Welcome back to my perverse little mind...

Hello everyone.

It has been an incredibly long – LONG, LONG – time since I have written anything for this blog. I have been pursuing other writing (and let’s be honest, primarily NON-writing) endeavors. Like parenting my kids (against my will, at times). And Netflixing (not as often as I would like). And gaining and losing the same 5 pounds that I have been gaining and losing since the birth of my twins 9½ years ago. In other words, very little has changed since I last wrote anything for this blog.  

I am sitting at home this evening feeling extremely frustrated. Honestly, life is good and things are going well for me. Work is work, but I have no real complaints. I love my family. I adore my wife. But sometimes I just get incredibly crabby for no apparent reason. And I realized tonight that this blog served for years as a spout through which I could vent my frustrations. And my joys. And the things that anger me. And the hilarity of everyday life with my often endearing, sometimes downright bothersome children.

When I stopped writing in this blog, all of those feelings and ideas and stories and derangements and general psychopathy had nowhere to go. And I am a firm believer that both joys and frustrations are better managed when they are shared. So…here we go again.

Welcome back to my perverse little mind.

So why am I frustrated these days? I have a list. A rather long list. Some items more frustrating than others, but all of them are currently annoying me. In the interest of divulgence, I present my list for your perusal:

• I am in my eighth week and on my third round of antibiotics for treatment of a bad case of mastitis that refuses go away. First of all, who gets mastitis when they are not breastfeeding? When they have NEVER breastfed?  Seriously…who? And who gets antibiotic-resistant mastitis?? Who manages to grow some sort of indestructible Ironman superbug in their boob?? Me, apparently. That’s who. And in case you were wondering, yes, it’s painful. Extremely painful. Hurts-to-roll-over-in-bed-and-if-my-son-tries-to-“cuddlebug”-with-me-one-more-time-I’m-gonna-clock-him painful. Tomorrow, I am going to the Regions Hospital Breast Center to have a mammogram and ultrasound done to see what is causing this and why it will not seem to go away. Fingers crossed for good news. Or even bad news if it results in a plan to finally get rid of this thing. 
• I seem to have developed a complete and total intolerance for alcohol in my old age. Within moments of taking even one sip of wine, my face feels like it’s on fire and I break out in a full-body sweat. It’s the ultimate hot flash—like if the Human Torch was a menopausal woman living in Biloxi, Mississippi. It’s that kind of hot flash. It has become so immediately uncomfortable that I really just can’t drink anything. It’s unpleasant enough that it is not worth it to me. But I miss wine. And bourbon. And margaritas. And I’m kind of really pissed about it. 
• I can’t bake sourdough bread. It’s true that I just started. And it’s true that I’ve attempted a whopping total of 2 loaves. And it’s true that artisanal sourdough bread is nothing short of culinary science, and perfecting it requires skills obtained through years and years of trial and error. That said, however, I kind of sort of like to excel at everything I do on the first try. And when I don’t (which happens more often than not), I get extremely frustrated. It’s a sickness. I know.   
• My thirteen year old son refuses to turn in his homework. Actually, he doesn’t refuse so much as he “forgets.” So I have to constantly check his assignments online and repeatedly remind him (read: nag the hell out of him) until he turns them in. And the kicker is that he DOES the work. He even does quality work. But he gets no credit because he is so rattled and disorganized (teenage boy brain?) that he can’t seem to remember to turn it in. Grrrrrr. 
• Downton Abbey is over. Done. The Crawleys are gone forever. And the final episode was so sweet and so charming and wrapped up every story line so tidily that I can’t even be mad that it’s over, dammit. 
• There is no way to watch University of Kentucky basketball games in Minnesota. We’re nearing March Madness, so that irritates me. 
• Donald. Trump. What the hell? Seriously. What? I don’t get it. I can’t even…I mean…I don’t even know…whaaa? 
• Speaking of not getting it, my nine-year-old daughter’s newest catch-phrase is, “You just don’t get it!” There is apparently no limit to the things that I do not “get.” There is a bottomless pit of my you-don’t-get-it-ness. As a matter of fact, I am so far from getting the elusive “it” that I am really not even sure how I manage to function in the world without a constant drool drip.
• I should be writing an article for The Next Family right now instead of whining to you guys about my numerous neuroses because TNF actually pays me for my articles. But I can’t seem to think of anything to write about these days. Like, nothing. Nada. I don’t know if it’s writer’s block or if I have finally reached the point where I simply have nothing to say anymore. And if I have nothing to say anymore at 43 years old, WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?