Nesting: The New Crack

Please excuse me for my recent lapse in posting.

I've been in my own version of hell, which people adorably refer to as nesting.
"Ooohhh" they say, as you describe your recent assault on all the closets in the house, "You're NESTING." And then they give you this knowing smile, as if you've just discovered the secret to life, but you haven't really noticed that you've discovered the secret to life, because you're obsessing over the next Container Store sale.

You want to know what nesting really is?
Nesting is the inability to see anything good in your house.
It's being able to see every flaw, magnified times a zillion, and the inability to do anything about it because you're not supposed to lift it/pull it/scrub it/breathe it in. Nesting is the Simon Cowell of home ownership. But there's no zany Paula to make everything okay, just your retarded dog who is scooching his butt across your bedroom carpet.

Kill me.

I've never been so anxious in my life. Puberty was cake compared to this. College exams pale in comparison. Job interviews don't hold a candle to the nerve-jangling agony of suddenly realizing your kitchen is comprised no less than 4 different wall colors, two different cabinet finishes, and a refrigerator that insists on going clackity clackity clackity and OH MY GOD WHAT WILL THE BABIES THINK?!?!?

And nobody really cares but you. You'll find yourself complaining about your husband - your perfect husband, who has nothing but the best intentions and would do anything to make you happy - because he fails to see the importance of cleaning out the attic before the twins get here. Because GOD FORBID the babies come home to a cluttered attic...they might decide to call Child Protective Services.
Or worse - maybe they won't come at all! Maybe they'll REFUSE to come out until you whip this booby-trapped nightmare of a house into something that resembles a respectable family dwelling. They'll just stick out an arm with a hand-written message of their demands, and then bunker down while you're left swiffering behind the couches and washing the windows at 146 weeks pregnant.

Oh my god, I'm having a heart attack.


Of course, my sister reminded me that perhaps it's not me, but the hormones speaking. And I was all, aaahhh, those crazy hormones. They got me again! Good one!
But knowing that the hormones are making me feel this way isn't making me stop feeling this way. It's just confirming my suspicion that I am, in fact, Krazy With A K.

I've tried meditating.
I've tried knitting.
I've tried yoga and long walks.

NOTHING is helping. It's like an itch I can't scratch.

Somebody hand me my support hose and the environmentally-safe, non-toxic cleaner.
It's Go Time.