Let's Just Blame the Zit...Mmmkay? - Cheaper Than Therapy Cheaper Than Therapy

Sometimes I find myself having a particularly rough time, which feels absurd to say because my life is pretty awesome.

I have a lovely family, everyone’s relatively healthy even though my husband might have Celiac and/or a milk allergy so coupled with my awesome allergies (Allow me to speak for you: there goes Ali with her woe-is-me allergies again), eating in our house has become slightly challenging (which is funny because my husband is a food blogger) and everyone’s relatively happy. But then there just things that all seem to happen at once and weigh me down so heavily like an uncomfortable blanket and then there are tears and more tears and more tears and then I see THE ZIT and I remember. It’s all very, “Oh! It’s all making sense now—why I want to throw my tea mug halfway across the room.” This week was extra emotional for me—there is one particular VERY BIG thing that led to a very confusing-to-many cryptictweet. And the one big thing plus the arrival of the zit made all the little things feel bigger somehow, all-consuming.

On a normal day, those little things wouldn’t turn me into the brunette-with-blond-highlights version of the Claire Danes Cry Face. Speaking of Claire Danes, on a normal day, the fact that Claire is so obviously visibly pregnant wouldn’t annoy me as much as it does this week. I mean, I really would love it if someone would call her out all, “Wow Carrie Mathison, did Abu Nazir feed you a giant buffet when he had you chained up in that warehouse?”

On a normal day, it wouldn’t annoy me to have to take my children to clearly unhygienic bathrooms where horror movies happen, multiple times.

Danny’s not here Mrs. Torrence.

On a normal day, finding out that there’s a blogger hate site forum about me would make me scream from the rooftops “DUDE I HAVE ARRIVED!” but this week, well, I’m mildly irritated by the fact that people are annoyed by how judgmental I am about undergarments and grammar. Don’t most people wear a particular type of undergarment? But hey haters, look what I did there, I started three sentences in the row with the same words—what a grating writing style I have there.

So, little things, yanno?

Which, again, absurd, because it has been a really good week for everyone else as casa de Martell. Even Joshua, who has the croupiest cough that ever did cough, but it earned him two days at home doing nothing but zombie-ing out in front of various screens of his choosing, what with no sisters around to fight over them. We had dance showcases where the girls got to show off their awesome hip hop moves for me. Miss Emily had her YummyMummyClub.ca webisode debut where she showed off her stinkin’ adorable acting abilities and learned that she has been getting cheated with her allowance. ($11?? Are you kidding, TD bank? Are you going to pay her every week?)

And then there was last night when my husband got up on a stage and for a brief moment lived out his rock star dreams by singing a three-song set in front of a club full of strangers, his family, his friends, and his three children who most definitely should not have been allowed in the bar that very clearly said you had to be at least 19 to enter.

(Whoops.)

All I could think of, throughout the entire performance, was how I could never in a million years do something like this. I mean, not even just with my vocal un-abilities, it’d be the nerves that would get me. I have enough trouble with karaoke. Here’s a bit of video that I stole from my brother-in-law. I did get a bit of video, but I was concentrating so hard on getting actual real photos with the honking big camera that kept hitting everyone all night due to the giant external flash that was completely necessary because holy cow it was dark in there.