Inside My Head

Inside my head is a dark, scary place. Or so I'm lead to believe. I don't feel like I get credit for not saying the mean, snarky things that pop into my head, and it's partly because everything I think shows up on my face. I need a place to vent, so here I am.

I'm angry today because we've had a week of misery after my family told me how unhappy they are that there's too much stuff in the house, and that the chaos and unpleasantness of our family life all trace back directly to me. So it's the day after Christmas, and I keep having to clean up everything my family strews about the living room. Upstairs is dirty and smells bad because the litter box needs to be changed. I've made up my mind that I'm not going to ask anyone in my family for help any more, because it just guarantees and argument and more rancor directed my way, so I take care of the litter box myself. I don't know how the cats were using it, because the litter was like cement. Anyway, I hear my husband ask my daughter why I'm cleaning the litter box, and I kind of thought maybe she'd come out and help me, but no. So when I go back inside to wash my hands, I ask him what she said, and he gives me this speech about how we need to be more proactive about assigning chores because it's not fair to the kids for me to do chores at them, blah blah blah, and all I can think is it's easy for him to say because he's not the one doing the chores or being held responsible because they're not done.

Color me cranky today.