I'm not one for pity parties. It drives me crazy to read or listen to someone complain about how hard their life is. I always manage to think of someone else I know who is worse off. So I try to avoid the complainers and keep my own self in check. Granted, I am human and so I've caught myself complaining on many occasions. In the grand scheme of the world right now, I have absolutely nothing worthy of complaining about. So I'm not going to complain. Nope, I'm not. However, I am going to express my displeasure at the technical difficulties I have been experiencing lately. I'm not complaining. I'm just frustrated and need to vent.
Pretty much every aspect of my life has run into some technical difficulties lately. The house for instance. You might recall the giant Petri dish of West Nile Virus in our backyard, aka the pool? Yeah, after a few quotes on getting it repaired, I decided no way am I paying that much money to get a sunburn. Instead I will implement Plan B and fill that crater in.
Then there's the garage. What garage you ask? Yeah, that's the point, there is no garage. After spending the last six months scraping ice off my windshield, I would very much like to have a garage. So I called up an architect friend of mine who also loves old houses. He came up with a beautiful plan to add a Victorian porch to the awkward 1970s addition while connecting the garage in an eye-pleasing, more historically accurate way. Its location would also help privatize the back yard. I loved it. He loved it. The hubs loved it. All systems were go except...we smartly decided we should probably figure out where everything is buried in the yard before we started construction. So we called a company and they came out with their ground-penetrating radar. Three hours later, wouldn't you know, the septic tank and fingers are located exactly where the porch and garage were going to be. Exactly. Almost like it was planned that way. The architect is now working on Plan B.
At one point this winter, my arms fell off. I know that sounds like I'm being sarcastic, but they really did. The only thing holding my shoulders together was the skin. You see, they tell me I have
Joint Hypermobility Syndrome
. It makes total sense to me now and explains so many issues I've had all these years. I thought, at first, all I had to do was go do some physical therapy and I'd be good as new. I've been working at it for 8 weeks or so now and had been feeling pretty good about my shoulders. Then I tried to wrestle a goat. The goat won. And I'm now I'm back to Plan B.
My mother would have to confirm this, but I suspect I was probably one of those independent little children that went around saying, "No. Me do it." I've never really outgrown that independent streak so you can imagine how overjoyed I am to be sitting around waiting for other people to do things for me. Today, with a little help, I managed to get one set of curtains hung. Aaron has been patiently living with those frilly lace curtains in his bedroom all this time. Luckily it bothered me more than it did him because at the rate I am going, it is going to be December before I'll get the other two up. The rods need replacing, but my shoulders have decided they don't want to participate. I'm now sitting on the porch waiting for Plan B to come home. I'm not complaining, just struggling to accept those things which I cannot change. Like the curtains...