Lately I've begun to think something is off with me. My internal CHECK ENGINE light is FLASHING! No, no! I'm not ill. But I feel ... I don't know ... mean somehow. If you read my last post, you know I had planned on a bit of rest and playtime. As it turned out, I never GOT it. In fact, I received a HUGE batch of editing that wasn't supposed to be here till the 13th. It arrived last Saturday RIGHT after I'd taught two classes, was tired but HAPPY because THAT was supposed to be the beginning of my designated 'fun' week. I am anal. You ALL know that by now. If I have work or a duty, THAT comes first. So, of course, I tackled it. And as the 'old story' goes, "If you give a mouse a cooky he's going to want a glass of milk ..." - I ate the cooky, drank the milk, and went through the cycle. By the time I'd completed the editing (several days later) it was already house scrubbing day. And EVERYDAY is cooking day because my housemate has the NERVE to insist on EATING. (How RUDE, right? LOL!) Why don't I suggest HE cook his own food? HA! He offered once, three years ago, to peel potatoes for me. I am STILL finding peel pieces (dried out/blackened/gross) in OTHER ROOMS. HOW????? I don't even want to THINK how. So he was banished from 'cooking' or prep work. I tend to follow the old ones' words of wisdom, "IF YOU WANT SOMETHING DONE RIGHT, DO IT YOURSELF!" Well, then he offered (once) to wash dishes. First of all, it took him around 35 minutes. All we'd HAD was a bowl of SOUP. I'D already washed the soup pot! Two bowls, two spoons. THIRTY FIVE MINUTES. And one bowl was not clean; one spoon still had dish detergent residue. (That's because he squirted about a half bottle IN that ONE spoon. Sigh. See? I'm NOT A NICE PERSON. I'm FUSSY. I don't like 3-year-old fuzzy black potato peels appearing in places like my SHOES. I don't APPRECIATE having my meal taste of Dawn dishwashing liquid. I'm hateful that way. So I continue to be the chief cook and bottle washer around here. I ALSO do all the bills. Why? Said housemate, at age 71, cannot for the life of him, write a check. Seriously. He JUST DOESN'T GET IT. I filled out ALL his paperwork 3 years ago for social security. What a PAIN. I do his taxes. I TELL him when his car is making a strange sound because he never NOTICES. (I don't drive but I DO know when a sound isn't 'right'!)He's a GOOD person, and we are great friends. He worked from age 16 to age 68 and missed only 12 days of work in ALL THOSE YEARS. But when it comes to household ANYTHING he is like a child 99% of the time. Arrrgghhh! I didn't share that for 'being funny' purposes, or to put HIM down. (As a long ago tv detective would have said, "Just state the facts, ma'am!" And I WAS. Stating the facts, I mean.) I was setting the scene for why I am a bad person. You see, now and then, I crave, actually ACHE FOR, some time to myself. I'm 61 and I've (seriously) NEVER had a vacation. Yes, I've gone to MaryBear's LOTS of times. And I LOVE going. But trust me, it's a fun nuthouse over there! NOOOOO peace and quiet. I don't want to get away. I have this huge, marvelous craft room with all my bins of 'stuff' to make things. I have a big table to spread things out, a tv and goodness KNOWS how many dvds I've YET to watch. I have BOOKS - wonderful shelves of them; stacks and STACKS of them. MY dream 'vacation is simply this: I would love 1 week - 7 short days - of complete solitude. I would read, rest (I'm SO exhausted) look at all my unwatched foreign films, live on Breakstone individual serving size lowfat cottage cheese, yogurt, Lean Cuisines, water, and coffee, peek at blogs but not write a single email, and NOT SAY A WORD. Heaven. It will never happen. Not in MY lifetime. Yesterday my frustration overflowed. I wanted to cry or scream or have a full fledged temper tantrum.
But I don't DO temper tantrums. I couldn't JUSTIFY tears. So I cooked and washed clothes and held in a BUNCH of resentment. Wrote a HUGE whining email to my poor lil' friend, Chirp! (Nat, feel relief - I ALMOST wrote to you, too. I will TONIGHT but sans the grumbling.) I'm over it anyway. There's no point in being frustrated about something that won't change. But I do want to play - I want a WEEK. I feel so guilty because people always tell me I'm 'sweet' or 'helpful' or 'goofy'. Yep. I'm goofy! But I still think I must not be a nice person because I NEED a week ... ALL TO MYSELF. Sigh.