Milk Carton Metaphor

January is my traditional, seasonal time of darkness, and true to form, I'm standing at the edge of the abyss. I have no good reason to be standing here, there's no string of recent tragedies spurring me towards the hurtle down the rabbit-hole, yet here I stand, looking down, thinking of jumping.

This is the part of me that is perpetually the Gothic teen, garbed in mourning, obsessing over death. She's been grounded for years, and rarely is allowed out of her room, but sometimes she sneaks out the window to smoke a cigarette with her bad influence friends, showing up at my door in the early morning light. Like any parent, I'm pissed at her disobedience, but I'm also pissed at myself, for my inability to control her.

Before the Mom Years it was easier to deal with her, give her room to vent, but now I keep her under wraps, fearing her influence over my children. The few occasions she showed up to babysit for me always ended with the kids emulating her extreme behavior, and god knows we don't need another child in this house of mostly men. So I've kept her shut up in her room, sulking, refusing food, and playing Evanescence at top volume, but today, she has escaped.
Have you seen this teen?

Aloha from Mom Hell

Okay, so its past time to leave for school - I haven't brushed my hair, or put on shoes, and I start looking around for my carkeys. As usual, they've been relocated in the night (not by me) and aren't really turning up. I'm getting cranky with the kids, because they figure this is a great excuse to go back to what they were doing before it was time to go to school.

Running out of places to look, and tired of circling the house, I call the husband-guy, to see if he can elucidate my search. I know, this is a long shot, but I'm desperate at this point. If we're any later, I'm going to have to put on real shoes, a bra, and brush my hair, so I look half-way respectable when I sign them in as tardy.

My darling spouse says he has no idea where I might have put my keys, and by the way? Good luck with that. This is how I look when I'm on the phone with him:

Yes, I DO know that my roots are showing - did I ASK you to point out the freaking obvious? No? Well sit down then!

Okay, so Pookie has been a complete lack of help in locating the errant keys, and I start circling the house again, in a last ditch effort, before I have to resign myself to getting dressed and having to take my kids to the office, which, I feel, puts me at a disadvantage in dealing with the staff for the rest of our tenure at this school. Crazy lady shit? Maybe...but again, did I ask? Is this helping me to find the GD keys?

Finally, I look in my old purse, which is hanging on the back of the kitchen door. I haven't used this purse in almost a year, so I know I would never put my keys in it, but I live with 3 men - rank thoughtlessness is a daily occurrence around here.

Guess what is in my old purse?
That's right! My freaking keys are in my old purse! That means that Mr. Helpful, aka, my husband, must have put them there, but because it wasn't involving a sporting event, (Yes, dammit, I AM bitter!) he couldn't remember that he had done it. This is how I looked after I found them:
So I got the kids off to school, without having to brush my hair, put on a bra, or take off my nummy fleece slippers, for which I am very grateful, but you better believe, mud will be flung tonight!

That, and I think it might be time for a little hair dye, eh wot? (don't answer that, I'm still cranky about the muffin keys.....!)