Eight Pictures That Perfectly Describe My Life

I stepped on the scale this morning for the first time since vacation. I only climb on that thing regularly when I'm actively trying to lose weight and I haven't exactly been embracing any type of diet lately. 

Unless we're referring to the Eat-A-Bucket-Sized-Portion-Of-Potato-Chips-Before-Bed-Diet or the You-May-As-Well-Eat-The-Last-Twelve-Cookies-Tonight-So-You-Can-Start-Fresh-Tomorrow-Diet. 

In that case, I've been more than diligent.

Anyway, the number on the scale was a cruel reminder that I should include some measure of healthy food groups between the non-nutritional fried, salt-coated, chocolate-covered food groups that are my staple. 

Note to self: STAAHHHHHHHHP eating crap.

To help you move from that mental picture... 

I wrestled with one of these the other day and I’m still traumatized. It doesn't seem like it should be hard to remove since all you have to do is gnaw at it with your teeth, stab it with various sharp objects, and then pray you don't lose a fingernail, a tooth or suffer a serious injury before the darn thing finally peals off the bottle. 

I am 100 percent completely safe from serial killers. 

Oh, you want me to drive? Sure thing, but buckle up buttercup! It's going to be a wild ride! I'm pretty sure when people arrive home safely after an episode of my night driving they get down on their knees and offer a tearful prayer of thanks that they're out of the car and still alive. 

And then there was that time last month when I tried intermittent fasting. 

I don't aspire for much fashion-wise. At this point, the best I can hope for is a combination of "somewhat cute" and "mostly comfortable" and I haven't been shopping in ages, unless you count those two Stitch Fix boxes in the last six weeks with five high-neck sleeveless shirts that are exactly like the 48 other high-neck sleeveless shirts I already own but OMG! I just HAD to have them because they were green and I'm totally into green now and soon I will rid my closet of all the other shirts I don't wear anymore.

That is the story I'm telling myself, mostly to help ease the mental anguish of having to part with a few clothing items that have been hanging in my closet for the last two years with the tags still on.

Bedtime means Restless Everything Syndrome sets in and my brain becomes super busy thinking about every stupid thing I said last week, the time in 1972 when I barfed on vacation at Geneva-On-The-Lake after riding the Tilt-O-Whirl and how I'm skidding into my 60s with more brain baggage than I still want to be carrying. It's all been keeping me up at night.

Here's a comprehensive list of what I've been doing to help myself feel and sleep better: Jack. Shit. Oh, that's not completely true. Sometimes I stumble into the bathroom, take a swig of Nyquil, and hope for the best.

 This is Bill in his recliner with his mouth open five minutes after he sits down any time of the day. Even more annoying, he falls into a deep slumber every night about 2.4 seconds after crawling into bed.
Bless his little sleepy heart.

And by the way, I could use a teeny tiny break from the constant soundtrack of Darth Vadar-ish heavy breathing and nose noises that eventually morph into a full-fledged rattling snore.

Happy Day, friends! We are having company later tonight for an informal happy hour and game night and if you know me, you know I am a nervous hostess. I must now obsess over cleanliness,  ponder whether or not I choose stupid appetizers, and breathe into a paper bag so I calm the heck down.