Argh.

I'm sitting here on my bed writing something that warrants no words, complaining when I should be working, bitter when I could turn it around to be pleasant.

I'm angry – not at anyone, unless of course you count myself. I have wonderful stories to tell, blogs to post, but instead the catalyst for posting will be anger and anxiety. A litany of looking at the tarnish on the back of the coin, being sullen where I could be sunshiny. Do I know what it will take to turn it around? Surely. Will I bounce up, a scant 45 minutes from now, positive and ready to aggressively tackle and wrestle ti the demons of frustration and anxiety? Yepper.
I will, and plan, to pull it together.

But before that, before 8am today, the hour I have decided to be far nicer, I will rant. And wail. And bitch. Likely I’ll feel worse. Not better. Bitter.

Hmmm. Bitter. Better. The only difference being the letter “I”.
Separate by the letter I.
Speaking of “I”.

I’ve already started the day badly. Generally, daily, I wake up in love. Regardless of the night before each day is a reset button, a chance to start again. Today I was up before 5. My sleeping partner aka Ellie was kicking kamikaze style through the night. Why was she isn't the bed you ask? Aha. Well, here's the thing. My husband does nighttime duty. Meaning specifically that Doug gets up for the wails, the fretfulness, the thrown binky. We never discussed it but it developed as a result of the fact that he has longer arms, better vision and the ability to forget the he woke up. The arms fr reaching in, the eyesight for finding said binky and the forgeting which makes his sleep that much less interrupted. Whereas I, once up, am UP. And it’s an hour to get back to sleep. Given little Miss Tubercular hacks up a hairball thrice nightly, well, Daddy generally handles it. I'm sure we should let her cry, but the crying wakens us both, so we assume that someday she’ll outgrow it and this is training for the maybe baby.

But last night I knew Doug was exhausted. And I knew that if I slept in Ellie's room, I could preserve him from a night of crying. Thus waking. Thus being exhausted. Stalling the inevitable heart attack that is sure to occur because we eat like shit and he works long days and exhaustion doesn't help.

So, busy saving my husbands life, I inhabited my daughters room, and slept with the darling dervish beside me. Slept in increments.

Awaking at 5, realizing it was futile, am now up. Designing a faux theater bill as a Christmas gift for my mother, whose gift certificate must be packaged with thought to prove the cash gift for a season of theater is based on love not inconvenience fueled thoughtlessness.

“Dear mom, here's a really fucking thoughtful gift that I want you to enjoy because you work hard and I love you but since you’ll just see it as a check and a cop out I’ll spend 3 hours custom designing a theater bill complete with graphics to enclose said check in - so you’ll be seduced by color and oh and ah that we don’t suck and you are luckier then most mothers.”

Where’s the dysfunctional hallmark card section when I need one?

Suffice to say that's what I'm doing. I'm designing a theater bill, wanting coffee, knowing that the downstairs ins freezing and knowing further that my daughter will cough herself awake soon.

Knowing that I need to get up, truss myself into jeans that shouldn't be my size, and foray off to The littlest Gym Ever for Ellie's pay to play gymnastics session. After which I'll shoot home to meet my nephew, who was SUPPOSED to come yesterday (see: Paying nephew to come visit and "watch" Ellie but really handing him insurance payment and hoping he's helpful). I'll then attempt to do the impossible where I'll go out and buy every last gift on my list, come home and mail upwards of 100 Christmas cards, finish decorating the tree, and make sure the snowblower works for tomorrow. Why all in one day? I'm glad you asked. Because its going to snow like a m'f*cker Friday and I'm furious - as usual - with the fact that I have 18 separate things to do and although I have been prepared, and ready, and willing, I am waiting - dependent - on the cooperation of others, who have decided that getting back to me, or fulfilling their obligations to me isn't a priority. Because - oh and let me just say it - I DON'T WORK. So therefore it's ok to not drop off the things you were supposed to, or not return a call, or not do any of the myriad tiny components that would take you ONE FUCKING MINUTE and now my day is hinged on it.

I'm pissed because my husband wants all te trapping of a traditional life, a traditional holiday but is frustrated by my evident lack of Donna Reed charm while executing it.

I'm annoyed with inlaws calling me from Target and asking me if Ellie would like "this gift". I'm annoyed with the people who've committed to donating to my charity drive but haven't finalized their donation so I cannot collect the gifts. So again, it's percolating on my to do list. I'm annoyed with my nephew for not showing up because I held back on completing things based on his assistance. I'm annoyed with myself for my failure to successfully execute my life.

So I'm starting my day - pissed. Tired. Unhappy.

There's laundry - literally - on the floor. I have sheets to change, things to iron, a tree to decorate, gifts to buy, cards to send, bills to pay, donations to pick up, a program guide to finish, custom cds to burn, and a child who I forget - hello - to give water to yesterday and all the things I'd LOVE to do - help my sister shop, wrap gifts with my neighbor, - those things are backburnered.

Sigh.
No ones fault, for all the blaming, but my own.