Opinion: The stress monster returns
Commentary by Danielle Wilson
I finally lost it, people. Last night, as I sat in my youngest’s room conducting a moderately successful hoarding intervention, I suddenly experienced an intense desire to both pull out my hair and repeatedly shout the F-word, and to curl into a fetal position and cry myself to sleep. Reminiscent of the parasite in “Alien,” the stress of our kitchen remodel that has slowly been growing inside me for the last month burst forth, shredding my normally-patient self into a barely-functioning, strung out mommy-on-the-edge. I’m not proud of my pseudo- breakdown, but I’m not really surprised it occurred.
I haven’t been sleeping very well due to the mean-spirited dollar signs that insist upon waking me at three in the morning and shouting “You’re over budget!” I’ve been extremely short-tempered thanks to the complete lack of organization, tidiness and chores at my house. And I’ve started forgetting things like appointments and showering because I’m so concerned about the terrible eating habits my family’s establishing without a stove. I come home from work each day and totally ignore my kids and husband so I can bee-line it for my bedroom, the only place that currently offers even a sliver of serenity.
And we still have at least two more weeks to go. The countertop guys called today to say the soonest they can do install is in 11 days, which means a sink, disposal and cooktop will all have to wait. That also means that my temporary kitchen setup in the dining room remains, and well as our high levels of Chef-Boy-R-Dee and Stouffers consumption.
Even more disconcerting? Our fecal-contaminated flooring – caused when our toilet spewed raw sewage everywhere one infamous Sunday morning last fall and, incidently, the whole reason for this makeover – still has not been replaced. That comes on Monday. So we’ve been, not just figuratively but literally, living in a poo-box since September!
I suppose the silver lining here is the solid material I’m collecting for future columns. Sort of like the “Alien” franchise, my stress monster will return again and again for your reading enjoyment. Peace out.