Time to get right

This week my kids entered a special boot camp I’ve created out of desperation.  It’s called 1976.  Remember what we did in the summer of ’76?  Bell bottoms, feathered hair, tube socks and these songs. 

More importantly, in 1976, we climbed trees, drank from the hose, rode bikes, walked to Time Saver for Bubblicious and pop rocks, and played hide and go seek with the neighborhood kids, usually well into the night.  Funny how none of us were kidnapped, raped or maimed, despite not wearing helmets and our parents not having a clue where we were.

We were not allowed to sloth around in the house all day.  My mom’s favorite saying was “Go outside.”

There weren’t elaborate cooked meals for lunch.  We ate baloney sandwiches.  We weren’t aware of other options, like fancy pita breads, grilled Panini sandwiches, and various meat and cheese selections.  Our choice of baloney was with olives or without.

There was no Minecraft, no Xboxes, no cable TV, and no IPhones.  Therefore, none of these things are present in the 1976 camp.  I’m debating whether I will force them to play frogger.  Remember our version of Minecraft?  It was called “Adventure”…it was the game with the dragons…they chased you through those ‘castles’ and you had to find that secret key.

The reason for the camp is because my kids are asses.

I’ve spent 30 days carting them around to festivals and parties.  They’ve been to water parks and to the movies.  Bowling and miniature golf.  They’ve eaten from cool food trucks and have been to several restaurants.  They spent a day in the French Quarter and have been to the Museum of Art.

I’ve finally come to the realization that none of this matters.  They fight and whine and act unappreciative.   And I’m sick of it.

I was so sick of them last week that at one point I actually refused to feed them.  You think I’m kidding?  The muthas were quite amused with this fracas.

They always get a good snack after swimming.  On one particular day, they wanted hashbrowns and eggs with fresh tomatoes and bacon.  They’re accustomed to the waitstaff here.  I smirked and told them hell no.

I refused to feed them.  I told them I wasn’t preparing another meal until they helped me clean the ENTIRE house.  Then I told them as soon as they ate their snack, they were heading outside.  FOR THE DAY.  They were not to come inside until dark.

They whined that they would be hot and thirsty.  I reminded them that they have a pool and a fridge stocked with water and juice boxes.  A far cry from riding my bike all sweaty with a red face in 1976 and drinking from the hose.  I mean seriously, did we even have trees for shade back then?

The day was quite amusing.  They swam.  They rode bikes.  They dug holes in the yard.  They picked tomatoes.  They caught bugs.  They walked to the park.  They brought rocks home from the railroad tracks.  They found old paint in the basement and painted the rocks.  They did not fight.  They did not whine.  And I did not spend a dime.  It was a jackass free zone.

Somehow, we were all righted.

Now, go here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DX7qvrG9vhc

You’re welcome.  Enjoy your right side up day.

 

There's No Cryin In Rock 'n Roll

Well madpeople, father’s day is upon us and my heart is bleeding for my precious boys.  I’m the ultimate over-compensater.  I can spin a bad situation into a lighthearted one, I can force my way through deep shit like a mad bull.  My head is high and my heart is joyful, mostly.  But I’m still just a chick.  A mutha.  I’m not a man.  I’m not a daddy.  I can’t replace him.  And it’s so unfair.

These kids are the best.  They are sweet and gentle and kind and funny and so full of love.  They deserve to be sandwiched between a mom and a dad.  They deserve to play football and baseball and soccer in the yard with their dad.  They deserve to learn from a good man how to treat a woman, how to be a husband, how to be a provider.  And they’ll have none of it.  Not a lick.  And it makes a part of me die inside.

I try not to freak out because I know surely there must exist men who achieved greatness despite not having a father.  I know books have been written and statistics charted that say my boys are likely to be deficient in some way, solely due to their lack of a father figure.  I desperately want to believe that my love, my passion, will make it untrue.

I once boasted that my love was not regular.  Someone once told me that knowing me was like knowing fire.  I try to convince myself that I can be everything they need.  Deep inside I feel it’s untrue.

I don’t need him.  I really don’t.  But they do.  The brutal agony turns to anger so that I can function.  I know what to do with anger.  I don’t know what to do with agony.  The anger fuels me.  The agony destroys me.  This is one of the benefits of being a suicide survivor.  The anger props you up, nudges you.  I’m the best when someone tells me I can’t do something.

I’m sobbing now, but not hysterically because my boys are in the next room.  We’re going to my dad’s today, to get what little bit of dadness we can swipe in a short time.  The big boys recently discovered an affinity for Lynyrd Skynyrd, so we’re going to dry the tears, open the roof and crank it up loud on the way.  There’s no crying in rock n roll.

This was sent straight from Dave today...give it a whirl.  A little Freebird is good for the soul.

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on, now
'Cause there's too many places I must see

If I stayed here with you, girl
Things just couldn't be the same
'Cause I'm as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change

And the bird you cannot change
And the bird you cannot change
Lord knows, I can't change

Bye, bye, it's been a sweet love
Though this feeling I can't change
But please don't take it so badly
'Cause Lord knows I'm to blame

But if I stayed here with you, girl
Things just couldn't be the same
Cause I'm as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change

I'm the bird you cannot change
And this bird you cannot change
Lord knows, I can't change
Lord help me, I can't change

Oh, I can't change
Fly free bird

Bad things come in 3's, or 3000s....

Bad things happen in 3’s….or in three thousands or something if you’re the Madwoman…but who the fack is counting, right?

I know you all have probably heard me mention that it’s termite swarming season here in Nola.  This year I noticed I had way more swarmers than usual.  Like way the fuck more.  I found out it had something to do with the termites actually nesting in and eating my house all up.

I woke up one morning to thousands of wings everywhere and little areas in the sheetrock where I could shine a flashlight and actually see little buggy eyes looking back at me.  Shivers.  I quickly sprayed windex on them then covered the holes with duct tape.  Upon closer inspection, which demanded that I actually walk into parts of my own house that I rarely enter, I discovered that zillions of termites were eating Dave’s old lumber stacks in the basement.  They’re eating the front of my house, the downstairs bathroom and a few other tasty spots too.

The front of the basement is sort of dark and creepy and I honestly never go in there.  There’s not much there except old lumber that hoarder Dave was keeping, and some big ass saws.  (Remember the saw from DemonicAmputating Flowers?)  Yeah…read that if you don’t know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, I went nuts.

I cleaned out the entire garage in about five hours.  I flung the windows open and just threw everything out the windows like it was Hurricane Katrina all over again.  I was rabid.  Extremely pissed.  Many of Dave’s lazy workers cut wood and went in and out of our basement for years, and they were asshole stupid slobs.  I cursed them every step of the way as I cleaned up the messes of grown men while neglecting my kids.  In fact, at one point I got so annoyed I tipped the giant saw from Demonic Amputating Flowers right over.  It hurt my wrists when I did it.  It was so heavy that when I tried to right it again, I couldn’t even budge it.  You know how people get weird adrenaline and can lift cars off of people and stuff?  Yeah…I had that weird adrenaline.  Believe me, if you get stuck under a big log, you will want me around!  I will flick that shit over like it’s a stick or something.  When I was done being the Incredible Hulk, I called a trash guy and he carted off FOUR giant, full loads from the garage.

So, I’m no longer a wood hoarder.  Or any sort of hoarder.  My garage is clean and tidy and it feels more like mine and less like Dave’s, so there’s that.

The termite guy pointed out that some of my eaves and rafters on the roof were rotting.  I knew that.  I’ve been pretending not to see that shit for years.  I have to fix it now because they think the termites are trying to build an aerial nest near the wet, rotten wood.  That prompted a call to the roof guy, who quickly told me that whoever installed my roof 12 years ago failed to install a proper drip edge, which is why my gutters are coming loose and my eaves are rotting.  He also took pictures up there of where the squirrels have eaten off all the vent covers, and one of the vents is actually leaking into the attic.  I didn’t admit to him that I knew that vent was leaking into the attic months ago.  I couldn’t fix it with duct tape or a butter knife, which are the main tools in my tool belt, so I threw a thick piece of insulation under it, to absorb the rainwater when it rains.  Genius, right?  I thought so too.  I swear I’m nothing if not a handy bitch.

And last, but not least…..the shitwater is back in the basement.  Remember the shitwater?  You can read about it here.  So I called the plumbers again and they showed up with jackhammers and all of a sudden things got insanely stinky!  In fact, not just regular stinky.  We are talkin’ big stank.  It was more like a homeless person’s ass, actually a dead homeless person’s ass after he had bad diarrhea for 12 years.  Try to imagine it.  They called me down to deliver the news that my master bath toilet and shower are not even draining into the sewer.  All that shit is just pouring under my slab.  Because we are shit magnets.  We actually magnetize shit.  How can I make money off this unique talent?

For the last few months I have conducted an experiment where I did not blog about my strange magnetic abilities.   I was under the impression that I was becoming inert.  Not so, madpeople!

I am laughing right now because I know the majority of you who do not know me will imagine that I live in a rat hole.  I wish I could post a photo of my lovely 90 year old raised bungalow…but alas, some of you might kidnap me and the darlings so I have to practice restraint.  I swear it’s lovely.

I know I promised to blog more, like I’m some kind of famous person that people give a shit about, and I haven’t really done it.  I should take a moment to say that so many of you have taken the time to write to me lately and check in on me, given that it’s our ‘bad time’ right now.  You touch me so deeply, you madpeople you….you really do.  Some people even mentioned that they felt weird reaching out and asking me how I was doing, they didn’t want to seem too stalkerish.  Trust me when I say that there’s no harm in caring about our fellow humans.  I’m so touched that you all care about me and I love and care about you all just the same.  Let’s keep caring about one another.  We’re all occupying this beautiful earth and the good people make it all worthwhile.  Where would we be without good people?  In the shitter, that’s where.  So keep being the good, madpeople.

I have lots more to say but I try to keep these short on account of all you ADHD folks.  For now, keep repelling the shit and I will write more after I finish this delicious lemonade vodka that some of the muthas are forcing me to drink.

How ya like me nah?  I WROTE!