I’LL BE BACK. I typed that in my best Terminator voice. Arnold Schwarzenegger would be proud, if he wasn’t busy having illegitimate children with the staff.

OH MY GOD, GUESS WHAT?

I’m still here.

I know!

I can’t believe it either.

I have so much to tell you but my brain is in overdrive and my fingers can’t keep up and they’re all SLOW THE HELL DOWN, STUPID CEREBELLUM, and my brain is all OH YEAH? WHY DON’T YOU COME OVER HERE AND MAKE ME, YOU STUPID DIGITS and my fingers are all OH YEAH? COME OUT FROM BEHIND THAT SKULL AND WE’LL SEE HOW BIG YOUR BALLS ARE and my brain is all OH, GAME ON! YOU LITTLE PIECES OF  … WAIT. I HAVE BALLS?

I’m typing this with eight fingers now because my two middle ones are busy flipping my cerebellum’s genitalia the bird.

Look at that! I still manage to fit some derivative of the word “genitals” into a post that has nothing to do with sex. See? I’m still me.

THAT’S  A GOOD THING.

Just in case you were wondering.

There is no way I can use one blog post to fill you in on all of the unholy crap that has gone down in the last couple of months so for now, I’ll just hit the highlights:

  • I am getting a divorce.
  • Divorce sucks the big wazoo.
  • So does discovering that your marriage was essentially a Jerry Springer/Law & Order SVU combo episode season DVD boxed set in the making.
  • I’m not sure where rock bottom is, never having visited it myself, but if Nate’s sense of direction is accurate, I’m thinking it’s about 45 miles due south of Hell. I’ll let you know when he hits it.
  • It took me a long time to even think about the word “divorce” let alone type it out loud without crying my guts out.
  • *splat* <———- a gut, splashing on my big toe.
  • For the record, I’m not entirely sure what a wazoo is.
  • I went back to work full time as a paralegal in a downtown law firm.
  • I am dealing with all kinds of unbearable stress by buying 637+ pairs of shoes.
  • Some of the shoes in my closet have five inch platform heels.
  • That is seven different kinds of WHAT THE HELL, ANDY?
  • So say my feet.
  • Two weeks ago, I wore tights for the first time in my life.
  • They are exactly like pantyhose except that now, it costs me twice as much to enjoy the sensation of the crotch migrating its way to my knees by noon.

Right now, I am trying to finish my Christmas shopping sometime before Valentine’s Day but I’ll be back soon because when all is said and done, I miss writing my blog.

Really, really miss it.

And while I can no longer write about my marriage to Nate without gouging my eyes out with a spork, I’m confident that life won’t always suck like it does at the moment. This is not the end of my story but simply the end of a chapter. And hopefully, this horribleness will be over soon and my new life will begin and I can sell the rights to my insane life story to Pixar and they’ll make an animated movie of my life and it will be their first R or NC-17 movie and parents will unwittingly take their kids to it because hello? It’s Pixar! And three minutes in, they’ll be shielding their children’s eyes and screaming for their money back so they can pay for therapy and their kids will be crying MOMMY! WHY ARE CREATIVE JUNKIE’S BRAINS EXPLODING ALL OVER THE SCREEN? CAN I HAVE MORE GUMMY BEARS?

My new life will inevitably breed all sorts of new stories and I expect it won’t be too long before I have blog fodder out the ying yang, such as my suspicion that instead of working on her college application essay, my eldest daughter is busy writing my online profile for eharmony.com.

I’M SCARED.

Maybe by the time I’m actually ready to date, I’ll know what a wazoo and a ying yang is.

.

.

It’s like I’m living a really crappy Lifetime movie

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.

Memories hurt.

 

.

.

If you make a living as a chauffeur for fecal matter, I guess you had better have a sense of humor

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.

.

.

I’m still here. Kind of.

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.

.

.

Much to my surprise, I did not accidentally asphyxiate my ass

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.

Kidding!

Kind of.

***********************************

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 cried.

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?

.

.