The emotional barometer is rising. We inhabitants roam the house aimlessly. The adults keep silence as much as possible, while the children play out our inner feelings in their violent games. It's incredible how children can tap into the darkest corners of their parent's psyche. I can't help but snap at them for their disturbances when I'm analyzing our bank account.
Our bank account. Once it flowed like a shining river of abundance. Now it sits, a stagnant pool with a gushing leak, gushing like my tears. We can only hope that there will at least be some damp algae left by the time we find a new river to feed our endless hunger for power tools, furniture, pad thai, and perishable goods.
As I face the barren wasteland, I realize that we ourselves are the truly perishable goods. If I could put aside my pride I might admit that we aren't even so good. Maybe we're just perishable bads. Two thirty-somethings plodding through the American life, one begging to write functional clumsy code for food, one trying to redefine motherhood into something stylish yet heroic.
See, the stress has damaged me already. I've digressed into my adolescent melodrama. I'm chewing on my fingers. Good grief woman, there's still a closet full of cereal over there, pull yourself together!
There is an end in sight; Isaac has been told he will have a job offer by the end of the week. Pray he can start work soon, or I may go mad and take him with me.
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