You all can’t even imagine the stuff I would be saying if I would have done this on the sly. I’ve learned my lesson about hurting people’s feelings in this venue, so I’m not doing it again. I will just make this one tiny little public service announcement regarding this week’s incident: If you hurt my boys’ feelings, I will fuck you up every time. Without fail. I will jump your shit. I will do it in a way that probably no one else does. I will curse and scream at you. My babies have lost a lot. Of everyone involved in this catastrophe, they have continued to suffer the most. As a result, passive aggressive, sneaky shit that is just plain wrong on every level will be handled by the Madwoman, not in stealth ninja mode, but head on like the bat shit crazy bitch I am, with a side salad of I-don’t-give-a-fuck. I hope now we’re clear on that.
Am I overly emotional this month? Maybe. Do I give a shit? Nope. I’m in survival mode again. I’m painfully aware that I’m different from everyone else right now. I can’t help but think things like, “This is the last day he did this or that.” It was at this time last year that everything was bursting forth like a volcano. I was in do or die mode. I just didn’t really think he would die, literally. I know that for the next few weeks, I might be ok, or I might be a stark raving mad lunatic. And I just don’t care.
His birthday is next Sunday. Like Father’s Day, I will likely pretend it doesn’t exist. I keep a whiteboard in my kitchen where I write all of our appointments, parties, people’s birthdays, etc. I couldn’t deal with writing Father’s Day and his birthday and our anniversary on it, so it’s blank. I’ve never done that before. It says only BEACH in giant letters over last week. The allure of the blank calendar was too much for the baby, so he took it upon himself to scribble all over it. I didn’t even erase the scribbles. The month is nonsense. Just like my life.
I went to the dermatologist Thursday and tried to wear almost winter clothes so she wouldn’t see how tan I am. I didn’t want her to scream at me. Why are we scared of our doctors? A hilarious mutha once confided to me that she always wears professional work clothes to the dermatologist, even though she is simply coming from home. She pretends to be coming from work because the doctor once made a snarky comment about women who don’t work. Now that’s some funny shit, right there.