I am living in the 7th circle of Dante's Inferno.
Oh, yeah. But I'm not at all stressed.
Since my last blog, I have moved, had part of my new house destroyed by snow (not to mention the time spent on researching if I could sue Irving Berlin's estate for him wishing me that White Christmas!), survived rebuilding (barely) and hosted both of our families for Christmas and Thanksgiving.
Stressed out??? Nah. I've always had that bald spot, twitch and rash.
And just when things were starting to get back to normal (I actually stopped diving under the sofa, curling into a fetal position and sucking my thumb everytime a serviceperson rang the bell), I lost my toehold in the 1st circle and slipped all the way back to the 7th.
It all began innocently enough. Tim wanted a dog.
No.
Please??? I'll take care of her, take her for walks, clean up after her. I promise. (Yeah, like he even knows where I to find one cleaning product in this house).
No.
Aww. Come on. Look at this picture. Soooo cute. I'll do everything. I promise.
No.
He enlisted our niece in the battle. Please, please, please. I'll come over and help. You won't have to do anything.
No.
He enlisted friends, acquaintences, former grade school teachers, long lost cousins, celebrity spokespersons, total strangers. You need a dog. Mine is my best friend. They are great companions, smart. They can do tricks, like sit, fetch, stay, cook dinner, pay the bills, reorganize your closets.
Hmmm. No.
Three weeks ago, we got a dog. A puppy. And six days later, Tim had emergency back surgery. 7th circle.
But stress? Not here. Nope. Not a bit. I've always eaten Valium like they're M&Ms, talked to myself and burst into hysterical tears for no reason six times a day.
My day? Stress free.
5:00-5:30 Wake up to the sound of whimpering. Roll over, give Tim another pill and take out the dog who is also whimpering.
6ish: come in, remind Tim he is not supposed to bend, twist, lift, sit, stand, llie or walk for longer than 20 minutes. Feed dog. Feed Tim. Carry half the contents of our bedroom and his office downstairs so he can work from home. Eat chocolate, drink coffee, wish I were in Fiji (or even Siberia!).
7:00-9:00 Entertain dog, clean up after dog, keep dog from suicidal tendencies like eating carpet and sticking tongue in electrical outlet.
Entertain Tim, clean up after Tim, keep Tim from suicidal tendencies like bending twisting or writing e-mails while on pain medication.
9:00-9:05 Shower, dress, apply spackle to hide dark circles and lines, grimace at what used to be a hairstyle and is now a frizzy bird's nest on top of my head due to all the time I spend standing outside waiting for the dog to go potty. Eat breakfast.
9:05-12:00 Stuff ears full of cotton, fill pockets with smelly dog treats, crate train dog, take dog outside every five minutes to potty. Beg dog to take a nap.
Pry computer from Tim's fingers every 20 minutes, fetch new ice pack every 30 minutes, administer pills as needed (Oh. Yeah. Give Tim some too.), lift dog up so Tim can get "puppy kisses". Um. Helloooo. Shouldn't the one doing the work be the one getting the kisses??? Beg Tim to nap.
12:00 Lunch. Beg dog to eat. Beg Tim to eat. Forget to eat (that's okay because I will eat many cookies later)
12:30-5:00 Repeat morning drill
5:00-7:00 Feed dog. Start dinner. Take dog out. Do more dinner prep. Take dog out. Try to finish dinner prep. Take dog out. Start cooking dinner. Take dog out. Keep part one of dinner warm as I cook part two. Take dog out.
7:00 Eat cold, undercooked/overcooked dinner. Take dog out. Do dishes. Take dog out.
8:00 Watch Tim sleep in chair while trying to keep dog from sleeping so she will sleep at night.
10:00 Take dog out for last time. Carry 4,562 of Tim's necessary items for home recovery back upstairs. Put dog to bed. Put Tim to bed. Administer pills. Watch chick flick on HBO when pills kick in but tell Tim he is watching a "guy" movie with guns and bombs.
Stress? No such thing here. Uh uh. I always scream into my pillow, sleepwalk and bite my own toenails.
