I received an email today reminding me about the upcoming Depeche Mode concert. I scoffed. I laughed. I sat back in my chair and rolled my eyes at the unmitigated gall.... of the automatic email sent from the site where I bought my tickets.
Still.
Two weeks from today, fourteen days if you're nasty, I will be at the feet of my hot, sexy, tormented, and hopefully sweaty, men. It's been a long time boys. A long damn time. See you on the second row. I'll be the one in various stages of nudity holding the sign that says SURE THING.
I hate one-uppers. I can’t stand having conversations with people who can’t let you just be in your moment. We all have at least one in our lives, that person who has to be the queen of suffering. If you got up early, she got up super early. If you had a busy day at work, you don’t know what busy is until you hear about HER day. If you’re having cramps, her uterus shattered and is exiting her secret place in giant shards made mostly of fiberglass and bitter tears. We know them, we love them, and we learn to dread bringing up what’s really going on because we know they’ll find a way to minimize it.
On the flip side, I hate admitting vulnerability. I hate telling someone that I’m anything but SUPER and just happy to be ME. Where does this combination leave me?
Here.
I’m tired. I’m nervous about what this change in our finances is going to mean for the future. I’m worried about my boys feeling the effects of any adjustments. I’m feeling guilty over being grateful we’re not pregnant, and may table the prospect indefinitely. I’m worried that my husband is depressed…and I mean really depressed. My bathrooms need to be cleaned & it makes me miss my cleaning ladies, which makes me feel like a domestic failure. I gain a fair amount of satisfaction & pride in my job, which makes me feel guilty around the kids. I can't stand Pearl Jam, which I'm pretty sure makes me a traitor to my generation. Also, my nail polish has chipped, but I probably won’t fix it until the weekend. HA!
Well, there it is. Rest assured if you ask me about this, I will disavow all knowledge of your existence ‘cause I’m FINE, yo.
I had a hilarious conversation with Susan (you know her, you love her, you visit her at Le Petit Poulet) yesterday that started with a pretty benign question. She asked: “what are you up to today?”
I hesitated. Do I tell the truth? Do I tell her that I’m overeating, watching TV, and ignoring a pile of laundry that is threatening to turn into a sentient being and murder me in my sleep if I don’t fold it soon? I chose the following copouts: 1) crafting with my children, 2) reading religious literature, 3) enjoying the bounteous bounties of nature, and 4) planning my next etsy purchase.
I couldn’t even make it through #1 before we were both laughing. Mediocrity - it’s my thing. Someone please make that out of vinyl letters in fancy cursive with just enough of a slant for it to resonate with the souls of all those who visit for me. Consider this your thank-you note, ‘cause those are too much work.
Turns out, she was doing the same thing, except with what I suspect is far more flair and possibly in front of a well-lit backdrop.
It’s been difficult to know where to start again. I was so used to sharing at a high level & then suddenly things got sketchy, I pulled everything in & stopped talking. I missed this outlet, but have struggled with what to say now. Do I fill in the blanks? Do I share at the same level as before? Have I really started to care what people think? Do my endless questions into the dark abyss of the universe really mean anything? Does my heart die a little when I watch Handy Manny with my toddler and like it?
Signs point to yes.
We found out last week the husband's pay is going to be cut. The organization he works for has taken all exempt employees and cut salaries by a flat percentage. They’ve also added two weeks of mandatory vacation for everyone. Exciting, right? This setback is not going to mean the end of us, we’ll still pay our bills and stay in our house, but it’s a massive kick in the nards. The husband has been working outrageous hours lately & we'd already been sidelined with car repairs and dental bills before this, so the whole thing is just demoralizing.
And YES, I understand this is happening everywhere, I know it could be worse, but I’m still reserving the right to stomp my feet and act like my sister Jen just put my favorite Barbie in her corvette and drove her off the top of the stairs while screaming “Barbie doesn’t want to live anymore!!!!”
True story.
In other news, how the hell did it get to August?
Hi friends.
Sorry for the abrupt exit/lack of explanation. I appreciate all of the what the hell messages, they felt like big, strange, electronic hugs. I love you too, I just had to lay low for a moment, but I will not be held down by THE MAN! I will not go quietly into the night! I will not stop singing the can-you-teach-my-alligator-mannnners song in public!
Seriously, that alligator is fucking rude.
I didn't do the go-private thing as much as I just shut down for a smidge. My reasons were many, broad, large, and uh, reasonable - but I do apologize for the whole kicking-your-asses-out thing. Should we hug?
That's enough. My no-touch policy is still in place, after all.
Things are well, limbs are intact, and the bitching will resume shortly.
Thanks for hanging.
I'm taking a break, my darlings.
I may be back, this may be a permanent departure.
Thanks for hanging, thanks for commenting, keep your shiz shaved and your tits high!
Peace out loves
One of the many risks of reading a "mommy" blog is running across the occassional post about exploding orifices.
Like this one. HA!
Thor went out with his dudes last night while I held down the fort with our little men. I had it all planned out - we had groceries, a video, frozen pizza & a clean house. Things went relatively well, until the little one started crying about an hour after I put him to bed. I went in to check on him, picked him up, and CHEESE AND RICE!
The only reasonable conclusion I can draw is that my son was possessed by demons. Demons which required expulsion via violent puking in multiple directions. Evil forces were at work, and an exorcism was clearly under way.
After being covered in what I thought had to be the end of the sick, I made the mistake of walking out of the room to take my soaked sweatshirt off. I was followed. He was not done.
It was horrible. It was everywhere. My poor little dude was so very sad.
Messes of this nature are hard enough when another parent is at home, they're damn near unbearable when you're flying solo. Decisions must be made. Terrible decisions. Decisions that involve leaving splatters of nastiness where they lie to take care of the little one. Decisions that involve questionable, but necessary, wardrobe choices.
Thank the gods I had my Heir here to help out. He was deeesgusted, but very sweet and super helpful. The terrible twist here is Thor is currently upstairs asleep with no clue as to what went down. No idea how long I stayed up taking care of my sick baby, doing laundry, cleaning the carpet, fumigating the rooms......He has complained in the past that when he goes out with his friends (which is not very often), he always ends up with a text message describing some type of carnage at home. He thinks I'm on a mission to make him feel badly for leaving.
So now he gets to feel the guilt when he wakes up! He rolled in around 3:30 - about half an hour after I went to bed - without a care in the world. I laid there almost laughing as he tiptoed around like he was walking into a long-slumbering house. I'm not mad at him for not being here, my Mom provided excellent tech support via phone (baking soda, friends, the key is BAKING SODA!), it was just a lot to deal with.
There are a brazillian tribute posts in blogland today, which are equal parts adorable and horrifying. Knowing they're out there makes me feel like I should have more to say than if there's any more puke, it's HIS!
But I don't.