I’d Like To Get Off
He said it would only take seven months. He told me we’d be back in our place by June. August at the latest. Things are taking a while.
I am ashamed to say that I’ve almost had enough. So much so, the last few days have seen me turning into a witch. A title that under normal circumstances I don’t believe I deserve, however right about now it’s as fitting as any other. With Hubby battling the tail end of the lurgy, me still sidelined at home post-surgery, and a silent void in the house without our dear Wombie, I am struggling.
We have entered the pointy end of the year, with the children having multitudes of school, social and work commitments, exams to prepare for and learner hours still to accrue. Christmas trees, cards and decorations have adorned the shop shelves for weeks now, and Our Next Door Home is beginning to feel increasingly small. I realise that as we get closer to moving back home, everyone is getting a little testy.
With only one bathroom between the four of us, some days are more difficult than others to secure a time slot in the only room you can be guaranteed ten minutes peace. Or at least, you used to be guaranteed ten minutes peace. I don’t actually know what happened there. The lines are very blurry.
On Tuesday I was patient. I waited almost an hour until The Girl was finished. She had showered and dressed, blow dried, straightened then applied her face, and I’m sure she had taken selfies and painted the Mona Lisa just to use her entire time allocation. Then I waited an additional twenty seven minutes until The Boy was done. He doesn’t have half as much hair as The Girl and I know for a fact he doesn’t wear makeup, but by God he takes forever. I’ve no idea what actually goes on in there but by this time I am getting crabby.
Hubby declares that he doesn’t need the bathroom so I jump at the chance to get in. Finally I can breathe. I take my time under the steaming water, rejoicing that for the next ten minutes nobody needs feeding, watering, driving, locating or answering. The minute the shower is off, they are knocking on the door. She needs her toothbrush, he has forgotten his slippers and Hubby has remembered he needs his deodorant. It’s all too much.
I open the door draped in a towel, thrust the toothbrush and toothpaste at the closest person I can find and pitch the slippers down the hallway, closely followed by the deodorant. Hoping I didn’t chip the tiles, I find myself yelling something I don’t care to repeat, but realise it can’t have been that bad because I hear muffled laughing and giggling coming from the bedrooms. That would be right. Even when I crack it they don’t take my anger seriously. I make a mental note to brush up on my Tough Girl persona and slam the door.
It seems my crabby outburst may have had an impact because by the time I emerge from the bathroom everyone has gone. The Girl is off walking the dog, Hubby has a date with the paint tin and The Boy put his gardening skills to work, removing four wheelbarrow loads of weeds from the garden beds. Later that evening I discovered our Courtsey Girl’s head has been removed as well. Still, it is a million times better than before.
I’m beginning to realise that the undertones of my frustration may also be fueled by the fact that I’ve had to buy more toilet paper. The Nine Roll Budget For Completion that I had set Hubby came and went on the weekend, and it seems that this has just added to my pain. I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming. Seriously. I mean, Hubby is now My. Fifty Seven Percent, so I don’t know what I was thinking.
If this is how I’m feeling, I can’t imagine how frustrated Hubby feels. It is clearly getting on everyone’s nerves but I guess he just has a better way of dealing with things than I do. So that afternoon as I returned home after visiting my parents, I called into the supermarket to make a purchase. A goodwill gesture. A peace offering, I guess you could call it. Twelve of the best.
Knowing that Sir Joe of the Cabinetry must surely be due sooner rather than later, I wanted to make sure they were papered up and ready to go. After all, nine rolls was probably a little too conservative. And if I keep that up I may just earn the title of Mrs Thirty-Three Percent, and nobody wants that. Least of all me.