Even though I covered the topic pretty thoroughly a while back, I am still astounded, despite my best efforts, by my inability to fucking relax. Right now it is beautiful Saturday afternoon, the baby is asleep, H has taken the girls to swim lessons, and what was I doing up until two minutes ago? Orbiting around the house like a damn lunatic picking up toys, cleaning up from lunch, and starting to put a grocery list together in my head.
Screeeeeeeeech! (Sound of record scratching)
Then I realized what H would be doing right now were he in my shoes. His ass would be parked on the couch with the Yankees on, while he simultaneously surfed the web for Super Paper Mario cheat codes. So why the hell am I acting like June Cleaver on speed? It is this behavior exactly that turns women into exhausted, overtired shrews who snap at their children and husbands, who have done nothing wrong, simply because they are too dumb to stop and be damn still when they have the chance.
So hear I am, dear readers, on the couch writing, although sports are not on the tube. The Yankees can not hold a candle to the powerful combination of my BFF Sandra Bullock, a pre-botox, still-redhaired Nicole Kidman, Stockard-freakin'-Channing and modern day witchcraft in the classic Practical Magic.
I am learning.
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