How much of my stress was actually for Chef and the imminent (now passed) opening of his own restaurant.
How proud I am of him as I see him in the shiny new kitchen he designed cooking food from a menu he created and seeing people (more importantly, fools like us who are breeders and therefore sacrifice a life of many nice shoes, international travel and enviable career trajectories and otherwise have no life except one with a warped focus on how many ways you can say no, bowel motions, money or lack thereof and a daily challenge of just how many things you can start and how few you can do well or hell, even come close to finishing) really enjoying themselves.
How much I love watching my t.h.r.e.e. kids just mucking around on the filthy floor and how if going back to work and not living with (and therefore trying to beat) the filth 24/7 is what it takes to make me stop and marvel at this normalcy, then so be it.
One day, soon, I will clean the inside of our car. The filth of which is something I am actually embarrassed by. I find this curious as the household crap is something I just find irritating and a great source of feeling bitter and resentful toward the universe. In the car however, the filth is just plain embarrassing.
How I’ve only been gone from work for four months and that it’s taken being back for a whole month for me to realise just how out of sync I am with it – how I haven’t got back into my work groove in terms of my thinking.
How when I’m tired, hell, even when I’m not, I mix my metaphors. Badly.
Current expressions used way too often:
Going off like a frog in a sock
Holy snapping* duckshit
* corrected from “flapping” because enough already!