February 20, 2013 by The Domestic Goddess
When life hands you lemons, don’t make lemonade. Make mashed potatoes because they taste better. – DG
Ah life. I love lemons, really. The smell is divine to me and I like a slice or two in my water because I like the taste and it’s all refined and lady-like and stuff. And we all know I AM A REFINED LADY. Stop laughing, ho.
Anywho, lemons, lemons, lemons. Bushels and bushels of them. And I can’t slice open the lemons and show them all to you. Not all of them, anyway. Well, most of them. Suffice to say we are in survival mode and we’ve been stuck there for weeks. In some ways months and years. Many years. Twenty, really. And these lemons, well, they plague us. And come back to haunt us. Bushels of them in my dreams. And I’d really like to exclaim, “LOOK, LIFE, I’M F*CKING SICK OF LEMONS, MMKAY?”
As a “disgustingly optimistic person” who annoys the crap out of my peeps with my Pollyanna-Sunshine-and-rainbows-silver-linings outlook on life, I suppose this is when I say, “Just cut open the lemons and rub them on your elbows! Gets rid of the dead skin and makes your elbows look all purty like! You know, if these were REAL, LIVE lemons and not hypothetical lemons used as a metaphor.
But truth be told? Right now my emotional banks are a wee bit depleted. I grow weary of being the person who holds all of the sh*t together around here. The littlest things are zapping me right now. And I know it isn’t the little stuff that’s the problem. No, it’s the big stuff, really. And the big stuff takes SO MUCH ENERGY and so much of my emotional fortitude that the little stuff? I can barely handle it.
Hence the survival mode.
And worse yet, I can’t really elaborate on everything going on. To anyone. Because it’s not my story to tell. But it’s weighing heavily on my mind and suffice to say I’ve had sleepless nights and we all know I need a few less of those around here, eh?
So I just suck it up, put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Like I always have. And I keep it all together, because that’s my job. And it’s a BIG EFFING JOB but someone has to do it, right? I just wish once…just once…I could be the one that someone else is taking care of. I get to be the one tucked into bed, pampered, fed, massaged, the house kept quiet for. I may sound a little resentful but that’s not my intent. More like…weary. Tired. In need of a break.
Fortunately one of our FABULOUS WEEKEND GETAWAYS is planned in a few weeks. Can’t even begin to tell you how much I need it.
But until then, I carry on, like always. Because these human-types need me to do that. And the canine-types, too. And I’m rewarded with hugs and smiles and cuddles and happy humans and puppies. And that gets me through.
This should be my mantra: