Introspectre

I'm hypermobile. It's not like people realize how being "double jointed" (an incorrect summary, to be clear) can totally fuck your shit up. There's some dude on YouTube that can fold himself into a pretzel, and good for him. Then there's Michael Phelps, super Olympic swimmer dude, and he's a freaking undeniable CHAMP in the water, but it turns out, unable to go bowling with friends.

I feel your pain, dude.

I enjoyed being flexible, and didn't give much thought to being in pain a lot when I was younger. You can't compare something when you've always had it, you see? So I was very surprised when I took a triple somersault down some concrete steps four years ago, and landed on the sidewalk with my head. Strangely enough, I haven't really been the same since. I know, it's shocking, isn't it?

Had I been blessed with a crew of physical therapists that could have spotted this delightful trait, and trained me in how to strengthen the parts that wobble, perhaps I could be winning gold medals.

In the meantime, I'll let flipper boy revel in his golden glory, and I'll revel in the fact that I can rock out four inch heels, something his size fourteen feet couldn't do (or in all sense, SHOULDN'T do). I shouldn't do it either, but once in a while I will. And if you see me in the gym and I'm reaching ten inches past my feet and making you feel horribly inflexible, don't envy me. Just let me get my kicks where I can, ok?

People want to know where I've gone. What I'm doing. Why, oh why, am I not prolifically blogging like before?

Why?

It's because it's just too damn embarrassing, that's why. I'm in physical therapy, and that's painful, and marriage counseling, and that's a goddamn fucking JOY, I can assure you. Or maybe it's not marriage counseling. I'm sure my husband wouldn't call it that, because he's too logical or robotic or some shit. But I'm unhappy, he's unhappy but is really good at pretending he's happy even if it dooms our relationship, and I'm totally fucking over all this bullshit in my life. I was last winter, to be precise. And that was when my blogging took a total freaking nosedive. Since then, I've got plenty to write about, oh hell's bell's yes I do, but why would I bother? For myself, yes, as a journal. But I hardly want to share the details of my humiliations with the universe or blogosphere or what have you.

So I give out tiny morsels, because I am precious and if my emotionally retarded husband can keep his head pulled out of his own ass long enough to stay with that, well groovy. If not, then I have to make sure to take extra special care of me and my son while my husband goes through another bout of asshattery.

Between the physical pain and the emotional pain, I'm just fucking over it. What does that mean, exactly? I couldn't begin to tell you. All I know is that I am ANGRY, and I don't like to be ANGRY, and I find the entire process of becoming a rage filled superbitch in order to inspire my husband to do...whatever... is inane.

He's a gem. Why he's chosen to roll around in a pile of dirt and act like an ass is beyond me. Hence the shrink.

No, he didn't cheat on me. Don't even ask. The point is it's all STUPID and pointless and he didn't have to be such a stupid ass.

There.
Ugh.

Of my favorite iGoogle widgets is the Shakespearean Insult Of The Day. Sometimes it's grim, reminding me of unfortunate truisms, but mostly it makes me laugh. To think of the moments during my day when I would gladly sputter, "Thou yeasty ill-nurtured clotpole!" Ahhh, good times, good times.

Today's delectable offering gave me something else entirely- a quote of not simply pride, but a sense of grace that too often pride lacks:

"I will most humbly take my leave of you. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will not more willingly part withal."

-Taken from: Hamlet

While closing the page, I couldn't resist, and clicked "Taunt me a second time!" because, well, my father smelt of elderberries? It said,

"[Thou] shall stand in fire up to the navel and in ice up to th'heart, and there th'offending part burns and the deceiving part freezes."

Taken from: The Two Noble Kinsmen

Oh Shakespeare... you had a way with words.
(sigh)

I know, I know... you've been clicking on the site, and there's a bunch of jibber jabber about Drupal. I'm still getting all of the six years worth of posts put back in, and I don't care to slap the blog back up all Frankenstein-esque; stitches and neck bolts just aren't my style.

In the meantime, I can offer up this little morsel, just to let you know I'm still here, however distant I may seem:

I recently bought a box of Pop Tarts. Nasty, nasty, vile little occasionally delicious Pop Tarts. Much to my son's delight, this box came with a fake tattoo. He held it up for me to admire while quietly uttering, "Awesoooooome..."

Call it what you will, but I was amused. I asked him if he'd like to put it on, to which he readily agreed. Then I told him my suggested location, to which his eyes grew wide in astonishment. When I told him how I thought he should properly display it to my husband, he cracked up. And being my spawn, of course he agreed.

Cue to ten minutes later: my husband walks into my son's bedroom and he jumps up laughing, "Oooh, oooh, I have something I want to show you!" while he's looking over my husband's shoulder at me, putting his finger to his lips as if to tell me to be quiet.

Hey, it was MY good idea. Sheesh.

My husband looked at me, questioningly, then back to my son, who turned around and said, "I have a new tattoo! TO THE MOOOOOOON!" and dropped trou.

There, on his little butt, was this picture:

I dare say, my son and I found it far more amusing that my husband did. Frankly, I'm still amused.