Exhaustion, this is my name

So I've been laying on this (still borrowed) futon for the last half an hour watching the kid push his Hot Wheels around going, “woooah woooah!” thinking to myself that I really should get up and go to the store to get some Drain-O. Apparently my hair, once out of my head, reacts to water like those little plastic capsules that once dumped into a cup of liquid turns into a life size foam dinosaur. I have to admit that once my hair is no longer attached to my head, it is suddenly very gross and I don't have the stomach lining to handle taking a fork to the drain. But whatever. I have since put the kid down for his nap and from the “woooah woooah!” and general clattering I hear through the floor above, I doubt that I will get much reprieve this afternoon from childcare.

If this all sounds incredibly lazy, it is. I have lost the will to live. That's so not true. I love to live and live I will but dammit, I have no motivation right now to tackle the chores I see just from the view from this (still borrowed) futon. There are Hot Wheels in every available crevice and floor space and I can hear that both the dryer and dishwasher are done and those Christmas cards won't address themselves and how the fuck did an oat from yesterday's oatmeal get over there? I must ignore it. I have to ignore it. I'm tired. No, I'm exhausted. I'm suffering from exhaustion, like Billy Joel must have done when people were still buying Billy Joel records.

We are finally moved. Like officially. There is no more staying at people's houses and flying across the country or borrowing cars or asking someone where their potato peeler is. We are here, in our house, and the next time we are leaving it is this spring for a proper vacation. We still don't have our things but they are in the country being inspected by US Customs. I rather enjoy the thought of a US Customs agent going through our clothes and having a proper dress up while lounging on our sofa flipping through our photo albums. “Hey Earl, can we arrest these people for having a friend that was clearly smoking a joint in, what year does this say...., um, April 1994? If not, we should probably arrest them for the Grateful Dead t-shirt this one has on when it's so obvious they have never been to a Dead show.”

Where was I? Oh yes. Exhausted. While I was meant to stay in California for 7 days, that turned quickly into 13 days, which turned into 20 days. I painted two bedrooms and went to rummage sales and stopped in to grab something at Home Depot so often I recognize most of the employees. When I finally flew back to Wisconsin, there was Thanksgiving and a family reunion two days after which I did the brunt of the cooking for. Then there was the flight back to California with a kid and a cat, followed by a manic two days shopping spree and errand running announcing, “We have nothing in the house! Must have something in the house! Cyber Monday! AHHHH! FUCK YOU CHRISTMAS FOR COMING ALREADY!!”

Seriously y'all. I have had insomnia for the majority of my life. This is the first period of time I can remember that I have been able to fall asleep within 5 minutes of going to bed LIKE THE REST OF THE DAMN WORLD and sleep all night solid. What's fucked up is that I still wake up tired. I'm so like Billy Joel 1988.

On a completely unrelated note, this guy at the mall hawking a sea salt scrub at one of those kiosks that pop up around this time of year said to me, “Have you heard of the Dead Sea?” He spoke with an Italian accent and was whispering so I'm, “um, what?” He repeats, “Have you heard of the Dead Sea?” And I'm looking at this guy trying to suss him out whether or not he honestly believes that I'm an idiot. Of course I've heard of the fucking Dead Sea. So I say, “Yes, of course I've heard of the Dead Sea.” Which is the point I realize that I am an idiot as I've just fallen into his sales trap cemented by the fact that he took that opportunity to take my hand and pour salt in my hand. As I'm trying to wash off this salt that he has poured into my hand, he asks if I'm concerned about my skin. I say no just to throw him off. He tells me it's obvious that I have Rosacea. I say, “you're good” and walk off. The moral of this story is this, if you see me with make-up more often, it's because some guy from the Dead Sea who has fought his way through visas and customs to sell sea salt scrub at some shit hole mall in Wisconsin has confirmed my fears that I look like a lobster.

Here's a picture of my dad and me....you know, just because I like to confirm paternity to the world.