Whinage

There are times when I start to write a journal entry... and I have to stop myself, and delete it. Because it's just full of non-stop whinage. And it's not that I don't want y'all to know that yes, Auntie is more than capable of a one woman pity party, it's that... well... it's whining. Which is unproductive.

Besides, do you really want to know...

... that the Husbandly One and I have had only one... ONE child-free night in the 11 years since the Impertinent Daughter was born?


... that my mother and my oldest sister keep comparing me to the oldest sister's daughter, whose marriage and life are falling apart because she's just bat-shit nuts, and it makes me wonder if they think I am bat-shit nuts, too?


... that our soccer association is in danger of losing our soccer fields because Pop Warner has decided that they would make prime practice fields for their league, because the fields they have at present (that they chased us off of) are torn up from all their practices, and because they're too lazy-ass to work on them?


... that the Husbandly One and I have lived in this area for 12 years now, and my sisters are still punishing me for having moved from Houston?


... that I'm gagging for alone-time with the Husbandly One, to have sex without keeping one ear open for a knock on the locked door, or hoping they don't come back from their playtime at the neighbors an hour early?


... that I'm falling into another writing slump, and it's driving me nuts?


See? Whining. Whining, and moaning, and just... complaining.

I'll get through it. I usually do. It's just... the process. It takes a while. And I don't like to wait.