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!

Fuck that day

I was grocery shopping with all three of the darlings this week.  Madpeople, I’m getting so good at this.  A man even stopped us to comment that it was nice to see a mom shopping with her kids and not looking completely frazzled and bent, but instead laughing and being happy and calm.  My response was to laugh.  I clearly remember blogging about being completely overwhelmed and fighting with assholes in the store last year.  I think it took me a solid year and a half to get used to being a single mom.

When we arrived at the display which holds the hummus and cheese, I reached down and pulled out a tub of hummus, and checked the date as I normally do.   Good till July 5, 2013.  Immediately an electrical shock ran through me and I felt my asshole quiver.  D=Day.  Son.Of.A.Bitch. 

I’ll count this as my first warning that D-Day is fast approaching, no matter what I do.   There’s no stopping the calendar.  The arrival of June brings our wedding anniversary, Father’s Day, Dave’s birthday, and then D-Day…all in a span of 30 days.  On my next shopping excursion I need to buy some big girl panties to get ready for the onslaught.  Maybe this year I’ll go for a nice thong.  I’ma try not to wear depends and be in the fetal position with a pack of lit cigarettes in my mouth and one of those silly drinking hats on…you know the kind that holds a gallon of Tito’s vodka and has two straws going directly into your word hole?

Yesterday I was lying on the bed with the littlest darling.  He’s so insanely cute that I was trying to figure out how to just eat him up.  I was tickling him and he was laughing the cutest laugh that has ever fallen over the earth.  Then all of sudden “Dave” flashed across my mind.  It was intense.  I quickly pushed it away, as I am so good at doing.  I didn’t skip a beat….I said nothing….just kept laughing and tickling.  In that instant baby darling went from laughing to crying.  Just like that.  I scooped him up and asked him what was wrong.  “I miss daddy” he cried.  Shivers.  The veil was lifted for an instant.  We are still too wounded.

The two littles are already done with school, and big darling has only a couple days left.  I’m so excited to spend summer with these boys.  Please remind me of this in August when I am lamenting that I haven’t had four minutes to myself in three solid months and I am mere seconds away from clawing my hair out and running wildly down the street while babbling incoherently.  At the very least, remind me to drink more or get a prescription for medical marijuana.

In other news, I stepped on a dead rat while barefoot the other day.  Actually, it was just the rat head and tail, the middle part of the body must’ve gotten eaten.  I realize this will cause many of you to believe that I live in a garbage dump.  I swear I don’t.  I had to quickly spray bleach on the bottom of my foot.  Then I had to pick up the body parts and throw them away.  Ya hurd me?  I had to handle a fucking rat.  Big darling assisted for moral support and to hold the flashlight.  I put my hand inside three plastic bags and picked it up like I see people doing when their dogs shit in my yard.  Through three bags, I could still feel the squishy-ness of the rat flesh.  Through three bags I still thought I could feel some moist rat guts.  I will never get used to doing that kind of thing, and I will curse Dave like a motherfucker every time. 

As soon as I walked inside I found baby darling in the bathroom wiping his own ass.  Why does baby darling think he’s an ass wiper?  He’s always thought he was one.  When middle darling used to yell for me to come wipe him, I would have to sprint really fast to the bathroom in order to beat baby darling there.  I would usually enter to find him running towards the soiled ass with a piece of toilet paper the size of a dime. 

I’m going to try and update more frequently so that my blog doesn’t get lost in the blogosphere.  Two new suicide widows contacted me in the last 3 weeks, which nudges me to keep this going.  Please help me to do that because I’m not advertising the blog anymore, anywhere.  Just like or comment on the Diary’s Facebook page or invite your friends to check it out.  Gracias madpeople.