Dear God, it's been over a month! You probably think given the slightly veiled suicide threats in an earlier post that I was involuntarily locked in the loony bin with no access to high speed Internet service. You'd be wrong, plus I'm pretty sure they let you surf the web in the mental ward. I have been on a journey of self discovery, if you will, and have learned very very important, deep lessons over the course of the last month. Now that I am fully enlightened, I feel it crucial that I now share my life lessons with you, my faithful readers, if I still have any of those left:
Not all hippies are nice. The squatters living in a mobile home (trailer?) illegally in the alley behind my home brought the clothes, the weed and the music from the 60s, but left the peace, love and understanding part from whence they came. John Lennon would not approve. (Incidentally, I tried to get the above photo for over a month but couldn't. So I sent my husband out to do my dirty work, thinking if someone's going to get their ass kicked by a hippie hopped up on Bud Light, it might as well be him.) It's become quite the neighborhood drama with police and the Humane Society having made several visits. (I guess the Human Society believes dogs were not meant to live on the dash board of RVs. Who knew?) Alas, the hippies are still here, partying like it's 1969 so perhaps these neighbors are here to stay and I should send over a welcoming casserole and be done with it.
Swallowing Prozac that expired over five years ago will not kill you. At least it didn't kill me. Don't sue me if you try the same and wake up on the other side. It will, however, cause acute insomnia. So you might be slightly less depressed, but you will be wide awake 24 hours a day. I'd rather be deeply depressed and asleep than moderately depressed and awake. Needless to say, I am off the expired Prozac.
I make up psychological disorders. I floated the idea by my physician that I had "delayed post-partum depression" to which she looked at me and said she'd never heard of it. Whatever. I still think that's what it was. In her defense, she wrote out a fresh RX for Prozac before I could explain my theory in full. I have not filled it. I like to sleep.
I am beautiful...or not. I was minding my own business walking into Jewel on a feverish search for Yogurt Melts, when a fairly normal looking fellow stopped me and said: "Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you but you are so beautiful I can't help myself." In my younger days I would have kept walking without acknowledging this person's presence because they were clearly insane. But I am 42, with twins, and the only person who tells me I'm beautiful does so under the looming threat of divorce. "I play piano downtown and would love you to come see me play sometime," my new admirer continued. A musician! Thinks I'm beautiful! Aw shucks, blush, blush, blush. He hands me his card with the name of some piano bar on it. I am just about to tell him that while I'm flattered, I think my toddlers may have a problem with it later in life if I ran off with a piano player. But before I had a chance (wait for it...) he says he's "really embarrassed" but "could he borrow $20" because his car got towed -- with his wallet in it! -- and he needs to get a cab to the pound downtown and he'll pay me back when I come to see him play. BAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Which made me realize, I look so desperate for attention that I am now a target for con men. And I can't spot a fake business card. This did not help my depression or self-esteem.
The Real Housewives of New York should win a Pulitzer Prize. Or Emmy. Or official accolades of some kind. WHY DID NOBODY ALERT ME TO THIS DELICIOUS TREAT? It's like when my mother never informed me of the delicacy called a "Twinkie" and I had to discover its sinful pleasure when visiting a friend's house. I think several associates alluded to the fact I would find kindred spirits among the RHONY cast, but nothing short of showing up at my house, setting my TIVO and making me watch it was enough effort for such a life-altering, spiritual experience. I seriously think if Bravo makes Real Housewives of Chicago I should be considered. While I may not be exactly what the producers look for (my class status is such that hippies in an rv with a dog on the dashboard basically live in my back yard) but I do get Botox and that should count for something.
So, I think it's pretty obvious I've grown as a person over the last month. I am so much deeper, so much more in tune with what's important in life, like who I hate more, Jill Zarin or Kelly Bensimon. I now spend an inordinate amount of time trying to pinpoint exactly what surgical enhancements this crew has undergone. Ramona says she's had none. Maybe pinot grigio is a natural aging elixir with a side effect of bulging eyes?
Thankfully, my self-imposed pity party has subsided. And maybe I was never depressed in the first place. Remember that line from Steel Magnolia's when Shirley Maclaine says something like, "I'm not depressed, I've just be in a bad mood for 40 years." That could be me. But actually, things are swell. The girls and I are having an awesome summer although I am wondering where to hide the bodies of all the parents and nannies I plan to bludgeon at the park. (Perhaps my hate-fest with all adults at the park will be a separate post. I may be the first female serial killer whose sole motive is annoyance with poor park etiquette. I'm banking on the fact a jury of my peers won't buy the prosecution's weak but real motive and I'll get off scot-free.)
PS -- I blog here more than I crock pot. Enough said on that note. But I do plan to write more from now on. I also plan to go to spinning tomorrow, though, and we know that's not happening.