Dear diary I am about to down a handful of sleeping pills and end my misery.
Just as soon as I have washed my hands, they are a little greasy from the eggs I just fried. I am serious, I can’t take it anymore. I am old, eight pounds overweight, no one ever listens to me and my life is a mess. I drag myself out of bed in the early dark hours of the morning, every morning . I make omelets only to remember that it was scrambled egg day. Can you imagine that?
I try to wake up teenagers who stare at me dumbly, sit up, walk to the bathroom and then go back to bed, after giving me a dirty look and informing me that it is only five thirty a.m. Why can’t they understand that they will be late if they don’t get an early start? I mean it could start hailing at the last minute then how will they walk out to the car? We could suddenly be shrouded in an unexpected fog or have a torrential down pour. All the school work that would pile up, or they could maybe even miss a surprise test that was supposed to make up thirty percent of their total grade!
But they roll their eyes and bury their heads under pillows, they do it to scare the hell out of me, they know they could accidentally asphyxiate themselves. But no one cares about anything, except me. How I struggle with my ill-bred family! It is all my husband’s fault really, he doesn’t set much of an example. On scrambled egg day he will always insist on hard-boiled. It just drives me nuts, what am I supposed to do with his scrambled egg then? I can’t eat it, it’ll overload me with cholesterol. I’ll bet that is what he is aiming for. The kids never want it, I have a hard time shoving their breakfasts down their throats let alone my husband’s. Their idea of proper breakfast is an egg and toast. That is it. I don’t understand how growing kids can get by without cereal, juice, eggs, toast, milk, fruit, cheese and a bran muffin. They don’t understand the concept of a balanced diet. They’ll be sorry one day when they suffer from anorexia.
Either anorexia or God forbid some disease that can’t even be pronounced, brought on by the unhygienic conditions that seem to prevail in our house. It’s like I speak a different language either that or their brains aren’t working. I knew they needed more protein. I say “Everything has to be put in the proper place after you are done using it.” Somewhere along the line the message changes to “Everyone use whatever you want and throw it around the house when you are done with it because I am your God damned servant and want to spend the rest of my life cleaning up your shit.” And those are the instructions they follow.
And of course the house is a constant battle ground. My kids fight over everything, the remote, the phone, the last juice box, the first juice box, a place to sit at the table, who uses the washroom first( even though there are three bathrooms, it seems that only one can entice them to poop), everything.
They think I am some fanatical mad dictator, just because I want a little order in the house. Ok yes, in the neighborhood too. It’s not my fault that people can’t tell the difference between recyclables and organic waste. You’d think they would have a little common sense. And if I can make the garbage man’s life just a little easier by making sure the neighbors’ garbage is in the right bin, then I don’t see why my husband has to have such a cow over it.
I don’t know where I have gone wrong, obviously in too many places. And so I must end this. Here I go. Damn it! First I have to go clean the bathroom. The dishes need to be washed, and so does the laundry. Ok maybe tomorrow I will be able to fit it into my schedule. I just hope it doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes, I hate being late.
(I got all the pictures from Google Images)
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