Life is a shitstorm of chaos sometimes, isn’t it?
In fact, speaking of storms - have I ever mentioned that there’s one particular life cliché that I hate even more than I hate cleaning toilets? It’s the one that goes: “When it rains, it pours.”
Jesus H. F*ck. I hate that cliché and I hate that it’s usually true.
I have been one huge pity party lately…and it appears that isn’t going to end soon. However, in an effort to pretend that life doesn’t suck giant donkey balls lately – I’m going to make a concerted effort to think of happy things to report today amid the huge piles of shit. You’re welcome. Let the randompants ensue.
Here’s a couple little life tips for you regarding sex and such. Do not try to take a nap without underwear on. Do not take a phone call in the middle of said nap just as your husband gets home from work. To his man brain – phone call = wife is occupied and pretending to be professional to a resident so I’m free to take advantage of her and she can do nothing about it.
I hang up the phone finally and Rambo looks at me with the biggest, dumbest grin and says, “How was your day, dear?”
Motherf*cker. Get off me. Are we seriously going to discuss my day NOW? I hate how cute he thinks he is in moments like this. It’s just wrong on so many levels.
But it’s a moment. A moment in a day of shit that I hang on to. A moment when all the problems in my head disappear and I laugh and smile. There’s always a break in the shitstorm of life. You just have to find it. Find the rainbow and hang on with a death grip and never let go.
After this weekend’s migraine hospital visit, I am moving forward with botox as a preventive measure. I also called my Doc and asked her to give me a script for exactly what they give me shots in the ass for when I go to the ER. I feel like a drug seeker. I have enough narcotics in my purse to make a drug dealer jealous. You can tell I’m not an addict though because all the bottles are still full. I try them once, they don’t work…so I don’t take them again. *sigh
Random thought: I read somewhere that bloggers who comment now EXPECT a reply from the original blog poster. So when you write a blog and someone comments – that commenter expects you to reply to their comment. It’s the right thing to do. I’m here to say – um – I don’t need you to respond to my comments on your post. I mean it’s great if you do but then I’m all “oh crap – now do I need to reply to their reply?”…and when does it end? Seriously – do not feel it’s necessary to respond to my comment.
Geez Louise – now we bloggers blog AND we read other’s blogs AND we comment AND we NOW respond to comments and we reply again after you respond to our response to your comment and when does it stop?
No wonder blogging seems like a job or a chore to some! We took all the fun out of it with expectations. Listen, if you read my blog - I am humbled - but I don’t EXPECT comments… I love and appreciate your comments. Period. I’ll respond to your comment if I wanna…but not because I think I have to. Mkay?
If I follow your blog, I love and appreciate your blog posting and if I comment – please do not think you have to reply to that comment! (Unless I ask a very serious question about where you got your purse or shoes or something.) So yah – blog when you want and leave comments when you can. Can’t that be enough? Holy hell – imagine the bloggers who get like hundreds of comments on one post! They are supposed to respond to EVERY one of those comments??? And blog every day? Good God. It gives me hives thinking about the time and effort that must take.
Okay, what else? Oh. Friends of ours are going through a really rough time and Rambo and I in turn feel their pain. Our first instinct is to FIX everything for them but we both know that’s not our job. I feel helpless. In so many ways.
Also, sometimes I downright suck at my 2nd and 3rd jobs. Because I’m too exhausted and invested in my 1st job to care about the others. Oopsie.
Rambo’s Grandma is going to pass away soon. She has a bed sore that is all the way to her bone, has pneumonia and a UTI. She is in her 90s and I have a gut feeling, her time here is coming to an end. Death sucks. What else is there to say?
I got approached by the basketball coach in town this weekend. He wanted to be sure that Watermelon was going out for basketball. He said that “she’s going to be a star player and has the personality for it” and other stuff. My eyes glazed over because the whole convo was weird. I was a cheerleader and a track star but that was it. I always wondered what it would be like to be a sports star or how the parents of an athletic star felt.
I found myself wondering about the pressure she may be under some day….when she’s only 13 and I’m having this conversation already. Scary kind of. Sports are big here. We are known for going to State finals in just about every sport year after year and the pride and history involved is immense. I guess if we’re lucky, we may end up getting to be a part of that some day with our girls – as the parents. Rambo and I have been the players and the spectators so as parents, I imagine it’s a whole new thing.
Did I mention somewhere in this blog that I was going to try to fart gumdrops all through this post in an effort to ward off the life shit that’s been happening lately?
Oh wait. Here’s something fun. I bought two more romance novels last night. LOVE trashy romance novels. My friend at work is having surgery so I was buying her some puzzles and soup and chocolate and slippers and stuff to make up a basket for her and my hand gravitated towards the smut book. Shocking, I know.
Oh oh oh – and I bought a new Coach bag online last week and if the Gods above want to avoid seeing me do the ugly cry while I suck my thumb in the fetal position – it WILL arrive today and it WILL be big enough to fit all my narcotics in it.
Anywhoozle - you have my permission to skip reading my blog posts for at least another week or so. There ain’t gonna be anything funny or happy happening, I’m pretty sure.
Excuse me while I go start my Mountain Dew IV drip. I need it to wash down my ever healthy, nutrient filled pop-tart. Breakfast of champions, my friends.
It helps with the shitstorm. I swear.