the Mrs.

Long story short, I’m doing much better.

My weight the other day was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration since I rushed in from the car [what else does a OCD person do? They drive 800 miles and rush in the house and jump on the scale . . .] and it was an evening weight with clothes on. The very next morning [Tuesday] I was 146.5 and this morning 145.

I was in panic mode. I was in frustration mode.

But the rest of it was not an exaggeration: the horse poo, the light bulbs, the dishes, [not one dish was done in five days!] the RS lesson, my missing pillow, lost Orion, the bike wreck, the melted chips, the spent money, the off-champagne paint, the licorice, the Augustine feller, the grass catcher.

But I cope. That’s what I do. That’s part of who I am. You may call me Mrs. Cope. It’s what I’m used to.

And that reminded me about the sign.

Because Monday night I got home around 8 and mowed the lawn. Tuesday I worked 12 hours at the school, five hours for the Census, made two pans of cookie bars for the reunion, did two batches of clothes and one batch of dishes. I also finished mowing what I had left the night before, watered the lawn and fed the horses and dog . . . and crawled [literally] into bed at 10:30.

I get crabby about life and I apologize. I guess if it were bad enough I’d do something about it. But instead I cope.

Here’s the sign. I’m just sayin’!

tee hee.

[I know there are lots of guys out there that don't really need a sign.]