Double O Nothing

I would make a bad spy.  First, I am not tall enough to wear those slinky dresses they wear when out at casinos or yachts or horseraces.  Sure, I would be dressed up and look great but I would not be tall enough, even in heels, to attract the eye of the bad guy I was sent to seduce/torture/kill.  Second, I would only pay half-attention at bomb diffusing class and I know if faced with diffusing an actual bomb I would just start cutting wires and hope for the best.  Third, I would not be able to drive 80mph in reverse and not hit anything.  It is a wonder I get out of my driveway each day unscathed.  Fourth, I do not like martinis.  However, the one thing that will really keep me from ever being a spy is that I am not great with secrets. Sure, I can keep one for you if you tell me “don’t say anything!” but keeping my own secrets makes me feel wiggly inside.

McMahon. Rebecca McMahon.

When I feel wiggly inside, I tend to turn that discomfort into sarcasm.  This is fun for other people for about ten minutes, tops, or so Bill tells me. I think it is fun the entire time.   I have also been known to turn that discomfort into grouchiness. This is not fun for anyone, ever. Ask the kids.  I grouched my way out the house yesterday morning and then had to apologize when I got home.  Double not fun. 

We have a lot going on lately that makes me feel wiggly inside.  (No, I am not pregnant.)  I can’t write about it because it deals with sensitive topics. This leads to a back-up of words in my brain and this exacerbates the wiggles I have inside.  I hate having wiggles inside.

We are looking at a lot of change going on in our house, and we all know how I feel about change.  What has been nice is that the man who spent four hours each day in the car driving to a caustic workplace is no longer making that drive.  Nice.  He has been home to make breakfast, dinner and see how it truly does take the boy 10-12 minutes to put shoes and socks on in the morning.  See?  Not exaggerating.  It has also given him more time at home in the past week than he has had in the last month.  Bored Bill becomes Project Bill.  (New projects only, no continuation of projects already in play)  We now have a vegetable garden and an enormous mound of dirt in our driveway.  He is excited.  I am cautiously happy as I remember that all we ever end up growing successfully is basil.  He is off to get plants and I am certain that our garden will rival any around us by 5pm today.

Project or Purgatory?  You decide.

Maybe I need a hobby or a project.  Maybe I should take up sewing or knitting or woodworking. HAHAHAHAHA! Ha. Whew, let’s stop and catch our breath and wipe our eyes here, because yes, that is hysterical to think of me cutting patterns, or clacking needles together or God help everyone, using power tools to make things out of wood.  Really, that all just sounds like more work to me anyway.  I could read but I find I am impatient with books lately.  I could start a new Netflix series; kids at school gave me a list of shows to start watching.  However, I am not sure how ready I am to be seriously offended or more than likely, have to act I am offended when they ask me about them.  Decisions, decisions.

I guess more than anything I should sit down and talk about and listen to the changes that are going on.  Saying “Let’s talk tomorrow” or making fake gagging noises really hasn’t gone well.  I could be adult and face the changes coming at me head on and then be ready when they happen.  I could save my sarcasm for well-placed and timed comebacks instead of using it as a full-frontal assault.  I could remember that I am so damn blessed and stop relying on grouchiness as a shield.  I could acknowledge the wiggles and deal with them effectively.  Ugh.  None of that sounds like any fun, that bomb diffusing is looking better and better.