Glass House

I know intellectually that I’m a smart person, but my actions very often suggest otherwise. It’s like some sort of trigger goes off in my brain to respond to a problem with a completely nonsensical solution while the part that knows better is screeching, “No! NO THIS WILL NOT WORK.” And yet, I press on. Remember the paint incident, wherein I ended up pantless in my garage? Yes. Like that.

Such is the case this afternoon when I stepped out onto our front porch faced with a very icy set of steps and instead of pulling out the bag of rock salt, I ended up taking out the salt shaker and delicately shaking the teeniest bits of salt through six tiny holes thinking that would work better. Ha ha, it didn’t, because they are TEENY TINY HOLES with microscopic grains of salt and the steps are big! So big! Yet I pressed on, my brain screaming “YOU ARE STUPID. STOP.” After all, when the movers hauled in our stuff, the guy had a big container of Morton’s and said it trumps rock salt any day of the week. And in retrospect, perhaps that’s true, but not when you’re shaking it out of a salt shaker the size of a miniature doorknob.

See also: when Roger Clemens was thinking of coming to the Sox for half a season and I blindly asked, “Which half?” (Oh the FIRST HALF, genius. Because pitching isn’t important in the playoffs!)

I also achieved a minor leave of my senses this morning when I … well, there’s no way to sugar coat it: I lost my damn mind. I mentioned yesterday that Adam’s been sick — so sick that we ended up in the ER on Sunday, because dude was hacking up bits of lung all over the place and was near-delirious with fever — and while I casually mentioned that no one was sleeping, what I really meant was that no, actually, NO ONE WAS SLEEPING. I haven’t slept more than three hours a night since Friday night and forget about naps, just forget it. Didn’t get one of those until this afternoon, but still, I am … I am stupid.

The perfect storm of hacking and broken heater and I don’t even know what has left me sleepless and stupefied. And more than a little cranky. Ergo, this is how I ended up screaming (well, in the cold light of the following day, it was more like a solid yell, thank God) at Adam for I don’t even remember what, from the kitchen all the way up to the bedroom for what felt like fifteen minutes today, but was probably more like five. There was also plenty of door slamming, as these things are wont to include, and I’m … well, I’m really sorry and I’m not particularly proud of it. I like to think we’ve all been there, but I don’t really know. You’re all probably more together than I am, and I wouldn’t blame you.

What a lovely way to introduce yourself to new downstairs neighbors, yes? How delightful! Who doesn’t want to live underneath the COMPLETELY INSANE screechy woman upstairs with the overtired yelliness and colorful language? I’m sure they heard it if they were home — and such was the nature of my blind, sleep-deprived fury that I didn’t even think to look — and if so, how would they know that I am an otherwise rational person who does her best to keep the irrational overtired yelling to a minimum?

So I ask you: would you, if you were me and screamed your fool head off in a foggy state that seems so far away after a solid nap, say something to them like HAHA, sorry, I’m nuts, but really I’m usually not like that, now hey ho! Would you like to go out for coffee? Or would you let it go? I’m HORRIFIED, if it isn’t obvious.

Personally, I like to think that everyone goes through these things and if I heard another couple –errr, wife — being nutty, I would be RELIEVED that they were normal. But … that’s not everyone’s version of normal. I mean, not that I do that every day or even every WEEK or MONTH, but … oh forget it, you know what I mean. I hope.

(Incidentally, we rent a house with a basement apartment downstairs. They’re lovely and the wife and I have become friendly. This is also why the furnace is outside and around the house — it’s in the basement, yes, but I have no direct access.)

Onward to happier things! Like paper wasps! Wait, where are you going? We’re inundated with overwintering queens, and I kill approximately five a day INSIDE the house. And Dr. Google tells me that this isn’t something to panic about, but it’s hard to take a rational tack when you’re faced with the fifth wasp OF THE DAY. They’re sluggish and tired from hibernating in their fertile little state, and no, they don’t emit swarming pheromones, but that doesn’t make them any less horrifying.

Well, aren’t I a blast today! Hey, anyone want to go for coffee? Would you like to come over? I promise not to scream at you. Or make you clean up wasp carcass.

Here’s to a happy, well-rested Tuesday.

*Ani DiFranco

21 comments March 31st, 2008