I’m here, no really I am…well sort of, at least. I haven’t had too much to complain about lately, and that’s made life ever so boring. What is a poor girl to do?

I know, I know, I should revel in my new-found happiness. And I would, really, if only it didn’t make me so damn miserable. I thrive on complaining. Bitching is my favorite pastime, and now, I’m coming up with absolutely nothing.

There’s still the bullshit with the house, but that’s a never ending story and it’s gone stale now. I’m hoping the next round of battles with the courts will maybe put some life back in that old complaint, but considering the massive pile of shit we’ll need to dig through to move forward, I seriously doubt I’ll be bubbling over with bile any time soon.

And there’s always the spouse. Who goes through life without complaints about their spouse? And we all know that I’ve had a deluge of things to piss and moan about in that department, a seemingly endless supply of gripes. But even that source has dried up… mostly.

The kids? MP3 is still a perfect angel, now with two teeth—teeth that just showed up one day (yes, the pair) without so much as a diaper rash to announce their arrival. Even the Pooplette Klingon Child is wonderful these days—something that is so gloriously nice words cannot begin to describe. And Monkey-1? There’s NOTHING to complain about.

I think the end of the world must be near.

Mr. ManThing has hired someone to help out on the farm. He’s supposed to ‘help out’, meaning he gets all the odds and ends jobs that Mr. ManThing doesn’t have time for or that he’s an extra pair of hands for bigger things, like changing a tire on a tractor for example, that Marc just doesn’t have enough limbs to handle. Ha! If only. This kid (and he is a kid, really—19 hardly qualifies one as much more now that I’m 29 years old with a few years of experience) is fucking awesome! He knows how to do almost everything. If something breaks, he takes care of fixing it, including calling and ordering the parts. Hubs tells him what he needs done in the morning, and The Kid goes and does it—without constant supervision, without someone having to explain every minute detail of every step of the process. His Stinginess doesn’t even complain when writing out the paycheck at the end of the month. I guess he feels he’s getting his money’s worth.

And since The Kid eats with us I’m kept busy. Forcing me to cook is such torture, especially when I have to cook for someone who has such a good appetite that nary a crumb need be packed away in the fridge afterwards. The pain…

Oh, I could complain about having been left alone, yet again, with three small, very sick children while the Hubs rubbed elbows in the north of France and I died several times over with a rhino-pharange-sinus-laryngitis thing (that still is hanging on) complicated by a suspected, yet short lived gastro. But I was compensated shortly thereafter with a Child-Free Weekend, a treat most unheard of in these parts, and honestly the horror of the whole experience has been dulled by the drunken hue that’s clouding the past weekend’s memories. I do remember being…happy (that’s a good word, right) enough to have actually stepped foot on the teeny-tiny dance floor with my husband and his charming childhood friend—although not at the same time—truly not that kinky. (Sorry Antipo, dearest, the rest of the raunchy details escape me, not that you’d want those details of course. I couldn’t stand to make you blush yet again.)