All of My Selves Are Crazy and We’re Cool With That

Since learning to adult over the past couple of decades, it has come to my attention how often absolutely stupid thoughts wander from around the bend of the ol’ cerebrum, spin around a few times in the frontal lobe, and then meander on through the cracks in the brain-to-mouth filter to vocally exit the building before I realize what’s happened.  (Wow, was that a crazy long sentence or what? Sheesh.)

For example, I’ve found myself saying things as a parent like, “No, sweetie, we don’t lick the dog’s face,” and, “Please don’t set that opened SlimJim down on the concrete to play with your friend, then pick it up and eat it again.” (At which point the other progeny – the teenager – said, “I don’t know why you waste your time saying that. You know he’s going to,” and I responded with a sigh and, “I know, but I have to at least try.”)

There are also random things like, “Alanis Morisette was the Taylor Swift of my generation,” which for some reason came to my mind while the song ‘Honky Tonk Rock and Roll’ played on my car radio, because clearly all three of those have worlds in common.  Add to that the fact that I now work from home (which is an absolute delight, by the way – an absolute delight) so I don’t really have office mates and my propensity for talking to myself conversationally has increased exponentially, and well, Houston, we have a problem.

I first became bothered by this a couple of months ago when I realized I was no longer talking to my dogs as if they are dogs but instead started conversing as if anthropomorphizing them was the same as, say, chatting at a coctail party or arguing with a family member.  We’d go on walks and they’d do something utterly canine, normal, and stupid (like try to crap in someone’s front yard when I hadn’t brought a bag) and I’d spout off nonsense like, “Stop being such a douchebag! You’re doing this on purpose to get me in trouble with the HOA! How will you feel when we’re banned from walks and you only have a 3 by 5 square of dirt to do that in, huh? HUH?” and then pause as if waiting for an answer. Because clearly we would be banned from being in public because of my dog answering nature’s call and not because the crazy lady who looks like the female unibomber thinks her dogs are people.

Right.

Then last week I seriously lost it while working (because yes, working from home does mean you actually have to work, contrary to popular belief – I average about 45 hours every five days).  What happened?  Well, it went something like this…

*Begin scene*

Me: *typing notes into database*

*suddenly remembers has a phone call scheduled 2 minutes ago and frantically searches for number*

*can’t find number and starts to panic, made worse by being startled when calendar reminder pops up and makes loud noise*

*knocks three pens, two pencils, and a notebook off of desk*

*tries to clean up mess but ends up knocking computer mouse off of desk, too, and it falls so hard it unplugs from computer and rolls into hard-to-reach corner where my T-rex arms can’t go*

Me (as I straddle desk and contort my no longer young body trying to reach mouse): “Argh! Get your sh** together! Get. It. Together. You. Idiot. You. Work. From home. And should. NOT. BE. HAVING. SUCH. STUPID. PROBLEMS.”

Me: “SHUT UP! Worry about yourself! No one needs all your negativity!”

Me: “YOU shut up! Stop being such a moron and learn to adult, already!”

Me: “UGH! I HATE YOU!”

Me: “You’ll effing get over it. Now, seriously, shut up. I’m TRYING to work, here! AND HURRY UP AND GRAB THAT MOUSE BECAUSE I NEED IT!”

*end scene*

I would love to tell you that this is fiction. I would also love to tell you that Chris Hemsworth finally saw the light, left his gorgeous and talented wife, and asked me to run away with him and live the rest of our sun-kissed days together in paradise and that the hubs was totally cool with that.  I would also like to be able to look at people with a straight face and say Trump will be a great president if the brain-dead multitude decides to vote him into office.

All would be flat-out lies. (And okay, really I don’t wish I could say that about Trump. Even I have limits, faint though they may be.)

And since it’s not fiction, and since this bottle of $9 red wine is surprisingly delicious, I’ve decided to embrace all my versions of me, and we’ve agreed on a temporary truce for now as I embody the crazy that is us.

At least until the hubs wants to know when the dishes will be washed. Because when that happens, those bee-otches are going down. I work 45 hours a week; those other freeloading fatties can start pulling their freaking weight or get the eff out.