Permission to lose one’s shit.

It is school holidays here, and Mr. Woog has decided to take the week off work to annoy the shit out of me and follow me around the house  so we can do things together as a family. Which is all very nice, apart from the hours that he is spending riding his beloved dirt bike. Thank GOD for that dirt bike, is all I can say. Otherwise I might have lost my shit. You see he is not good at doing nothing, which is the polar opposite of me. I am excellent at doing nothing.

But he is getting through a list of things, house-like, that have been annoying the shit out of me. Fun stuff like changing lightbulbs, changing batteries in smoke alarms so they no longer beep at me every 45 seconds. He has been instrumental in removing the daily rat catch. And he has been running heaps of child-related errands. Like buying Horatio a new tennis racquet.

This happened yesterday afternoon.

At 5pm, I like to down tools and watch my beloved Sandra Sully tell me about all of the dreadful things that happened during the day. And it was during this ritual that Mr. Woog started showing me how good this new racquet was. He stood in front of me and served, volleyed, forehand and backhanded air swings.

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“He will stop soon..” I thought to myself. My inner mongrel just wanted to scream “PLEASE FUCK OFF AND TAKE THAT BIG BOX OF BALLS WITH YOU!” but because it was the end of the day, I didn’t want to create tension, I let it slide. Eventually, sensing he had no audience, he gave up and left the room.

Now, had I lost my shit, there would have been a verbal exchange followed by a period of intense male sulking which, let’s face it, is highly annoying. But having said that, there is certain times that someones shit must be lost.

Some lovely readers shared their stories with me.

Emily lost her shit when her daughter gave Ariel a bath in her BEDROOM SINK.

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Helen’s kids got bored and made couch forts then got bored with that and moved onto the next activity.

 

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Emma found blue nail polish on her brand new carpet.

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While at Brodie’s place, the colour choice was a more traditional red.

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Meanwhile over at Melissa’s joint some left left the back door open. So of course the chook wanders in. The chook that had been hoovering up mulberries.

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Carmen’s kids are taking it to the next level, because you CAN fix a smashed window with Glad Wrap, and nobody will be the wiser….

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A couple of mums have had a gut full and right now they are in the middle of a silent protest. There is Angela with the recycling bin…

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And Felicity with toilet roll removal.

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Stay strong ladies. Stay strong.

What else can I find. Oh yes! Lou is trying not to lose her shit because her dog is addicted to Vicks!

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Cathryn is trying not to be knocked unconscious by a yo-yo.

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And in Rebel’s own words. (Read her blog here. She is tops.)

After spending the entire morning cleaning the house, I went on my next fun-filled mission of grocery shopping, leaving one request … “Dude, please don’t let the kids trash the house while I’m out.”

Foam. Packing foam. Destroyed and shredded, impossible to pick up packing foam. Over two storeys including the brown carpeted stairs.

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Perhaps we should all take a note from the late Joan Rivers who said, “I hate housework. You make the beds and do the dishes, and six months later, you have to start all over again.”

Have you lost your shit lately?

Come, sit by me and tell me all about it.