Twinkle: Oh Woe is Me

Don't read this if you don't want to hear a litany of complaints, I cannot seem to catch a break around here...excuse me for venting but it's been a bad month.

First off, I spent the next two weeks doing double-time on household duties--my usual chores plus the taking-out-the-trash and other manly duties that he normally takes care of. Because he really could do nothing except lie on the sofa and watch football in an Oxycontin-induced coma (really...he was a good patient; it wasn't his fault. But it sure did take the fun out of my holiday season). There were bright moments (that time with the fire department springs to mind), but other than that I felt more like a pack mule than a vibrant modern woman.

All this went down during the joyful season of Christmukkah, so I first busied myself coordinating the eight crazy nights of Hanukkah. And I have to say, that cleaning up sh*tloads of wrapping paper/toy packaging and finding a place for the daily deluge of toys, every day for more than a week (while single-handedly caring for an invalid, a toddler, a gigantic dog and a cranky Siamese cat) is a joyless task. Then we had the over-the-top madness of Christmas and more toys to find homes for...which was fun, and at least there was only one mess to clean up.

Then came birthday party planning/execution for Twinklette, and the bash was a success. I've spent the past week getting ready for it and the past day cleaning up and finding a place for all her toys, and just as I was going to sit down and do nothing, literally for the first time in more than a month...I dropped and broke about 40 glass plates on the kitchen floor (like this only glass with cute pink flowers on the edging). And it just feels like I cannot catch a freaking break. I loved those plates.

I can't vacuum right now because it would interrupt Twinklette's nap, and now Harry is locked up in the basement and b*tching--I can't risk him cutting his paw because knowing my luck he would then run across the sofa leaving a trail of bloody paw prints on my Italian brocade upholstery. (He already added to my burdens this month by barfing up tulle ribbon on my damask bedspread and wiping his ass on the duvet cover...can't wait to pay that dry cleaning bill. Adding to the drama was Wrigley, who disregarded the rules of the house and sat on the sofa in the playroom, muddy pawprints and all...that was a fun day of laundry).

And what's worse in terms of waking up Twinklette? Harry's loud complaining or the vacuum cleaner? I have no idea. One of Mr. Twinkle's relatives will probably come ring the doorbell in a few minutes, anyway.

Sorry about the b*tching, but I just could not believe it when I broke those plates.