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If you’ve been around here for awhile, you know that my family has been going through something since June. I’ve been posting sporadically since then and only occasionally referencing the total suckage that has become my life, without getting into detail.
I thought that maybe I had it in me to continue posting innocuous, funny stories and use my blog as an escape from the bitter, harsh reality that I am living.
I admit defeat. The funny continues to elude me. I hope that won’t always be the case. But for the moment, it is.
My blog has always been based on my life. My stories are grounded in truth albeit garnished with a bit of exaggeration. I drew my inspiration from my husband and my kids. And my dog’s poop.
I loved my life. Even the poop behind the couch was expected, a familiar constant, a sign that yes, my life was average and normal and predictable but in a good, comforting way.
There is nothing predictable about my life now. I am struggling to find any source of comfort. I have been thrown into a new normal and I am floundering.
The man I have deeply loved for fourteen years, my husband for the last twelve, with whom I raised a family I adore, the subject of so many stories on this blog, is no longer the man I know. He hasn’t been for some time but I kept fighting to bring him back because denial is a wonderful thing. It shields you from pain so horrendous, you cannot even imagine.
But reality is brutal and merciless and it comes at you at warp speed when you least expect it, cloaked in a frigid coat of betrayal so staggering and cruel, it knocks you breathless and senseless, leaving you doubled-over with gut-wrenching sorrow.
For the preservation of myself and that of our kids, I have made an agonizing decision to separate our lives.
I am inconsolable. I am numb. I feel so empty.
I think I am still in shock.
And I am so profoundly sad that it is hard to simply breathe.
The rational, logical part of me knows that I am a strong woman and that I will be OK. That these were his choices and not a reflection on me. That I’ve already proven I can single parent, having done it for the last two years in one sense or another. That there are still blessings in my life and that I am so incredibly fortunate to have two wonderful daughters who really, if truth be told, are the only reasons I have continued to wake up every morning and get out of bed.
But I cannot reconcile that part of me with the emotional part of me which still cannot grasp the enormity of what has happened to us. The part that is wondering what is wrong with me, why wasn’t I good enough, pretty enough, whatever enough. The part that is heartbroken and feels like a colossal failure. The part that is desperately trying to make sense of this, the part that refuses to believe that the man I so deeply love could have done the things he did, the part that cannot come to grips with the overwhelming loss, the part that can’t look at anything without being blindsided by a memory of our life together.
Yesterday, it took me one hour to drive one mile YES I SAID ONE FREAKING MILE and I don’t even live in LA.
I live in western New York where Route 590 is a goddamn, filthy cesspool of traffic jam every morning.
Periodically, while at yet another dead stop, I’d yell SHIT SHIT SHITTY SHIT SHIT ON A STICK at the miles of vehicles stretched out before me, including this one, whose cargo, I believe, turned out to be quite prophetic.
Irony, thy name is Witty Septic Guy.
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.
A summary of what I’ve been up to this past month. Just in case anyone thought I fell off the face of the planet!
Not that I didn’t seriously consider it.
I didn’t fall off the face of the planet.
I worked on my resume. This consisted of me agonizing for days over how to explain my eleven year absence from the work force, as well as finding a creative way to make cleaning up bodily fluids sound like a marketable skill.
I questioned my existence.
I perused the job listings on Craigslist and decided I wasn’t qualified to do anything.
I perused the personals on Craigslist and decided cleaning up bodily fluids was a marketable skill after all.
I sanitized my eyeballs with bleach.
I perused the job listings on Craigslist once more and sent my resume off to the only one that I thought I might qualify for a/k/a one that didn’t make me feel like a big, fat loser.
I received a phone call requesting an interview.
I fainted from shock.
I texted my friend Heather HOLY DAMN JESUS, WHAT THE GODDAMN HELL WAS I THINKING? WHY DOESN’T SOMEONE PUNCH ME WHEN I’M BEING STUPID? That was panic for I have nothing to wear.
I went through my closet.
I found 388 pairs of sweats and Old Navy t-shirts, all hanging by threads and held together by holes.
I went shopping.
I bought a pair of dress pants and a blouse.
I bought these shoes:
I decided these shoes were totally inappropriate and impractical and ridiculous.
I decided I didn’t care.
I went on my first interview in over twenty years, 4.5 inches taller.
I got the job.
I fainted from shock.
I put band-aids on my blisters and hobbled off to the mall.
I bought some new pants and skirts and tops.
I was told by my seventeen year old daughter that the outline of my granny pantylines could be clearly seen through my new pants and skirts and that I had to wear a thong.
I said HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I said returning to work after an eleven year absence was hard enough without having to walk around with a 100% cotton colonoscopy under my skirt.
I yelled YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.
I stood in the lingerie department of Target while my seventeen year old daughter threw thongs at me and my ten year old daughter looked for a normal family in housewares to adopt her.
I yelled STOP IT and pulled a thong off my head.
She yelled NOT UNTIL YOU BUY ONE and flung another one at me like a slingshot.
I stomped my foot and yelled YOU’RE STILL NOT THE BOSS OF ME.
I left Target with a $3.99 piece of black, lacy dental floss and serious doubts.
I wore the thong under my skirt on my first day of my new job.
My ass did not accidentally inhale my underwear and require the Heimlich maneuver.
I discovered that thongs are actually … comfortable.
I fainted from shock.
What have you been up to for the last month?
Every so often I allow myself one feeding frenzy at the all-you-can-eat lunacy trough, just so I can get in touch with my own inner batshit crazy and make sure it’s still up to challenge. The last thing I want is my batshit crazy to languish and atrophy because I won’t be able to distinguish it from my metabolism and then where will I be?
The last time I stuffed my psyche’s face at this trough was back in February 2010 while driving our Durango home from the IKEA in Pittsburgh and we all know how that ended.
This time around, I’ve been standing at the damn trough for so long, my feet have grown roots and I have a permanent hunchback. Not to mention my emotional stability is so distended from gorging itself on the never-ending buffet of whackadoodle, it’s got stretch marks and on more than one occasion, I’ve mistaken it for my stomach.
For my own sanity, I decided to no longer stand at this damn trough but rather, sit down on the couch, make myself comfy and hold out for a full-blown midlife crisis instead because I hear they’re a lot more fun. To prepare for it, I bought myself my very first thong. Look for a post coming your way soon entitled WHY AM I WEARING A COLONOSCOPY ON MY ASS?
But just as I was settling down to await my crisis by eating my weight in Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies while watching a marathon of Real Housewives of New York City…
… Zoe decided to shoot my life to hell by signing up for her driver’s license test.
This was Zoe, filled with nervous excitement, right before her test was to start.
If I had known how to shoot video with my phone, you would have heard her saying something like “Ten more minutes until the world as you know it changes forever, Mom!” and then you would have seen a panning shot of the clouds and the sky and then more clouds and then more sky and then a bunch of shaky trees and then some grass and dirt and then someone probably would have zoomed in an emotionally fragile, bespectacled, perimenopausal woman lying flat on her back from the OH MY GODness of it all.
But only if that someone didn’t care about being grounded until she turned thirty.
This was Zoe’s instructor.
My first thought was that he might keel over and die of old age before Zoe completed her test, thus making it null and void and forcing her to reschedule it for sometime in 2021, which was the only time I could find in my busy schedule to drive her back here.
But he was all perky and said stuff like Howdy, there! Ready to rock and roll? Let’s get moving, then! and he showed absolutely no signs of kicking the bucket anytime soon, let alone in the next ten minutes.
My second thought was DAMN IT ALL TO HELL.
This is Zoe, pulling away from the curb.
Again, if I had known how to shoot video with my phone, you would have seen a shot of the car driving away with the camera running after it and you’d probably hear some delusional maniac frantically shouting HEY! SHE FORGOT TO USE HER TURNING SIGNAL! THAT’S LIKE, A TWENTY POINT PENALTY, RIGHT?
And then you’d have probably seen some footage of stubble on a pale, white leg walking slowly to the sidewalk with a voice over of HEY! WHOSE JOB WAS IT TO REMIND ME TO SHAVE TODAY?
You know, it’s probably a good thing no one knows how to shoot video on my phone.
While waiting for life to end as I know it, Helena and I had ourselves a nice conversation in which I commented on what a gorgeous day it was and how upset I was that her big sister had to go and muck it all to hell by growing up and how Helena was my baby and would always be my baby and how I was so happy that she wouldn’t do horribly stupid things to her mama like dating and applying to college and then she said something about there being a little over 2,000 days until Zoe and I would be sitting in these same chairs in this same spot as she took her own driver’s license test and OH MY GOSH, MOM, HOW COOL IS THAT?
And then I said something about Santa going out on permanent disability with a hernia and how I no longer loved her best.
And then we stopped talking.
When Zoe returned from her test, she and the instructor spent a full five minutes in the car, discussing the results of her test.
Coincidentally, I spent that same five minutes yelling WELL? WELL? WELL? WELL? and having a myocardial infarction.
And then the verdict came in and as I did with the OJ Simpson and Casey Anthony trials and the 2000 presidential election and the rumors about Anderson Cooper, I went into immediate denial and demanded a recount and threatened to become a lesbian and move to Canada.
MAKE ROOM AT THE TROUGH, PEOPLES.