It’s been a couple of months now since my life was decimated by an F5 tornado.
Figuratively, I mean. Not literally. We typically don’t have tornadoes in my neck of the western New York woods. However, we did have a freak earthquake here the other week! But I didn’t really notice it. Well, I should say, I didn’t really appreciate it for what it was. I mean, I felt the earth move and everything but I assumed it was due to me shoving a vat of Nutella down my throat at the time.
When I say Nutella rocks my world, I am not blowing smoke up your fanny.
So, it’s been a couple of months since my world was upheaved and I still feel kind of like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz except Dorothy wasn’t a forty-four year old mom unless she was hoarding her lost virginity, some Botox and an illegitimate child or two under Toto in that basket. And speaking of Toto, he wasn’t named Oliver and probably wouldn’t brave a funnel cloud to chase down a flying couch to the ends of the earth just so he could poop behind it out of sheer spite.
Is upheaved a word? It should be.
I’m still busy picking up the pieces of my life and trying to make sense of it all. I wish I could be one of those bloggers who can spew butterflies and rainbows and glitter all over her blog during a personal crisis, but I’m not. I also wish I could be the kind of blogger who bitches, moans and complains about the suckfest that has become her personal life all over her blog but I’m not.
OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE, FINE. I do bitch about stuff. And moan. And complain
all the goddamn time a bit.
And seeing as how I did wax poetic about a thong recently and seeing as how that same thong is currently residing atop a stinky basket called I WILL PAY SOMEONE ONE MILLION DOLLARS TO WASH THIS, I guess you could technically argue that I have aired my dirty laundry on this blog.
I have always relied on humor to help carry me through difficult times but recently, I’ve been hard pressed to pull myself up by my bootstraps and rise above my own sorrow long enough to sit my ass back down and write about the funny, and this really blows because there are funny things to write about, even if some of them weren’t funny at the time or are mixed with equal parts heartbreak. Like, say, being in my forties and finding myself single parenting two for weeks/months/who-the-hell-knows-how-long-at-this-point, which, as it turns out, is a whole lot more exhausting than single parenting one in my thirties. And Zoe getting a job at McDonalds and buying ugly-ass Herman Munster shoes. And me landing my first job in the outside world in over eleven years only to suffer a cold sore, bladder infection and lice, YES I SAID LICE ARE YOU ITCHY YET, during my first week. And so on.
I hope to soon write about those things and more.
Just bear with me as I regroup and get back to a first name basis with my laptop. And if anybody’s got a spare pair of bootstraps lying around, I’ll take ’em.
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