July 30, 2012

You're a Mean One....Mr. Grinch

It’s been a Dave kind of day.  The kind that causes a painful lump in my throat.  It causes me to press my lips together, clamp down on my jaw, and just turn my head away from whoever is in the room.  I open my eyes wide, so that more tears can be held within the rims of my eyelids.  I wait for them to evaporate.  Everyone thinks I’m so strong.  I’m not strong.  I’m giving myself TMJ and walking around looking bug-eyed.  Why?  What caused this?  Well….what hasn’t.

The Olympics.

Beach volleyball.

A Chevy commercial, when the little boy sees his dad pulling up and runs out to greet him.

Hanging up a shirt I haven’t worn in a while; “Mommy looks pretty in her new shirt” he’d said.

A birthday party for his niece’s son.  His entire family gathered to celebrate a life. 

The random sound of an ambulance.  Are my kids thinking of it too, I wonder?

Middle darling wants blueberry cobbler.  I made it for Dave in my old cast iron pan constantly before he died.  He was so skinny…I didn’t know why…so I just kept feeding him.

The list goes on and on, everyday.  Every day.  Some days I pretend I have a heart 2 sizes too small, like the Grinch, and I push it away easily.   I remind myself how much I hate him for doing this to us.  Then some days I allow my heart to be real, 2 sizes too big because I’m a woman and a mommy.  I think about how much I loved him, how much he loved me, and how stupid we were for letting this all happen.  The pain is so fresh and so real and so intense, that I decide I should be the tin man, and have no heart at all.  I’ll just be an asshole, I think, with a heart of steel.  Because I don’t want this pain in my life.

The lump in my throat reminds me of when I was six, and I got my tonsils out.  It hurts that badly.  I think about how far we’ve come…and how far we still have to go.  I know I will die with this pain.  It will never go away.  I know it’s probably gone away as much as it ever will.  I was told a few weeks ago to get over it, move on.  Yes, people say this kind of stuff to me, and I don’t kill them.  I know I have moved on, as much as humanly possible.  I know the tin man who says this to me doesn’t really know me at all.  I know that everyday I seek the good, the positive, the happy.  The truth is I’m afraid to become the Grinch or the Tin Man.  If I allow my heart to turn to steel anymore than it already has, the bad will begin to outweigh the good.  I don’t want to lose my compassion, my empathy for others, the love in my heart.  And this is the risk.  This is the risk of turning your heart to steel.  I try to imagine, instead, how sorry he is.  How much he would take it back if he could.  But it’s meaningless, because he can’t.  This is what we have.  Me, here, with our kids.  And him, somewhere else.  I guess. When we left the party yesterday, the Pink Floyd song that haunts me was playing.

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue sky's from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls

Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
And how we found
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.


July 29, 2012

Word to the Muthas

If you’ve ever read the Diary and felt a strong connection to the Madwoman and the muthas, and maybe even wished that you too could slip into your alter ego and engage in one of our hilarious therapy sessions, with drink in hand and laughter heavy in the air, then you need to listen  up.  Because it’s about to happen.  I’m talking about the Million MILF March!

“Mom’s Investing in Laughter and Frivolity.”  Gah….what did you think it meant?  Actually, the muthas have come up with a vast array of choices for what the acronym actually means.  Check them out and add your own version here.

WHAT EXACTLY IS A MILF?  As the Hot Mess describes, MILF is an attitude…

We are not your mother’s mother. We have never been to a beauty parlor. We do not have our hair ‘set’. We ROCK 40… We can bring home the bacon and fry in up in a pan. {We may let you forget you’re a man because we are really focused on that bacon} We wear yoga pants and 5 inch heels, although never at the same time. We range in size from 2- 22. We range in age from 30-60. We may or may not have children. We may or may not be married. Hell, we may or may not be women.

We are living in a busy crazy financially burdened time, but realize the importance of taking time out for FUN. We have jobs, kids, pets, charities, spouses, parents, friends, and countless other responsibilities that we do gladly and we do well. We are imperfect. We embrace our flaws. We are hot messes and we are proud of it.

And for this Million Milf March~ we celebrate OURSELVES. We celebrate our wrinkles and muffin tops. We will be selfish. We will be gluttonous. We will be kid-free! We will eat and drink and be merry. We will not be judged. We will raise money for a good cause. We will march. {and by ‘march’ we mean ‘stroll from bar to bar’}  We are MILFs.

The Million MILF March is the brain child of the Hot Mess Mom.  It will be held Friday and Saturday, September 7th & 8th, here in New Orleans.  The Friday night charity event includes an auction/raffle, food, music and booze, and the Saturday event is a pub crawl.  Find detailed event info here.  All proceeds from the Friday party will go to the Friends In Need Foundation.  Rooms are available at the Sheraton New Orleans for $99 per night.

Everything is very short walking distance from the hotel.  Even in your cute shoes.

I hope you all will grab your own muthas, come up with your alter ego names, and invest a little time and money in celebrating yourselves!  You are worthy, and you need to do it.  I wouldn’t have survived this past year without the muthas.  Without my alter ego, Chardonnay.

PS: The big daddies are welcomed too.  Especially the hot single ones, LOL.

July 23, 2012

Divorce is like death, and other phrases that make me punch you

I think at some point we’ve all heard the phrase, “Divorce is like death.”  I probably have stupidly even uttered this phrase, at some point in my life.  However, you may have noticed there aren’t a whole lot of bereaved people standing around at funerals going, “It’s ok, this is just like a divorce.”  I understand that there is sadness and even trauma associated with a marriage ending, a family being torn apart, etc.  Part of your life does ‘die.’  But let’s get real here, people.  Because if another one of you going through a divorce exclaims to me that you wish your spouse were dead, and insanely imply that “I’m lucky”…..I’ma knock you on your ass.  Ya hurd me?

I’ve had several people say this to me, and it happened again this morning in a group of people.  The particular mutha this morning was lamenting her divorce.  The husband is being an asshole.  I get that.  He was an asshole during the marriage though, so what exactly did you expect?  Women do this thing, constantly, where they try to control the man’s behavior.  Impossible.  Stop doing that.  No one has ever been successful in that endeavor.  You cannot get a person to do what you want by using threatening words, by manipulating finances, or by using your children as pawns.  An asshole is just going to be….an asshole.  Doesn’t matter what you say. 

During my conversation with this particular mutha today, she said a few things that resonated with me.  One was that her daughter misses her daddy, so she’s been emailing him.  Really?  Well, that is super cute and great, but you do get that dead people don’t email you back, right?  In another breath, she said the husband hadn’t bothered to respond to one of her texts when she wanted to tell him about something cute one of the kids did.  That is terrible, indeed, but you get that there is no texting dead people, right?  They never respond.  In fact, their phones are cut off.  She said the kids were upset and missed him, and he seemingly didn’t even care.  Wow.  Imagine, then, how upset they might be if he were DEAD.  She said he hadn’t seen the kids in over a week.  Again, shameful.  But if you truly wish death upon him, I hope you understand he will be seeing them NEVER.  Oh, you want him to take the kids, because you need a break?  Nada.  No dice.  Ghosts are not good babysitters.  You would probably get arrested for leaving your kids with a ghost babysitter.

I’ve even been told that I’m lucky, because at least I have some life insurance money.  Really?  What amount of money would you give to see your kids happy?  To undue a tragic event that forever changed their lives in a bad way?  If you don’t say “every dime I have,” then you’re a liar.  All of you would give all your money, and all your limbs, to undo this in your family.  I promise.  Trust me that no amount of money serves as consolation for the tragedy of suicide.

I want to be clear, I am not mad at these people (even though I still may punch them.)  I understand that these words are spoken by people who are hurting.  By people who are traumatized by divorce.  The crazy words and feelings are being expressed because going through the divorce has so negatively impacted them that they just want it to stop.  They are so hurt, that the person disappearing altogether seems like a great idea.  I get what they’re saying.  But compose yourselves, people.  Think about what you are saying.  Think about to whom you are speaking.  The pain of divorce is temporary.  Those hurt feelings, they won’t last that long.  Three years from now, you will not give a tiny fuck as to what your ex is doing.  Picking up and dropping off those kids and figuring out Christmas and summer visits is going to be mundane.  Your kids can still call the other parent, can still hug and cuddle, can still see he or she sitting in the bleachers.  My kids can’t do that.  So, no, I’m sorry to inform you all, but divorce isn’t like death.  Divorce is like divorce.  ‘Cause death means you are dead.  It doesn’t mean you’re ‘like divorced.’

July 20, 2012

I'm sick of being harassed by Rosetta Stone

I’m only posting this so that you all will not think I’m currently institutionalized for running down the street barefoot while screaming obscenities and ripping off my clothes.  Things are just quiet.  The boredom is plucking away at me like a mad hen.  I’m really ready for a change.  Ready for school, another season, a change of pace.  I get insanely bored, easily.  I’m in need of an attitude adjustment.

Also, I just need a quick moment to make this public service announcement: 

Listen, Rosetta Stone people, stop trying to scare me.  I get all nervous every time I hear your commercial, where you admonish me sternly by asking, “Will buying another pair of shoes make you happy?”  I immediately get all panicky, because the answer is yes, even though I haven’t bought shoes since the beginning of summer.  I suddenly feel guilty for even buying them at all.  I don’t need some facking commercial on the radio trying to say I selfishly buy things for myself.  I quickly make a list of what I’ve recently purchased.  Did I need it?  Of course, anything for myself surely didn’t come from Walmart or a discount store.   Nor did I use a coupon, because I religiously lose coupons or stuff them in my wallet and never, ever, not once, remember to use them.  I don’t care if it’s a 99% off coupon.  I will not remember to use it.  I’m just real blonde like that.

Let me go ahead and make the disclaimer right here and now too, before some person I would never tolerate in real life scrolls down to the comment section to insinuate that I’m some rich bitch who buys shoes and handbags and jeans and tops and makeup and….I’m sorry, where was I?  Oh right, I was buying things.  Hmm…I might stop writing this right now and go buy shit.   New stuff is on the list of things that help slay ninjas.  The baby is napping but there is always great stuff to buy online.  Those stores are always open.  I mean, no, I don’t have this endless supply of money.  Truthfully I should never buy another thing being in my current situation.  But somehow, I will figure out how to make it all happen.  That’s why I’m a shit magnet.  ‘Cause I’m always spinning shit.  Even money.  Shit is messy.  Anyway, seriously, where was I again?

I was going to say something about losing my mojo and being bored to death.  Then I was going to say that I deserve to buy whatever I want, whenever I want, for the rest of my life.  After surviving this life thus far, I deserve it all.  Right now.  All I can say is, damn lucky I never have the time to shop, not even online.  These kids are always keeping me out of trouble like that.  Plus, honestly, I’m extremely practical.  I’m not an over the top shopper, but I don’t go without. 

Anyway, back to Rosetta Stone, finally.  They get me all panicky, and then it turns out they’re really not fussing at me for buying shoes, they are saying it would be more exciting to learn a foreign language.  I’m not sure if the commercial is supposed to be a joke, or what?  Do they really think learning a foreign language is something fun, like buying, and then especially wearing the shoes?  I mean, I guess here in Mayberry, there aren’t a whole lot of ethnic groups that I overly need to communicate with in another language.  Don’t get me wrong, I would love to be able to do just that.  But…alas…I became schooled in other subjects, mostly hard knocks and mostly in the English language only.  Maybe one day….until then…shoes.

In my current state of boredom, I’m trying to decide if I should become obsessed with yoga or pilates.  I feel I should have some sort of helpful obsession already in the pipeline when my kids go back to school. Anything to keep me from looking for a job, right?  I’m going to require some serious distraction and I realize I will spend the first two weeks walking around here in a catatonic state with a blank stare on my face, being somewhat confused as to what I actually should be doing, since I will have a break every day from wiping asses, wiping up spills, and wiping sticky counters.

This ecard has nothing to do with anything I just said...but it's insanely funny to me.

My favorite shoes, or counting to ten in Spanish?  I will punch you if you say Spanish.

July 15, 2012

Slaying the Ninja

The bitch is alive, ya hurd? 

I’m emerging from a 10 day funkity funk.  I dare not even think for a tiny millisecond about the anniversary of D-Day next year.  It just hasn’t been pretty.  I could feel the noose tightening as the day approached, I was reflective but largely unscathed on the actual day, and then I cried all the way home from the beach the day after.  I cried everyday, 10 times a day, for 10 days.  Being in a fight with my whole family was uber helpful during this time.  The Sun gods have taunted me mercilessly, as we have had actual black clouds and rain 10 times a day for 10 days as well.  This isn’t Seattle.  That shit ain’t right.  I’ve missed Dave so much.  I begged him to show himself to me.  He obliged in many ways.  I won’t go into it here, except to say thank you.

My funk was so deep, that I did not attend alter ego night on Friday.  Ya hurd me?  I didn’t even go.  My mother in law offered to take all three of my boys for a sleepover, and I suddenly had the realization that I had not been alone in this house for approximately two months.  Two months. No wonder I am mad.

Which brings me to another subject.  I feel I should clarify that Diary of a Madwoman does not mean ‘mad’ as in ‘angry.’  It means ‘mad’ as in a nanosecond away from running down the street, wild-eyed and barefoot, screaming psychobabble in a hysterical voice, while simultaneously ripping my clothes and tearing out my hair.  Just so we’re clear on that.

The person who coined the phrase, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness” was, well, I think it was me.  My every other week housekeepers were scheduled for July 4, which means it’s now been almost a month since those dolls have set me straight.  I sat on the patio one night with another mad mutha, and she admitted that with only $500 to her name, she once paid one fifth of her purse to be set straight.  Obviously it’s a religious thing.  We need to be close to God.  I think its called tithing.

I slept for 11 hours last night.  This was imperative and sorely needed, and I don’t think I’ve slept that long in ten years.  During the 10 day funk, my alarm system twice went awry and made beeping noises in the night.  This thrust me into terror mode, and had me twice creeping around the house at ungodly hours with my legs shaking and my heart pounding, convinced I was about to be facing a gangsta with a gun.  I realize this is the gods’ way of ensuring the PTSD doesn’t fade quite so quickly.  Add to this the antics of the grief ninja, who steps out of the darkness at 2 a.m. and reminds you it’s not a nightmare, but in fact your real life, and you’ve got one madwoman on the loose. 

Making lists always helps me to feel more in control.  So here are 10 things, in no specific order, that can help slay a ninja:

1.       A clean house

2.       Big daddies who mow my lawn

3.       Signs from above

4.       Eating delicious stuff I didn't cook

5.       Giggling, happy boys

6.       New stuff

7.       Extremely hot naked men in the love shack (Wait…what?)

8.       Me, alone, in an empty house

9.       Funny muthas

10.   Mad people willing to run down the street with me barefoot and wild-eyed on short notice

I could make this list go to 100 easily, but these were the first 10 that came racing towards me.  Actually, bacon was on the list, and eggs cooked in bacon grease, but I switched them for big daddies because they were just here.  Also, 200 muthas are not to text me in the next hour asking about the hot naked men.  All I said was they could slay a ninja. ;)

July 13, 2012

Gimme a hand....

I went to sleep last night with the most clear picture of Dave's hands in my mind.  Where a tiny freckle was, what his nails looked like, where he always had a callous.  I'm not sure I've ever missed him as much as I miss him right now, during this time of turmoil in my own family.  He would so understand.  He would so be on 'my team.'  I've begged him to show himself to me today, a million times.  I've promised him that I wouldn't be scared if he did.  I've seen two rainbows today.  It's not enough.  I need my teammate.  I've felt so alone, and so abandoned.  My house is disgusting, the bathrooms smell like the foul smelling nursing home I'm afraid to die in, and we have no clean clothes. But I just walked in, and found this in my in box.  It's a hand up.


I don't even know what to say about this, except that I needed to read it today. I absolutely love this website, and this woman for extending her hand to me today, of all days, just when I needed it the most.

July 7, 2012

Day 366

We returned home yesterday.  I always hate leaving the beach.  I feel as though I leave a part of my soul there.  I watch my boys, how they love the water, how they instantly relax in the ocean, and it feels good knowing we are creating memories of a beautiful summer.  We have been so happy this summer.  We have stayed busy.  We haven’t had many boring days at all.  Just love.  A lot of damn love.  I’m not kidding.  I’m so proud of these kids.  These kids who have grown up too fast.  These kids who have had to process way too much. 

There’s a photo of Dave and middle darling that was the last picture taken of him.  They were at swim lessons, and middle darling had just been stung by a wasp.  He was throwing a hellacious fit, but Dave managed to calm him down and my mother in law snapped a photo while they were both making a funny face for the camera.  I look at it, and I feel like he was just here.  It doesn’t seem like he’s dead.  The baby came across it today, and commented on it.  I asked him if he remembered daddy.  He said, “Yes, but when is daddy coming back?”  I sunk down to my knees and cried.  “Baby….Daddy can’t ever come back, when you die your body dies and you can’t come back ever again.”  The realization hit him really hard.  He curled up in my lap and cried for a long time, sobbing, “I want my daddy.” 

“Oh my sweet precious angel baby, if daddy could come back, he would, just to be with you.  He loves you so much.”  Why?  Why on this day?  I haven’t focused too much on his grief, because we really didn’t think he understood much.  But the vibe has been present this week, no matter that I didn’t mention anything to any of them.  The brain is a mysterious organ, the world a mysterious place, and somehow they knew.  Middle darling wore a rosary around his neck for a couple of days.  He offered no explanation.  It was Dave’s, he just wanted to wear it, and I wasn’t about to say no. 

When we walked back into the house today, I felt a sense of peace.  It’s always good to be home.  And it’s always good to be loaded up on klonopin when your life is a surreal piece of shit motherfucker.  We didn’t sleep here on July 5th last year.  My family wouldn’t let us.  I remember texting Dave a picture of the baby when I finally got him to sleep that night.  I knew he wasn’t alive to get it, but texting your spouse is such a habit.  “Look at this precious baby.  How are we going to live without you?  Please help us.”  When we came home the next day, I marched straight into the garage.  I was overcome by the smell of blood, even though it was all cleaned up and tidy.  I could see where they had scrubbed the floor.  I could smell him.  I could smell the blood.  The chaos, the trauma still lingered in the air.  My husband was dead and this was for real.

I always hold up so great under pressure, and then crash when it’s over.  Yesterday was no different.  The kids watched a movie and fell asleep from exhaustion, and I wandered downstairs to the patio alone.  I sat down right where I sat so many times in the beginning.  Where I kicked and screamed and cried so hard.  It felt like day 2 again, instead of day 366.  The pain was intense.  It was like I hadn’t left that spot in a year.  This is what happens when you fight it.  When you refuse for it to be true.  When you refuse to accept it in your mind.  When you wish too hard for it to not be real.  Haven’t I learned anything in 366 days?  “Show yourself to me,” I pleaded.  “I need you.  Push me forward.  Please.  Make good things happen.”  A thunderstorm moved in and I could smell the rain.  I looked up and could see the clouds had formed what I imagined to be the shape of an angel.  Then the whole sky was a brilliant white, and the rain came down hard.  I took advantage of the thunder and lightning to disguise my kicking and screaming and writhing.  I kept telling myself I wasn’t starting over, only that this demon needed to be expelled.  I held it together beautifully the last few days, this was required.

July 5, 2012


I couldn’t do it.  I can’t post the note.  I wrote it and timed it to post at 5:08, and then my top advisors told me “no the fuck way.”  Various reasons.  It’s too personal, it’s not right, it’s between us, save it for the book.  I love my friends, I’ve been friends with some of these muthas since the tender age of 5, and I respect that right now I’m not the sanest bitch in the bunch.   When you are outnumbered, you don’t buck the system. 

So I’m sitting in a hotel with a bunch of rednecks popping fireworks.  We swam and went to the beach and hung at the pool all day.  Tonight we go to the circus.  My kids have never been to the circus.   They are oblivious to the day, I presume.  Many of you have texted me, sent me cards and emails and brought us dinner and phoned to send love.  And to you, I say, we are alive because of you.  Because there was a time, a year ago today, when my plan was to park my SUV in my neighbor’s tiny garage while they were on vacation, and I was going to put a long ass Disney movie in, some horribleness where the mom or dad always dies, and we were going to just all go to sleep and never wake up.  That was the plan.  But then I googled it and found out cars have catalytic converters on them, and that doesn’t even work anymore.  You can’t commit suicide that way.  You have to do all this crazy shit with a bbq pit inside your house.  I quit reading when I got to that part.  It seemed way too complicated and I knew there was no way to get my big pit up the stairs.  No one would leave us alone for that long anyway. 
And the real truth was, is, that I don’t want to die.  I love life.  I love my kids.  I knew there was no guarantee that we would all die simultaneously.  There is no way in hell I would take the chance that one of us would be left here…and my fleeting moment of life just being too unbearable to live drifted away into the universe.  It was at that moment that I realized how painfully and dreadfully and horribly sick Dave was, too.  Because in the single most awful moment in my life, in a moment that I had every right to wish death upon all of us, I still couldn’t do it.  Still couldn’t fathom it.  Still knew deep down I would never, could never, go there.  People don’t do this unless they are way the fuck sick.  Sicker than any of us alive can ever imagine. 
I remember every moment of this day, and I feel at moments like it’s happening all over again.  This is when we got dressed for eye doctor.  This is when we left.  I didn’t kiss him goodbye.  I was angry.  We texted from the office.  Then he stopped texting.  We got the call, we couldn’t get out…whatever.  I’m trying hard to live THIS DAY.  I’ve looked into the eyes of the most beautiful and precious and wondrous kids I’ve ever known all day.  I’ve stared deep into their souls.  In my heart, I know we are happy.  We laugh, we dance, we sing.  We act crazy silly.  We shake our booties and convulse like crazy people and throw our heads back and giggle until we choke.  We didn’t do that when Dave was here.  And I didn’t even realize it. 
Would I trade it, to have him back?  The truth is, I don't know.  Because I choose happiness and because what I know is that you can’t change a person.  We all are who we are.  And I’m one badass mutha, ya hurd me?  I am bound and determined to make this the day that I spring forward once again.  The day that brings more closure.  The day that brings more peace.  The dreaded anniversary that is spun into goodness, spun into healing magnified by a trillion.  The day that puts just more than 365 days between D-Day and THIS DAY.  I look at the healing that has occurred.  I’m blown away by the progress.  I think back to the early days, and I’m blown away by my community.  By the muthas, the big daddies, the teachers, the principals, the Men’s Club members, the Mom’s Club members, and just some of the people I barely knew at the time…the people who made a tight circle around us and said, “These people are ours.  We got this.”  And they did.  They do.  We made it.  We made it because of them.  And mostly, because of you.  Because I had no clue people would read this.  I thought I was just a girl who wrote shit in a journal.  Don’t all girls do that? 
In five months, hundreds of thousands of people have read my words.  And have been touched by them.  Healed by them.  Affected by them.  I’m blown away that my status as a shit magnet has pushed the human race forward, if only just a tiny fragment.  From the bottom of my heart, thank you all.  Thank you for reading, for connecting, for loving, for caring, for praying and for allowing it to affect you positively in some way.  It takes a village, they say.  I needed a real big one.  I somehow managed to create an even bigger one in the virtual world.  People send me messages from Zimbabwe and Egypt and Australia and crazy corners of the world that I never even think about.  We all want the same thing.  Goodness.  Peace.  Love.  Friendship.  God Bless you all and thank you a million times over for participating in this journey with me.  I couldn’t have done it this well without you.

July 3, 2012

The Noose Gets Tighter

Today marks day three that I have gone to bed with a pms headache and woken up with the same dreaded headache.  I take two advil, drink a cup of strong coffee and stick my head under the hot shower for about 10 minutes, twice a day.   I get out and rub lovely Chinese oil all over my neck and I get relief for a while.  At night, I can’t do the caffeine, so I just suffer silently.  I go to bed with my head smashed between two ice packs and try to block out light and sound, and I know I’m going to wake up with the same headache.  I can’t get to the coffee pot fast enough in the morning.  My head throbs with each step.  My kids are loud assholes and they simply don’t understand I just want to cry and curl up and pray for it to stop.

Besides the regular anxiety from D-day strangling me like a tight noose, I learned that some jackwad charged $361 to my debit card, from Match.com, Teleflora flowers, and several packages at USPS.com.  Dear Sir, I hope the chick you picked up at Match.com then sent flowers and gifts to ends your date with her prison shank shoved deep up your ass. 
Because that was only mildly annoying, we then woke up to find that a stolen Penske moving van has been abandoned in the street in the front of my house.  So now the anxiety of the armed robbery and kidnapping is front and center too.  I imagine that gangsta ass robbing thieves were standing on the curb in front of my house again while they dumped the vehicle.  Really motherfuckers?  I don’t need this shit right now.  I’m suddenly back to being on full alert.  I imagine myself blowing some fucking heads off people if they dare put a pinky toe near my home.  Why yes, I’m a bit psycho like that.  I strongly suggest waiting to fuck with me until we at least flip the calendar.

I got a text last night at 10:30 from one of my favorite muthas.  I told her all of the above and ten minutes later she was at my door with hot compresses and medicine. 

“What are you taking for stress?”

“Nothing,” I say. 

“What is wrong with you?  Why are you trying to be a fucking superhero?” 

“I don’t know,” I mumble, “I guess I thought I’ve been ok lately.” 

“Well, you are not ok now.  You’re talking crazy shit.  Open your mouth, take this.”

“Why is it white?  Mine are yellow.”  I notice it is 2mg, I usually take .5.  “This is too much,” I say.

“What?  Too much?  Is that why I’ve been running into cars lately?”  We laugh hysterically and I’m struck by the awesomeness in the room.  This mutha, she is close to being in my shoes.  Her Dave is still alive.  Hanging on by a thread.  Every 3 months, he almost dies from drink.  How did these two strong, beautiful, smart, hilarious ninja chicks marry men that will literally die from addiction?  I still pray there is hope for him.  But the path of his destruction is severe.

As the mutha was leaving last night, we suddenly see a man walking on the sidewalk, near the abandoned truck.  On high alert, we both start babbling, “Who is this fucking weirdo?” and “What kind of fuckery is this?”

“Excuse me,” she calls out.  He keeps walking, faster.  “Did you just come from that vehicle?” I call out.  He finally answers, embarrassed, “I’m just walking home.”  We crack up laughing as he walks into my neighbor’s house.  I think he’s the son in law.  Whoops.  Can’t be too cautious.  Especially with these muthas here.  She once called 911 on someone shortly after Katrina because they were walking down the street with a pillow.  "What's he doing?" the operator asked.  "He's walking with a pillow! He's probably going to go and try and sleep somewhere!" she screams. 

The only thing I’m posting on the 5th is the suicide note.  I’m setting it now to be automatically posted at 5:08 p.m.  So if that’s going to freak you out, don’t read it. 

July 1, 2012

Laugh To Keep From Crying

The dreaded birthday was just another day, mostly.  We spent it at the swim club with friends, and I didn’t tell the kids it was his birthday.  I just couldn’t.  I just can’t deal with it.  And I don’t feel like making them deal with it either.  People have great ideas about what you should do to honor the dead person’s birthday.  Maybe one day we’ll be able to honor him.  Right now, all I can say about being honorable is that I haven’t kicked his grave in quite some time. 

We had a party here today with my family.  I finally decided yesterday that the absurdity must come to an end, and I discarded the dead plants that have been in the pots on my front stairs for probably 3 months.  Anyone who knows me knows how outlandish this is….me, with dead plants.  I’ve been known to landscape people’s houses when they’re on vacation.  I pull weeds in people’s yards while I’m standing there talking to them.  I pull over and tell neighbors that what they’ve just planted is going to die where they planted it, from too much sun.  I never have dead plants.  I always have pots with beautiful flowers spilling over the sides.  Except lately.  I swear I am just too busy.  I have zero time for extra stuff.  Zero additional energy.  I replanted the pots with lively flowers and finally painted the downstairs bathroom.  Painters are extremely underrated.  I say that every time I paint, especially when I step back into the tray and flip it slightly over.  My painter could paint my whole house without a drop cloth if he wanted. 

Certain members of my close family brought ‘new people’ to the party today.  As in new people they are dating.  Which meant that yesterday, there was a definite uptick in the usual but always humorous array of family texting.  Not much slides past this group.  A sense of humor is definitely required.  We judge one another harshly and openly, but all out of intense love.  It’s just how we roll.  We cannot gather without mocking and teasing.  If we haven’t seen one another in a while, mocking videos may be exchanged to hold us over.  With new ears joining the fray, some were almost giddy with excitement.  Luckily the new people scored 10’s from everyone today.  One person got extra points for being somewhat famous.  Hopefully we weren’t too frightening for them.  It's amusing to see the competitiveness at play here too. Picking teams for a simple game of whiffle ball can take 20 minutes, because each person must be certain their team will win.  At Easter, I had to play barefoot because I had worn heels, and I swear the bottom of my feet were almost bleeding.  My dad, who has had heart surgery, was completely winded and scaring us, but still sliding home and knocking over 10 year olds.  We never stopped laughing or trash talking the whole time.  Today was no different.

My family is the type who can find some way to laugh, even at funerals.  Of course I did not laugh at all during Dave’s funeral, and I’m pretty sure none of them did either.  I will kick their asses if they did.   Someone reminded me that my sister was in the back of the church saying she was about to saw the fucking casket in half.  Other people probably laughed at that, I doubt she did.  We did have a lot of inappropriate laughter afterwards.  Of course, everyone wanted to know about the robbery.  When we started telling the story and acting it out for the first time, we were overcome with laughter due to the utter insanity of it all.  That morning we had literally said goodbye to the police, raced to get everyone dressed, and then drove straight to the church.  No time for de-escalation, we were almost late for the funeral.  People unaware of the situation must have thought we were nuts, although I think most people knew as the news spread like wildfire.  The church that morning was a distraught mob of people whispering intently and crying hysterically and mostly just trying to figure out if it were all some crazy dream.  Rumors were rampant.  People were just stunned.  We were most definitely as fucking crazy as people could honestly get.  Ever.  I think back to that morning, and I have no idea how I survived.  It wasn’t pretty.  Surely that didn’t happen to me.  It’s just so surreal.  All of it.  I swear if I don’t laugh, I’ll surely die.