Can I just run away from home? Please?

I need another weekend. This one was way too rough.

I'm in a busy time at work and the stress has piled up. I have to move offices this week. This will be the fourth office space I've had in a year. I'm being displaced by people being displaced by construction. I'm moving into a space half the size of mine. And not nearly as quiet. But here's the thing....

I'm going to occupy my boss's office. He is the head of one of our satellite campuses, in another town, so he's only here once a week. He'll get a corner of "my" office. And I'll be in the middle of the suite of offices occupied by the Dean of Academic Affairs. The Dean's office will be, oh, about six inches from mine. I'm still deciding if it's a good or bad thing.

Anyhow, I ended the week absolutely exhausted. Ranger and I went out to dinner on Friday, then he headed home. He was getting sick. Sicker than I've been with the cold I got from Greg's Dr. Pepper. I could feel Ranger's fever coming on. I loaded him up with Vitamin C-rich juices and some cold medicine, and sent him on his way.

Ranger was a sick, sick fella all weekend. I barely spoke with him. I didn't call because I'd wake him, so I texted and he responded when he came out of his medicine-head fog. When I did hear from him, he mostly made "I feel so terrible" groans and moans. I'd tell him a little something, but he wouldn't really hear me before he was drifting out again. He spent the whole 48 hours sleeping, taking cold meds, and sleeping again.

And I missed him. Very much. I felt so disconnected from him. I asked what I could do to help, and he said, "Stay away so you don't catch this."

I spent Saturday in the most horrible mood ever. I mean, ever. Stormfront Blogget began to brew at 3 AM Saturday, when my doorbell rang. Yes, doorbell. At 3 AM. Mind you, I was beyond exhausted. I needed solid sleep. NEEDED. Craved it like a nympho craves....well, you get the idea. And the damn doorbell rings at 3 AM.

Not just one ring. No, no, no.... "dingy, dingy, dingy, dingy, ding!" And then what sounded like a truck sped away. I lay in bed thinking, this canNOT be good.

I don't have a peephole. I opened the door to see my yard covered in toilet paper and cotton balls. Shit. I'll have to clean that up in the morning. I went back to bed. Damn teenagers. I'm going to slaughter my son's friends.

About three hours later, my sister wakes me. (Yes, they're still visiting. Will it never end?) "Hey, Blogget. You gotta get up and help me clean. Our cars are covered in mustard and bologna. And yours has Kotex pads stuck to it."

You could hear the thunder of Stormfront Blogget moving in.

I put my "crazy hair" in a ponytail. Even the sweet memory of Greg stroking my curls and saying, "I love your crazy hair," didn't lighten my mood. It usually does. I put on last night's clothes, and hard-soled slippers. Then I stormed out to the driveway.

Slaughter was on my mind. I had a few names picked out, until I got to the end of the driveway. In ranch-dressing letters, it said, "Hey Gage!"

Stupid fuckers. Gage doesn't live here. He moved over a year ago. Were the Texas plates not a give-away? How about the window stickers from a high school they've never heard of? What a bunch of bungholes.

I picked bologna off the cars. Sprayed off the mustard. Sprayed off the ranch dressing. Did you know that stuff stains concrete? Then, I started to peel the Kotex off my paint job. And it left adhesive. Adhesive. All over my bright, pretty paint job. I'd worked hard to get a nice, new car two years ago. And some stupid-beyond-recognition, brain fart, dumbass teenager thinks it's funny to ruin it.

Thunder and lightning, I swear. A cloudburst was coming.

I had to pour Goo Gone on my car to try to loosen the adhesive. It didn't help a lot. I spent two hours rubbing and scrubbing to get that shit off. And the kicker was that my sister and my son thought it was funny.

"I really didn't need this today," I said.

"None of us did," my mother said, defensively. I just stared at her, unable to come up with a civil response. The thunderstorm brewed around my brain. I was looking at three people who had spent the week taking off time from work to run around to the mall, museums, downtown shopping, and driving around pretty scenery, while I worked 9-10 hours a day, missing lunch breaks, and still cleaned up the dinner mess for at least 10 people at home each night, by myself. Unless Ranger was there. He'd help me. Sometimes my daughter mops the floor. But was Mom effing serious? W. T. F. ?

I'd expended what energy I had on this, and was about to spawn tornadoes.

My phone went off with a text alert. It was so not a good time for Old BF to be on my case again. I snatched up the phone and saw, "Good morning." From Greg. "How are you?" he added.

He has a sixth sense for asking this just when I need to tell someone. I told him. "Who did it?" he asked. I told him what I knew. His response: "They suck. Kill 'em." I had to laugh, which felt good.

Stormfront Blogget lingered in my house all day. And into the night. Exhaustion, frustration, and a generally pissed off attitude combined into something Truly Foul.

I did have to laugh when my son and his cousins were horsing around and my son accidentally yanked the younger boy's finger, with explosive gaseous results. Yep, it was a "pull my finger" moment. As all the kids scattered from the stench, my younger nephew rolled in hysterics, and his brother yelled at my son, "Oh my GOD! NEVER, NEVER, pull his finger! I mean, NEVER!" Okay, so it's sophomoric, but damned hysterical!

Late Saturday night, my phone goes off again.

"Has your day gotten better?" Greg asks. I have to admit being a little touched that he remembered.

"Yes. Still in a bad mood, but calming down. Thanks for asking! How's your day?"

"Bad day, but I'm on my way home." I hate that he has to walk home most nights. It's dark and he's tired, and it's about a four mile walk.

But he's a little depressed that night. He's been thinking of everything he had that his soon-to-be-ex destroyed. Of all of his possessions, only one DVD survived. "I think God doesn't want me to have nice things," he said.

"I can't believe that," I said. "You've just had a hard time lately."

"My entire life!" he said. It's true. Nothing has ever been easy for him.

"Maybe this is what had to happen to wipe the old life clean, and start a new one, without all the crap."

Then we switched topics and chatted about his upcoming birthday. I've been encouraging him to do something for himself. I'm going to get a used set of golf clubs from a friend of his for him, and he's really pumped about it. "I want you to have exactly what you wish for this birthday," I said.

"Well, you're not here," he said. "Did you know you're the only one I've been with besides my wife?"

No, I didn't know that. Honestly, I'd thought otherwise. But he's been dropping hints about this lately, so I'm not too surprised. He'd mentioned that sex is very emotional for him, and not something he takes likely. He's opened up to me a lot more, since knowing someone else is in the picture.

We ended the conversation on that note, since it was time for sleep.

The next morning, I made the mistake of answering the phone. It was Old BF. He'd been going through his box of memorabilia from our years together. All the gushy love letters from before I knew he'd lie and cheat. When things seemed so open and possible for us.

"I want you to still be part of my ever after," he said. "I feel like I've lost my chance at 'happily ever after' and it's not fair."

"Not fair?" I said, incredulous. "Here the thing. I lost my happily ever after with you, too, but guess what? I didn't have a choice. It was taken away from me. You took it away. How fair was that?"

"I know," he said. "That wasn't fair on you, and I'm sorry."

"I'm glad you are, but it won't fix it. We've been through it too often," I said. My head started to hurt. "Listen, do I really have to go through this right now? Again?"

He decided to drop it. I laid in my bed, looking at the too-early sunlight coming through the window. It was hot. I kicked off my sheets. Still too hot. Someone had turned off the swamp cooler, which makes my room sweltering. I'd asked them to not do that.

Loud voices came from downstairs. Did no one understand the words, "I really need to sleep"? So, I went downstairs and reiterated that fact. But plans had already been made for me.

"I can't handle all the kids at church by myself," my mother said. I glowered. Why the hell not? I did exactly that last week. My sister was staying home. My father was sick. And two of the five kids weren't going. The ones who were going were well-behaved. However, to argue was to cause a maternal meltdown, so I gave in. What can I say? My backbone was worn out.

Two hours later, in the church parking lot, my son made a bad strategic move. He yelled at me. Through gritted teeth I informed him that even the slightest affront to me would result in him being confined to the house for the rest of the week. After, my mother pulled me aside.

"Well, we're in a bad mood, aren't we? Why are you being such a bitch?"

We have achieved cloudburst.

"My first problem is my teenager's mouth. Not putting up with it. And being a bitch? I've been telling you all morning that I'm so exhausted it hurts. I mean, real pain. And you haven't even heard me."

"You're always saying you're tired," she said, literally giving me a dismissive wave.

"Yeah, and you said the other day that it worried you," I said and she looked surprised, like she'd forgotten to be worried. "But when I'm telling you how bad it is now, it's like 'Who cares?'"

And that's all I had to say.

After the first hour's meeting at church, we made sure each child went to the right class. Then, Mom suggested we go get a soda. (Notice that? I said "soda." Not "coke." In Texas, all sodas are cokes. I'm adjusting!)

Over said soda, she explained that she feels like she almost lost my sister in her accident with the air pump. So, she's so overjoyed she's here that she gets carried away.

"I understand that," I said. "But do I have to disappear to you? Does she have to be the only one you listen to? Does she have to be allowed to turn everything upside down? She gets here and our routine disappears, and is replaced by hers."

"Her routine?" Mom asks. "What routine? I don't see where she has a routine."

"My point exactly. She has chaos, and now we do, too." And it's true. One day after their arrival, Ranger asked, "What happened to your house?" It's a complete wreck. I clean up the kitchen at night and the next afternoon it's destroyed. Piles of things everywhere, sticky messes, dirty dishes, laundry everywhere. My daughter hides out in my room during the day, where the other kids aren't allowed to tread. My son is working to stay out of the house.

My mother's response: "We just have one more week."

So, pray for me, dear Diary. Again.