Being unemployed is weird.
Thursday, I went to the pool. The pool! For 4 hours! It was craziness!
Friday, I … don’t quite remember what I did. I know I walked the dogs.
Saturday, I ran some errands, then fell asleep on the couch.
Today, I walked the dogs, made a pot roast, and made some curtains my bitch by hemming them to an appropriate length. Like a boss. The boss of my house, the greatest housewife ever in the history of housewifery.
Except that I burned my arm on the iron. Which would be no big deal, except that we didn’t have any aloe in the house. And I am allergic to a bunch of ointments and stuff. So, we tried a spray, and it turned my arm red, and I felt like barfing, so I cried. Ugly cried.
Even as I was crying, I knew that I wasn’t crying about my arm. I was crying about my stressful week. Because even though I can’t even remember what I did on Friday? I still feel like a loser for getting sacked. And what sort of sucktastic woman can’t manage to iron a curtain – a giant piece of flat fabric – without searing off some flesh?
My arm is fine. I’m fine, too. The curtains look fantastic. I’m just so tired – emotionally drained from the last few months. I mean, let’s be honest – while being barren and fired sounds like a great set-up for a feel-good rom-com, it sort of sucks in real life. Right now would be the “I’m kinda depressed” montage.
So, I’m being quiet. I’m reading a lot. I’m attempting to buy my husband’s love with crock-potted meats. And I’m trusting that tomorrow will be better.