I Need to Slap Myself, But I Can't Seem to Get Me From the Right Angle

Lemme ask y'all this: did you ever make yourself sick. I mean like, if you were seeing someone else do whatever it was that you are doing, would you wanna bitch-slap them with a brick or a cast-iron skillet?

I am about to that point with myself. If I weren't me; I'd flatten myself with a punch dead in the face; then I'd kick my own ass for good measure to wake me up.

I have let things get entirely out of control in my own household. I was actually sort of doing an experiment. Sort of. I wanted to see if my husband would decide that it is not illegal in the state of Texas for a man to give a damn about any of the day to day have-to's of daily life: dishes, laundry, paying bills, etc. I also wanted to see if he would notice that he was living in a ghetto shack with a woman who was as nasty as the surroundings.

Turns out that the answer is an unequivocal, "NO."

I performed this experiment because I wanted to see if it was just me. If I was overlooking the fact that he really was respectful of the housework that had just been finished... I wasn't.

I also got told that I didn't do anything so I wanted to prove to him what NOTHING really looked like.

Just because I choose to almost never leave the house, to brave the Texas outdoors with it's humongous bugs and mud up to my ankles because our yard is made of clay; a clay that when it is rained upon in copious, nearly-never-ending amounts for months at a time, turns into sludge that damn-near takes your shoe off in the trek to the car, does not equate to the fact that I do nothing. When I leave the house, I am REALLY leaving it; not just going to hang about outside trying to get the neighbor's banty rooster to play Frisbee.

Y'all can keep your two week camping, hiking, fishing vacation. I'll take one week in a five star, full room-service luxury hotel. Fuck a continental breakfast. That is who I am love it or lump it...even if I smell like three day old Limburger cheese in August.

I want Evian air piped into my room. I want to go to the spa and be slathered with volcanic mud and sea salt scrubs while I meditate to the sound of Tibetan gongs. And for fun I want to do something that will benefit the entire world, like keeping Diana Krall from ever singing Girl From Ipanema again. Because, let's face it, the only way to get that sheet music is to be a talentless lounge singer from an airport Howard Johnson's.

But I digress...

The reason that I have made myself sick, is not my own stench or the gargantuan mountain of dishes that I must scale today in order to find my kitchen sink. No. The reason I'm sick of me is because I fell into this fuck-it-all frame of mind way too easily. Way.Too.Easily. And I liked it; except for the filth part.

And that made me realize that I am prone to laziness.

Which in turn, meant that I agreed with my husband.

Which means that I am now in training to play Edward Norton in Fight Club. But there is no way that I am burying my face in Meatloaf's man-boobs.

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