I’m grown, I’m responsible, I’m in charge of important stuff. And yet, it seems, the list of things I Just Can’t Handle continues to grow.
» Dusting my house top to bottom. Why do I hate this? Let me count the ways. The dust makes me sneeze. It returns mere hours after I’ve removed it. God did not give me the patience necessary to dust around knick knacks, picture frames, and books. It involves far too much reaching and bending. Plus no matter how throughly I think I’ve done it, there are always (always!) spots I’ve missed.
» Clean floors that last 18.4 seconds. Let’s say, against all odds, I finally clean the wood floors. Without fail, this means that the dogs will run out into the yard, prance around in the annoyingly orange North Carolina dirt, and track it back into the house. They take particular pleasure in sprinting in circles, leaving paw prints through the family room, hallway, and kitchen before beginning the circuit again.
» Getting left high and dry. One of the glorious things about reaching my forties is the 2:00am pee. It’s annoying enough I’m staggering from bed in the middle of the night, dodging dogs and fumbling my way into a dark bathroom. But discovering only two squares of TP left on the roll? Cursing a blue streak after midnight gets the blood pumping, a condition that runs counter to maintaining sleepiness.
» When did getting a caffeine fix become so difficult?! I’ve been responsible for a series of coffee maker disasters that would discourage even the most hardcore caffeine addict. Coffee that doesn’t brew. Weak coffee. Obscenely strong coffee. Along with one horrific experience involving coffee grounds flowing down the side of the coffee maker. I like to think I’m a pretty smart girl but damn…why can’t I brew a freaking pot of java?
» The TP cement block. Public restrooms – need I say more? But, in particular, few things compare to perching on the porcelain throne and finding myself flummoxed by a dispenser that refuses to part with its toilet paper. There’s plenty in there, but no matter how I pull the paper stubbornly refuses to move. Square after square snaps off in my hand until I accept that yes, I will indeed be forced to use sixteen separate pieces of TP if I ever want to leave.
» You went to school wearing what?! I have one kid who cares about clothes matching. Another who cares about name brands. Both have a weird thing about obscenely expensive socks. But for reasons surpassing all understanding they have absolutely no problem going to school with holes in their pants. I just…can’t.
» Plates. Left sitting in the bedroom. For a week. And this from the one who gets freaked out about bugs showing up in the house. Bless.
» What kind of rodeo are they running back there? T-man’s been enjoying his extra room, having the neighborhood kids over for gaming breaks between skate sessions. This is a wonderful thing. Truly. It’s why we set up the darn thing to begin with. But there are times when I’m sitting on the couch and screams come through the door that pierce my eardrums. Not to be a killjoy, but come on…whatever you’re playing can’t be that funny.
» Dogs with twitchy whiskers and fidgety paws. I always thought we lived in a pretty peaceful neck of the woods, but apparently there are days when the dogs are as edgy as coke addicts. Racing to the door for every truck going by. Pacing in agitation when shots ring out behind the house. Rushing to the fence before bed to bark wildly into the night. Sometimes I look at these girls and think it’s no surprise they’re going gray; they’re exhibiting a stress level that’s beyond ridiculous for a dog life.