Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Hey Universe: Bite Me

So I headed over to Most Excellent Neighbor Laura’s house today with the usual accompaniments, namely carrying a bowl of Boozy Cherry Jubilee mix to make ice cream, and waving a piece of paper in my hand.
Me: Laura! Guess what this is?
Laura: I don’t know, your committal papers?
Me: Haha, not yet! No, this is – wait for it – a RECEIPT! Look, see how I’m inhaling its BPA goodness and rubbing it on my face! Yum, BPAs!
Laura: Okay, you’ve officially lost your mind.
Me: No really! I’m embracing ALL the badness! All the shit that they tell you to avoid, in that stupid It Starts With the Egg book. Ha, start with THIS!

I then proceeded to take the receipt and stuff it into my bra, so that it would be as close to me as possible. I figure, the months of supplements, the high-protein diet, the paranoid receipt avoidance, the shunning of canned goods, it all didn’t make a fuck all bit of difference, so now I’m going to do the exact opposite. I might bathe in Round-Up tonight. Because, fuck it (new motto).

Yes, that’s definitely the new game in town: fuck it. Yesterday Laura and I headed to the Willamette Fruit Company place to get some ice cream containers and of course partake in Pie Happy Hour (yes this is a thing here, and it’s as awesome as it sounds), and she was noting that some idiot would probably make a rude comment about the fact that baby Allen (aka “Porkie”) was barefoot because he had pulled off his socks.

Me: Oh, if they try that shit, you just send them to me, and I’d be happy to tell them to fuck right off. Post-haste.

This might be a slippery slope here, but, fuck it.

I do have to say, I have the most awesome friends in the world. And I love you all for reaching out, calling (even though I was incapable of speaking on the phone), taking me out for drinks. Yes, Sarah and I went to the Creekside Grill yesterday for Tiki Tuesday, or as I suggested they call it, Tiki Fucking Tuesday – because it’s that awesome. I’m sure they’re considering it.

The only person I spoke to was my mom, because I knew if I didn’t pick up the phone when she called, she’d be calling the neighbors to check up on me, etc. The conversation went about as well as one would expect. My mom started in with the mom stuff, i.e. “you have so many things going for you” etc. and blah. Which of course prompted the predicted response from me:


So that went well I think.

And then of course there were Most Excellent Friends Bridget and Colleen, who cajoled me into smiling by dangling in front of me the possibility that they too would do Ragbrai or at least the Dairyland Dare (new motto: “Now with fewer brain injuries!”). If that isn’t true friendship, I don’t know what is. (Psst, Bridget, thanks also for offering to send Fat Cat Bella here for Kone to play with! Oddly, he seems to be taking this all in stride.) Considering I’ve already roped Best Person Ever Nettie into doing the DD with me, this is going to be one hell of a party.

As one other friend put it, someone who’s had to deal with the same shit, there’s a mourning process one has to go through, in adapting to a life that isn’t at all like the one you envisioned. That’s not easy, and it doesn’t happen quickly. And it saddens me beyond belief when I hear of friends who’ve gone through the same thing, with the same heart-breaking results. It’s just….hard. I bounce back quickly from stuff, but damn, this is a tough one. I can’t get my hopes up for BFU, because getting my hopes up this time has almost killed my soul. I just can’t do that again. I need to protect what’s left of my wee little shattered and shredded heart.

That means when the endless pics of people’s kids and babies come up on FB, I’ll hide them.

That means I might take the shitload of miles I’ve collected because of charging IVF expenses and head to some random weird country to do a crazy bike ride.

That means I might get weepy for no apparent reason.

That means I’ll stop baring my soul and posting about all this depressing stuff, because it depresses me to be so boring on my blog.

I do have my WTF appointment already set with Dr. B. next week, and I’m tempted to cancel it. I don’t think she’ll have an answer to my main and only question: why does the universe keep fucking with me?

Next up: Something other than depressing shit.

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