Totally GAY for V- Day

I just started a pin board on pinterest called “Gay and Romantic” which is completely not PC, however; when I grew up “gay” did not mean “gay” & “queer” did not mean “queer” 
gay simply = queer which was a form of goofy+ sappy meets silly+ ridiculous- and that was all.  It was completely “ok” by us to call each other “gay” or  “queer” or “retarded”. We kids knew what we meant, it was the adults who eventually made it complicated, politically incorrect, offensive, & wrong- *sigh*…. leave it to adults to spoil perfectly awesome and I still want to use them everyday words!!!

In any case-  I love being gay and romantic – especially because:  I am!
Being in love makes it all possible… thank God for love because it inspires me to do incredibly queer and retarded things and I have GOOD REASON ( see: chemical imbalance)  (and again, for the RECORD- let me please clarify that I do not in anyway mean ANYthing derogatory to either mentally challenged adults or same sex lovers!- those two things just don’t EVEN cross my mind in this case!)

With Valentines day almost upon us I am thinking about what I can do for my own “lovah” (which is a term that makes us both cringe and so I giggle as I write it.) However, I realize that the gayest thing I’ve ever done for him is so gay that it might have bought me a free pass for a couple of years in which i do not have to do anything as “over the top” as what I presented to him last V-day!

“TA- DA!” ( I remember it well)  He unwrapped the box that contained the grubby little moleskine journal and looked at it with mild trepidation.

“What is it?” He asked.

I had kept a journal professing my love to him over the course of the year and gave to him.  I think I raised my eyebrows and said something romantic

and gay

like:  “It’s my heart… and, it’s yours now”   (Ok, I am making this part up and I just had to go to the bathroom so I don’t wet my bathrobe thinking about looking into his eyes and saying this… i think he would die.)  As it is I think he’s only read a few pages to this day… (too queer!) so perhaps I can bring it back out (NO!!!!!!- like the JC penny commercial) and highlight a few choice passages for review- read them outloud to him by candlelight in the naughty negligee I don’t own or something equally as cringe – worthy.

Seriously? I personally love it because I filled the entire thing and mean every word of it and then had the guts (aka stupidity) to give it to him but it was over the top queer and we both know it.  One of the reasons I love him so much is that I know it will mean a lot to him one day though like maybe when we are like 98 we can lay next to each other reading it and LMAO.

It was a once in a lifetime unabashed devotional to the man i love and if anyone ever found it guess what I KNOW they would immediately say upon reading it (especially if they grew up in the same era) they would say:

  “This is SOOOO GAY! What kind of a RETARD would actually write this sh*t?”

and we would all nod and agree because we would know EXACTLY what kind of a retard would do that…..

ME!!!!

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The V-day Journal for my "Lovah"

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Cutting Butter with A Knife: A Survival Story.

Sooooo.

Mr. Goodbar left for a business trip and for the first time since we’ve moved in together (it had been approximately eight weeks, 6 days, 16 hours, and 22 minutes) I found myself completely alone (kids with Daddy)  and starving.  I thought I’d make myself a bowl of brown rice with chicken and cut some cold butter with a knife (for the rice) and….

cut my left index finger to the bone and stand there bleeding profusely all over the kitchen. Did I say all over? Did I say bleeding? Profusely?

I stood there for a moment – it was in slow motion and a detached voice said:

“Oooh, that SUCKS!”

and “Damn… that really HURTS.”

When i was done realizing that this was not a superficial wound I gathered my wits about me I ran around the house yelling:

“Shit.”

“Shit.”

“Oh Shit.”

to no one. but myself. because, well.. no one was home and because the situation called for a cool head and quick action.

Blood. everywhere.

I rushed around trying to figure out the how to stop the bleeding and find my phone was so i could… could what? text? tweet? Interesting how I may very well lose a finger but I am concerned of the whereabouts of my i-phone (at all times apparently)

How ridiculous. I did not need my i- phone !!, I needed my FINGER! I needed my car key, I needed gas, I needed a tourniquet, a rubber band to hold it on,  and I needed stitches so that I can operate and function like the mentally impaired adult that I am! That much was as clear as mustard.

I continued “Oh shitting” out loud as I made my one handed drive to the ER in my ever practical family car: the Mini Cooper stick shift. Holding my hand above my heart well over my head (It has a sunroof)   Not really sure how I got there. at all.

I walked into the ER and the Triage Nurse station was directly in front of me.  I said to myself:

“Self?”

“Triage= YOU”

The little nurse there was all business and demanded I take off the rubber band from around the roll of sullied paper towel that was once my finger (blood trail on floor to mark entrance) so she could re-dress the “laceration” (her words) .

“Oh yeah- this is gonna need stitches for sure” she said as we unwrapped it and although I looked through squinty eyes that really did not want to look but totally needed to see I promptly vomited on the floor.

She seemed unimpressed, but I’ll tell you, I was was just the opposite… the body is completely amazing- you know?  My finger looked ALL KINDS of WRONG and my stomach intuitively KNEW THAT and so it just kind of rejected the whole idea (along with the spoonful of rice I managed to shove in my mouth before the stabbing).

While I was sitting in the waiting room of the ER sexting with the Goodbar (got to keep things spicy) I took a quick glance around the room and it became clear why the nurse seemed so lesefaire about my revolting finger wound “laceration” (her words). – Every guy in the waiting room had one!

No kidding.

There was a big guy to my left who’d done it with a Ginsu cutting bell peppers while preparing dinner for a party of 30 and really working at a clip when …. well, needless to say thank god his finger nail got in the way.  Another who’d gotton the top of his finger pinched off (OWIE) when a dude dropped a massive weight on his hand while at the gym.   Then two more guys who’d been in minutes earlier (being stitched up ) who were both in gourmet kitchen accidents. I felt like part of a brotherhood- (except i was like the sister in the family of wounded hands- like a middle child who’s just stuck with brothers all around her just making the best of her life with men everywhere) we all silently sat there – sharing this horrible event that would make us closer- just so that we could never see each other. ever. again.  of our sliced appendages…we were survivors. i was not alone. (Did I mention that I was totally checking out the size of their finger dressing and comparing them to mine?)

(Mine was the biggest.) 

The guys seemed super impressed by the amount of blood coming from my new tourniquet and the fact that I was able to keep my wits about me with such a terrible “laceration” (her words) and asked me:

how did it It happen?

….and then,

all of my wounded hand brothers were focused on me….

They were all looking at me.

Quietly.

Waiting.

“I, um, I… er, I…”

“I’m not sure..”

“I mean… ”

“I… I didn’t get a good look at the guy… ahh… I mean,  ahh…”

“butter. It was dark… everything happened so fast… I…. I…”

“I..”

“blonde.”

“and I bleed-ed.”

“Bad.”

“Butter.”

“Bad.”

Six stitches.  I am home now, eating my chicken and rice dinner (sans butter).

Can’t be left home alone. again. ever.

Un-Pinterested I’m NOT.

What the H E Double hockey sticks- the Pinterest search bar is gone again !

I wonder if I am being punished for over pinning?  I admit- it’s gotten out of control but what is a visual hoarder going blind in the left eye so can’t read till i get glasses due to age gal gonna do?

While anxiously awaiting (ie; wringing my hands by the computer) for my search bar to be returned back to my loving arms I will just take the opportunity to pin a few of my all time faves….

When you can’t beat them join them.

Shaw: “Mom she’s looking at me!”

Manon: “No I’m not”

Shaw: “Yes you are don’t a- lie!”

Me: “It’s lie not a- lie and then stop looking at her”

Shaw: “I can’t!!” “oooh- she’s doing it again!”

UGH!

And this has been going on now for several months mostly in the back seat of the car or at dinner time.

For her part I caught her practicing her glowering in the bathroom mirror…

“It’s effective so you really don’t need to practice” I said casually

Manon: Glower.

Me: Gulp

Me: “Shaw… your sister is looking at me!”

 

Reminder

Every parent is alone in the childerness.

The childerness is the unsettled, uncultivated region of parenthood left it your arms after you’ve done everything you were sposed to and she’s (he’s) still crying.  Your tired, wired, and untrained for this type of warfare.  You believe you’ve served your time- but the fact of the matter is you’ve still got at least 18 years to go and that’s regardless of good behavior compadre.  You’ve got a wife or a husband? That does not mean you are a unit.  That means you have the illusion of a nap in your future and should you be out to lunch at the time your child truly needs you to come through for them on that 879th life lesson and you fail to cut mustard? That’s on you pal. YOU and YOU alone.

If you want to get through this thing called parenthood than it’s time you face the facts.  You are truly, utterly alone.

It’s a jungle childerness out there.  Don’t F it up.

Puzzling

Time blesses me sometimes with little puzzle pieces that fit.

I’ve got a bunch of the puzzle laid out,  it’s got my childhood, where i grew up,  the momentous events that continue to shape my life.  It’s got my love’s, heartbreaks, school friends, career path,  losses, heartaches, dreams, and goals. My fathers death when I was twenty, my marriage, divorce, the births of my children.  Every now and again I stare at a pile of pieces on the table here beside the puzzle that don’t quite fit. yet. events that seem senseless, useless… no matter how I try to turn the piece this way or that – they are misfits now. Maybe always. Then there are the occasional pieces that fall into place – perfect fits and segways and sections that intersect and bingo- another piece of the picture becomes visible.

I love when that happens.

 

PMS = PACK MY SUITCASE

When am I going to learn that PMS means:

PACK. MY. SUITCASE.

But No.

No.

Instead it’s like the reoccurring mysterious behavioral phenomenon every month and when it finally arrives I’m all:

“Ooooooh so Thhhhhats why I was such a psycho last week!”

(insert mortified remorse as I flash back to the week in detail… oh, those poor poor people.)

Ok so seriously?  You’d think I’d have a routine down here- you know- every month for the past 28 years like clock work (except for 2-3 of those years when i was pregnant/nursing)   You think maybe i’d have a plan in place to deal with the “situation”- you know, in case it should arise.

NO

Nope.

Instead,  I use the week before to simply wonder if perhaps I might be going crazy….  ?

I use the time to be completely reactionary and practice new and more creative ways of losing my grip.

RE action ZONE. Proceed with extreme caution.

Common scenarios and thoughts (one might refer to as clues) that cycle through my head the week before:

“Wow,  I wonder why I am soooo hungry today?- I feel like I could just eat the entire house” (Run kids run for your lives before you get eaten toooo!)

“No one appreciates me – I’m outta here!” (I could just pack my bags right now and leave!- that would show them!)

“I’m soooo tired and I think i need to take a….. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz”  “just putting the kids to bed honeyZzzzzzz”

“I am NOT being irrational! I’m NOT! It was MY box of Nutter Butters! MINE!- you hear me?!!”

“Did she just cut me off?  Dirty Whore!!!”

” WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH… that commercial is so. so. sad.- it just gets me every time!”

“Are you done with that doughnut?”

“I have such a headache- it’s like a migrane – I wonder if i am coming down with something?” (taking my temperature every 20 minutes)

“I love you”
“I HATE you!”

TURN DOWN THE MUSIC! Is everyone DEAF?

Don’t look at me in that TONE!!!!

So… there are in fact a few red flags you know?  but no, every month there is like a big surprise party to mark it’s murderous arrival.

Wait!

Why am I bleeding? !!!!

Oh, is it already that time of month?