Ghostbusters

I’m dressed in real clothes and not a bathing suit for the first time in five days.  It’s been a hella fun few days being on the go with the darlings.  Little darling needs a break though.  His fit throwing is reaching epic proportions and I don’t want to have to give him away if he collapses to the floor like a wet noodle and calls us all ‘butt asses’ one more time. 

For those of you having body issues, might I suggest a day at a water park?  These places are full of Walmart shoppers, only here they are in their bathing suits.  You’ll feel like a supermodel.  I should probably make another public service announcement:  Ladies, if your boobs can touch your belly button, I’m pretty sure you’ll benefit from a bathing suit that has some type of underwire support.  Steer clear of the plunging neckline type suits.  These are for supermodels ONLY, and should not be sold in any store.  I’m tired of getting a little bit of vomit near my throat when I look at horrendously saggy boobs in improper swim wear.

Mother Nature is now challenging my assertion that I don’t need a man, because there is currently a ‘rodent’ behind the panel of my whirlpool tub.  The only problem is that no one can figure out how he got there, or how to get him out.  Shit will now have to be taken apart, because I hear this ‘thing’ chewing something right on the other side of the panel at night.  We may even have to burn the house down.  I don’t even care.  I’m not scared of gangstas, but I can’t deal with a mouse running all over my shit.  I’m convinced it’s not even a mouse, but possibly a rat.  Even worse, I imagine teeth the size of nutria just chomping away at whatever the fuck rodents eat under bathtubs.

In addition to the mouse, I had not one but a pair of giant cockroaches in my kitchen earlier in the week.  I sprayed them with Windex, along with my toaster, butter and coffee pot.  I handled it like the stealth ninja chick that I am.  But I don’t do mice.  Ya hurd me?  Chardonnay does not cohabitate with mice.  I am itching and tickling and creeped out 24/7 right now.  I knew this shit was coming too.  The giant la cucaracha have been crashing into my windows at night when I’m cleaning the kitchen.  We still have termites swarming periodically at night, and also a mama raccoon and five babies living in the vacant house next door to us.  (Thanks Hurricane Katrina!  It’s been 7 years; there are still a few vacant houses on every block.)

A few nights ago I swore I heard footsteps in my house.  So vivid.  So loud.  I was sure one of the kids was up.  Nope, everyone was in bed.  I whispered out loud to Dave, “You don’t need to be up in here scaring me.”  When I realized I was having a conversation with a ghost, I threw in for good measure, “You better figure out how to help your son, you fucked him all up and I don’t know what to do about it.”  Middle darling had gone to bed that night telling me that he hates bedtime because getting in bed at night and closing his eyes makes him think sad things about daddy.  Did I mention how much I hate you motherfucker?  Come into this house, you piece of shit, and I will go Ghostbusters on your ass.  No part of you is welcome here, evil bastard.  What kind of narcissist kills himself in the garage and leaves his own children to find him, while the mother is away?  Why didn’t he get into his vehicle and drive the fuck away?  Drive to your fucking drug dealer’s house, you fucking loser, and let him lie awake at night and think of your dead body.  I swear I could explode with hatred.  The baby won’t remember, he was too little.  But my little mini me, I swear if it’s the last thing I do, I will make it alright for this child. 

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