I felt awful, y'all. Really terrible, nearly in tears, hiding in the kitchen to take big breaths and bite my cheeks really hard AWFUL. My father-in-law's first day here and I'm trying to make a good impression and prove I do not cook like Chandler and Joey and MY MEATLOAF IS FALLING APART. Seriously crumbling to the point of mystery meat.
Devastated does not cover it for me. Worse, everyone ate it like, "Mmm, yummy, this is the best pile of ground beef and seasoning I've ever had. Wish I had a spoon to scoop up more of the tastiness that has rolled off the table!".
Big surprise, Kurt's dad cooked for us every subsequent night.
I hate having to admit it, but what is the internet for if not to come clean to billions of total strangers? I have not been feeling my best, not for awhile now. Mostly, there's the overreacting (though I don't really believe it's too far-fetched to be mortified at a plate full of what appears to be lumpy kitty litter) to every little thing and worrying. Oh the worrying. It's part of every interaction I have- with my friends, my husband, my editor, my children's teachers, that guy in the grocery store who looked at me funny and then cut his eyes away like OH MY GOD DOES SHE EVEN REALIZE THERE IS A MASSIVE ZIT IN THE MIDDLE OF HER FACE THAT USED TO BE HER NOSE?!
When I dropped my kids off today and discovered it was Bike Day and I forgot to bring their bikes, I apologized to every single person I saw INCLUDING THE JANITOR on my rush out the door to get them and prove that I was not that mom who ignores her kids and undoubtedly spends her days smoking and drinking with her bra straps hanging out as she leaves the gas on and flirts with the mailman.
I SWEAR I DO NOT SMOKE.
It's mortifying to face the fact that I am not in my happy place. But I do not feel so good. There has been some crying, I won't lie. My skin is terrible, my clothes don't fit and I forgot to get Ovaltine at the store and now we are all out and my children HATE ME.
I have to go to the gym, get my 20 minutes of sunshine, set up my schedule for the next week at least. Or, in this vacuum of motivation, I should at the very least put my make-up on and fix my hair. And it wouldn't hurt my career to actually write something palatable and somewhere in the same month as my deadlines.
But really, all I can think about is how to survive making another meal for my family that does not reduce me to a puddle of WHAT A LOSER. Maybe chicken? Not that hard to do and hey, if I mess it up at least we won't have to go out and buy a rubber chicken for our next gag gift.
(Watch out, lucky reader, it may be YOU who gets those bouncy leftovers!)
(and let's all just join in again for another round of POOR KURT THAT MAN'S FORBEARANCE PUTS MOTHER TERESA TO SHAME)