I don't know if you've figured this out about me, but I'm a giant stressball. Shit stresses me the fuck out. I get worried, and anxious, and up tight about crap that probably shouldn't matter, but for some reason it totally does.
Although I am not currently in a mental state strong enough to attempt to lessen my crazy, I can at least point it out.
One thing I am trying to improve? I'm trying - really trying - to acknowledge that what stresses me out probably doesn't stress other people out. Especially Hubby. And, of course, what stresses him out doesn't bother me in the slightest. So when Hubby wants to clean the garage or insulate the crawl space, I need to let him - even when I'd rather he mop the floor or cut the grass. (The grass has been cut about three times since April, just for the record.)
Unfortunately, I've been at home for five months, which means I sit around my house finding things that bother me, and then I add them to my list of things that need fixing. Because crazy. However, when I actually get to cross something off the list? True euphoria. Last weekend was a prime example.
Yeah. Those are our batteries. And by "our" batteries, I mean they reside in our house but they really belong to Hubby who seems to have an unnatural and unrequited love for batteries.
Some are rechargeable (no, we're not total monsters who care nothing about the environment), but many are not. Most importantly, there is no way of knowing which ones work because all the dead ones just sit in the house for years and years waiting for me to take them to some sort of green recycling place or something, which I will clearly never do.
Thanks to my weird stress obsession, though, the batteries have now been sorted into three boxes: working; not working; and, probably not working but maybe working and we may never know so let's keep them and maybe we can put them in the tv clicker or something.
That's what you call SUCCESS, people.