Much Ado About Nothing
So, I got up today with my daughter telling me it was time to get up. She needed a drive because it is -30C here in beautiful Ottawa today, another reason why I hate January. I wouldn't want my children to freeze their cute little adorable faces off, so I drive them to school when it's cold enough to freeze the butt hairs off an Eskimo. Politically incorrect, you say? Whatev. I know Eskimos have butts, and hair.
I don't spoil my children. In fact, most of the time, I ignore them and leave them to their own devices. That way, I reason, they will learn all about life so much more quickly and adeptly than I could ever teach them. Socially responsible parenting, I call it.
So, when I actually get out of bed and drive them into school, you know it's cold.
As I first drove Milly into school since her classes start before Dennis', she told me I had a huge wrinkle down the side of my face that looked like the streak of a tear. Very touching. Poetic even.
I have to say, I've noticed that I am now more often than not waking up with sleep wrinkles all over me.
It's very disconcerting because I pride myself on my looks, as you all know. When I wake up in the morning, I am proud of the fact that I can be ready to go anywhere (yes, anywhere) at the drop of a hat. Give me two minutes to run a brush through my hair, wash the crud out of my eyes, and pluck a couple of stray nose hairs, and I'm good to go. Well, that's all gone to hell in a hand basket (what in god's name does that mean, people?!) now with my morning sleep wrinkles crawling all over my once-pristine face like the web of a very angry and ADHD spider.
I've decided the only thing I can do now is to sleep on my back, which takes me to yet another nagging issue: sleep and the lack thereof. I already have issues with sleep. The issue is: I don't. Sleep. Just more of this damn perimenopause that I am currently dealing with without so much as a whimper, I might add. Sleeping on my back is not going to happen.
I am thinking that maybe if I wrap my head in one of those Space Bags and then suck all the air out of it, it will preserve my face, sort of like those cryogenic thingamabobs Michael Jackson uses to keep himself looking so young and amazing and natural-looking. Then, in the mornings, I can just open up the bag, and bam! my face will plump out again as if I were 20, no wrinkles, no problem. Not only that, but I wouldn't make any noise all night long, which I'm sure would make everyone in my family happy, and if I'm not here to keep everyone happy, than my life is worthless.
I wonder if maybe those bags would also keep me from having to hear anything as well. Kind of a reciprocal deafness of sorts. Then I might be able to actually sleep through the morning racket in our household, and wake up fully refreshed and wrinkle-free! What a concept. Now I'm thinking a Bounce sheet might do the trick. And it could double as an air freshener in the bedroom, which we desperately need. You don't want to know.
Speaking of laundry, how does one keep up with it? I have been battling with the laundry issue since before humans wore clothing. Do we all have this issue of keeping up with the laundry, and we just hide this fact very well? Or is this just another one of those strange foibles (I love that word) in my household, of which I am the head, and of which I do a damn straight good job? Apart from the glaring fact that I rarely go into the basement and actually put on a load of laundry, what could my problem be? Please enlighten me, oh great Internet world of mine. I am desperate. Dennis has been wearing the same pair of pants for five days' straight now. Not that he's complaining.
Then, once I actually go through the actions of washing and then drying a load of clothing, it seems to just sit there in the basket for about 3 1/2 weeks until someone in the house notices that there's a hamper sitting in the middle of the living room with clean clothing in it. Sometimes I play this game with my family, unbeknownst to them. I will leave a basket of laundry in the living room, obvious to all that this laundry needs to be folded and put away. Or instead of putting the Costco-sized jug of vinegar away, I leave it on the kitchen counter and wait to see how long it takes before someone notices the gargantuan tub of acid that takes up half our counter space, and decides to tuck it safely away in the pantry. So far, it's been three months.
Yes. Three. Months.
Passive aggressive, you say? I call it all in a day's work. Have a good one, eh.