I had a massive bout of depression, recently.

No, nothing epic. Just the kind that makes you feel like you’re backed into a corner and also that the gravity has been turned up by at least fifty percent.

I have been reading a lot of OWS and related topics. It’s sad for me that the greatest country in the world is threatening to implode because a few greedy arseholes find it more convenient to ship their investments to another country and thereby hasten their own culture’s downfall.

I can’t do anything about that.

I’m in Australia, and I live two hours’ travel away from a meaningful protest. By the time I got there, I’d have to turn around and come back. Because I have kids in school who need me to look after them.

My youngest is deeper into ASD than my eldest. Neither of them are completely independent, yet. Both need watching, because the instant I don’t, they do things they really shouldn’t.

My washing machine broke, this week. It was in a coma for another week before that and revived by meaningful glares from my darling-dearest. Now, I’m also in Delivery Limbo, where they say they’ll call in 2-5 days and mean they’ll call whenever the shit they want.

And that’s just to arrange for a date and time of delivery/installation.

So…. I’m pretty much chained to my house. Metaphorically speaking.

Plus, if I did trust my beloved to look after the kids, there’s another risk.

See, not everyone has firearms rights like America. Here in Australia, the people legitimately seeking to own a projectile weapon have to dance through an inordinate labyrinth of red tape just to get one. We have to carry a separate photo ID, maintain a membership in a very specific club, etc. etc. And not even think about breaking any laws.

Yeah, we don’t really have free speech over here, either. We pretend we do, but legally… we don’t.

So, by going to a protest that I back, I am technically breaking the law. And worse, because I’m a registered shooter and the owner of a muzzle-loading black powder replica Squirrel Rifle (estimated loading time, two minutes per shot), I am the worst kind of scum-sucking criminal ever born and should be punished appropriately.

Sigh.

We have a very skewed opinion on weapons and the people who own them, over here.

Anyway, I have digressed.

I’m feeling trapped, three times heavier than I should be, and generally in the doldrums. My dilemma for the day - one I can actually deal with - is whether to clean the whole house [a day’s task] or the laundry room that resembles a small apocalypse.

Either way I chose, I was certain, I lose. It’d be the wrong choice.

I tried to articulate this to hubby-dear and he said, “So… instead of making a choice, you’re choosing to do nothing?”

It woke me up.

Even if I made a bad choice, I could still choose to do something. And then I could do something else. Take my problems to pieces in bits I could deal with.

Yes, I occasionally need my butt kicked. Yes, I sometimes need help.

I worry too much about things I can’t control. Worry doesn’t change them. Neither does ignoring them. They’re still there.

So, this afternoon, in-between chasing the kids to do what they should be doing anyway, I shall endeavour to make the laundry room from the apocalypse tidier.

Not completely tidy, because that would kill me. Just tidier. A little better. Improved.

And, this weekend, I am taking my little tardis-car and going on a scavenger hunt. I shall be seeking out foam boxes that chain shops just throw away. I shall also seek out and relocate the door to the compost tumbler I bought earlier.

I shall purchase some seeds and sugarcane mulch and start growing some idiots-can’t-kill-it herbs and vegetables.

I can’t do a lot, but I can do something.

And maybe I’ll get some wood shims, too. For the next time someone sends me a credit card application. Not that I’ve had any for quite some time, but… the prepared mind is favoured by fortune.

And no matter what the results, I shall have something to blog about.