Sick of Myself

I seem to go through cycles of hating Luke’s work schedule and being OK with it. At the moment I’m not OK with it. The weather is sunny, summer is on the way, yet I am angry and sad. Some nights I stay busy sewing and making things and I’m happy that Luke’s sleeping because I know that if he were awake, I wouldn’t have so much time to get things done. Some nights I’m happy that I can watch Dancing with the Stars without hearing complaints, and I can eat cereal for dinner without having to worry about someone else and what they want. But then there are nights like I’ve been having lately where I’m not happy about any of it. I don’t want to do anything. I want to lay on the couch and feel sad. I’m bored, I’m lonely, and even though there are things to do, stuff to make, and gardens to plant, I don’t want to think about doing any of it. I want someone else to make decisions and decide what we’ll do. I want company, I’m tired of being alone. It sucks.

Last night was particularly sucky. I decided that some exercise might pry me out of my funk so I stopped on the way home from work to buy a bicycle helmet. I have my sister’s old bike at the house but I’ve been leery of riding it without a helmet. I was finally going to take the bike out for a spin. I got home, changed, put my new helmet on and laced up my sneaks. I went to get the bike out of the basement, and guess what? The tires are flat. We have an air compressor and I am entirely capable of inflating my own tires, but in order to do so I need to plug the compressor in which would turn it on and make a loud, rattly noise in the basement just under the bedroom where Luke is sleeping. I parked the bike, took off my helmet, and cursed Luke’s work schedule.

The rest of the night went pretty much the same. I wanted to do laundry but that makes too much noise. I worked in the yard, but only half-heartedly, and then I found a dead squirrel in the garden. Nice. I gave up and went in to watch Dancing with the Stars, the only bright spot in my week, lately. I also put some dulce de leche in the oven to cook for some desserts I’m making for mother’s day and sat on the couch to enjoy the dancing. After an hour and a half of cooking, the dulce de leche wasn’t done and I was frustrated so I did something so stupid, I should kick myself. First let me explain that you make dulce de leche (a delicious caramel-toffee wonderful spread) by slowly cooking sweetened condensed milk until the sugar caramelizes. You do this by heating it covered in a pan of water in the oven to keep the milk from getting too hot and boiling over. Well stupid, impatient me took the pans out of the water, forgetting that they were MILK and put them in the oven alone. Five minutes later I look over and see smoke pouring out of the oven because the milk had boiled over and began to burn in the pans, on the racks, and on the floor of my oven. The house was filled with smoke and it would be minutes before the smoke alarm went off and woke Luke up.

I again cursed Luke’s work schedule, not because the smoke alarm was about to go off, but because what I really wanted to do was scream curses at the burning milk and loudly heave the sticky, smoking pans off the deck, but that would have woken Luke up, so I cursed under my breath and took the pans outside then opened the windows and turned the house fan on to clear out the smoke before the alarm went off.

I woke up this morning to a beautiful day in an empty house that smells like burned milk. I’m grumpy and I feel useless. I don’t want to do anything. This isn’t right. It’s so nice out! I should be happy but I’m not. Tonight I’m going to watch t-ball again, that should cheer me up for a while and at least I won’t be alone for a little while. This cycle better end soon because I can’t stand myself anymore and I’m the only one around to keep me company. They make medication for this, don’t they?



  1. Um, COME TO MY HOUSE. ANY. TIME. Visiting with us would make anyone crave alone time. But seriously, you should just come over to my house after work, whenever you want. We’re usually there.


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