Believe me when I say

I am not totally psychotic. Really.

I spend much time reminding myself of that very fact. It's not me, it's my environment.
It's just the things that set me off. If only I could convince the neighbours of this same fact, I might have it made.

If I could somehow declare that it's only "things" that are making me psycho... and that I am not this way permanently, nor do I need drugs or therapy to cure these psychotic ways. There is the "one" small problem of: the wildly abnormal crazy tri-coloured hair that didn't look like it was teased, and the painted on "not-red, but-rather-bright-in-colour-lipstick" and the fact that I gesture with my hands too much, and talk to myself. Really I am fine. I don't even have OCD, it's just fun to write that I have it... because after turning your head at least 3000 times while working from home.. it begins to make you wonder... complete boredome, or OCD. (Sorry all you OCD sufferers.. hopefully one day you will be cured, or at least 10 steps forward and 1 step back, rather than the 2 - 3 thing, and that you might figure out that your hands really are clean after the 27th wash.... in 5 minutes..and... don't worry about checking, you still didn't run over somebody with your car.)

I am not sure that all the explaining, convincing and reassuring on this side of the planet will be enough to get someone to blink a sign acceptance.

All these thing that turn me into a psycho lady are simple everyday "things and happenings". That all happen at once, all the time. I almost like to think that I have a neon sign painted over my head... 'Quick and Easy Psycho'. These things include 4 legs and are full of fur. All of this 1365 square feet of this house can turn into "Psychoville" quite quickly with the addition of two dogs, and the two dogs that I despise more than I despise the word.... OH, I just can't say.. it is just a gross word. So you are going to have to either guess, or think of the grossest of gross words and just fill in the blanks. No sooner than do we set foot in the house.. and the evilest of oldest dogs insists that she needs OUT. NOW. The phone starts ringing, and it's the newspaper man wanting to sell me a subscription for more time with The Vancouver Sun... blah blah blah so says the man.... hiss woof wine flop, hiss woof wine flop so says the dog.. then the pipster wants her friend from across the street over... can she, can she, can she, can she, can she, can she, ... then the boy starts up the PS2... and the whirling, slooshing, and pinging begins. The very second that the evilest of queens makes it outside, this upsets the youngest and silliest and most annoyingly loudest high pitched barker when she wants to be dog in the world, Ellpee. In truth, it can not even be classified as a bark, it's a yipe. YIPE, YIPE, YIPEYIPE, YIPE. YIPE. YIPEYIPE. (And she likes to call herself a German Shepherd... she should be called the German Yiper). You can't even make her stop. There is no stopping the German Yiper.

I think I am going to invest in a big huge fly swatter. I will slam it down onto my horribly old kitchen floor, (READ THIS MR. FIXIT... HORRIBLY OLD, DETERIORATING KITCHEN FLOOR) thus creating my very own psychotic noise "whoooosh-whip".... and hopefully stun everyone into attention. (That includes Mr. Vancouversunsubscriptionman)....after this.... I will have control of my Kingdom.. for another whole 20 seconds. Until the next whooshwhip prevails settles to the ground.

And I am having troubles comprehending why the neighbours would think I am psychotic. Hello, my name is Mrs. Whooshwhip, and I like to practice saying it alot. Yes, that sounds believable.