I guess the OC Parks people feel our dogs’ south-of-the-tail dump station needs a bit of beautification. According to this new sign, we must now paint our dogs’ butt holes before they’re allowed to appear in public. I’m unclear what color they require… further research is needed. I’m guessing it’s fine, so long as it matches, or at least coordinates with the collar and pooch-pedicure.
After all, this IS the OC, and not looking good is not an option here.
• • •
If you’ve got antidepressants, apparently today’s the day to take them. Some study said today is “the worst Monday of the year.” Yup, I don’t know… I heard it on the news this morning, so it’s got to be true.
Don’t ask me how they know this, or who wasted dedicated their time to do this supervaluable study. Or better still… who FUNDED this contribution to the world’s knowledge base. But the “fact” is, today is the suckiest Monday of all… so if you make it through this one, it’s an easy ride for the rest of the year. Yay, you.
I suppose it could also be a valid excuse to act like a total dickwagon. So if there’s anyone you’ve wanted to shower with nasty attitude, today could be your day. Because tomorrow you’d be excused… after all, it was “the worst day of the year.” They’d have to forgive you. Or not. Whatever. But I’m thinking that could have been their motivation to do the study. Someone needed one day out of the year to be a total a-hole, and be excused. Because, you know, we’re not really responsible for our actions. Something “made me” drink a truckload of bourbon and get behind the wheel. It was “the worst Monday of the year.”
I think I might call my mother in law today. I’d be excused for anything I might say. Ya know… worst Monday.
Anyway, happy new year, everyone. I’ve got a half a box of See’s candy and a full prescription of Xanax. I should be able to make it through the day.
Cheers!
P.S. Spell check just told me that suckiest, supervaluable and dickwagon are not words. It has so much to learn.
P.P.S. If you drink a truckload of bourbon, give someone your keys and stay home. And put down a drop cloth. Because, well, it’s not going to end well. And you’ll thank me when the clean up is easier. Which is good, because the hangover won’t be.
• • •
I’m sure I’ll get shit for this post. But I’m going to jump right in here, and I promise to be brief. This makes me sad… I’m hearing complainers, whining about how much they “hate it” when girlfriends call other girlfriends, “mama,” “chica,” “girl,” etc etc etc.
I’m standing up here on my bitching box because I love y’all. But I am going to point out the obvious here. If this is you, and you’ve been complaining about girlfriends’ pet names, go to your room without dinner. Or wine. Or the Costco pack of batteries. And give this some thought.
Here’s the deal. If someone cares enough about me to refer to me in a term of endearment, I’m taking that as a compliment. I may not personally love being called, mamasita, or Sally saggyass—ok, no, that last one is off limits. But if someone feels enough warmth toward me, that they’re opting to call me whatever their chosen term of endearment happens to be, I’m taking it as a compliment. Period.
Sometimes I wince when people say things. Hell, I’m certain I make people wince on a daily basis. A girl’s got to aspire to something. But seriously, I know the intent is only kind and honorable when someone calls me “mama,” or whatever charming name they choose. And I choose to take it as such.
So, Betty Bitchalot, if you try to take terms of endearment, however annoying they may be to you, as a compliment, perhaps you could stop being so angry and focus on some happier stuff. Just a thought.
Thanks for listening, my mamasitas. I love you guys.
• • •
Wouldya couldya throw a girl a vote?
I know. I’ve been conspicuously absent. There are good reasons to fall off the radar. Like superfuckinawesome vacations, and getting kids back to school, so I can reoccupy my brain. There are also shitty reasons for virtual radio silence. Reasons like, people in my family losing their fucking minds… or misplacing it in non-productive parts of the body. Like dark places. Or jiggly places. I’m certain some folks just need a good, firm punch in the forehead to bring ’em back around.
I’ve had all of these reasons for my absence. The latter of which has nearly put me in the grave. Thank (name your deity) for xanax, and for my supportive, most awesome husband and kids. Not necessarily in that order… or maybe totally in that order. Cuz lets face it, xanax IS pretty fuckin awesome, y’all. And they didn’t pay me to say that. But if they want to send me free samples, I’ll keep shouting its praises. *wink wink, nudge nudge*
In all honesty, we spent two of the most amazing weeks in Ireland. The four of us, with all our crap squeezed into our wee-little*** Nissan crossover rental car, and managed to see most of that stunningly gorgeous island in two weeks. And that, my friends was one hellava a LOT of work.
*** I learned to speak Irish.
We were constantly on the move and exhausted. But I was nearly always entranced in amazement at the beauty… and/or the amount of alcohol consumed. Don’t judge. It’s tough, and somewhat humbling to be in an environment where even the eight year olds can drink me under the table. Kidding. Well… sort of. There’s a reason Guinness is called “mother’s milk” in Ireland. I’m just sayin.’
We’ve dragged our kids all over the place, since a very early age. My daughter hiked to the top of the pyramid at Xunantunich with us when she was three. And yes, in retrospect, that freaks me the fuck out. The photo (right) is my two in celebration, after not dying on their pyramid hike. But honestly, in the midst of it all, it seemed perfectly normal, and outside the realm of catastrophe. I’m convinced my children have made it to adolescence in spite of us. And for this, they’ll be strong, kickass adults. Or neurotic little pussy bitches. But what can you do? I choose to believe that a lack of coddling will benefit them in the long run. *crosses fingers*
So, in our roaming, it’s generally not our point to partake in the overly touristy garbage. We were all born and raised in the shadow of the Matterhorn. Not the supercool Swiss Matterhorn. But the Tinkerbell flies from the top, and Mickey sends cease and desist orders from it Matterhorn. So for this reason—the lifetime of overexposure to sweating, drooling tourist crowds—as a rule, I avoid anything resembling a tourist trap.
I like crowds like I enjoy a good, itchy rash on my ass. This was why I found myself wondering why, when we were vacationing, we opted to do the most touristy thing possible—possibly the most touristy thing in the whole of Europe. Ok, maybe not as bad as visiting the Eiffel Tower. But, as a side note, if you visit the Eiffel Tower and get stuck on the top floor for an hour and a half, try to make sure you’re stuck with several members of the band, Ratt, and a handful of their roadies. Because I can tell you from experience, that the contact high from those boys’ residual pre-Eiffel Tower bongload was enough to make the experience totally bearable.
Anyway, I digress. Obviously we’re not above a lapse of judgement or two. So driving past the Blarney Castle, rather than becoming entangled in the trap of tourism that is the Blarney Stone, was out of our hands. The kids found it to be the highlight of the trip. There’s something exciting about climbing dark, cobwebbed, medieval steps to bend over backwards, ninety feet above the ground to acquire the gift of gab. Or herpes.
So ya, I did it. I kissed the Herpes Stone. So look out, y’all. I’ve got the gift of gab. I don’t feel any different. But we know all that shit’s true—just like leprechauns and unicorns. So when you can’t get me to shut the fuck up, blame the Blarney Stone.
I’ve also noted that I’ve got an extra-pottyish potty mouth since coming home. I’m thinking maybe it’s the Herpes? But I’ve been assured that the likelihood of me having contracted a disease from that rock is as likely as winning the lottery. And I prefer the lottery choice, thankyouverymuch. So I have to think that my gutter mouth is either because:
a. “The gift of gab” actually means a prodigious ability to swear like a sailor.
b. The fact that I was with my kids for two+ weeks, holding in all my swearing. Ya, ok, my husband will call me out on this. I said trying not to swear. I may have slipped on occasion. Ok, I slipped a lot. But I was totally trying to hold back. So maybe I have two weeks worth of pent-up potty mouth.
c. I stepped off the plane when I got home, into the biggest pile of family crap that anyone should ever have to deal with. Ever. Ever. Ever. And my subsequent frustration with the family shitstorm has taken an adverse toll on my vocabulary.
d. Or… fuck it. See all of the above.
I’m doing my best to claw my way back to a level of motivation conducive to writing. I’m a little whiny, due to my family mind-fuck. So I’m trying to spare y’all from that. I can’t even stand to be around myself at times. Seriously. But look for me to crawl out of my cave soon. Have you ever known someone to come back from vacation without a story to tell? I’ll have something for you soon. I just prefer not to offer it up with such a whinyass pottymouth voice right now.
I need someone to kick me in the ass. Or write me a prescription for medical marijuana. If it’s all the same to you, I’d kind of prefer the latter at this point.
• • •
Wouldya couldya throw a girl a vote?
Can someone please explain to me what I’ve just witnessed? I was oddly mesmerized. And found myself unable to stop watching, for fear that I might miss something near the end that would relieve the nagging what-the-fuck feeling.
I found myself working out along with the video. And strangely, I now have the unrelenting desire to drag my ass across the floor.
• • •
I’m really sorry if you have scary poodle nightmares. If you can forgive me, will ya throw a girl a vote?
I’m a good friend. I think. I’m pretty sure my friends would back me up on that. If nothing else, I’m an honest friend. Though I’m not going to take it upon myself to tell a girl her lip injections may be slightly overdone. Because that’s a choice of personal preference. Girlfriend has eyes, and she can see. And if that shit makes her giddy with the I’ma-hot-mama mojo, well then… you work it, Daisy Duck my friend. Life is a short road to travel. We should all be quacktacularly happy if we want to be.
But as a good friend, I feel like it’s my responsibility to have my chicas’ backs. If your pesto lunch has left you with a green confetti grin, I’m going to give you the heads-up. If you’ve got a boog peeking out, I’m going to make fun of you and post pics on Instagram. Just kidding… I’ll let you know you need a booger-check. I’m just a giver like that.
It’s easy to have your girlfriend’s back when the situation is less, shall we say, scandalous. Several years back, I found myself in a predicament. You know as parents, sometimes we’re put in situations where we find ourselves in pseudo friendships with our children’s parents. These may or may not be people with whom you’d normally choose to hang out. I’ve been super fortunate over the years to have made some great friends through my kids. However there have been the handful that just don’t work out.
I’m not a gossipy gal. I mean, not… like I want to beat gossipy bitches over the head with an empty wine bottle. There are way too many of those around here. Gossipy bitches, I mean. Ok, maybe empty wine bottles too. Hey, a girl’s gotta get by. Don’t judge. Besides, helllllloooooo… antioxidants.
Anyhoooooo… so several years back, I was trying to make nice with the gossip-moms, since my kid seemed to like to spend time with their kids. I enjoyed their company—mostly. I tried. It didn’t matter what was going on, there was always a point where they’d pull out the big ol’ jar of gossip, and slather the stench all over the conversation. Changing the subject was normally out of the question, since they’d typically already covered their limited repertoire of cosmetic procedures, shopping acquisitions and 5-star vacations. I did mention I live in the OC, right? Yes, that OC. I swear some normal people live here too. Hello… *points to self* … Ok, yeah, yeah, somewhat normal.
So at one of these playdate/gossipfests, the stench spread became, ummmmm, interesting. The gossipalooza included wife swaps, fetishes and orgies, involving friends and acquaintances I’d known for many years. It was fifty fucking shades of ohmygawd. I was shocked. Not because I judge. I’m totally a to-each-his/her-own kind of girl. If they all found others with whom they can share their fetishes… awesome. You go, people. We’re all adults here.
But it did bother me that another of my friends, someone I considered an actual friend, was named in the gangbang gang. Her name was being thrown around, and these women were discussing things about her that I felt were not only private, but potentially damaging to her career, if this got out. These women were throwing around this information very lightly, without considering how it could affect these people, should this information become known to the wrong people.
I wanted to unhear it all. But at the same time, I felt a loyalty to my friend to let her know what the town gossips were spewing. I felt awful. I sat on the info for months, and it killed me. I finally made the decision to tell her what these women were sharing all over town. The conversation was even more uncomfortable than walking with my parents by the monkey cage at the zoo, as the monkeys were playing bury the bone. There is no time that a 12-year old should have to experience that with her parents. Ever. And telling my friend that she was the subject of the coffee klatch gossipfest was worse.
I had no idea how to deliver the news to my friend. I’m sure it came out as awkwardly as it felt. I didn’t want her to think I was telling her because I was judging her. And I didn’t know what I expected her to do with the information. But I just felt like she had the right to know what these women were saying. I felt like I would want to know if I were in her place.
Sadly, that was one of the last conversations I ever had with her. She and her husband moved out-of-state shortly afterward. And she never spoke to me again after that. I felt like I made the right decision, telling her. I would have wanted to know. I’ve questioned my judgement a million times over the years. What would you have done?
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I decided today that I’d be a little more serious. Ok, as serious as I can be. Which is never without a snort or an eye roll or two. I just can’t be totally serious. Like turning down an apple martini. I just can’t. Can’t can’t can’t.
I have a hard time talking about the tough stuff. It’s not for the reasons you might think though. I make no apologies for the fact that I’m a snarky asshole. That’s just how I roll—my coping mechanism. Frankly it’s those in my life who hate my sarcasm and my potty mouth, who are the ones who created the necessity for the coping mechanism to begin with. So they can suck it. You breaky, you buy. Am I right?
I want to be clear. I’ve totally forgiven all the douche canoes in my life. Ok, mostly totally. There’s the contractor working on the house next door. He’s just an idiot. And a steaming pile of pig shit. Which is a bad combination. It makes people want to hurt you. Like the send-the-flying-monkeys kind of hurt. But I digress.
My brain can be a dark place. But I get it. We all have our shit—past shit, and present shit. And we’re all coping the best we can. There are just times that other people’s coping-shit dribbles over and fouls your Cheerios. Because, well, you know what they say. Shit flows down hill. I’m learning to keep my Cheerios on higher ground. Unfortunately my higher ground is covered with humor and snark, which is also steeped in my own coping shit. Which overflows and dribbles down hill. Life is kind of a never-ending circular flow of shit, huh? Which sucks if you don’t care for shit.
But, all that aside, it’s difficult to write about the really tough things sometimes. You know, the painful stuff. The stuff that punches you in the gut and doubles you over in pain, and your skirt blows up and everyone can see your underwear. And you’re not wearing your good panties, and haven’t waxed in a while. You know, like that kind of tough.
Regretfully, when I write about that stuff, it’s tinged with my snarkalicious shade of black, and feels like I don’t care. It can sound callous and unsympathetic. Though I guess that’s what coping is all about. Building up that thick skin as you go, in order to make it through the shit storm. I guess that’s why I don’t write about my mom’s illness and her death so much. The last thing I want to do is to seem like I’m trivializing my mom—her life, her battles, and everything she was to so many people. My mom was 98 lbs of badass, wrapped up in the sweetest little five feet of lady there ever was. Second to none. And impossible to replace.
So it’s not that I don’t care, mom. I just can’t write about you yet. There is so little humor in our journeys through your last few years. There were those nuggets. And the laughs were sublime. But the sadness is still too deep.
I would love to hear how you guys write about the really hard stuff in your lives without sounding insensitive, or worse yet, unbearably maudlin. How do you even begin to approach it?
Let’s talk…
If you vote for me once a day, I’ll send cookies. Not to you. But I’ll send them somewhere.
So ya, today was a pretty damn good day. My son and I did a horseback tour of Rome. Cool, huh? We climbed to the top of the Castel Sant’Angelo and repelled through the dome of the Pantheon. Ya, it’s totally like that… I’m badass—like the Indiana Jones kind of badass. And, as if the day couldn’t be awesomer, ya I totally said awesomer, we won the lottery. I swear to god, people. It doesn’t get better than this.
Ok… well, so, I feel compelled to point out that we were actually only on the Xbox, playing Assassin’s Creed. But that totally counts as being in Italy, in my book. I’m not in a big hurry to go back to Rome. The last time I was there, I experienced the welcome-to-Rome ass grab. Which was less like having my butt fondled, and more like the old guy trying to pull a fucking rabbit out of my vagina through my pants. He was charming like that. And if you’re wondering, I totally kidney-punched the geezer, which alarmed his wife—who was walking with him, holding his non-vagina-groping hand. Rome is super quaint like that. So limiting it to a virtual visit for today was just fine by me.
I also learned the last time I was there, that the street children, with their big, beautiful eyes are darling, until they try to steal your shit from under your nose. I would assume the lady on the bus with the fake arm, and the baby in the infant sling taught the street kids all they know. Fortunately I felt the zipper on my purse open, and caught that one in the act. I made the biggest fucking scene that a Rome bus had ever witnessed. Which is totally saying something… because ya, we’re talking about Rome here. After screaming at fake arm lady, and yelling out of the bus window at the police at the curb, the ho dropped my wallet. I’d gone such total ape shit on her ass, she wasn’t even able to pull the cash out of it. Uh huh. Take that, bitch.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Rome. In fact, it’s been so long since I’ve been, that the fake arm lady’s baby is probably old enough to have bred some little pickpocketing douche nuggets of his own by now. But it still hasn’t been long enough, that riding through virtual-Rome, shoving street people into piles of hay, and shooting the overly aggressive ones with my crossbow wasn’t massively therapeutic. Come to think of it, that crossbow would have really come in handy in our real-life travels. Although I’m thinking that would set off a TSA red flag. And I prefer to limit being felt up by a stranger in public, to once in a lifetime.
I guess aside from being able to shoot people who annoy you with a crossbow, the coolest part about Assassin’s Creed is that my son is picking up some Italian here and there. He can totally say, “Rest in peace,” in Italian. Which if I’m able to get my crossbow through customs, could be useful some day. Although I’d probably need to learn the Italian for, “I’d like to call Amanda Knox’s attorney, please.” And while I’m at it, I’ll also see about learning the phrase, “Excuse me, y’old geezer, but you won’t find a rabbit in there today.”
I could imagine a day like that being just as satisfying as today was—with all the Indiana Jones badassness and lottery winning and stuff.
I’m not sure what we’re going to do with all of our lottery profits. Don’t worry, it wasn’t enough that I can retire and move to a reclusive house in Big Sur. We only matched four out of six numbers. Which in my opinion should be worth way more than 96 bucks. But it’s not. *sigh* And ya, IRS, if you’re listening, we’ll totally declare every cent of it on our tax return. Unless I start proselytizing to the kids down the block, and have myself declared a church. In which case… fuck you IRS. The lottery totally donated to my church—the church of self-serving bullshit. Is it just me, or is anyone else shocked that name isn’t already taken?
So it wasn’t a $7 million payout. But it still was a nice end to a nice day. I don’t think it was as satisfying as skewering virtual street thieves with a crossbow. But I think the $96 would cover the extra luggage fee to get a crossbow into checked luggage for my next actual visit to Rome. That’s me… always thinking ahead.
Now, does anyone know how to say “rabbit” and “vagina” in Italian?
• • •
I know you’re super disappointed I didn’t talk about dildos today. But wouldya vote for me anyway? You can click to vote once a day. There’s nothing else to do once you’ve clicked the banner. You’re done! Thanks a million. xo
I swore I’d write from the first one I pulled. I don’t usually write from a prompt, but I thought I’d try something new today. “Why do I blog?” Really? I don’t feel like it’s a very original one. And I’m already off to a yawnderful start. Hmm.
Off the top of my head, I don’t have a fucking clue why I blog. I honestly think I write for no good reason. I feel like I need to be prophetic and deep. *sigh* *pops a Mike’s Hard Lemonade* And the pressure, being called a “mommy blogger.” Oy. The responsibility. *eye roll*
This has nothing to do with anything. Except this is my view as I’m writing today. I’m the surf camp taxi for two today. The gig doesn’t suck.
Seriously people, my breeding skills are frankly nothing for the books. I never really saw the point in continuing to produce, once we had the car washing and yard work covered. I mean, why? With two kids, I’ve already got a damn fine excuse to drink. So why continue to play the odds? With further minion production, I could end up with a vagina that keeps my thighs from rubbing together when I walk. But I’ll quit while my lady business doesn’t whistle like the moaning caverns when I ride a bike. Not that I’d ever ride a bike without first covering those parts. I’m not Britney, for fuck’s sake. Have you seen those bike seats? Seriously, people. I’m pretty sure some girls who’ve birthed themselves an entire little league team could make one of those little tiny seats disappear. Yeh, gross… I know I’m insensitive. Don’t get all judgy. I’m just sayin.
So really, I ask myself, with my lack of flocks of children, how am I qualified to write a mommy blog? You don’t even have the benefit of knowing whether or not I’ve irreparably fucked up my kids, since they’re only 15 and 12. I could be raising serial killers. What do you know? Yet I’m a mommy blogger? *snort*
I’m sure at some point, most women who are labeled as mommy bloggers have rebelled against the tag. I’m not here to rebel. I’ve been called worse. But I am here to say I’m in no way an authority on this mommying thing. So perhaps, at most we’re able to have a laugh at my awesomeness at my ability to trip through life and not damage anything/one yet. Or have I? We just don’t know, do we?
And while I’m single-handedly flushing my own credibility, who’s to say who’s an authority? There’s no test to become a mommy. Hell, a lot of people fall into this gig because, let’s face it, latex is imperfect. Or they didn’t think about using birth control to begin with, because they just didn’t think they’d get pregnant this time. Well, I guess by comparison I’m either a veritable brain trust, or really super fucking stupid. I haven’t decided which yet. I’ll let you know when I see how my kids turn out. Either way, laughing for sure helps. And so does not taking myself seriously. Like ever. Which is fodder for my shrink and I. So, ya, there is that… moving on.
I’m the first to admit that I’ve fucked up. A lot. In all honesty, that’s why I’m here. I didn’t have the greatest start in this life game. It left me a little lot damaged. Actually pretty fucking broken. So I started writing some shit a while ago—no seriously, it’s all shit. It was a string of complaining, mostly about people who have totally sucked in my life. But I realized that what I was doing was just trying to explain why I’m such a fucked up mess. It was my pile of I’m-being-a-dickweed-in-life hall passes. I felt the need to explain myself to the people around me. It’s depressing shit, in which it’s really quite impossible to find any humor. At all. My mind is a dark and scary place, people.
This isn’t a blame game. This is me admitting that I’m really really bad at coping. I’m constantly telling myself, “Suck it up, cupcake. Be present for everyone who loves you. They’re the ones who count.” Sometimes it works, other times I just finish the bottle.
So why do I blog even though I’m an unqualified, incapable mess? I was encouraged to do this as a way to bust my ass into writing every day. A way to prime the pump in order to start the daily mind barf. A way to get the words flowing for the real writing. I’ve got a handful of unfinished fiction pieces waiting in the wings. Blogging was supposed to help me get on the road to finishing them up. But blogging has become more than pump priming. It’s become my reason to look for humor in my life. Every. single. day. Because that’s how I have to deal with the darkness in my brain. I have to make it funny. And the stuff I can’t make funny… I refuse to think about. My blog seems to have shouldered its way through to become my real writing for now. Probably because that’s what my brain needs. So I feed the beast.
My mom would tell me not to dwell on the negative. That seemed like a fanfuckingtastic theory. But I somehow lacked the ability for implementation. I couldn’t find a way to always see the sunny side. Until I started blogging. This exercise has been a physical manifestation of what my mom has always told me to do. A tool, if you will. Except I say fuck more than she would like. But it has become my tool. My tool to find daily happiness and satisfaction. Kind of like a dildo. But for my brain. Writing is a brain dildo. Kids… tell that one to your teacher.
I’m going to pause for a moment and admire my ability to work dildo into a conversation about blogging. And I think I’ve salvaged a decent blog title from a shitty, boring prompt. *deep sigh* My work here is done.
I don’t know what’s supposed to motivate a mommy blogger. Or even what one is supposed to say. I can’t seem to find the rule book. The moniker cracks me up though. It’s like I’m supposed to be throwing out some awesome and useful info. Or reviewing some can’t-live-without baby shit. Er, eh, I mean stuff. Because reviewing baby shit would be pretty gross. You don’t review it. You just throw it out. Holy dang… maybe I do know something. Just throw that shit out. There. I’m helping… I’m a mommy blogger. You’re welcome.
This has nothing to do with anything either. Just thought you’d like another view for the road. It’s not all fabulous. It was really fucking cold this morning.
Ach… always off topic. I don’t have a freakin clue where I was going with this. Whatthefuckever. I don’t have a clue why I blog, or what I’m trying to accomplish. I started on whim and continue because it feels good, and it makes me happy. Kind of like my marriage… which has been working for 21 years. So holy shit, we could be here a while. Cuz apparently I’ve got some stick-to-itedness. My marriage has produced two amazing little people. Let’s hope at some point my dumbass rambling can result in something equally awesome. *pfffbaahahaha* Probably not. But for sure, let’s just laugh and not take ourselves too seriously. Mmmmmmkay?
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There are no words that ring terror in a mom’s soul more than “summer vacation.” Ok… “Mom, I’m pregnant”… maybe… under some circumstances could possibly surpass it as most terrifying phrase. But given the way I’m feeling at the moment, I may later question the validity of even that comparison.
As much as I’m experiencing nausea and empathy pains for my son, who is now up to his neck in his first experience with a real “finals week.” I’m also pretty sure that what I’m experiencing is complete and utter panic. By the end of this week summer will officially be upon us. Though I’m almost certain that summer vacation with two teens is not a legit reason to retreat to our panic room with a cache of gluten-free crackers and a 12-pack Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I am nonetheless tempted.
My husband, the pragmatic bastard that he is, had to remind me that we don’t actually have a panic room. What the hell kind of house doesn’t have a panic room? Jesus. What are we supposed to do when someone breaks in while we’re here? He had to remind me that the chances of this happening were so small that it didn’t make sense to have a special room for it. Besides, we live in a nice area with a low crime rate, and we don’t really have anything that anyone would want to steal. Ok. He’s got me there. But now where am I supposed to go drink my Mike’s and rock gently in the corner? He suggested yoga. In September. Sweet Jesus, someone help me. I think this is what heart palpitations feel like.
No. No way. I’m not doing this. I’ve decided I’m embracing this summer like a child.
Summer is a lot like a jelly doughnut. It’s all completely awesome, right? And when you really bite into it, it makes a mess—and makes it really difficult to appear professional in any way. You just have to dive in and go for it. Jelly be damned. That’s my plan for the summer. I’m diving in. I’m self-employed, and I don’t have to be professional, dammit. My posts will be sporadic. And I probably won’t get to sit down and write as often as I’d like. But I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this. Because I just don’t have that many more years that these little people will be here to turn my summers into jelly doughnuts.
Now I’m pissed I’ve used this analogy. I’m jonesing for an actual jelly doughnut. And no one makes really good gluten-free jelly doughnuts.
Shit.
Oh well. Summer is here. Let’s do this. Happy jelly doughnuts, people!
