I'm Going 'Round, 'Round, 'Round...

I'm picturing a hamster cage, sort of like the one here on the right. It's got a nice little hang out pad or dome on one end, which connects by a tube or passageway to the hamster wheel on the other side.

I believe I've become the hamster.

I've been here before; I think most of us have. It happens when we over-commit, forget how to say "no," and make promises we're not sure we want to keep. We find ourselves spinning madly out of control and getting nowhere fast.

Here's the situation. Everyday I go to work and do a job that I absolutely love. I know what needs to be done, I know how to do it, and I enjoy my responsibilities. I consider this the "hang out dome" part of my day. I am steady and content and sitting on my butt (at the computer) for hours on end. But around 3:30 or 4:00 p.m. as my day is about to end (hey, I start at 7:30 a.m., so don't judge me), I start to feel the slightest pang of anxiety. On my drive home, the traffic is much heavier than it should be, giving me entirely too much time to think. I spend 20-30 minutes considering what my options are once I reach my humble abode. For most people, heading home after eight-plus hours in the office is the best part of their day; the at home options are far better than whatever they've just left behind. For me, this transition time is the equivalent of the tube/passageway section of the hamster cage. As I pass through, my anxiety reaches a dangerous level, and before I know it, I'm on the hamster wheel.

As I spin, I know I have some decisions to make, namely, what should I do with my time? There's the gym, and I know I should go, but I don't want to go, even though I always feel better afterwards. Then there's my never-ending list of things to do. If I could handle just a few small things, I'd spend less of my weekend making myself (and my children) miserable with what needs to be done. One of my most stressful options responsibilities at home is making dinner. Like the gym, this is something I know I should do (if not for me, at least for the children), but don't want to do. Unlike the gym, however, I rarely feel better when I'm done. Mostly because my cooking stinks and I don't know what to make, and God forbid I try anything new (the picky eater being me).

If I survive those couple of hours before dinnertime, I now face a decision about what to do with my evening. That's assuming I don't have a meeting on the calendar for youth committee, church session, or book club, and that Abby doesn't have a sporting event that I'd like to attend (providing me with a very good excuse reason to not take care of other stuff). Do I clean? Maybe I should handle the laundry. Or put the dishes in the dishwasher, and wipe off the table, stove and kitchen counters. For some reason, the prospect of cleaning up after I've just tortured myself by making dinner (or serving bagel bites), is more than I can bear. And don't suggest that I have the kids clean up. No one else in the house can properly load a dishwasher. But I digress.

Because I am a completely insane individual, I recently decided that it would be fun to add a little something extra to my list of time-killing obligations. I committed to spending about 10 hours a week handling the social media for an organization I'm fond of. Normally this is the kind of work that I would thoroughly enjoy, but because 1) it's brand new, and 2) I'm spinning on a hamster wheel, the whole thing has me a little stressed out and wondering what I've gotten myself into.

You might be saying to yourself, "I wonder what Kim really wants to do with her time?" Well, it's nice of you to ask, and I'm not embarrassed to say that I want to catch up on American Idol (love that Harry Connick Jr.), watch last week's episode of Scandal, or binge watch some new series. If we want to pretend I'm more highbrow than that, then let's say I'd like to read, or at least play spider solitaire (I'm up to three suits!) or sudoku until my eyes glaze over and I can shut my brain down and go to sleep.

Ah, sleep. My happy place. The other night, Abby asked me why I go to bed so early. Without hesitation, I told her that some people do drugs to deal with stress; I go to bed. (Then I asked her to fill my weekly pill organizer; the irony wasn't lost on either of us). It's true. Sleep has always been a wonderful avoidance technique for me. I recall during college, if I felt the least bit tired, I could convince myself that sleep was more important than my school work. Worked then. Works now.

Not surprisingly, by going to sleep early, the morning comes more quickly. I love mornings. I realize this makes little sense, given the way I've just compared my life to a hamster cage, but for some reason everything dissolves away overnight and I wake up happy, even though I know what I'll face at the 4:00 hour. Makes me think of the movie Groundhog Day when every day is a repeat of the last. I'm detecting a rodent theme here. Of all the animals I could compare myself to...

The good news is that I think I may have found a solution. I've been asked to join the Sanctuary Choir at our church (I felt flattered at the invitation, but in reality 1) they will gladly take anybody and 2) they just want to use me to help bring the median age down closer to 60). Singing has always been a source of joy for me. In fact, it's one of my favorite memories of my Pop Pop: "When you're unhappy, Kim, just sing." So I might say yes to this choir opportunity. That will take care of Thursday nights, giving me one less evening to figure out on my own. Although it does add one more commitment to keep...

Hanging on by a thread...

My Sick Pig

This is getting ridiculous. Last week I was heavy-hearted, this week I'm just plain irritated. Finally Rob is out of my hair feeling good enough to go to work, and now I'm stuck with an ailing guinea pig.

Abby's guinea pig Snickers has been under the weather for over a week now. First, his food consumption decreased noticeably. Then, not surprisingly, he was pooping less. And his overall demeanor was off. He's usually a happy, sociable little guy who likes to chew on the bars of his cage. (It sounds like he's banging away on an old fashioned typewriter.) And he has a cute little piggy mouth that seems to be smiling most of the time. Charming fellow, that Snickers.

Well, being that I was busy playing Florence Nightingale to my better half and had more important things to deal with, I didn't make too much out of Snickers self-imposed diet and lack of interest in us. Figured maybe the Funkapotomus had paid a visit to him too. But over the weekend, our piggy gave us more cause for concern:

• General lethargy; he just laid there and looked at us with sad, crusty eyes
• Sneezing and coughing
• Heavy breathing (particularly noticeable while we were all sleeping as one big cozy family in the basement during Irene)

Abby was terribly upset by Snickers decline, and since it takes a lot to upset Abby (she's the stoic one in this family), I decided it was time for action.  Before going to bed last night I made the mistake of researching guinea pig illnesses online, and it was dismal as hell wasn't encouraging. Based on his symptoms, I diagnosed Snickers with an Upper Respiratory Infection, but the website noted that a sick guinea pig rarely gets well. I slept lousy, dreaming of guinea pig funerals, got up this morning and was on the phone by 8 a.m. making a most likely futile appointment with the vet.

Two hours (1.5 of which were spent in the waiting room), a massive allergy attack, and $115 later, I'm here with a hopefully recovering Snickers who endured a force feeding of baby food, a thermometer you-know-where, a front teeth trimming (?), a nail clipping, and a fluid injection into his side. I came home equipped with a small mammal pharmacy, including:

• Antibiotics and a dropper to dispense it 
• Yogurt (with dropper) to feed him after the antibiotics so he doesn't get diarrhea
• Jars of carrot baby food and a dropper to use for feedings every six hours
• A tube of nutrient gel to mix into the carrots
• Eye drops
• Broccoli (which he'll have to share with us)

I drew the line at the Vitamin C tablets she wanted me to crush up and mix into his food. Vitamins are expensive. 

Let's just say this is more than I would do for most of my family members people I know.

The bottom line is this. If in a few short days Snickers is not recovered, chances are slim that he will get well. And to be honest, I'd really miss him. And more than that, I hate to see Abby cry. So let's all say a prayer for the little guy, okay? 

Our friend, Snickers, pretending to eat for the camera