There are days I feel as if I am living inside a sitcom. Where actions, circumstances, words and other various things all take place for the pleasure and laughter of others. Who they are that are watching my life and laughing, I don't know. But I do know they are out there. And they find great joy in my misfortune.
My husband has become desensitized to things falling apart, breaking, or simply failing to function. Each time something like that happens, he lets whatever is in his hand (tools, objects, etc.)...drop. To. the. floor. Without so much as a blink or twitch of the eye. He just simply walks away and continues to do what he was previously engaged in before it happened.
For example: He had been looking in his closet for an article of clothing. Discovering it's absence, he determined it must exist elsewhere in the house. Most of his belongings do. As he proceeded to grab the door knob to attempt his exit, it fell off into his hand. He looked at it. Allowed his brain to process the event. Dropped it. And left the room to continue finding his clothes. His attitude remaining 'matter-of-factly'. He just doesn't care anymore.
Because that sort of thing happens. all. the. time.
To add to our long list of things that eerily compare to the movie The Money Pit, is our downstairs T.V.
It's on the fritz again. It has broken once. Now twice. It doesn't even create that hopeful click, in spite of the continued blackness on the screen, when you hit the power button. It does...nothing. Except collect dust. And if you know me at all, that's the last thing I need. Something else to collect dust. Something else to clean.
I hate cleaning.