Mixing Alcohol with Handling Sharp Objects

I haven't bought a bottle of wine since I moved here. (I find myself saying that a lot. There seems to be way too much I haven't done in those four and a half years.) It's not that I haven't had wine in that time. I just didn't bother going out and buying any, unless you count that Arbor Mist stuff that I got once. I don't count that. It's more like a big bottle of wine cooler, not wine. I can no longer say I haven't bought a bottle of wine since I moved here though. I bought a bottle. I bought two.

I needed a couple bottles of wine after the whopper fight John and I had last night. It was so grueling and horrible that he didn't even go to work today. We slept in late, and both the kids were almost late to school. It was that kind of wicked bad fight. I could barely open my eyes in the morning; they were so puffy from crying. I had to put a wet washcloth over my eyes while Booie ate breakfast just to get them down enough so the neighbors wouldn't call the cops on John for domestic abuse.

I hate it when I cry hard, and my eyes get like that. I get those little red spots around my eyes too from broken blood vessels. I look awful, like I got a shiner without the bruising, all from crying. It's not that I always cry that way. Usually I get it out, and my eyes are just fine, but when I'm really upset and sobbing my eyes out for a couple hours, I guess the pressure is just too much. I still have that feeling like I just got done crying, and it's been over half a day. I thought about going out and buying hemmorhoid cream for my eyes just to get the swelling to go down. The only thing that kept me doing it is I heard it on TV on a segment about beauty pageant secrets, and I was worried they were lying as some kind of evil joke, like telling men that Nair is fine for facial hair removal or something. I don't want to be the idiot with butt cream on my eyes in the ER.

So where was I? Butts? Yeah, that's pretty much what I thought of John last night. More specifically, I thought of him as a very particular part of a butt. And why did I think of him this way, you ask? Because I got the raw end of a deal and voiced my complaint, we got in an argument. Basically, it was over doing dishes. Trivial on the surface, but then I started feeling that same old feeling that he doesn't care for me or take enough interest in me, and he had the same old reaction of being cold and defensive. It was a terrible downward spiral, as can be attested by my ocular appearance.

I don't know that we really even got anywhere, but I did feel better by the time we went to bed at God knows what hour. Today has been good, and my hope has been restored, even if it is minimal. At least there is something there. I decided to take a break from worrying about it today and just buy some wine.

I'm considering living the lush housewife stereotype; I've enjoyed this so much. I can put on my silk nightgown and robe and get tanked every day. If I weren't such a responsible parent, I don't think there'd be anything stopping me. As it is, I wouldn't even allow myself more than a couple glasses of wine this evening, because I was home alone with the kids. Isn't that just grand of me?

John will be home soon, so I can indulge all I want, except I fear I'm getting old and refrain from excess now because of the repercussions of the following day. I really don't want to ruin my weekend with a hangover after having had such a dreadful menstrual week. I'm finally feeling better, apart from the wine, and I'd like to continue that streak. Maybe I'll only drink half the bottle.

The sharp objects described in my title refer to scrapbooking stuff. I've been cutting and stamping and punching away this evening to create one of my beautiful works of art. Unfortunately, I can't offer a picture, since the page I completed has pictures of my niece, and I don't feel right putting someone else's child's picture up on the web without her knowledge. So far, she doesn't even know I have this page, and I don't intend to reveal it just to post a picture of my fabulous work. Instead, I'll offer one of the other pages I did at another time that only has people you can't even see, and for the most part, I don't know anyway.

As I said, John will be home soon, and I must end this ridiculously pointless entry, so I can drink some more wine and eat some of the ice cream he's bringing home. The man actually stood in the store and told me the flavors of ice cream available over the cell phone. What kind of idiot does that? An idiot that really does love his wife, that's what kind. How could I ever doubt he loves me?