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. ;)
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