A virtual handy j to anyone who can name that tune.
So today it dawns on me that tomorrow I’m hosting a team party for a dozen girls and their families. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now? It feels like I’m sinking into another level of Hell. The one right after the one where we’re forced to eat our own eyeballs or feces or some shi’.
I’m not sure why I do this to myself. People in my space makes me feel judged. I don’t live the Pottery Barn lifestyle. My good couch has a hole in it. I can’t get my co-author to drop everything and repaint all my walls for me. My cooking skills shall not be spoken of now or ever. There’s something growing in the guest toilet, and I fear the hermit crabs are staging a coup. I’d hate for guests to be caught up in that; you know how ruthless the mighty hermit crab is.
I’m sure all will be fine, but the anticipation of it not being fine is enough to drive me to sit in front of my computer (NOT, you’ll note, to do any actual preparation [H]) and Google things like “how late is too late to book a caterer?” and “Bono naked and none of that photochopped crap.” Totally relevant, I assure you.
Tomorrow I will make deviled eggs and make my family miserable with my demands that they do whatever it is that I tell them to do and ohmygahd,justdowhatIsay!! Tonight I will continue to obsess and possibly start organizing my craft supplies or cleaning out the unfinished half of the basement because you never know who will get lost on their way to the bathroom and ohmygahd, what if they see the chaos of our storage area?!
Actually, it might be better if they do get lost – I’m not entirely convinced I can outsmart whatever it is that’s colonized the guest toilet.