I’m someone who’s spent their entire existence dealing with the chaos that crops up in life. And, I like to think I did it without too much screaming and yelling
Older relatives say my ability to handle pandemonium started when I was a little girl. Great Aunt Margie tells of walking into our house, after Mom’s sixth or seventh child, (she’d lost count) and seeing me standing on a stool so I could reach the kitchen sink, washing a mountain of dirty dishes.
Add a couple more brothers, and our house went from confusion to chaos and I handled it all. When I left home I carried the chaos, and the ability to handle it, with me.
I went from living in my parents’ tiny dilapidated farmhouse to living in tiny dilapidated apartments. Some catastrophe or another always befell me – like the time the building was condemned, or when I discovered the owner going through my underwear drawer, or the place that was haunted by a handsome tennis player (yes, this happened).
I divorced and moved, with my young son in tow, from apartment to apartment…sometimes twice in one year. Our lives were in constant chaos and yet, I dealt with it – without any major meltdowns.
If there were Olympic medals for wrestling with the triathlon of Surprises, Problems and Emergencies – I would have used my well-toned Chaos Muscles and won the gold.
Now, after years in the same chaos-free home, with the same chaos-free husband, we’ve decided to sell and move to something smaller.
Evidently, a short fifteen years of non-use can cause olympic-sized Chaos Muscles to atrophy — to the point where a mere call from the realtor that someone wanted to view our house, sent me into chaos-hating cranky mode.
I loaded up my laptop and headed to Starbucks, cursing all the way. At least, what I consider cursing.
“Darn it,” I swore, “I’ll never get my blog post written now,”
I ordered my cappuccino and after sitting down in a hard wooden chair, realized that my world would be ending soon because I’d forgotten my ear buds or, worse, the mouse! “Fiddlesticks,” I cussed.
Day after day, this happened until…well…ummm…I sorta snapped.
My expletive-loving friend, Kerry – the one who named our critique group WTF so as to cause me constant embarrassment when I tell people the name of it – demanded that I post our recent text conversation.
Well, to quote her directly, she wrote “OMG! Laughing my fucking ass off!!! You need to post that on Crazie Town!!!”
So I am…and what follows is a true-life dialog depicting my fall into the Wickedest of Witchiness.
Kerry wrote: Hey, T. What’s going on with the house? Any more bites? And where r u moving to anyway?
After massaging my aching Chaos Muscles, I replied:
All questions that make me mad at Husband, some of them for no fucking good reason.
Where are we moving to you ask??? Started this whole process because Husband wanted no more maintenance. We start looking at maintenance free places and he fucking doesn’t want to pay the HOA. Wants to look at houses. WE FUCKING OWN A HOUSE!
We had a great offer on the second day but then he added stuff in the contract like “we will not be held responsible…selling property as is…” She walked away and I was so fucking mad!
Then, we got an offer higher than the lost offer and…I was fucking mad because he’s so fucking lucky and I couldn’t be fucking mad at him anymore!