Life has been very stressful lately. I hate using the word "stress." Its such a passive 1990s concept, like second hand smoke or caffeine. But I guess I'm allowed to claim stress really exists if it gives me hives and intermittently makes me cry in public. So, tho I'm unwilling to acknowlege the validity of either caffeine or secondhand smoke as theories, I'll suck it up and get in the line of people blaming their hives on "stress."
Having named the problem, I'm now on a campaign to eliminate it. This means alot of things. It means saying "no" to things I don't want to do. It means hunting down friends with lives of their own and forcing them to have fun with me. It means saying a novena even if doing so sort of makes me feel silly even as it calms me down. It also means trying not to let money issues weigh me down or spiral out of control.
That being said, I worry about the number of credit fix commercials Donovan hears. We have the radio on for him alot and those damn commercials--every 3rd commercial on the radio is one of those commercials. A couple of months ago there was a set of them that had me reaching for my non-existant gun. A woman with this ripe yet understanding voice asks you all these questions "Are you scared of the future? Do you feel like your'e drowning in debt? Do you pay your bills but never seem to get ahead?" OK--that's the set up we're all familiar with, but then she says, "Well, its not your fault!" Not my fault? THE HELL ITS NOT! It is most certainly my fault--I may be filled with self loathing but I'm not stupid. Oy. So I worry about the boy--I worry that his room smells like diapers and not like the lavendar and roman chamomile esssential oil I put in the aromatherapy diffuser. I worry that, between the pollution of poop smells and shit commercials he will grow up a stressed out mess like his hivey old mom.
I went to a memorial service for my friend Digby today. I can now tell you that you havent heard a medley of show tunes until you've heard them on the Heinz Chapel Pipe Organ.