mirror, mirror, on the wall (rage)

Boy, do I feel like a warty ole witch today. It isn't that my life is so horrendous or anything. It's more like I feel like a turd about 80% of the time right now and I can't seem to pull out of it. Cackle.

On the whole, the going has been pretty smooth with transitioning to hubster working from home, apart from the fact that I'm having some difficulty SHARING all my space, time, and precious organization. So, like a house of cards getting tumbled, we muddle through each day trying to figure the important stuff out. For instance, I know it is important for him to put one foot on the floor in the morning and then dash about like a blur until he's expended enough energy to actually be calm for 10 minutes and make a plan (which is another problem as his strengths - being that he is the man you want around when all hell breaks loose because adaptation and superhuman strength are his most readily available skills - are under appreciated when said PLANNER needs a little freaking stability)which really cripples a person like myself. No, I need both feet on the floor and at least a gallon of sweet brown elixir (coffee, not bourbon - it is too early for that) before I can say a sentence that doesn't have many expletive enhancements. Imagine the colorful mornings we've been having. Bubble, bubble.

Then there's the fact that I can't seem to get on top of time management, kid management, the garden, the sheep, and the long strands of hateful craze in my studio that I call 'wurks in progress'. I'm sure we'll work it out and I'm certain this week would have gone much better if 1) there were not three straight days of terrible, polluted air hovering about us killing brain cells with no real benefit and 2)if I had a little sleep and alot less allergy hell and 3) if it weren't my birthday today. Then, no one would need to be real nice and everyone would stop standing around waiting for me to tell them what to do to please me on my freakin' birthday when all I want to do is get some work done because I haven't managed to pull off much beyond drinking coffee, cussing, and cutting some fabric down whilst I insult it. As a point of interest, three people have walked behind the computer desk as I type this, bumping my chair and one has left ITS shoes in the hallway, which I will trip over when I walk into my room. Space, people. For my birthday, I wants me some space. Unfortunately, I am a thinking AND caring person and when all these sweet people want to do is spend the day pleasing me, I don't have the heart to send them away. Hmm. Maybe it is a day for cake and ice cream after all.

The good news: My problems are minuscule compared to some and, on the whole, things are going well. The even better news: Last year, I clearly lacked the ability to do simple math and thought I'd screwed up on how old I was. Danged! I was 37, not 35. Everyone around me confirmed the number so I reluctantly submitted. Thanks to thing 2, who frequently gets pummeled by his siblings and glared at for his incessant need to correct every thing anyone says or adds up, calculated my age vs. by birth date and the dear boy came up with this - born in '71 I would be 35 (yes, for a whole year I thought I was 37 and I was ONLY 35 - cheated, I was!) which means today I turn 36. Everyone reads Yarn Harlot and you already know how the math turned on her this year (what is it with us people born in June who can't seem to know how old we are? denial? insanity?). I am grateful that it seems the ill winds of fate have fallen in my favor this time. Read this to mean that if the child is wrong, I don't want to know about it until tomorrow. Now, there is chocolate cake, there is Heath bar ice cream, and, thankfully, I scared everyone enough this morning that there will be no appearance of candles.....