The Downer...

Oh.  My.  Days.  If I said that I had been in a foul mood the last three or four days, that would be something of an understatement.  You ever have one of those days weeks where you seem to get a decade's worth of PMT all in one go, completely out of the blue?  That.  You ever have one of those days weeks where everyone is an idiot, everything they say is stupid (and you have to point out in no uncertain terms why they're stupid) and everything they do grates on you to the point that your mouth opens and shoots out barbed comments at them?  That.  And there's not a thing I can do to stop it.  It's like my tact filter has broken. To further illustrate how I feel, I have found a clip from a TV show.  I need give no further explanation.  The little blue cat in bed, towards the end of the clip, is how I have been feeling (and behaving) this week.  I suspect that my face has looked a little like his too...

Taking Adam to have his dressing changed yesterday...

Me:  I don't know what's up with me the last couple of days.  I've been in an absolutely foul mood.
Mr G's head turns slowly towards me
Mr G:  I'm glad you mentioned that, I'd have never noticed.
Me:  I don't know what's wrong with me, it's like I'm wound up so tightly that I'm going to snap.  I'm just a snarling bundle of grrrrr...

And there's absolutely nothing wrong either.  Mr G has been helping me get the house into shape.  It's looking better than it has done in a long time.  And - I may be tempting fate here - it's staying tidy.  He's done some lovely planters and hanging baskets, because he's the one with the eye for detail, me - I just stick the plants in and hope for the best.  He looks at labels, see how high they grow, how wide they grow, and arranges them so when they do grow, they look lovely.  I'm out for a meal tonight with the ladies for my Auntie's 70th birthday.  I'm meeting with friends I don't see often enough this week, we're meant to be going up Snowdon on Friday, weather permitting, and then out for a meal together in the evening.  Despite Adam's nasty accident last week, there's been no complaint from him, he even started refusing medicine after the third day, saying he didn't need it as there was no pain.  I've got a big birthday coming up that I'm excited about.  I just don't know what's up with me.  Midlife crisis maybe?

Adam:  *Brings me a carrier bag and masking tape* Mum, can you make a hole in that bag, and tape it round my arm, over my cast.

Me:  Why?
Adam:  I want to help Dad with these plants and don't want anything getting down my cast.
Me:  Oh.  Okay.
Adam and Mr G potter in the garden.  Then, from the kitchen, I hear...
Adam:  Dad?  Is that cowpat open?
Me: Huh?
Adam: Dad!  Is that cowpat open?
Mr G:  What bloody cowpat?
Adam:  That new bag of cowpat that you just bought?
Mr G:  Compost, Adam.  The word you're looking for is compost?
Adam:  Ah!  I knew it started with a 'c'...

The kitchen copped it on Sunday, where it was bleached to within an inch of it's life.  I decided to scrub the deep fryer too.  Mr G walked in and as he saw it on the counter, clean, and filled with fresh vegetable oil he asked me, hopefully...

Mr G:  Man-made chips for tea, tonight?
Me:  Um... yes.  But will woman-made chips suffice?  Unless you're planning on cooking?
Mr G:  What do I mean?
Me:  Homemade chips?

And then there was this.  Which went no way towards putting me in a better mood, nor making me like anyone who lives in this house.  Watching some nature programme with whassisname, that bloke who does animals.  Steve something.  Anyway.  He comes out with this comment...

"There's a distinctive fishy smell in the air..."

Everyone looks at me, and my daughter says... Mum.  Everyone laughs.  Except me.  

I hate everyone.