I learned earlier this week that pop tart, Britney Spears' perks in the psych ward, were a rubber room and cigarette breaks. I so wished that could be me. I have hit the wall my friends. I can't do what I do anymore. Please, please, please let me have the rubber room.
Total lack of motivation has led me to gain weight, stop doing the laundry, stop paying bills and let the house go to hell. Here I sit in an ancient house dress that used to be cute, and my husbands over-sized Icelandic sweater. My hair looks good though. Also, my nails aren't bad.
Let us now journey into the mystery of where my motivation has gone. Down the toilet. Short journey.
How to get it back: No F-ing idea. Shorter journey.
Why I care: because it's boring. Everyone is doing it; losing their motivation for no apparent reason. I'm beginning to give my husband's conspiracy theories credence.
I have been rendered useless by a series of subliminal messages transferred through the television. I certainly watch enough of it these days. I have become a salivating pile of goop from messages hidden in a Reba re-run marathon, hours upon hours of HGTV, and the E network. The government is sucking the life out of women to keep us down. It is probably to keep us from voting for Hillary. God, that woman is always doing something. It's exhausting how she is making me look bad. The only thing that makes me feel like I can relate to her is her large, round behind, and the knowledge that she has a vagina somewhere under those tailored skirts. Work, work, work, work ,work. She has more accomplishments than the last six Nobel peace prize winners. But, does this impress me? Hell no! Because I have been systematically reprogrammed, and now suffer from Stepford Syndrome.
What gives me pleasure: coffee, alcohol, and my hair looks really good right now. I am an addict with a string of good hair days to my credit.
I tell myself the reason that I can not get started making lists is that I don't have a calendar. For the last 15 years I have received several complimentary calendars in the mail. You get those when you donate money to certain organizations. I have had my selection of calendars from NOW, to Habitat for Humanity, the zoo, Amnesty International, The Girls Next Door (I think someone else in my house must have supported that organization). This last year I did not open my mail or answer the phone. No one got any money out of me unless they hunted me down in person. Thus, no calendars. My husband offered one of his many welding supply calendars, but they don't give me any visual pleasure. And, since all I do these days is sit around and stare at stuff, that is a pretty important element.
Other reasons I may lack motivation: 1. The weather sucks. 2. One of the dogs keeps peeing on the carpet and I can't get her to stop so I've given up on everything. 3. My vision is going bad and I'm still mad that I shelled out 4,ooo bucks for the latest laser technology only three and a half years ago. 4. My bedroom is a mess so that I wake up and am instantly cranky with my spouse setting the tone for my entire day. 5. I am being suffocated by print (books, magazines, newspapers, web articles, piles upon piles of junk mail, etc. . .). 6. Perhaps I get some kind of perverted charge out of not getting anything accomplished (this is weird psychology bullshit, but thought I should throw it in the mix). 7. Aliens have taken over my mind and all of the time spent watching E is a sign that I should become a Scientologist. 8. The damned conservatives are trying to keep me from acting on my self-righteous anger over health care, education, and the environment by controlling my thoughts through narcotics released in airplane contrails. 9. Those fluorescent light bulbs, that are becoming so prevalent, are sucking the life force out of me one migraine at a time. 10. (I leave this for you, the reader, to contribute an opinion -- make it funny; I need the laugh).
My only hope seems to be to turn off the television, wear a gas mask, and buddy up to my favorite Scientologist, John Travolta. May peace and a hunky childhood crush be yours from: The Goddess of Everything.
Guess what? I can't sleep. Again. I have to be the most boring blogger on the planet. Every other entry is about my inability to sleep through the night. What am I, a newborn?
Anyway, my fabulous sisters commented on my blog. Now I feel like I exist. Our mother made us get our pictures taken every five years. I've included the current photo. I know, I know, we're hot. Get over it.
I had acupuncture and a massage today. Still every muscle in my body is in the 'locked' position. My brain is a fog of anxious thoughts. I figure that is why I have allowed myself to be stupefied by the television and several dozen books this week. I even read, Into The Wild. Total guy book. Also, not for a mother of a teenage boy who reads Kerouac, and is looking to test himself.
My husband suggested I take one of my pills. That is code for, take one of your pills because I can not handle you when you are like this, and I really just want to listen to my night time radio program, while I fall asleep without any trouble. (That pill must have been a little bitter).
What I have been doing is cruising my kids' web-sites and copying their pictures. I found a really cute one of the twins. They are both 23 now. Six months apart with different parents, but it works for them. They are out celebrating the current birthday right this second. Thank god they have each other. I am such a terrible mother. I didn't even get my child a card for his special day. I called him. He'll get money. Hopefully, he won't fret about no cake. My children are not fond of cake. That has presented some birthday tradition problems over the years. Birthday fruit salad seems to be the favorite for the young one. This one would probably vote for a beer with a floating candle. Oh, how they grow up . . . If I could, I would fly to Texas to smack his girlfriend upside the head. There's a story there, but I guess it falls under mother/son confidential. I'm sure his soul friend will give him some great advice tonight. No, she will probably get him drunk and let him sleep on her couch with her cat. Whatever cheers him up. It used to be pop rocks and a pillow fight. Like I said, how they grow up.
This is about the time I wish that one of our hot tubs worked. I could use a soak. I must run a bath, and try to submerge my rubenesque form into the warm water. It's only an hour into the next day.
May peace and a deep tub be yours from: The Goddess of Everything