Somewhere in These Boxes Is My Sanity

Right now, pretty much my entire life is in BOXES. We’re moving, and because we’ll be waiting on our new house, a lot of this stuff is going to STAY in boxes for probably the next 10 months... And somewhere in those boxes… is apparently my sanity. 😂

I cannot WAIT to have a craft room again. I didn’t realize how much I need that creative outlet until I didn’t have access to it. I need a project. I need something to plan, paint, glue, decorate, rearrange, make for a friend, make for myself—or completely screw up and start over. 😂

Right now, I feel boxed up right along with everything else. My supplies are packed. My stuff is packed. My house is in transition. And apparently my brain does NOT appreciate being told, “We’ll get back to that sometime next year.”

I need something to do with my hands AND my brain. It makes me wonder about people who don’t have hobbies or interests. What do you DO with all your time? Seriously. Sit around and wait to get old? Wait to die? I can’t imagine it. Especially now that I’m retired, I realize how important it is to have things you actually WANT to do. Something that makes you think, Oooooh, I want to try that! Something you can look forward to besides what’s on TV tonight.

I want to always have a project waiting on me. And apparently, for the next 10 months, I’m going to have to figure out how to be creative without having access to half the crap I use to BE creative. 😂 Someday those boxes are going to get opened. I’ll have my craft room. I’ll spread my crap everywhere. I’ll start six projects at once. And Dennis will probably wonder where I'm at!  Until then… somewhere in these boxes is my sanity.

Sometimes You Have to Analyze Your Husband

Sometimes you have to analyze your husband before you get aggravated with him. 😂

Today we have the inspection on the house, so we’ve been trying to clean up all the packing clutter and make the place look somewhat like normal people still live here.

I worked out this morning and walked two miles, so when I got home I jumped in the shower.

Now, this girl was NOT putting that dirty bra back on. 😂 My other one was in the dryer.

Dennis kept going to the dryer, pulling it out and trying to hand it to me.

“It’s still damp.”

Back in the dryer.

A few minutes later, here he comes with it again.

“Dennis…it’s STILL damp.”

Back in the dryer.

By this point he’s getting aggravated, I’m getting aggravated, and I’m thinking, Why in the world does this man care so much about when my bra gets dry?!

And then it hit me.

THE INSPECTOR IS COMING. 😂😂😂

This man wasn’t trying to rush the drying process.

He was trying to make sure I had a bra on before some strange man started wandering through our house. 😂

So instead of getting mad, I just looked at him and said:

“Thank you for having my back and making sure I had my bra before the inspector got here.”

Literally and figuratively. 😂

Thirty-plus years of marriage teaches you something: sometimes you need to stop and figure out WHY your husband is driving you crazy before you decide he’s actually driving you crazy.

Sometimes he’s just looking out for you.

And apparently…your boobs. 😂

Just Google it

Somebody Needed to Say It: Google It

We need to talk about something I see on Facebook almost daily.

“Does anyone know what time Walmart closes?”

Ma’am.

You are currently holding the entire internet in your hand. 😂

The same device you used to open Facebook, find a community group, type your question, and wait for 47 strangers to answer.

“10:00.”

“Pretty sure it’s 11.”

“My cousin went last Tuesday and they were open.”

“Following.”

FOLLOWING FOR WHAT, SUSAN? STORE HOURS?! 😂

By the time you typed the question, waited for responses, read the arguments, and figured out which answer was actually right…

You could’ve Googled it 40 times.

And Google doesn’t say, “Uh… I think 10:00.”

Somebody needed to say it. 😂

A Decade of “What’s THIS?!”

GERD: “I have an announcement.”
Inner ear: “Hold my beer.”
Menopause: “Move over, amateurs.”
Bladder: “WHAT DID YOU JUST DRINK?!”
Raven: “It was RED DYE, not battery acid! Calm your ass down.” 😂

———/-/

Apparently, I misunderstood aging. I really thought getting older was mostly a number thing. You know… you turn 50, then 51, then 52. Maybe you need readers. Maybe you make a little noise when you get up off the floor. Whatever.

I did NOT realize my body was going to spend an entire decade introducing me to new shit and making me ask, “What’s THIS?!”

And crazy as it seems, it didn’t even start with menopause. Nope. First came GERD. What’s this?! Then GERD apparently decided it needed a friend and brought along LPR. For those of you lucky enough not to know what LPR is, it’s basically acid reflux that decides your stomach isn’t enough territory and heads north. Wonderful.

Then came menopause. There she is! The one I actually expected. Hot flashes, hormones, HRT, trying to figure out what dose makes you feel like a normal human being instead of either a 90-year-old woman or a hormonal teenager. Fine. Whatever. I knew menopause was coming.

What I DIDN’T know was that random body parts were going to start hurting for absolutely no reason. Wake up in the morning… why does my shoulder hurt? What did I do yesterday? Nothing. Why do my hips hurt? Did I work out? Nope. Did I fall? No. Did I lift something heavy? Absolutely not. Apparently I injured myself sleeping. WHAT’S THIS?!

Then one night I’m feeling young again. My daughter and I are out zip lining, having fun, flying through the air like I’m 25. My inner ear apparently saw that and said, Oh, she’s getting cocky. Next thing I know, I’ve knocked a tiny little crystal loose in my ear and discovered vertigo. (And for the record, no this activity did not give me vertigo)

Now THAT was fun. And by fun, I mean I’d rather have LPR. At least acid reflux doesn’t make the bedroom spin because you rolled over wrong. So I learn the Epley maneuver. I learn about ear crystals. I learn which side to sleep on. Suddenly I have more knowledge about the inner ear than any woman who doesn’t have a medical degree should possess.

Okay. Got it. We good now? NOPE.

Because then my bladder developed an opinion. About red dye. Apparently my bladder does not like red dye. Doesn’t want it. Doesn’t appreciate it. And absolutely does not want it traveling through our body. Excuse me, ma’am, but I thought this was MY body. Evidently we’re a committee now.

My stomach has opinions. My esophagus has opinions. My hormones have opinions. My ears have opinions. My joints have opinions. And now MY BLADDER is reading ingredient labels.

I don’t like all these changes. Nobody explained this part. People always say, “Age is just a number.” Bullshit. Age is apparently waking up every few months with some new ridiculous thing happening and immediately heading to Google to find out if you’re dying or if you’re just 60.

I honestly don’t know why I thought getting older was going to be birthdays, gray hair and maybe a few wrinkles. I’m dumb as hell. Apparently your body has been keeping a whole bag of tricks hidden for the second half of life, and every once in a while it reaches in and pulls out another one.

At this point, I don’t even ask “Why me?” anymore.

I just say, “Oh for God’s sake… WHAT’S THIS?!”

And then I Google it.

11/7/11

7/19/26