Category Archives for "Me"
I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately.
I’ve been busy having an emotional breakdown or two. Or thirty.
God, those things are exhausting.
But I take a breather every so often to paint!
Painting is so much more constructive than losing my shit, even if it is sweatier.
No portraits or landscapes or still lifes for me, though. I’m painting walls. A lot of them. Just in case you were wondering how a simple watercolor brush could make my right bicep look pregnant and cause my entire arm to hang lower than my kneecaps.
If I had known that the collateral damage from having my life implode would result in me acting upon those sudden and irresistible urges to splash some color on all the walls of my house? I would have asked Nate to lose his mind years ago. As it is, my family room and my bedroom now look years younger. And bonus! On days I forget to shave, I am being mistaken for a lopsided primate.
Go ahead. Be jealous.
Soon, I hope to show you our new photo wall in our freshly painted family room. I have to make sure that all the frames are absolutely, utterly and perfectly aligned because otherwise, THE WORLD WILL TOTALLY END. Also? It’s damn near impossible to take a picture of an unaligned photo wall when my left eye is twitching and I’m having a seizure.
In the meantime, I wanted to thank you all again for your comments, thoughts and prayers. They have brought me such comfort, you would not believe. You guys are like warm, gooey macaroni and cheese, without all the belching and quadruple bypass. To maintain a few shreds of dignity in this mess, I won’t be writing about what’s happening over here except to simply say that if you’ve been around here for awhile, you know that my family, even the furry, pooping member, is my life. Nothing is more important to me. I’m willing to fight tooth and nail for us. To keep us, us. I have no idea if we will survive but I can’t live with myself if I don’t try. So? Here’s to some big, fat globs of hope that I don’t wind up walking this earth alone with bloody fingertips, gumming baby food, for naught.
I hope you all have a wonderful weekend.
You know how it is when you struggle with how to write something and then you type it, delete it, type it again and then delete it again? And you do this again and again and again until the eyeballs in your fingers glaze over?
Been there, done that, got the t-shirt and it’s itchy.
So I will simply say thank you.
Thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers.
For offering them up to my family without demanding details or an explanation in return.
For lifting my family up and wrapping them in the warm and comforting embrace of hope.
Your words have brought me a sense of peace amidst the screaming chaos. They have made me smile when I thought I had forgotten how.
I am humbled.
It is inevitable that I will come out of this darkness a changed person. It is my hope that I will come out a better one as well.
We are taking each day as it comes and hoping that one day soon, the good ones will outnumber the bad ones. Until then, I am trying to stay positive and, for the time being at least, avoid analyzing the male psyche because I’ve come to learn that analyzing the way men think is kind of like giving birth to an angry porcupine without drugs … it’s no fun and you bleed a lot.
I’m also trying to find my way back to writing as that has always been my comfort zone. I hope I stumble across the funny along the way. It’s got to be somewhere around here. I’m thinking it might be hiding underneath that moment last week when my mild-mannered, good-natured, docile, sixty-four year old mother-in-law yelled OH MY GOOD GOD FUCKING SHIT two seconds before she yelled DAMMIT, DID I JUST SAY THAT OUT LOUD?
See you soon.
Sometimes, something happens that is so sudden, so jarring, so gut-wrenchingly cruel and soul shattering, that I cannot find the funny because it’s all I can do to simply breathe.
Please forgive me if I cannot find the words right now. It might be awhile before I do.
If you could spare them, my family would be ever so grateful for your thoughts and prayers.
Thank you so very much.
I took Zoe to see an R-rated movie for the first time last Friday night because (1) she was the legal age, having turned seventeen over a month ago; and (2) she actually asked to see it with me instead of with her friends and it was either take her to see the movie or just die happy right then and there. I had plans on Saturday that couldn’t be canceled so dying on the spot would have been inconvenient.
I know for most parents, taking their seventeen year old to an R-rated movie is no big deal and some of you are probably sitting there complaining, Oh my God, next thing you know she’ll be telling us she let Zoe shave her armpits by herself.
I LET ZOE SHAVE HER ARMPITS BY HERSELF.
There! Didn’t want you to be disappointed.
The movie was sort of a big thing for me because I have always been *that* mom, the one who stuck like gorilla glue to rules such as not letting her sit in the front seat until she was twelve, not letting her get a Facebook account until she was fifteen, not letting her date or get a “real” cell phone with unlimited texting until she was sixteen and not letting her see an R-rated movie until she was seventeen. I’m sure there were a few million other things I didn’t let her do that I can’t remember off the top of my head but if you need to know, just ask Zoe and I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to whip out her handy dandy WHY MY LIFE SUCKED spreadsheet and rattle them off for you.
Zoe had already seen a couple of R-rated movies with her dad, even before she turned seventeen. Why? Because, her dad is *that* dad, the one who doesn’t have any hard and fast rules. He also doesn’t make her do laundry or dishes or clean the bathroom. He’s the fun parent, a slightly balding Disney World in Fruit of the Looms, if you will.
He assured me beforehand that the movies were rated R based on violence only, as opposed to sexual content and all I could say was WHEW. Everybody knows it’s totally OK to let kids witness the depravity of people getting their heads blown off but it’s totally *not* OK to let them witness the depravity of people getting their rocks off. Because watching the former might only sway kids into becoming sociopathic, mass murderers. Big whoop. But watching the latter? That might make them want to have sex WHICH IS SO MUCH WORSE, I CAN’T EVEN BEGIN TO FATHOM IT.
That crooked line you see there? Those are my priorities, zigzagging their way straight to Hell.
Anyway, I took Zoe to see Bridesmaids last Friday.
About 2.7 seconds into the opening scene, I found myself wishing I had started with an easier R-rated movie, like Boogie Nights.
Had I been with my girlfriends, the opening scene would have lasted a minute, two tops. With Zoe, it lasted about three years. Because watching a scene in which “friends with benefits” literally pump their way through a montage of missionary to doggy to WAIT, WHAT? IS THAT …? WHERE’S HER LEG? I’M SORRY, BUT THAT CANNOT POSSIBLY BE COMFORTABLE sex positions at bionic speed is one thing with your girlfriends but with your teenage daughter? It’s quite another and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t at least entertain the thought of yanking Zoe out of there on the spot, flinging her into the theater next door and forcing her to watch Kung Fu Panda 2 instead. But I had promised Zoe before even sitting down that there would be no heavy sighs from me, no sideways glances of disapproval, no loud pleas for the floor to open up and swallow us whole and most of all, no yelling of ALL YOU PEOPLE REALIZE THAT THIS IS NOTHING AT ALL LIKE REAL LIFE, RIGHT? SEX IS ABSOLUTELY NO FUN AT ALL. AND IT GIVES YOU ZITS to the theater at large.
So I just cringed and whimpered and secretly pondered the benefits of lubricant through that whole scene, and then I tried to pretend that the whole conversation that occurred in the next scene between Annie and Lillian just didn’t, and then I pretty much spent the next ninety minutes alternating between laughing, gouging my eyes out, giggling hysterically, and puncturing my ear drums with a Twizzler and then it was over.
When the night was over, despite my worries that she saw more sex in an hour and half than I’ve seen this whole year, Zoe was still Zoe. And I was still me! Not sure if that’s a good thing but it is what it is.
Next week I think I might take Helena to see Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer. It’s rated PG and I’m fairly certain it will not contain any scenes in which characters discuss the best way to discreetly slap a guy’s junk away from your face.
Which means I can leave the eye and ear bleach at home and that definitely is a good thing because my purse is only big enough to smuggle in M&Ms.
There’s no regurgitation post today because I was half way through writing one and had copied/pasted the older post into my regurgitation when I realized that I had *just* regurgitated that same post a couple of months ago. It was the one about how I had assembled a stockpile in the event Nate and I were ever forced to repopulate the earth after a terrorist attack and how the population of humanity was destined to stay at a maximum of two because I had neglected to pack a razor and enough toilet paper.
I was going to tie it all in with the whole Rapture mess and I started writing it late last night since that’s when I finally discovered what Rapture was all about because, as usual, I had no idea what the hell was going on until it was almost over. All day yesterday, I had seen a bunch of Rapture discussions on a chat board I belong to but I hadn’t read any of them because the second I saw the word “rapture” in their titles, I immediately had a flashback to Blondie and the eighties and before I could stop it, my brain stopped concentrating on the here and now and started rapping about Fab Five Freddie and getting in my car and driving all night and seeing a light and almost running over the man from Mars who shoots me dead and eats my head and then goes on to eat Cadillacs and Lincolns too, Mercuries and Subarus and a lot of other inedible crap.
Luckily, my brain was quiet and my lips didn’t hear it so I never wound up screaming CAUSE THE MAN FROM MARS STOPPED EATING CARS AND EATING BARS AND NOW HE ONLY EATS GUITARS! GET UP! in the produce aisle of Wegmans.
I hate it when that happens.
When I eventually realized that Rapture was supposed to be the end of the world, it was late last night and I was a bit pissed because if it turned out to be true, I had celebrated my last day on earth by inhaling the smell of feet at a dojo, fishing a chunk of hair out of my shower drain, dealing with sudden onset period, scraping two day’s worth of peanut butter off my kitchen island and trying to get the sour smell out of a load of laundry, leaving me with only twenty minutes remaining in which to eat my weight in cheesecake and try to have my way with Anderson Cooper. And if it turned out to be false, I was still spending a perfectly good Saturday night writing a blog post about the psychedelic hallucinations of a victim of a binge-eating Martian set against the backdrop of Nate’s deafening snoring.
Either way, it was sexless and depressing.
And repetitive, not because of the sexlessness and depression although that could be argued, but because I was *this* close to regurgitating a post that I had just upchucked in your general direction this past February.
So I scrapped the whole thing, ate almost an entire bag of Milano cookies and wrote this post instead.
Aren’t you lucky?
If you only had one day left to live, how would you spend it?