Irrational Laughter

Have you ever been so fed up with life you devolve into irrational laughter?   According to the Rock Star this is called “a nervous breakdown”.  In my family we call it “Tuesday”.  Whatever.  The straw that apparently broke my nervous breakdown’s back was triggered by my dog Facebook stalking someone I don’t know by wedging herself in between myself and my laptop and then trying to itch her back on my keyboard.  Which leads me to believe that the “Canine College” she attended as a puppy was less than aptly named.  At any rate, I haven’t blogged in a bit so perhaps some background is due here. 

Flashback one month.   Late October 2013. 

I set my purse down on the kitchen table and sigh.  Heavily.  The Rock Star, somewhat needlessly asks, slowly, “how was your day, honey?”

Another heavy sigh as I throw my hands in the air.  “The nurses at the hospital flea dipped Cheryl today.  Take that information however you want.”  Cue whiskey. 

About a month ago Cheryl (name has been changed to compromise with my mother) had a stroke and she was taken in by a simply amazing family member of mine.  As we went to feed her cat we discovered that Cheryl has a hoarding problem.  Not like, she collects weird stuff, or she’s a little messy, or “maybe you don’t need all 38 of those cans of tuna anymore”, more like “holy sweet Jesus what the hell did we miss and why isn’t this on that show?!”  Those closest to her, myself included are confused, horrified and heartbroken.  We wonder if we should have seen this, could have helped, or triggered this in anyway.  I wonder if this is genetic, if I should feel shame, if I should write and publish this blog at all. 

As entertaining as A&E may think this problem is, and as much as I myself have laughed at it in the past, when you’re staring down a heap of 35 year old utility bills stacked to the ceiling, it’s not funny anymore.  It’s sad.  It makes you wonder how lonely someone has to be to seek emotional fulfillment in trash.  And so the cleaning commences.  The Rock Star and I spent a long afternoon sifting through refuse to salvage what was left that was valuable as Cheryl recovers in a physical rehabilitation facility for stroke victims as her needs outgrew the capacity of the person she was staying with. 

But life continues, the hoarding disorder of a loved one aside.  Part of that life is work, the second prong of my misshapen fork (spork?) of stress induced irrational laughter.  My job has a tendency to be stressful, I like my job, I like what I do and the freedom with which I’m allowed to do it.  It’s a good job.  But it can be stressful. 

Part of (okay most of) this stress is the demanding nature of the person I work for.  Not demanding in a bad way, just demanding in a “get all of this done and then do some more because everything is priority number one and I yell when it’s not done” sort of way.  I typically know that I’m doing things right when he takes up smoking.  Again.  I know I’m really doing things right when he fires me.  Again.  I don’t much dig authority and he loves being authoritative.  He is large and intimidating and I find that adorable and apparently that’s offensive.  I have a natural desire to point out stupidity and apparently that is offensive as well.  Also offensive is answering questions with the response “as soon as I find my cape”, “about an hour after hell freezes over” and “aren’t you being missed in a bowel of hell somewhere?”  On a related note, referring to your boss as “Adolph the Heating Guy” will get you pulled into a closed door meeting you do not want to be in. Who knew?

Combine this natural head butting with work entering a phase Boss Man refers to as “busy season” and I refer to as “pure unadulterated hell” and what you get is obscenity echoing through the cubicles at work and uncomfortable meetings with those considered “upper management”.  You haven’t lived until you’ve had to awkwardly explain why you were justified in telling your boss to go fuck himself in front the lady selling the company insurance (who, by the way, looked terrified yet amused). 

What complicates all of this work stress is the fact that, vacant bowels of hell and not completely exaggerated Nazi comparisons aside, I like my boss.  He’s a good guy, he’s funny and I hate to admit how much his horribly off key renditions of terrible Christmas songs boost morale.  Fighting daily on a professional level with someone you genuinely like on a personal level is a drag.  It impairs my ability to make adorably snarky comments and not binge drink when I get home. 

I can only spend so many hours weighing the pros and cons of becoming A.) a stripper B.) a pirate or C.) a drug dealer so many times before here I am irrationally laughing at my dog crawling on my laptop.  But, alas, there is a light at the end of my crowded, hoarded, time constrained, work stressed tunnel: I’m going on vacation!  Yes, indeed, I will be in South America in just a few short days and I and the Rock Star cannot be more excited.  I’m going to meet my brother, the youngest of my dad’s children, who I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting in person.  For the first time all of my dad’s children will be in the same room along with my cousin and her family.  Time to cheer up, sober up and start packing!  Stay tuned for updates and pictures!