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"Greetings from Cranky Pants, California! I am writing to wish you a good night. Actually, that&amp;#039;s a bold face lie because this night is far from good. The truth is, I don&amp;#039;t feel like writing at all. But it&amp;#039;s my job.  And rather than gild the lillies and pretend that everything is hunky dory in my sex, love and personal life, I&amp;#039;m going to lay it on the line since my husband has not had something laid on the line in a few days: This week blew chunks. I know I sound like Debbie Downer. (Rex only wishes I were Debbie Downer - in the good way. Perhaps one of you can send me a clever letter about your rockin&amp;#039; sex life and I can post it up tomorrow? That would likely be far more entertaining than my ramblings this evening.) I am aware I sound whiney and pathetic. I know that many of you don&amp;#039;t have husbands or jobs or sex lives at all which makes me a miserable twit. Perhaps I need therapy. Perhaps I need a glass of wine. Perhaps I need to nose dive into a vat of chocolate and come up for air only when I&amp;#039;ve sucked down every last morsel of cocoa and have blown up so large that I have to be pried out of the tub with my favorite red Williams Sonoma spatula. Note: The famous kitchen empire is not paying me to link them, but I am so happy to report one positive thing in this post. Plus, unlike a pregnancy scare Rex and I had early in our relationship, I&amp;#039;m proud to say that that Williams-Sonoma&amp;#039;s rubber is hearty, durable, and stands up to leaks.) The good news? I am coming up for air far quicker than I&amp;#039;ve done in the past. Why? Because I can&amp;#039;t place the blame on anyone else. I know that it&amp;#039;s not your fault, dear readers. It&amp;#039;s not the bank&amp;#039;s fault that I have the accounting skills of a blind rat dancing on a calculator. It&amp;#039;s not my kids&amp;#039; faults who have the audacity to want me to feed them. EVERY DAY. I mean, I can&amp;#039;t even miss one meal or they&amp;#039;re going to complain. Oh, and that homework, reading, cuddle and overall nurturing deal? Totally overrated. It&amp;#039;s not my in-laws fault who keep sending me pictures of their Maui beach home, You know, just in case I forget what their sunsets look like compared to the other one million photos they have sent me over the past decade. I can&amp;#039;t blame my husband. In the past week he surprised me with a lovely bottle of red wine and daily compliments about my M.I.L.F. status. (No, he isn&amp;#039;t drunk when he tells me. He actually thinks that, making me more of the pathetic twit described above.) The truth? I&amp;#039;m just either hormonally challenged this week or simply reaching burn-out. As one reader pointed out, I am indeed far from Super Woman. I can&amp;#039;t cook gluten free, drive to karate, ballet, volunteer at school, hang out with friends, run across town once a week, host impromptu sleepovers and clean my pig sty of a home without having some sort of mental AAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Of course, the real key to serenity is to not have things &amp;quot;perfect&amp;quot; but to accept what is. How does one do that? Oh, they SLOOOOWWW DOWN. And so, keeping in mind that Super Woman has better manners than I do (but probably not bigger breasts) I&amp;#039;m going to leave you with the fact that I&amp;#039;m cranky. I&amp;#039;m sorry. There will be no inspirational tale of sex, love and passion. I am depleted. But feel free to leave a comment. Perhaps by Friday, with some good sleep, food, prayer, meditation and lots of love from my little family (God love &amp;#039;em) I&amp;#039;ll have my spunk back. Hope you are all doing okay! "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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