I didn't want to blog today. I would like nothing better than to build a fort out of blankets and pillows and sleep there for a few days.
Two days ago, after 18 years, my husband lost his job. We kind of saw it coming, there wasn't any work, but it's still a shock. He's had that job for as long as we've been together. I remember when he signed on.
He's handling it very well. Better than me. For him, this is breaking the chains of slavery and he's looking forward to doing something new. He's been puttering around the house, getting ready to yank up kitchen tiles. For me, this means fear and worry. Will he find something soon? Will I have to go back to work? Will we have to move? Sell the house? Will we really be okay? Am I being selfish for worrying about money? Is he going to wreck the floor?
Did I mention last week, I backed into the garage door frame and it's going to cost $1300 to replace? Of all the times to make a stupid and costly boo-boo. Who in her right mind backs out of her garage with her truck door open? A writer with blonde roots and no coffee or breakfast burritos in her system.
I retreated yesterday. Tried to be quiet and unaffected by the world around me. I turned the news on later in the day to discover some terrorist shot up my country's parliament and murdered a young soldier standing guard at the memorial there. Years from now, when people ask where I was when I heard of the shooting, I will know I was lying on the couch feeling sorry for myself and pouting.
And today, I find out a friend has brain cancer, which I should have seen coming too. Just another one of those things you know deep in your heart, but refuse to acknowledge until it bonks you on the head and refuses to let you deny it. I know this person from Facebook, but I'm still worried and sad. I feel like I can't do ANYTHING useful to help.
What's my point? I don't have one. I'm just venting. Can I go back to my fort and eat marshmallows now? I have more childishness to partake in. This week is a write-off.