When you marry a half breed, you get to celebrate thanksgiving in October and in November. I was once asked if I preferred one over the over and honestly, that’s like comparing freshly picked apples to finding frozen nipples on the ground.
See totally different.
I hope you know that this was all in good fun.
Our themes are the same, giving thanks for family, friends and basic human needs. It’s recognizing that you have much more than some and that maybe in the next coming weeks, in the giving spirit, if you can afford to, pay it forward to help those in need.
I hope my American friends have a safe and happy and fat Thanksgiving. Thank you for officially kicking off the Christmas season. We are now allowed to put up our Christmas tree xoxo
I looked past the gobs of bright blue toothpaste on the vanity and at the iPod dock that I had carried in the bathroom with me. I mouthed an obscenity and forcefully pushed myself backwards in the tub creating a small tidal wave. It was 2:45pm. I stirred the lukewarm water and what was left of the raspberry scented bubbles. And just like in my childhood days, I closed my eyes, took a gulp of air and slid down below the surface. Then I kicked the plug out with my heel.
“The whirlpool captain! She’s pulling her in!”
I waited until the tub ran dry and there was enough left over suds that I could have fashioned a beard. If I had a camera in here, I would have taken a picture of myself and then posted it on Facebook because I would have looked really cute.
I didn’t even know why I was taking a bath. I think they’re gross. I keep thinking that I’m relaxing in the very same water that just washed away whatever was clung to me. So I’m forced to “pre-clean” as if I was a dish ready to go into a dishwasher and I don’t want to play the “dish”.
I also don’t want a UTI courtesy of Raspberry Vanilla with body glitter.
I pulled myself out. It was 3:00pm. Oh god, my heart raced. Where did the entire day go?
“I’ll tell you why,” Depression shouted. “You are a damn child Kimberly.”
But I try.
“An adult child reduced to taking afternoon baths to avoid doing the laundry, cleaning the messy floors, there’s uncooked meals, the unmade beds, the dusting, the Christmas who gives-a-crap decorating, all of it because it is overwhelming.”
But I try.
“Look at you. Look at you. 34 years old. Can you put on your own clothes?”
“The whirlpool captain! She spit back out an ugly one. Can we fix it?”
“Did God make gorilla glue, drugs, and raspberry vanilla scented bubbles laced with glitter? She may just have a chance.”
I wished that Shawn had fixed the patio screen in the summer because every time a passing breeze catches its frayed ends, I think I’m seeing people out the corner of my eye. Maybe I am. Could be your grandpa or your beloved cat. She says that she hates you for giving her the “pass go-do not collect your cat nip-go directly to inferno” card.
Look at her:
Sweet Jesus what is wrong with me?
That is what is wrong with me.
I’m having a hard time doing much of anything and that is if I want to do much of anything at all. I’ve been sitting in and around the kitchen for a good part of the day crying because I pretty much told a woman that she was fat when she yelled at me because I walked my son to school in -11 degree weather, dog hair that clung to the side of the bathtub, how to kill my dog, why does my psychiatrist need to take a 2 week long holiday, and over this bag of tea. Yes, this bag of tea.
Companies need to stop labelling their products “Happy” because people who aren’t happy want to feel happy and if the product is telling these sad lads and lasses that happy is in the package, those sad people will buy it.
Or win it.
“Happy” looks a lot like yard waste and high school pot parties in cornfields.
Fast forward past the part when I realized that I needed a tea infuser thing and I texted obscenities to Shawn about defrosting shrimp which had nothing to do with anything tea related. And then I MacGyver’ed this bitch.
It’s a coffee filter with an elastic band.
Let steep for the allotted 5 minutes.
That’s too long, I think to myself.
Probably out loud to myself.
It’s too long.
Depression isn’t like any other illness. There’s no prognosis, no Mrs. Morand, you have approximately 4 weeks for the symptoms to subside.
I’m left in all the pieces that depression smashed me into.
I don’t want to wait anymore.
I wish that feeling not depressed was as easy as kicking back and drinking a cup of MacGyver’ed up Happy tea.
I wish that I’m not seeing things.
Mostly, I just wish that while I wait, my family doesn’t suffer along with me. I love you all with everything I have and I’m trying really hard except for when I’m watching Dr.Who and The Walking Dead.
*Im sure that there are people out there who think that we are in search of happy in a pill. There is no such thing. Anti-depressants help level our moods. They are only part of the healing process. We, the patients, also have to work on ourselves in order to heal.
Ps. So I am in a book called Clash Of The Couples. I’ve done a horrible job at promoting it. I am very proud of the book. We’ve been in the top five slot for Amazons hot new releases!!! So check it out!!! Great gift!!!
I don’t know how I fell through time and landed right there on the ground. Where “there” was I had no idea and honestly, I didn’t care because for the first time in a long while, I was happily unhinged from depression. I suspected that I was in the bathroom because my cheek was cold and pressed firmly on ceramic tile. I lifted my head and the shadows in the room spun. My hand steadied my body as I smoothed my way up one wall to find a light switch and flipped it on. It was my bathroom. There were french fries scattered all over the floor. How in the world did I make it home, I wondered. My hair was disheveled, tile grout creases on the side of my face and I was still wearing my tacky vest.
I started to laugh.
Then I threw up.
O Alcohol, I still drink to your health
The first drink I ever had was when I was thirteen years old. My girlfriend’s parents had gone on holiday and “they” had left a window unlocked. Since “they” were so careless, we had to sneak in to make sure that they unplugged the toaster and turned off the oven. While we were in there we figured that we should have a drink so we mixed each bottle of alcohol into on giant pitcher because we had no idea what we were doing.
If being a bad ass meant growing chest hair in a single evening then we had succeeded.
I started drinking again when I was in high school. I was dubbed with the nickname Puke because I had no self-control. I was once found in a city garden ass up holding a quality chicken Caesar pita.
You can blame my then boyfriend Bart.
Which just hit me: The title of my blog is a reference to a Homer Simpson quote.
Sometimes I choose to ignore the black box warnings that comes with each of the medications I take because I don’t like feeling bad feelings and I don’t like having bad thoughts and for the love of Jesus Christ I want to laugh without having to force it.
I don’t like the itchy feeling of wearing this ugly vest that I purchased for 3.99 at a thrift shop and I want to wear it that son of a bitch without remembering that I’m actually wearing it.
I cannot dance and that I’m actually shy but by the grace of booze I can rock on stage with this guy with his crazy ass hair.
I have no idea how I made it home but Shawn said he had to google my location. He said that I called for a ride at 10pm.
“Must’ve been a really wild night,” he chuckled.
Then I threw up.
Old School Blogging Random Things peppered in there
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