with a side of neurosis, please

I was geared up to tell you about Basil (as in the british pronunciation, Bah-sil) today, and then it (okay, the boy child) got a little whacked out and weird. It began with members from a certain religious denomination who frequently recruits, saves, or whatever its newest converts by door-to-door visits. I know, I know, the baptists are all about this, too, but at least they usually bring a casserole or something, and we generally know them (by the way, that was my biggest fear during my hospital stay with the boy, that people from church would show up in my room with food and fellowship. I know. Issues some?). So we live out in the middle of nowhere, and there is no WAY in hell that I'm planning on opening the door for anyone unless he's wearing a UPS uniform. I was in the Man's room getting him up for the day (so, yes, this was the crack of dawn, just to make it more annoying), when I heard the doorbell. No one, NO ONE, ever rings our doorbell because the front yard is fenced and most people have the common sense to realize 1) if you are family, you know where to enter and 2) if you aren't family and are technically trespassing, you probably should just leave. But no. And did wonder bitch and her aging sidekick so much as bat an eye at these folks? Yeah, no.

So they continue to ring the bell, probably hoping I'd answer it so we could chat about my eternal soul at 8am, and I shushed the big boy and told him to keep it quiet because someone was at the door (while taking great delight in the fact that while they were looking through the open blinds into the living room, they got an eyeful of the Christmas tree so they could lavish more prayers or whatever upon my pagan soul). So they finally gave up, but not before the Man decided to flip the hell out because he thought they had taken that long country drive to come and collect HIM. I don't know why, and I don't ask, but he was clearly distraught (okay, going into hysterics because I told him we were "hiding from the people at the door"). He, finally, was able to compose himself.

We move through the morning and head out to the garage to get in the car.

When I notice that the entire corner from floor to ceiling is suddenly! puffy and bloated with pain curling off the wall which is clearly saturated with water. Knowing that my dearest husband was responsible for NOT taking care of the "we may have a leak" until it became "damn, would you look at that?!", I gave him a call on my cell as we were heading up the driveway. The Man, ever astute and nosey, heard the conversation and completely lost his shit.

"Is our wall rotting? Is our house falling down?! Where will we sleep?! On the ground?! Where will we LIVE? Can we find a house with no people in it so we can live there? Is Mr. Bill (the contractor) coming back?! OH, NO! Is he going to start ALL over? Why did DAD do this (that's right, young padawan, you are learning...)? Our house is rotting down!" [all while trying quite unsuccessfully with a trembling chin to hold back the flood of tears]

This went on for the duration of our cartrip both going and returning. He'd finally composed himself enough to be cajoled into taking a nap with promises of paintbrushes and spackle after dinner.

I've never been one to deny my own control isses.

I have tasted my medicine.