Watch Me Unravel

If you love to watch train wrecks, you have come to the right blog.  As my stressors are piling up, my boundaries and ability to filter what I say are going down. Not only am I the newest inductee into the Husband Haters of America Club -- which is a surprisingly large club filled with nearly every women I know -- but I am now on the hunt for a nanny.  I have less than two weeks to find someone who will not molest or kidnap my children, subcontract her duties out to a television set, or view her employment with me as PRN.  

One nanny already broke one of my RULES.  She no-showed for the phone interview. 

I have three rules that if you break them, you will be fired. I've fired a nanny before, and I'll do it again.  Passive little Shannon with no balls who "just wants to be nice and make friends" has apparently left the building and I have no idea if or when she will return.  Do I miss her? Sometimes.  But back to the rules as formulated by Don't Fuck with me I've Had All I can take and then some Shannon.

1.  No playing on your damn little cell phone. You are at work, you are to be plugged into my children, not social media.
2. Show up. Every day. On time.
3.  There was a 3rd RULE, but thanks to my high level of stressors that are popping up, I've forgotten it. 

Which brings me to the issue of my memory. I realize that when stress is high, memory is going to fail, but it is still unsettling that I left meatballs in the oven cooking for SEVEN hours while I took the kids to the zoo and then out for dinner.

BUT...

What is more unsettling is that despite the fact that the house smelled like it was going to burn down, Dave didn't notice or think to ask me when I called to check in with him, "Is there a reason it smells like something is burning?"

I scheduled three appointments for Monday at 10 AM.  Maybe I need to use a calendar.  Maybe I need to remember to check one of my three calendars.

To my credit, I did remember it was recycling week, but still the recycling didn't get put out despite me blocking Dave from parking in the garage because I placed the recycle bin in the middle of the garage.  He has two responsibilities I count on him for besides earning a paycheck.  1. Unload the dishwasher.  2. Put the trash out wkly.   Instead, he left his car in the drive, left the garage-door open all night, and now we will have to wait two more weeks for the recycle guy to come.   Frick. (And he didn't unload the dishwasher. Not that I'm keeping score.)

It seemed like I had so much more to write...but I can't remember any of it right now.  Really.