Misery, sweet misery

I. Am. Miserable.

Though I would love to blame my current case of the grumpies on my husband's excessive gassiness this evening, he is not to blame, though his foul stench is not helping ease my mood. Maybe I should just stop feeding him.

My crankiness is mainly due to my unhappiness with our current housing situation. Until today, I thought I could manage. I was prepared to be strong, suck it up, and savour these days as our 'trying times'....you know, the time in your life you look back on as character-building and all that crap. (well, its not crap, but I'm Miss Frowny-Face right now, a'ight?).

The last time I felt this glum, I downed my sorrows in a nice tall glass of orange juice and vodka, heavy on the vodka. I'm currently a breastfeeding mom, so that isn't an option. I have instead decided to gas myself silly by sitting downwind of my husband's toushy.

So...I hate my carriage-house/hastily-constructed part-garage/insect-infested house of horrors. I could manage to overlook the lack of a dishwasher, which has been taking hours of my precious writing time each day as I try to get all of the dishes done (seriously, where do they all come from?!), or the lack of any storage space whatsoever. I've tried hard to ignore the constant musty, moldy smell upstairs and the impossible task of keeping the floors clean because our front door opens right into the living room/kitchen area(s).

BUT. NOT. THE. SPIDERS.

Fighting the little ones for control of the kitchen every day is one thing (crawling across the stove, making webs from counters to the piles of dishes, making webs in the broom closet, making webs in every corner, playing tag on the stairs, making webs in my shoes) but the bigger ones have decided that 'tis the season to invade the Guillemette household and I'M HAVING NONE OF THAT!

#$%& you, spiders! I'm the freakin' spider-Grinch and I had no sympathy for Charlotte's Web.

Thus, I have decided, we are moving. I don't know where. I don't know if we can afford it. I don't care. I can't even open my front door anymore without the extremely bold ones dashing in, unannounced, a little smirk on the smug faces as they shriek in their little spider voices, "Catch me if you can, red!"

I'll squish you with a garbage can, I will. Of course, then I will spend several hours fighting off the anxiety attacks and tears and frantically scanning every square inch of my home for vengeful relatives.

For all of you who think I'm being dramatic and have that wonderful advice, "Just get over it," I tell you -- I wish. Do you think I like being subject to such a ridiculous phobia? Yes, they are a one-thousandth of my size. Yes, they are harmless. Yes, they are just as afraid of me as I am of them. If this were easy to accept, wouldn't I have done so?

Phobia = irrational fear

Guillemette family = looking for affordable, spider-free home