Frantic

So, today I spent the day working the booth at the Cy-Fair Chamber Business Expo. I dreaded going — I am really, at my core, incredibly shy and don't necessarily enjoy making small talk with people I don't know well; I have a hard time at cocktail parties as well, which is why I avoid them unless I know the attendees well.

My anxiety was unnecessary; today wasn't so bad. People were very friendly, very receptive to the magazine. I made several good contacts. And — as if that weren't enough — I filled my bag with all kinds of freebies, from pens and pencils to a nifty highlighter and very cool penlight/laser pointer/keychain. The girls were the lucky recipients of said loot; they loved it.

So, now I have to get the house in order. Tomorrow I must get groceries, finish cleaning house, and really clean up my office — my parents will be sleeping in here. Assuming they come — my mother has hurt her foot so we're awaiting a final verdict on whether she is nimble enough to make the journey from Austin.

Trying to keep up with these girls is like herding cats. For every item I pick up and put away, they respond threefold in the opposing direction. It is enough to make a normal person insane, and when you figure I am the parent involved ... well, enough said.

Plus I'm on my own this weel and next. When Gary called last night to share with me his time spent sight-seeing in Paris, it was all I could do to hold my tongue.

As for me, last night I spent my precious free time sewing patches on Sylvia's Brownie vest. All I could think of was my dear friend Tammy and the fact that she has no children, thus she will never get to enjoy this task, which I was completing for the third time (both older girls were Girl Scouts as well). Sigh ... I wouldn't trade my girls for anything, yet, on occasion, I have momentary flashes of envy for that totally adult lifestyle.

So, rather than cleaning bathrooms or putting laundry away, I am here, writing. Well, I rationalize, it's easier than seeking therapy. A few minutes here sorting out my demons beats an hour at the analyst probing my innermost thoughts.

Cheaper, too.