Go Sell Crazy Some Place Else- We're All Stocked Up Here

Ahh. You know that feeling, when you're standing on a kitchen chair, ridding the cereal cupboard of its taunting, antennae-waving intruders using only a paper towel and the force of your own kill-crazy ant hatred? And in between your little girly noises of revulsion and your muttered cursing of the so-called exterminators, you realize that it's possible your little red choo choo has finally chugged around the bend?

Or when you're laying in bed at three in the morning, listening resignedly to the escalating noise in the nursery next door, and you actually start crying a little because it's possible that DYING would feel better than being woken up One. More. Time. in the same sleep cycle?

Or when you're trying to get all the laundry done for another showing and you realize you've processed your single pair of jeans that fit properly through the wash about three times already this week? Who says housekeeping is unfulfilling and just an exercise in futility?!

Or the Schwann man comes to the door, and it dawns on you that he is now inquiring automatically as to your corn dog and frozen pizza status?

Or you're watching P.S. I Love You with your sister and can only summon up the emotional fortitude to throw back your cheap wine and scoff bitterly, "Oh please! That's not a real argument! That's just foreplay." And later, "What is with her schizo outfit? Am I the only one who just finds this girl annoying, and also, a TERRIBLE kisser?" While your less emotionally stunted sister is wiping tears?

Or you blithely volunteer to bring a salad to church for a post funeral dinner, no less, and then just as blithely forget about it until someone calls you to kindly ask if you maybe left the salad somewhere they weren't looking? Cue giant, self-loathing forehead smack. "Um, yes, I left it on the third shelf of my brain, right next to the spot where I like to pile up all my to-do lists and goals for safe keeping while I am otherwise occupied by wiping noses with my sleeve and changing six to eight poopy diapers per day."

Speaking of! Ever have that feeling, as you're scrubbing chewed up dirty diaper remnants out of the carpet for the third time in one week, that it's a good thing you've clung so staunchly to your fear of guns in the home, because if you currently had access to one you can't vouch for what you'd do with it? Fonzie? Do you hear me?