What good is having a blog if you can't bore all four of your faithful readers to death with a long diatribe about the pressures you are under? Because if I hold it all in; the stress will continue to manifest itself as THESE HORRIBLE THINGS that appear on my face and do not disappear under two tons of maybelline concealer. (And by GOD if I am going to have to suffer from hormonal acne; I want a hickey or two to show for it.)
So here it is: free floating random stress. Welcome to the jungle.
First of all- I am MOVING. And I will not go into the hell of moving because the best way to deal with how horrible it is, is to just keep going through it. Eventually you come to the end of it, and you find yourself in an office where you can't locate anything you need, and then you realize that you have thrown it away because at some point in the move you looked around AND JUST WANTED TO LIGHT A MATCH.
But adding to the stress of moving is the fact that my father is also moving. From a pallatial estate in Kalamazoo to a one bedroom. And rather than get a dumpster-he decided that the best way to deal with his accumulated possessions WAS TO SEND THEM TO HIS CHILDREN.
(And I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Dad. I love that you have put the time and effort into choosing things for me and my children that are precious and symbolic of treasured memories. I do. Really. Please don't cut me out of the will.)
Amongst a lot of GREAT STUFF ( really Dad, thanks) the following items arrived by UPS while I stood knee deep in receipts from 1989, surrounded by half packed cardboard boxes:
A Stamford High yearbook from 1986. I graduated in 1981. My siblings did not attend this school.
All the pictures of my older sister after she had just given birth to her first child (apparently even a father cannot tell us apart at that particular moment in our lives)
A four foot high paper mache sculpure of acrobats on trapeezes.
ME: (on phone) Dad-thanks--erm, you know I live in an APARTMENT, right? It's an awfully big sculpture...
DAD: I always knew you loved it.
BUT I AM NOT COMPLAINING. Merely letting off a little of the old steam...squeezing the end of the balloon to make rude noises. Not too much though, in the end I think the only thing holding me together is the stress itself.