An old friend posted, why do parents always lend their opinion and tell you what to do, when you didn’t ask for their advice? I replied, “They can’t help themselves from thinking you still need help wiping your own ass. That would be an interesting response, just pull down your pants, bend over and ask for their help.”
My parents are visiting us as well this week, and I am in the throws of some major decisions that we need to address. Again, the economy is sucking, but John and I are muddling through it. However, we did appear to have a huge tax liability that we weren’t expecting, and so we paid it with our credit cards, and so now, for the first time in many years, I am looking at a credit card balance that is more than a new car…bye bye thought of a new car, I just bought one for the secret service…on my credit card.
Waiting to hear when I will start working again, as a consultant for a huge national firm, of course, disguised as a highly paid management consultant instead of undercover as the Suburban Martyr. My mother is distressed worrying about how this will all affect Christmas, and my children, but really? I’ve given up 10 years of my life taking care of everyone, and now God has thrown me a lifeline, and I’m going to grab it, and then figure out how everything else will keep moving afterwards. I’m fucking drowning and she’s worried about Christmas.
In the meantime while I tread water in this sea of motherhood bliss and cash flow management, I’ve used my internet skills to cause the phone to ring daily for John, and learned my lesson that I shall never take the summer off again from helping him with the business. The secret is learning from your mistakes, and defining your life to be the one that you want it to be. I played ostrich, and it backfired.
So my parents have taken Jack, Ashton, and Minnie to the museum today, John has gone to the office, and I’ve got the maids here cleaning, and I am barricaded in my office, losing myself in this blog and the revelation that I haven’t posted in over six months, and what a long six months it has been. My father is suffering from Alzheimer’s and based of the stress that I’ve been shoveling out of my way, I completely understand where somethings can be blocked from your mind, and how hearing them can make you feel even more numb that how you felt after.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I refuse to think of all of the crap that has landed on our table in the past year (and I think I need to confess them, but right now, I am not ready), and truly just try to be thankful that I continue to be married to my best friend, and that my children are still not fucked up and still believe in Santa Claus. Next year though, I know the end is near. Next year, I am taking my family to New York, and we are going to see the Statue of Liberty and the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and then we will have Thanksgiving Dinner at the Palm Restaurant, as keeping with the Montgomery tradition of boycotting Turkey on Thanksgiving Day…
So after I plow off this message, I shall go and utilize my handy dandy rug and carpet cleaner to execute my weekly scrubbing of the carpets that have been ravaged by the new Giant Schnoodle, Lucy, aka Lucifer. What was I thinking? I know what I was thinking, it was a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Decision, ill timed, and I was fucking out of Xanax and had no doctor willing to prescribe it to me. I’ve been popping 5-HTP vitamin and B-12 supplements, but the shit wasn’t working. I’ve recently discovered that NyQuil works beautifully for sleep disorders, and have also caught John chugging some back before bed as well, so I know this shit is impacting him as well, although I think he’s just doing it to bond, because as he said, “we’ll take anything as long as it’s legal.”
Since August 2, I’m down 23 pounds. Mostly attributed to stress, but also because I have made a conscience decision not to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Rex Goliath or hide the FireFly in my crystal lite. The headache the next day really hampers my attempts to be positive, to move forward, and to get something done. So the crazy schnoodle puppy pees all over the white carpet, and I think, “really?” John has just disowned the damn dog, and called it, “Sinclair’s Dog”. Fuck.
Mother Mary Pray for Me. Also, if you are out there and feel like you want to show your love for me, “visit” some of my sponsors so that I can make some money and pay off my tax disaster…