Coming soon to a road near you

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.

Or twenty.

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.

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I’ve got so many flecks of Dusty Moss in my hair, I look like a premenopausal chia pet. And I feel just like an emotionally unstable Van Gogh, except I typed this with two ears.

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.

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Thank you. And? My mother-in-law opened her mouth and a potty came flying out. Who knew?

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.

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Broken

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.

 

Weekend regurgitation: Musings on Lady GaGa in the outfield

I’ve mentioned before that Mother Nature has been busy peeing all over our area for about two months now. Yesterday was no different and found us sitting for an hour and a half in the cold, pouring rain, watching Helena’s softball game. Any other year, the game would have been cancelled but seeing as how almost all of their games this year, as well most of their practices, have been cancelled, rescheduled and cancelled again for rain, I think the softball league was just bound and determined that everyone would see this one game through, even if it meant that the girls needed to grow gills to catch a fly ball.

But once the thunder boomed, it was over. The field horn blared, the game was called for rain, the kids swam off the field and everyone sloshed their way back to their cars.

Once we successfully reschedule all of these practices and games, I estimate that this softball season will end sometime in the spring of 2013.

I leave you with a post I wrote last year about Helena playing softball. And yes, I’m aware that Friday’s post was all about softball too. I’m sorry about that. But it was either softball or the ginormous abscess that suddenly appeared on the back of Helena’s ear and screamed SURPRISE and tried to hug me when I went to change her earrings earlier this week.

You’re welcome.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

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Vertigo sticks and their relationship to softball. Or lack thereof.

(Originally published June, 2010)

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Helena, my nine year old, has played softball for at least five years now and she’s doing pretty darn well. She even pitched a game this week where she struck out the first batter with her first three pitches.

I didn’t get photos of it because I was too busy programming all the Division I and II colleges for women’s fast pitch into the speed dial on my cell phone.

However, there are still moments when I feel like we’ve been transported back in time to her very first season, when the girls were clueless as to what to do, how to do it, why they had to do it whilst standing far away in a field where nothing ever happened and, most importantly, who could land the best cartwheel while wearing a glove?

Sometimes I wonder if Helena is really paying attention? Or is she mulling over the lyrics of Bad Romance and wondering what a vertigo stick is and why Lady GaGa wears big, wooden, bedazzled jock straps on stage? And should she ask her mom about it?

I’m glad she hasn’t because Lady GaGa confuses me. I don’t know why she wants anyone’s psycho or vertigo stick and while there’s some debate as to my possession of the former, I’m pretty sure I’m not equipped with the latter. I’d rather avoid the entire subject so I wouldn’t have a clue as to what to tell Helena other than HEY, I KNOW! HOW ABOUT WE DISCUSS HOW DADDY PLANTS HIS SEED IN MOMMY’S BELLY AND MAKES A BABY GROW INSTEAD? WITH PROPS? AND A POWER POINT PRESENTATION! AND THEN WE’LL EAT COOKIES!

Its just seems to me that sometimes, Helena appears … preoccupied.

You know … daydreaming.

Somewhat distracted.

Otherwise engrossed in other, more riveting activities.

Sometimes she’ll even do something that makes me break out in a panic sweat while envisioning her head engulfed in a swarm of creepy crawlies but then she’ll telepathically holler RELAX, MOM. I DIDN’T WEAR ANYBODY ELSE’S HELMET. I’M JUST I’M BORED OUT OF MY GOURD to calm me down.

Thank you, Helena. Now please stop touching your head because it freaks me out.

Sometimes, I simply worry that Helena just isn’t actively engaged in what’s happening around her.

But then, something will happen, such as a pop fly will soar overhead and travel in her general direction like a heat seeking missile and suddenly, my worries are lessened, my fears are alleviated and my concerns are put to rest because there is no doubt in my mind …

Helena is totally in the moment.

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