The Mother Ship can come and fetch me now. I have more than completed my research on the bizarre and repetitious life of the common domestic female.
I have accumulated extensive data on All Things Laundry; stain removal, the benefits of hot- warm-cold wash/rinse cycles. I can wax eloquent on the relative merits of washing diapers at home, engaging a service or going green disposable, as well as the myriad of environmental and social implications thereof.
I have innumerable tricks and tactics to create something out of basically nothing and confidently present it as valuable -- such as a meal, a curtain or a vacation.
I have developed incredible and almost inexplicable skills. I keep a constantly updated bank of detailed notes on who takes what in their coffee or tea; what is the alignment of the planets when herbal or Chinese tea is favoured? Who likes weenies in their beans and who likes them straight? Exactly how long does it take to get a four year old out the door in how many weather appropriate layers and how far can you get before they have to empty their bladder?
I know never to leave the house without it. "It" being antihistamine, tape measure, clean socks, pencil and paper, apple juice, Swiss army knife, a flash light or a Humpty Dumpty toy, depending on.....
I have amassed endless amounts of information on depending on.
Never did I master the art and appreciation of mathematics, but after years of screw-ups and do-overs I suspect Revenue Canada looks forward to my annual efforts to complete income tax forms for 5. They surely provide comic relief. Should I manage to get them even nearly right one day, I fear they would be disappointed. So I should really get out now while I'm still hot.
And, really, I can't take much more. Useless information bleeds from ears. My brain cells are rapidly becoming liquified by the herculean effort to understand: why can't a man follow very simple directions? How can grandparents fail to recognize their own beloved grandchildren in a photograph, spending a dottering three minutes searching for their cheaters then holding the photo at arms length and squinting and still look dubious -- yet they can see and be obviously offended by a speck of dirt hardly large enough to cover a bug's bum twenty paces away on a kitchen counter? Why is it that a university aged young woman can't bear to let her much, much younger sister come anywhere near the cottage doll house? Because she might mess it up. I thought that was called play.
Come get me. Return me to my planet. I'll work in the cryptonite mine unearthing dilithium crystals for the rest of my days with a broken back and a smile on my face.
It would have to be easier than this.