When the Words Won’t Come Out

Sometimes we have things to say.  But the words are stuck inside.

It’s like our throat is a corroded pipe, full of gunk, and our mouth is the sink.

If at any time the faucet is turned on, the sink fills up immediately, becoming useless.  There is no choice but to turn off the water and wait for the solution of jumbled thoughts, disconnected. words and the multitude of anxieties that swirl around them to drain. It takes so long there is no standing there and waiting, there is only leaving and come back later.

Eventually the sink is avoided, even though we know this won’t fix the clog.

It is a temporary solution to the problem.

This has been my temporary fix:

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

doode

 

image

If you like what you see, follow me on Instagram. AMorningGrouch.  I’m starting to fill that sucker up like crazy.

This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things – A Book Review

I have hardly posted in my own blog the last couple of months and I make no excuses.  I am a sporadic blogger, one without much direction or focus, and that’s just what A Morning Grouch is about.  Random half-assery.  Most of the time I like it that way.

A few of my favorite bloggers are quite the opposite – they are very professional in appearance and productivity and are consistently posting fantastic little nuggets of wisdom, insight, sarcasm or hilarity.  (Sidebar plug: If you haven’t checked out I Got a Dumpster Family (gratitude, sobriety, parenting) or Sammiches and Psych Meds (humor, satire, parenting) you really should.  Those are my two faves, other than Clint’s).

When my pal Clint over at No Idea What I’m Doing: A Daddy Blog asked if I would review his latest book, HIS LATEST REAL BOOK THAT HE IS THE AUTHOR OF, of course I said yes.  I’m assuming he understood, because of my overall blogging half-assery, that it would take me much longer than I said it would to actually do it.  But don’t worry, Clint.  I didn’t forget.   And even though I feel like I hardly have time to wipe my own ass these days, I even made time to read it.  It was nice that his book is a selection of essays that can be read individually.

So here it goes:
THE GOOD:  Clint hits on the important topics of parenting and marriage – and he does so with authentic self-appraisal.  He addresses the issues with honesty and an open mind, something that isn’t so common.  Maybe it’s because he got to experience life as a stay-at-home dad, and got a taste of the reality that sets in after awhile.  In his first chapter, before getting his act together, spurred by a connecting conversation with his wife about the hardships of being a stay-at-home parent he said,

One month into being a stay-at-home dad, all I did was drink Diet Coke and bitch.  My lust for cleaning had dwindled.  I started to accept my failure.  I ate an alarming amount of ice cream.  I allowed the kids to watch movies all day so I could sleep warmly in my bed, away from what the kids were becoming…lazy slobs like myself.

He reflects on the crazy shit parents say when they are so sleep deprived they might actually crack and worry they might not be able to be put back together:

Tristan, I love you, but if you don’t go to sleep, I might die.  Is that what you want? For me to die because I feel like I’m dying.  Do you even care?

He describes the realities of parenting that you just can’t find funny unless you have kids, but once you do, you nod and crack up out loud to yourself, possibly spitting out your own beverage on the carpet (damn it!) when you read,

Until I had a child, I had no idea that a one-year-old could propel puke at a distance twice his own height.  I must have cleaned the carpet a dozen times in three days  Eventually I got to where I could see it coming, and once Tristan made the puke face, I pointed his mouth at my chest and let it happen.  Now let me just make this clear, I made a conscious decision to allow someone to puke on e because changing my clothing and taking a shower seemed easier than cleaning the carpet or sofa.

It’s sort of like when you hear the cat starting to make the pre-puking yakking and you move him over to the tile.  Cleaning the carpet freaking SUCKS.

It’s not just the reality and the humor that makes Clint’s book enjoyable and relateable, it’s that there’s a sweetness he’s got underneath all the puke or the silver-dollar sized zit on his ass (that’s in the book, too, and you can’t miss that disgusting chapter), like this:

What I’ve learned is that being the father of a daughter means a melted heart.  It means reading a poorly written book that summarizes the movie Frozen every night for six weeks, and although the writing is terrible and I’m sick of the story, I do it because few things are sweeter than having my daughter snuggled next to me.

Clint has his moments of disgust, annoyance and exhaustion, but they are all enveloped in moments of self-reflection, gratitude and appreciation.  It’s a pleasure to see him experience the full spectrum of emotion that surrounds successful marriage and parenting.

THE BAD:   There are a few stories where as I was reading I found myself thinking that I would have maybe said or done something different if I were in his shoes, like when he caught his kids looking at each other’s butt holes in the bathroom:

If they weren’t brother and sister, that would be one thing.  But they were, and that was just strange…Do you have friends that do that? Please tell me that you don’t have friends that look at your butthole.

But, it’s really easy for me to think of better things to say as an outsider looking in, isn’t it?  And let’s be honest, there’s a lot of people who would say or do different things that I did in many circumstances, and that’s just what makes us each  who we are.   So, in a way, I think that actually gives a bit of charm to the whole book.  Clint is a normal guy like the rest of us, who makes mistakes and questions himself, but in the big scheme of things is doing an awesome job overall.  And unlike most people he’s willing to put himself out there.  He’s the real deal, not the self-edited lying narcissist.  He’s a self-edited hilariously ridiculous sentimental goofball – the best kind of husband and father.  He validates our insecurities and inevitable parenting errors, while inspiring us to get off our asses and become better at the roles we care most about.  His writing is appealing and refreshing and HONEST, the most important trait in parenting, in living, and in this case, in writing.

THE TAKEAWAY:  Clint’s book, This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things is a great read for any parent of young ones who has that special balance between being finding the humor, being disgusted by, grateful for, and straightforward about their children and their marriage.

image

When Everything Goes to Shit

Some of us have got a lot of shit going on right now.

All of us have experienced that feeling of Everything-Going-to-Shit.  I guess the good news is that things usually doesn’t go to shit for everyone at once.  Our collective shit ebbs and flows.  Sometimes we’re shitless and we feel fresh and clean and spunky.  But other times we’ve got piles of shit collecting all around us.  Sometimes we’ve got a it’ll-be-funny-later shitshow, and then there are occasional horrific shitstorms.  We’ve all been through shit in the past, and some of us are going through shit right now, and we are certainly not getting out of dealing with shit later.

toilet2

So instead of being surprised when shit hits the fan, I suppose we should instead remember that it is just our time.

Sometimes we compare our own shit to other people’s shit.  This usually happens when we think our shit stinks so much worse than everyone else’s.  We get all woe-is-me and shit.  We usually need something to smack us out of our self-absorbed mental slumber that reminds us that compared to so many other people’s shit, ours is almost beautiful. Smooth, little round pebbles that pile up nicely in the bottom of the commode.  Nothing like the explosive platters that can run down our legs, far away from the safety of a toilet.

Sometimes we need to take a deep breath and remember that our shit really isn’t so bad.

But, even if we are the most grateful of gratefuls, even if we generally have a happy and optimistic perspective, shit is still shit.  None of it is any good. And sometimes we just need to sit ourselves right down there, right in the shit itself, and let ourselves simmer in our own stink.  So long as eventually we get ourselves together and clean ourselves up.

We have to make ourselves remember that it is in-between the moments of shit that we need to grab on to.   We need to bask in every non-shitty scenario we find ourselves in.  We need to embrace each shitless moment. We have to.  It’s all we’ve got.

 

 

 

Overwhelmingness at the Grocery Store

I remember wanting to make an Asian recipe once that required a few ingredients not found at my local supermarket.  I went in to this tiny Asian-Mart and even though I only needed a couple of ingredients, I was instantly overwhelmed.  What seemed like an easy task was suddenly daunting.  I went down each aisle, one by one, searching for a picture or a word that looked remotely like the items I needed.  I walked down each aisle, several times, back and forth, back and forth.  It took me forever.  By the end I was sweating through my clothes and my brain was burning out of frustration and anger.  I knew that anyone who saw me could guess that I might need help, but no one offered to help me.  I found what I was looking for, but I left with a sweat-stained shirt, a red face and a tired mind.

It was humbling.

I have not forgotten that experience, that ONE time I went searching for TWO items in a teeny, tiny Asian mart.

Today I was walking through the aisles at my local huge supermarket, as I always do, as methodically as possible.  We were crunched for time, because my husband and I brought our two kids with us.  Because we were shopping during dinner time, I passed them their supper – a single cold tortellini at a time – out of Tupperware that I had shoved in my purse on my way out the door.

We had made it all the way to the end of the store and collected our eggs, milk and cottage cheese from the dairy case and were making our way back up the main aisle towards the checkout, with a few items we missed on our list to pick up on the way out.

That’s when I saw her, out of the corner of my eye.

Her cart was at an odd angle.  Her eyes were slightly bulging, searching. She was gripping the handles of her shopping cart tightly.  I saw her head turn as she watched a few people before me pass her down the aisle ahead of me.

As I neared her our eyes made contact.  She lunged.

She cut me off with her cart all askew and thrust a pamphlet towards me.  It had a picture of infant formula on it.  I looked closer as she pointed, and in broken English, she asked me if I knew where she could find this.

I looked more closely at this woman who had violently cut me off with her cart.  She didn’t look scary.  She looked like she needed some help.

I could see the baby aisle from where I was, but even on the way she kept asking where to find the “milk”.  I remembered how hard it was to find anything in a supermarket stocked full of items, especially through eyes fatigued from anxiety on top of the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights.

I led her to the aisle and helped her pick out the exact formula she had pointed to.  Together we compared the labels, double-checking the words, the pictures, the shape of the carton.

I was no longer in a rush.  I put a finger up as my husband walked by and said, “I’m helping someone” and he just nodded and waited.

I asked her if she needed help finding anything else.  She pantomimed, she faltered, she tried to describe a diaper, without saying the word diaper, or privates, or anything closely related to urination or bowel movements.  It took us a minute, but we figured it out.  I took her an aisle over to the diapers and showed her which diapers I used, and based on the weight of the baby she was buying for, what size to buy.

She pulled out a few samples of lotion.  I did not recognize the lotion so suggested that maybe we look in the bath section, so I walked around the corner and started inspecting the options.  I turned around and she had not followed. I went back and she was still standing there, looking at her papers, papers which would not give her any useful information about lotion.  She saw me return and I heard an audible sigh of relief.  She let me guide her to the aisle with the lotion.  I explained that I didn’t see the lotion that she needed, I asked if the lotion was for the face, or for the diaper area, and since it was for the face, I picked what I thought was probably best, Cetaphil, and told her it wasn’t what she showed me but I thought it was likely a good choice.  She pulled out a paper, scribbled on and torn from a doctor’s prescription pad, with the words, “Cetaphil” on them and when she compared the text on the bottle I was holding with the words on the prescription pad she smiled brightly and nodded and thanked me again. Several times.

The grocery trip was a good reminder.  If we’re able to look up above our carts, and make eye contact with those around us, to notice what other people need, it usually makes helps us put our own insignificant worries and issues in perspective.  Like feeding your kids cold tortellini out of Tupperware for dinner. Eh.  They’re fine.

 

 

 

 

Lost and Found

It’s crazy to me that I am so impacted by the moments with my daughters, yet they are unlikely to remember any of them.  I don’t remember much about growing up.  What I do remember may be memories, or may be memories of videotaped and talked about events. I don’t know why I don’t remember the details, but I don’t.  It worries me about remembering things in the future.  That’s partly why I write.

Today Toddler Grouch and I lay in bed, for the second or third night in a row, and practiced thinking up words that started with different letters.

“Buh, buh…banana!  Your turn, Mom”.

“Buh, buh, beach”.

“Buh, buh…box!”

“Buh, buh, baby”.

“Buh, buh…bag!”

“Buh, buh, bee”.

“Buh, buh…poop!  Ahhhhh, I’m teasing you!”

As we played our little letter game, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed.  The getting it excited her.  It might have excited me more to witness it.  We lay in her little toddler bed, me squashed up against the side, knees bent so my feet didn’t hang off the end.  The back of my head rested against the headboard and her head rested on my chest.  We talked for about forty minutes and when I went to leave she said, “Don’t leave, Mom.  I want to talk more”.

It’s just about impossible to not leave when your child says they want to talk to you.  So we talked a little more, and the only thing that made me leave the room was wanting her to be rested in the morning.  Finally I pulled myself away and gave her another smooch, told her I loved her and thanked her for talking with me.

I hopped in the shower and while I washed, I replayed our time in my head.  Every single day I am amazed by the “ordinary”. I am enthralled by the beauty. I am astounded by the growth.  I cannot believe I am fortunate to be a witness, to be involved in the process of helping guide my amazing little beings into amazing adult beings.

Already, when I picture my daughters, I picture a slideshow in my head.  They are not one person, they are all of the versions of themselves they have been: a little newborn baby, a fledgling toddler starting to speak, starting to walk, a full-on almost-potty-trained toddler with a fondness for poop jokes.  She is not one her, she is many hers.  I think this is a pretty common parental feel.

When I was sixteen, my parents threw an enormous surprise party for me.  I was not very grateful.  I was embarrassed by the attention, I was embarrassed by the extravagant party that was thrown for what I felt was a completely insignificant event.  I was embarrassed for the two friends my parents had invited to come celebrate with me, who were stuck hanging out with my family that they hardly knew.  I was embarrassed because now they knew they were the two closest friends I had, even though we weren’t really all that close.

At one point in the party, my dad showed a surprise video.  He had spent countless hours compiling video clips of me from birth to age sixteen, into a fifteen minute presentation. Knowing him, he probably spent hours and hours and hours on this.  This was way before movie-maker existed.  This was the ultimate videographic mix-tape.  Instead of being pleased, I was pissed.  Because I was mortified.  I didn’t recognize myself in any of those images.

image

When I was sixteen, I was lost.  I had forgotten who I was.  I did not recognize the chubby infant slobbering all over.  I did not recognize the obnoxious seven-year-old who was flipping out and acting like a complete fool, I did not recognize a self-confident twelve-year-old who danced in the living room and sang off-key while wearing gaudy clothing.  That is not me, I thought.  I don’t know if it was just my age, or my too-coolness, or my depression that sucked me and all of my positive traits down into an abyss, but whatever the reason, I didn’t know who I was. Even when I was seeing myself on tape.  I didn’t connect with anything about that party, or anything in that video.

I think about that now, as I look at my daughters.  How a parent doesn’t see a child only for who they are at that very instant, but they see them for who they’ve always been.  They maybe even project a teensy bit to what their child might be like in the future.  And how crazy it can be that in some ways, at some times, a parent can know their child even better than the child knows themselves.

Finally, as I am encroaching on forty, I think I found myself.  I remember who I am.  I am a slobbery fool.  I am a confident adult.  I dance in the living room and sing off-key.  I still have no fashion sense.  And, even though I have to fight for it now, I’m happy again.

My friends and I were talking today about how this is sort of how the cycle goes.  You’re born with confidence, you’re born knowing who you are, you’re born ready to work your tail off to accomplish anything you set your mind to.  This usually gets beaten out of you for awhile there, and you spend the rest of your life clawing your way out of the depressive, self-conscious, terrified person you somehow became.  Some of us make it out, some of us don’t.

I suppose it doesn’t matter if my daughters remember playing the “buh, buh..B!” game with me or not.  As long as they are able to navigate their way back to found if they ever find themselves lost.

image

Three.

Three.

Three years since you were born.  A quiet, beautiful, surprisingly easy birth after a raucous, petrifying, shockingly difficult conception.

Three years since I couldn’t focus on anything else if you were in the room.  Not because you are demanding (even though sometimes you are), but because I can’t keep my eyes off of you.

Three years since I have found the greatest of joys in doing the simplest of things. Singing, reading, coloring, dancing, joking, playing.  But mostly, observing.

Three years since laughter has erupted from me so often, so loudly, so purely.

Three years since I have learned to take better care of myself, so I could take better care of you.

Three years since I remembered that kids know what is fair, what is funny, what is right, while adults often do not.

Three years since sleeping in has been an option.

Three years since I’ve tried (and so far, failed) to stop involuntarily emitting the “guhhhhh” sound when I encounter a frustration. Three years since you soaked this up like a sponge and picked up my bad habit.

Three years since touching someone else’s poop, pee, puke, snot, and other things I used to think were disgusting, have disgusted me.

Three years since I have understood why other people like their small children.

Three years since going on “vacation” meant going to the grocery store by myself, or sitting in silence for an hour.

Three years since I could listen to news stories or movies of violence, accidents, or death without holding my breath and holding back tears because in every scenario I pictured your face.

Three years since I could listen to success stories, happy-ending stories, everyday stories, without holding my breath and holding back tears, because in every scenario I pictured your face.

Three years since my body is no longer mine.  And three years since I’m okay embracing every imperfection the new me possesses. Even the torn hip labrum, and separated pelvic joint.

Three years since your struggles are difficult for me and your triumphs elate me.

Three years since your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your mannerisms, your voice, has been branded into my brain.  Three years since I can’t stop looking, zooming in as close as you will let me. Every day I notice a slight change, and I am astounded by it, excited by it, delighted by it, ridiculously surprised by it, and I don’t want to forget it.  I picture every bit of you vividly in my mind while my eyes are squeezed shut, but I want to study you even more with my eyes wide open to make sure I don’t miss anything new.

Three years since I have felt like I am the luckiest lady on the planet.

Happiest of birthdays, Toddler Grouch.  Three years!

A lifetime for you.  A life-changer for me.

20150806_194720

Soak it Up

I heard her footsteps and with my eyes still shut, still drooping heavily with fatigue, I smiled.

She peered over the side of the bed, the top of the mattress reaching her nose, and she grabbed hold of the sheet, shifted her weight forward and grunted as she heaved herself up.  I slid my head over as far as I could to the edge of my pillow, making room for her own head to settle on the pillow case covered with flowers.  She plopped her head down and handed me her favorite blankie, the thin one covered with purple monkeys.  “Cover me up, Mama”, she said.  I wordlessly acquiesced, and then leaned over, kissed her forehead and snuggled in as close to her as I dared.  I leaned my chest into her back and pushed my nose into her hair.  She pulled the edge of her blanket up and pressed it to her mouth, as she does to self-sooth. I put my arm around her waist.

She picked up my hand and moved it.

I respected her wishes.  I respected her body.  I was reminded that even though every cell in my body screams She is MINE! and her limbs feel like appendages of my own, truly a part of me, she is not mine.  Her body is not mine, she is her own self.  It is a humbling, scary, sad, happy, invigorating, motivating, every-emotionful-mushy-feeling feeling every time I remember or recognize that she is her own self.  It is amazing to witness, her becoming a person. Her modeling a large chunk of who she wants to be based on my behavior, is what makes me be the best self I can be.  She makes me so much better than I would ever be without her. She gives me more than she takes, even though she requires a lot.  There is no such thing as energy wasted, no such things as ridiculous demands, because everything she requires, no matter how big or how small, forces me to improve in some way.

I can not afford to not be a better person.

It took a bit of will power, but I kept my arm at my side and focused on the warmth on my chest.  I soaked her heat in.  I willed my pores to open up wider.

Before she came into the room, I was drowning, fatigued, holding my breath underwater, not sure if I was going to make it, the pre-coffee, oh-my-god-it’s-too-early, my-head-is-pounding, a gasping-for-breath kind of morning despair.  But her presence buoyed me up and her nearness was like air at the surface. Her scent was luscious banana-scented-Minion-bubble-bath air. Intoxicating-gulp-it-down-drink-it-up air.  Her touch was life-sustaining-inhale-exhale air. Fueling-fill-me-up, wholly satisfying air.  I greedily gulped it down as fast as I could, while staying stock still. I did not want to risk losing my life-saver any earlier than I had to.

We have this summer routine, where each morning she crawls in my bed and we lay, sometimes looking into each other’s eyes, sometimes laying next to one another with eyes half-shut, sometimes singing, sometimes my hand turning into a puppet, she and Mr. Hand chatting.  Today we sat in silence together.  Beautiful, warm, cozy, silence.

Every once in a while she’d reach her arm and place it on my hand, moving it slowly up my wrist, my forearm, back down again.  I’d delight in it.  I’d hold my breath and feel her fingers tracing.  A bonus touch.  Enjoying it while it lasted, before she’d tuck it back under her own chest, gripping her beloved blankie once again.  How many more of these moments do I have left?  No matter the number, not nearly enough.  Soak it up, I thought to myself.  Become infused with her touch, her love.  Soak her up, convert her energy to gratitude, let it permeate your cells, mutate your DNA, making a more superior you. Soak. It. Up.

I knew I could have been more firm when I asked her if she needed to use the toilet.  I knew I was pushing my luck. I knew that every moment we cuddled was one moment closer to when she couldn’t hold it anymore and peed in her diaper, even though she was working on not.  But I didn’t push it.  I waited for her to ask to get up for some breakfast.  To tell me, “Wake up, Mama”.  The toilet just didn’t seem all that important, right then. It was like her diaper was telling me, Don’t worry.  I can soak it up too.

Her touch.  That innocent, pure, calming, healing touch.  That was more important than anything in the world.

I am pretty sure it always will be.

cuddles2

5 Reasons to Change Your Major and Stay in College For a Few More Years

It’s the college advice I give to everyone.  Take classes you’re interested in.  Wait a couple of years to declare a major and then Junior or Senior year change that sucker up and start afresh.  What’s the rush, anyway?  Seriously.  Here’s why:

1. Earning an adult paycheck is overrated.  You might be sick of doing group projects “for free” with people who annoy you, so you fantasize that it will all be much better when you’re getting paid “the big bucks”, but know that what you have to look forward to a cramming the same amount of work, much of it something you’re way less interested in than what you’re studying now, with a lot less time to do it in.  And you’ll be stuck with the same annoying people.  The huge paycheck that you think might make it all worth it?  It’s going to go to ridiculously boring things like new windows and furnaces and washing machines and your overpriced medical bills. Don’t complain about being so broke you are forced to eat $2.00 burgers at Burgerama, just enjoy the fact that you are able to get some chow with your pals.  Once you’re an adult you might eat more angus beef, but you’ll still feel broke and on top it if you usually have to make the patties yourself.  You’ll miss those greasy burgers and everything they represent.

2. Meeting new people will never be easier than it is now.  Right now if you strike up a conversation with someone sitting next to you at the coffee shop, or the library, it’s normal.  It’s expected. In the university setting there are endless opportunities for networking and forming friendships because everyone is new, so everyone introduces themselves.  Make as many connections as you can now, when you’re older there aren’t as many clubs or groups to join unless you already know people.  After college, there’s a point at which when you attempt to strike up a convo at the coffee shop it does not make you look friendly or interesting anymore, it just makes you look a bit creepy.

3. Your physical health is at its peak from all of those intramural sports and biking to class. And walking to the bar.  Yes, your weekend (or weekday) jaunts to the bar are keeping you more fit than you’re likely be able to maintain when you’re in the work world.  Okay, your collagen levels might play a teeny factor here too, but even taking into account the Freshman Fifteen, trust me, that is nothing compared to the adult obesity that awaits later.  Parental potbelly.  The Adult abdomen. The stretched-out stomach. It’s coming for you.

4. Two words: Study Abroad.  Drink a Guinness in Dublin, drink a Tusker in Nairobi, drink a cappucini in Rome.  Hit up a few museums and classes while you’re there, extend your return flight home and go backpacking.  I took a six-credit month-long wildlife management course in Kenya (of which only 3 of those credits actually applied to my major) and the ten hours worth of safari each day was worth every penny.  I will never forget crawling into the dung huts built by the Masai Mara, the way a lioness looks when she is protecting her three baby cubs, or how to say elephant in Swahili. Take out the freaking loan, you can pay those bitches off for the rest of your life and the experience you’ll gain is worth every penny.  Students loans are considered the good kind of debt anyway, right?

5. 40 hour work weeks really suck.  And, newsflash! They are usually longer than 40 hours.  No matter what kind of job you have, and how passionate you are about what you do, it is still WORK, which often means boatloads of meetings and never-ending piles of forms.  You might not love writing college papers, but know that those don’t suck your soul out through your fingers with as much voracity as work papers will.

So, what will your next major be?

Photo credit: Wikipedia
Photo credit: Wikipedia

People Detox

Humans are generally social creatures.  Evolutionarily this must have once served us quite well, since to this day we crave togetherness so much that we make up ways to do things as a community.  We create dances.  We synchronize swim. We pledge allegiance to the Spartans or the Wolverines or the Bears and we all wear the same color and paint our faces and howl and sing and taunt those not in our tribe.  We created a whole new form of media just so we could socialize when we were unable to socialize. Socializing is so great!

Except sometimes, you know, when it’s not.

Like, when you’re around your family too much.  They can REALLY get on your nerves. They can be loud and obnoxious and annoying as hell. They can never make plans, or they make plans and show up late, or they make plans and show up on time, but then they act like…themselves.  Isn’t it weird how those you love the most can drive you absolutely freaking bonkers?

You know who else can drive you crazy?  Strangers.  Absolute strangers that you have no fucking clue who they are but they do one thing and you instantly HATE THEM.  You can wish a cancerous growth to sprout from an anus, or a colony of flesh-eating bacteria to set up camp in their eyelids, all because they were driving 5 miles per hour too slow in your lane, or because they didn’t hold the door open for you, even though you know they saw you holding lattes in both hands.  Disgusting.  It might as well have been them who scalded your hands.  They basically assaulted you.

You know what else can be exhausting and overwhelming and sort of assaulty feeling? Fun. That’s right, fucking fun. All the parties and events and play dates you set up with your friends sound great until you actually have to get dressed and slap makeup on your face and then, after all that energy has been exerted, you have to expend even more energy to interact with those people you just got out of the pajamas you’ve been wearing for three days all dressed up for.  Companionship can be taxing.

Sometimes togetherness is like that little Downy bear – all snuggly and soft and warm and fuzzy. But other times it can be quite the opposite. It can be sharp as daggers. Pokey. Irritating.  Like an evil little porcupine that you thought was cute until you tripped and fell on got impaled by its … pines.  Quills.  Whatever.  Fuck you.

Anyway, sometimes you just need SILENCE.  And ALONENESS.  Sometimes you just need a PEOPLE DETOX.  A god-damned communication cleanse to regroup so you don’t lose your shit and actually burn a bridge you might want to cross over again someday.

Sometimes you need the 3 Day Communication Cleanse.  

3 Day Cleanse.  A People Detox.  For your sanity and the safety of those around you.
3 Day Cleanse. A People Detox. For your sanity and the safety of those around you.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: