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I have yet been able to finish all the work I need to get done! As of now, because of so many interferences, frustration has taken over; thus, focusing to read and respond has become an issue. So, I will BLOG out my frustration.

First, Garry has had to do things in the house he should not. We had to buy a new stove. He didn't transport into the house, but he had to assist with some of the functions when switching the stove from natural gas to propane: orifice needed to be switched out for each cooking top, for the oven, and for the broiler. I, of course, had much cleaning to get done so the stove could be put in—clean up the kitchen so no dirty dishes were in the way, move items that usually set next to the stove, and once the old stove was moved out, clean up all the garbage that rolled under or fell along side the stove, plus scrub down the side of the cabinet where grease collected (as well as the walls), and move the pots from the cabinet next to the stove to reach the plug for the range. I called my mother to get some help, since cleaning is a disease for my children: "Hey mom, want to spend some quality time together doing what you love to do?" "What's that?" "Cleaning." She came down, and we started cleaning.

I was reluctant in calling my mother because of complaining, a gossiping complaining that I prefer not to do. I did well, keeping the discussion limited to getting the work done without mentioning how little help I get from the kids. If I would have said this, I would have heard about all the things that my oldest daughter has done, what my sister and her children have done, and so forth and so forth. Most of it comes down to money. All in all, we had a decent conversation—with little pointing of the finger.

Before my mother showed up, Garry and I picked up items in the living room after many items were moved to bring in the new stove (before I was able to get to the kitchen—so mom and I worked around the new stove to clean). We actually didn't have a choice: snow and rain isn't the best washing for a new stove. The underside of the coach looked like a dropping ground for cheerios, pennies, socks, and wrappers. I completely moved the coach to sweep under it. Garry just moved small items, and picked up larger paper products tucked in various places. Upon moving the coach, I found a lost shoe, and a lost channel changer, plus more wrappers wedged at the end of the coach that sits along side the wall, where the tray tables are kept (between coach and wall). Had to move all that out. Then, I found sticky substance—someone had spilled a pop and never cleaned my night stand. I moved everything, and swept where the sweeper usually doesn't get. Unhappily, I was now a full day behind on all my schoolwork. I had just finished putting all back when my mother showed up.

With the kitchen clean, and preparing to get a little school work done, the boys came walking through the door to install the stove. This took up most of my energy as well, seeing that I was helping various people find tools, making phone calls to find the proper tools (calling dad), and helping my granddaughter, Brianna, find information for her school project. (Oh, did I neglect to mention that my Brianna had to use the internet to find pictures on Anne Frank, thus leaving the house to go get her—but not far, she was down at my parents. And I probably should explain that my parents only live a block away.)

Now, while the stove is being converted by Vincent and Derek (Ginet's boyfriend), they are setting up Guitar Hero as well. There goes my space to study, to write, to read, to . . . do all those things I need to do with space. After the stove was in place, it had to be "burned off" before any cooking could be done, so this awful smell permeated the house. I finally gave up trying to do any studying, settled down to watch the little ones, and played a little Guitar Hero.

But this isn't the end of it! Let me back up some. I promised to babysit Chloe—Vincent's little girl, so he and Samantha could go out for awhile. This was the day before. While watching her, I was able to manage my students' journal folders and put the grades into my books. Still didn't get much accomplished, and everyone knew that Saturday would by my day for study. Well, as you can see, it didn't happen. Vincent and Samantha took me out for breakfast (after stopping at a car lot to attempt a loan for a newer car. Thank GOD Vincent came to his senses!). And here, my started on Saturday without touching one piece of work, Garry left at home trying to do cleaning that I had planned on fitting in between my studies (some dishes, and our laundry).

Now it's Sunday. I've managed to respond to Welch, and to one peer's rough draft. That doesn't scratch the service. I'm so frustrated that I can't observe a damn thing I'm reading. I have nearly forty students final drafts to their first project to grade on top of what I haven't been able to get done, and still need to prepare Monday's class! I've jumped ahead of myself here a little. Before I could "study" there were a few issues to handle: getting the kids up to take care of their dogs, get David moving to work on the drain that is leaking, and making Anna (David's fiancé) get up to watch Will—she had stayed up late to play Guitar Hero. I went to bed two hours before her, and was up at 8:30a. At 11:00a she still wasn't moving: not a pretty scene when I riled her into getting out of her bed. I was so mad at her for deciding that David could get up to take care of Will and fix the drain (after he had only slept three hours—he works third shift) that I spoke my mind: "Regardless how late you stayed up to party, you're responsible for Will; he is yours to care for!" A few words came from her, I made my point again, and then Garry took over from there. She has been in a closed off, upset mood all day. Once I settled down, once I did a little tearing, received some hugs from others, I was studying. Everything went well with my studies for about three hours, until my son called: "Mom, I need to tell you something. . . ." My stomach sunk, and I thought, "No, he isn't going to tell me about my car." Well, he did. He hit someone. My car, not drivable. The person he hit could drive away with a bent fender. Yes, my car now sits waiting to be fixed on some lot here in Fort Wayne. My car that "I" bought on my own, the car that "I" chose without a man telling me what to do, the car that "I" dickered for to keep my payments within my income—unlike the dealership wanted me to do, my car—the car that I can say is MINE because I did it by myself and pay for it from my own paycheck! Now, I have four grown children, and two of their friends in my living room playing Guitar Hero while I'm shoved into my bedroom—though, I don't mind my bedroom, just don't care for the shows Garry watches.

Yeap. Having to deal with Garry in his cave. The bedroom is called his cave. Rarely does he come out, and when he does, few people are home. I sit in my bedroom with my travel internet to post this to Blogger. The noise is ripping me up. I haven't had a quite day since Thursday night. I'm tired. Garry isn't being pleasant about my presence in his space. I do understand; but I think he forgets, I haven't had a space since. . . . Oh, hell, I can't remember. It's been toooooooooooo looooooooooong.

Hmmm, I really need that support group! I'm going to be pushed too far, and then, there'll be more than mom crying uncontrollably for two days, I'll snap into a rage!