Hanging sign: "Back in ___ Days"

I am scrambling like crazy to get my book finished and off to the publisher, which explains the dearth of writing here. I’m so worn out mentally that I can’t even think of an original way to describe it. This is from an earlier post, and sadly, still true:

I feel like each chapter is being peeled off my skin in one continuous strip, so long that I think I can’t possibly function with that much laid bare. Each chapter leaves me drained and melancholy, which is really weird, because when I begin I’m all wired and excited and have the clearest vision of what will help others going through divorce.

Hopefully things will be back to normal soon. In the meantime, there’s three thousand posts and ten years of material in the archives! Go crazy! (I did.)

Thousand-yard stare

I started my day standing in a puddle of premium Chardonnay.

Funny, that’s how I usually end my day. *cymbals*

Guy would have paid good money to watch me in the kitchen this morning. I tried to get a huge juice container into the door of the fridge, decided it was too tight, pulled it out again, and the drawer, milk and a bottle of wine crashed with the shelf. The cork flew across the kitchen and about 250ml of premium chardonnay glugged out. I was standing in a lake. So I sopped it up with paper towels, mopped, and took out the trash. Thank God I’d already (I mean the elves had already) broken down all the boxes five minutes earlier. There were stacks of boxes piling up from all the clothes pouring in. Between the wedding and my son going on a class trip to DC, the UPS guy either loves me or has a dartboard with my address on it.

In the garage on the way to the bins, I almost walked into the open refrigerator door, and stepped into another puddle. Melted ice this time. ARGH. So I topped everything off with chicken breasts, pizza rolls, dino nuggets, chinese food, and two soy pizzas, and dumped that too.

Right about then, Guy’s boys showed up to drop off Valentines. So, yeah, hey, that was me, in pajamas, hair in a frenzy, smelling of booze.

And then? After everything was broken down, mopped, wiped, and put away? I realized that I’d just thrown out the only good boxes I had, and needed one to return some boxers. Don’t worry hon, they’re not yours. Wait—that sounded wrong—they were meant for other guys. MY GUYS. My boys! My boys wear boxers. Apparently there is a quite a size difference between Youth M and Adult M, so they have to go back. They’d actually fit you…which makes me really glad I’m getting that out of the way before you come home and find six pair of mens boxers on the stairs.

Um, I have to go now.