I Can Do It All By Myself! (Day 1)

*Image Source-http:// averysdrawings.wordpress.com

So, in case you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a fairly pushy little cow. I would say heifer, but since I've calved almost a half dozen times now, that would be technically incorrect. (Please don't ever ask me how I learned that differentiation. Thank you.)

Sometimes, I think that I'm just too much to handle and I say things like:

"I think you should use your time in Denver to decide whether or not you really want to keep doing this with me."

(**Side bar--this was before I was back on the Zoloft. Thank you makers of Zoloft. Even more so, thank you Super Saint Jason for NOT telling me to FUCK OFF that very moment for being a super giant douche canoe.)

Anyway. Back to the point of this post.

Saint Jason and I deal with a big issue of mine a lot. I mean, like, a shit ton. It is this. I have lived on my own for exactly...6 months of my entire adult life. That is it. The first two months were when I moved out of my mother's house before I got married the first time and the last four months were after my second divorce and before I moved in with the S.J.

I have always had a roommate or a husband or, as is the case now, a significant living in sin partner.

So I'm struggling with the independence thing a little bit. I am 34 years old. I'm not fucking 25 and trying to find my wings. I've had CAREERS. Not 1 or 2 but a few and they've all gone bust one way or another. I'm back in school and raising my kids in some very creative ways. I'm doing the very best I can in some very difficult circumstances and somehow making it work.

For fuck's sake, I am the most functionally dysfunctional person I have ever known which is what inspired this entire blog endeavor in the first place! So why am I such a fucking wreck?

(That's strictly rhetorical by the way, please do not flood the comments with your suggestions.)

Anyway, Jason is gone for 10 days. I am alone with the youngest two kids during that time and we've got a lot to accomplish. We have events to plan and attend. We have yards to landscape & homework to do. We have dogs to groom (or kill...that part is still totally up in the air) & blogs to write. We have speech therapy to attend & ex's to keep in check. Holy fucking shit, I'm going to need a Xanax.

Oh wait! Did I mention that I'm supposed to do ALL of this without cussing in front of the kids?!? And there is NO ONE here to help me with that part?! What the deuce? Now, that's just bullshit!

Fuck it. I can do it...all by myself.

Melodic Monday

Saint Jason flew out this morning for Denver...he'll be gone for 10 days. This makes me a little sad because I'm going to miss him a lot. This is one of our favorites: there are some days when only Radiohead will make you smile again. Love you, babe.

How do you say, "If you don't stay on your side of the bed, I'm going to smother you"??

I have a problem. Ok, I have more than one problem (read: issue, psychosis, etc.), but right now we'll just address one.

I am sleep deprived. My body sort of finds itself in a constant state of twilight (and no, not the movie although, right now, that would fucking rock, because I wouldn't care if I wasn't sleeping).

Sometimes I can fall asleep, but not stay asleep; other times, I can't fall asleep at all. When I do fall asleep, I'm usually awakened by one of any number of random annoying fucking things, like my skanky neighbor's out of control dogs barking, a mouth breathing brat standing right over my face mumbling something about hot dogs or carrying permanent markers about to throw down some rockin' graffiti because they are sleep- walking. Awesome.

Or, my very fave...Saint Jason, rubbing my ass cheek (supposedly in his sleep) or attempting to spoon with me, or sleeping in the middle of the fucking bed with his head on my pillow. FORBIDDEN.

I have two rules, people. Only two. Don't use my toothbrush and don't touch my fucking pillow. And about those two things, I am extremely neurotic. Say what you will, I care not.

Saint Jason has been, of course, very saintly about respecting these rules, and also respectful about my body's need for space when I sleep. He makes an extra special effort to sleep as far away from me as he can so he's not tempted to "sleep fondle" as we call it. Rubbing my butt apparently calms him; this is also, apparently, an inherited trait he got from his father. Ewww.

Where were we? Oh yes.

Well, this week, thanks to the return of Zoloft to my nightly routine, I have been sleeping a little better (thank you, gods of the pharmaceuticals), however, am still adjusting to the meds so am dragging at night. I was looking very forward to snuggling up in my bed with my perfect pillow and falling into the 4 hour coma that Mr. Z has provided me each night this week.

Alas, it was not to be. Who should appear at my back, all spoon happy and ready to cuddle (all the while invading my personal sleep nirvana)? Saint Jason.

DAMMIT! (OK, so that word was just for my own pleasure)

My text to him this morning was something like:

If I have sex with you tonight, will you promise to stay on your side of the bed for the rest of the weekend?

Because, I'm not a total bitch. I know the man has needs.

See...the Zoloft is working.


**I did do other nice things for the world (or my small part of it) this week. I spread some awareness with this video re-posted on my FB page (which sent my mother in to a tailspin wanting to know who was bullying me & mine--she seriously needs a FB tutorial).

And I posted a very personal story at one of my very favorite support group sites for people from every possible walk of life: Band Back Together. (If you read this, please read ALL the comments to get clarification on a statement I make about cutting.)

So Happy the Speech Therapy is Finally Paying Off

Ian has a new word. He says it with absolute clarity and perfect articulation.

"Dammit."

My life will never be the same. I have to stop cussing. At least out loud. My writing, however, is going to be absolutely profane. I'm sorry.

Now is where you should jump ship if you are easily offended.

Still here?

Shit. Fuck. Balls. Cock. Douchebag. Son of a bitch. Motherfucker. DAMMIT!!!!!

I'm going to go wash my own mouth out with soap now.

Home is Where the Cooties Are...

This morning began like any other. Alarm went off at 5:20 and I hit the snooze for ten more minutes of much needed sleep, which I didn't get because I lay there thinking of all the things I really need to accomplish today. I get up at 5:30 and hit the shower, get dressed, gather the kids' crap, and it's time to wake Elena.

Well, shit. This can't be good. She looks and sounds like The Swamp Thing and...yep, is running a fucking fever too.

AWWEEHHAASOME!!!

So here we are; me, Elena, Ian and my youngest charge Sidney. All trapped in this petri dish of allergy inspired viral colds.

Elena has been banned to her room, a veritable kingdom of electronics with her t.v. and DVD player and Nintendo DS. I bring her food and meds on schedule and she's allowed out only to visit the latrine. I'm a mean mommy, or so I've been told, because I'm making her rest.

Whatever.

Honestly, she's getting on my damn nerves and I might have to duct tape her to her bed if she gets up again. I might even hook her up to the shop vac if she doesn't learn to blow her damn nose. I mean, really, what 7 year old girl can't effectively blow her own nose? I can't help it, the sound of *sniffing* gets on my nerves.

In fact, I think duct tape is in order for all the ankle biters today. I need a nap. And a xanax. And a glass of wine.

And there I go thinking about shit I can't have in the middle of the work day again. Crap.

Maybe I'll just go use the duct tape to seal my ears from the sounds of Max & Ruby before my entire brain bleeds out.