Not much has changed about our general situation in terms of the you know what and and many depths of layers of incredible complicated ways in which this relatively common and mundane sort of boring and predictable and let’s face it… plebeian - obstacle affects our lives. So that’s what I’ll go with as my main excuse for not posting lately, and we’ll leave out the massive quantity of empty coconut run bottles being hurled into the recycling bins located at the volunteer fire department on the road that shares space with the Yulee Primary School as my husband rolls by them on his way to work in the mornings.
Over a year of semi sobriety, down the tubes. Ah, well. At least organic pineapple juice is a full serving a fruit in every glass, and if you mix coconut rum with Green Machine Superfood it’s really pretty good for you. Who knew wheat grass could be so tasty AND such a fantastic component of a stress relief cocktail?
What to do but sling wit, shuttle ourselves and each other to therapy multiple times a week, do our best to maintain a level and courteous tone sometimes through clenched teeth, sometimes while passing a casserole dish (only to the left because that’s good manners) even though none of that matters. Nothing matters. The books you read don’t matter, and the tone you use doesn’t matter, and the words you say don’t matter either especially. You know why? Because whatever you say in English comes out in a completely fucking different language. You dress your face in an expression from Care Bears and what people see is a combat outfit from a RAMBO movie. You put on a kitten sweater and what people see is a great big “Fuck You” in airbrushed script on the front.
In the end, people handle crisis in their own way. Some of us handle it in different ways at different moments during the day. Me? Round 10 a.m. if I can slip out of here and evade Jack for a moment and/or corral him in an appropriate closet, I’m at my favorite indie coffee pusher mainlining a rocketfuel straight up while someone makes me a perfect plain latte for the ride home. By noon I might be posting something along the lines of ”it’s 5 o’clock somewhere” in French on Facebook, which as it turns out does not keep my husband guessing for very long and probably makes him almost nervous enough to bail out on work and come home to check on us. Too bad (or phew!) he’s a kindergarten teacher and can’t leave his classroom! I’m not a lush though, sillies! I still like to run! Running relieves stress like a mofo.
I have this great blue checked apron that belonged to my grandmother, and I keep planning to put it on with some red lipstick and start having drinks every afternoon at like 4:30 with lots of ice…rattle the ice around in the glass, walk around the kitchen in high heels while I cook dinner, maybe bark at the kids a little bit here and there. Even though I’m not a routine person I crave the routine of a good cocktail hour.
But therapy, both in-home and individual, plus court appearances, doctor’s appointments hither and yon and rides to and fro (why oh why do we live in a town with no sidewalks or buses!) keep me sober and clod in sensible shoes more than I’d like to admit. My poor apron. My poor red lipstick.
Ah well. We still manage to survive the apocalypse, day by day. Happy hour by hour.