Dear Kitty,

Dear Kitty,

It’s been going on a little over a week since the weirdness enveloped me. I wish I could detail out all the things that are crazy clown with a honking nose weird around here, but that’s part of the true weirdness definition – it’s undefinable and can not be placed into weirdness level categories or sub categories.

There is no little happy face to sad face sliding scale of weirdness, it’s all crazy eyes, wild hair and mouth opened in the scream reserved for lunatics and mothers of newborns existing on no sleep.

It just is.

I’ve just accepted that the Pandora’s box that contains the plethora of weirdness that can be possibly released on the world, has blown its top within my home. Yeah, we look normal at first sight, but its sanitarium antics when you people aren’t watching us.

I went a little more insane (notice I never claimed a stake on the sanity train, not once. Sane people don’t try to be coherent in a home of 9 people) when I discovered that I had thrown away my trash bags yesterday in the trash can. The slip of irony wasn’t lost on me.

In a house of 9 people there is a lot of trash. I would recycle, but I can’t hardly remember the kids’ names much less try to file away my papers, plastics and glass. I wandered around hands full of collected trash and fretted about where to put it with no trash bag to my name. I nagged my husband to help and even pleaded that he take me out to dinner because of this life trial I was trying to endure. I went a little feral under the strain when the 4 year old came to me with a bunch of paper from her room that she wanted me to dispose of.

Then I realized I was flipping out over trash bags and had to resign that I had indeed entered the rabbit hole of weirdness. I was one step away from collecting troll dolls and singing lullabies while combing their un-manageable rainbow colored hair and talking about the polka dotted dragon that does monologues inside my closet. (note to self: schedule a hair cut and buy more dragon chow)

Indeed, the strain of the summertime with many children has gotten to me. It came time for lunch and I remembered it was Chick-fil-a Appreciation Day. Hey, it would get me out of the house, allow me to take an Instagram pic that proved I was backing free speech and perhaps they had a trash bag I could have.

After parking clear across the sprawling lot across from the Chicken joint, I made the Mecca-trek into the building that was jammed pack of people praising the turn-out. It seems that most of our supporters in our little city are the picture perfect image of the Sunday crowd depicted in an unknown Norman Rockwell painting of a Southern Social.

Never in my life have I ever been more conscious of the butterfly tattoo adorning my ankle or the fact that I didn’t own a plucky Sunday bonnet. I attempted to cover my right ankle with my left ankle and was promptly asked by a cookie-baking Grandma if I had to use the powder room. I gave up covering up for fear of being judged more for incontinence than the drawing on my body indiscretion and placed my order.

I’m proud to say that the bag I was given for my to-go order to feed all the people in my house was almost the same size of a 13 gallon trash bag. The Lord doth provide!

Soon all but 2 of the children will be in school and the craziness might recede a little and allow me a breath of normalcy. Until then I will search Ebay for some more troll dolls.

…and frankly…I would probably find a normal life a little boring without my monolog dragon companion.

Categories: diary entry July

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