One for the Pooper

I never, ever do this, but this year I made a New Year's Resolution. 

I've either picked up a number of bad habits over the last two years or so or I'm just getting lazy or a combination of both, plus a number of other factors.  But after almost single-handedly polishing off a quart of peanut butter ice cream over Christmas, it was clear that I was in desperate need of some changes.  (In my defense, my father-in-law DID buy it especially for me, two days before we were to leave Texas and I couldn't let it go to waste now, could I?)

So I decided that my mantra could be Self Control.  In any given situation that might have tripped me up, I ask myself or, better put, chant to myself, "self-control, self-control, self-control." 

I started off with one area of my life that felt like it was sliding out of control, and before I knew it, it seemed that all my ducks were getting in line.  I paid attention to what I ate, did some exercises, started running again, weaned the baby, read my Bible regularly, did yoga, meditated . . . life was reaching a newfound level of smug perfection.   I was just about to blog about how stinkin' well this whole Year of Self Control was shaping up.

Then yesterday, I was informed by the landlord that I needed to wait around for the roofer.  OK, I'll put off my Monday jog around the Alameda until today.  Then this morning, unannounced, the roofer returned.  Plans shot for another morning.  He left for lunch, promising to return with the landlord, making sure multiple times that I would be around this afternoon.

He never came back.

No one called with basic courtesy to let us know that we didn't have to babysit the house all afternoon on the off chance that that might feel like coming back (like they said they would).  After he was all, "how can you no be here tomorrow morning and not leave me the key?  What about my work?"  (This is also not the first time this has happened.)

What about my work, eh, buddy?  Just because I'm a stay-at-home mom, it doesn't literally mean that I stay at home all the time.  Shocker, I know, but sometimes there are things I really do need to do OUTSIDE of the house.

Oh, and he speaks to me like I'm a five-year-old.  Word to the wise, just because someone has an accent, it doesn't mean that their intelligence is impaired.

Even after leaving a scathing message on my landlord's machine, my rage is still consuming me.   
 
Not very zen-like.  Not very self-controlled.  Not after yelling at the kids a variety of times for the most minor of infractions (I have apologized).  Not after sitting in front of The Big Bang Theory downing countless chocolate-covered almonds and plenty of pomegranate liquor.  So here's another day for the pooper and we'll start over tomorrow. 

Maybe I'll even get some yoga in to let go of some rage so I can possibly sleep tonight. 

But if that roofer shows up tomorrow at 8am (especially after a night of rage-driven insomnia) after specifically telling him that I will not be here (and will NOT leave him with the keys), he'll be getting a verbal lashing.

With very short words, so he'll be sure to understand me.

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I do realize that my perspective is coming up short here.  I mean, I'm filled with anger because . . . my house is getting fixed?  (Granted, for changes that I would rather not see take place.) 

I do realize that so many people are going through so many circumstances that are so very truly stressful.  My source of stress?  The non-overtly disrespectful roofer. 

I do see the irony, as I am one of the least punctual people that I know.

So boo to that uncontrolled anger that takes my day hostage. 

There's a duck I need to get in line.  Didn't even realize he was part of my duck herd.