It's probably a combination of the weather, a nagging cold and the holidays, but I am out of gas. Out of snark. Out of the sarcasm and cynicism that make my life bearable. I'm a deflated balloon with a sore throat. But it's the cold germs that got me out of spending Thanksgiving with my mother so I should start counting my blessings. It's supposed to help so I'll name them one by one and see what god has done. (Now I'm quoting hymns. I must be delirious.)
1. I'm so good at doing dishes that any and all dirty dishes, pots and counters are left for me. The one that works the most hours. And doesn't get paid vacation so doesn't have this whole fucking week off. And has a cold. And is wallowing in self pity.
2. My lovely daughter will spend the week at home, poking into bags and under my bed looking for who-knows-what. She was born nosy. She'll also remind me that my boobs sag and my belly fat is firm even though she thought it would be smooshy. I hope she finds my new vibrator.
3. My nose is clogged so I can't smell the wet dog scent which now permeates the house. Two dogs rolling in snow then coming into a warm house=odiferousness. And wet floors which no one knows how to clean. Except me.
Well, counting my blessings certainly helped! I am now so depressed I'm going to drain a bottle of Nyquil and go back to bed. I only wish it were a hot toddy or some buttered rum.