to the writing. I can't write and stuff. So you know what I decided to do? Write about how anxious I am and how I can't bring myself to put words to a page. It's not glamorous, it's not intelligent, it's not witty, but it's here. Maybe this unedited brain dump will help clear my head so I can be awesome again.

Maybe it'll help me not stress out so much.

Maybe it'll help me realize that the swollen gland behind my ear is because I'm fighting something off and not dying of a terrible disease that makes people tired and cranky and cleanliness-obsessed. My mind goes to strange places when I'm this wound up.

So, the house will sell eventually, we won't have to do the whole pukey-farty-fighty car thing for much longer, I don't have a terminal illness and I'm not going to stop being able to write because I'm feeling overwhelmed.

Right?

Write.

I think.

Oh, hug me.