It was a day, everybody. A DAY. In fact, it was such a day (on Sunday), that as I type this, it’s 1 AM Tuesday morning and I won’t actually post this until I get up (from an insomnia stupor) in about 3 hours (after I go back to sleep at 2 AM…if I’m lucky) (update from when I originally typed that: it’s 4 AM and I did not go back to sleep. My alarm is going off in an hour, and if I go back to sleep now when the thing does go off it’ll be soooo freaking ugly I can’t even tell you. I stayed up and added a whole new page dedicated to that incredible b.s. I dealt with from October through, well, now since I’m still processing, and when I’m done with this I’m hitting PUBLISH and going to take a shower and make some really strong coffee and pray for the best.)
Sunday. March 27, 2016. Easter. It started out just fine. Miss M and I had breakfast in bed:
I laid around reading until 10 AM:
And tried not to think about dealing with THIS crap:
And then C called and reminded me the Easter bunny left his junk at his house this year. I forgot to put one together, and baby needs her basket. (I am a Christian in culture only, a lost lamb, a prodigal daughter, a hell-bound heathen, a fallen woman, a lapsed believer…Easter’s not really a thing at our house, and no mom I’m not apologizing. Christmas is cool because there’s a peace and a calm and a hope to it, and then…CRAZY CHAOS OPEN PRESENTS OVEREAT the next day. But Easter is: get up way too early, put on frilly frou frou clothes, go to church and listen to a story about a bloody-assassination and nails and cave magic and stuff. It’s just not my thang, sorry to all my Christian friends. It’s okay if you refuse to talk to me until Summer Solstice.)
(Easter side story: Once, when I was living in Buckhead, I used to take my dry cleaning to a cleaners run by a Hindu guy who was always trying to get me to see the latest in Bollywood offerings. I’d usually drop off mid-week and pick up on Saturday. One year, they gave us the day off on a Friday near Spring Break and it happened to be Good Friday. So I got my dry cleaning on Friday instead that week. I walk in, and the Hindu guy goes, “Oh, you are here and it is not Saturday! Are you on holiday?” And I said, “Well, they gave us today off. I guess because it’s Good Friday.” And he said, “What is Good Friday?” And I said, “It’s the day Christians believe Jesus Christ was killed and crucified on the cross.” And he made a really concerned face at that and went, “Oh my. What’s good about THAT?” And I couldn’t really tell him, first because I’d need a Bible and about 5 hours and second because well…I mean, if you’re a devout Christian it’s good because it turns out well for Jesus [and you] in the end. But if it’s all new and foreign to you, I can totally see how it’s very: what?! What kind of dysfunction is that?! Why not just get a bad comb over and send a nuclear bomb over to Iran or somewhere and say it’s because you’re saving them. Religions are weird.)
At any rate. Back to where I was – Sunday. Sunday Funday. Miss M and I were on our way to C’s house to get the basket since that’s where the Easter Bunny left his loot at. We walked out of our apartment to THIS:
I knew it. I KNEW IT. I was driving around yesterday and it was making weird sounds, like a helicopter. And then the sounds went away and I thought I was okay. But then that happened overnight.
I have no idea how to change a tire. I went through, in my brain, all the people who lived close to me who might possibly be willing to come change a tire. C was the best bet, plus we were on our way to him anyway. So he graciously came over and showed me how to change my own flat tire. It’s not hard, you just have to make sure you put the jack in the right spot or the car will slip off and fall (I feel like there’s a life metaphor in that statement). I am an expert at lug nut removal and restoration, if I do say so myself. And my hands got all greasy. I don’t like that I have to go spend money on a new tire or probably two, since the other one might be bad too, but I do like that I think I now know how to change my own flat tires (or at least the lug nuts). And I like that my hands got dirty (dirty hands = productive activity). Now I just need someone to show me how to do an oil change and jump a dead battery, and I’m gold.
Don’t mess with me! I will change your tires.
Then I was forced, at emotional gunpoint, to watch a lot of THIS:
Then I made our Easter dinner:
And Miss M and I made an Amy & Melissa Show.
And I got addicted to a TV show called Jessica Jones. I think because it has the following elements in it: kick ass first/take names later chicks, tragic back stories, magical powers, and a crazy ass insane stalker guy (if you’ve ever been a victim of stalking and abuse, David Tennant’s character will be both a trigger and a release – confirming there is true evil in the world, and usually it sounds lovely, dresses nice, and has good manners). Also, I would like to BE Jessica Jones – bitchy and scary and bad ass. But with a lot of heart. (I feel like I wouldn’t make very many friends this way, but the friends I did make? Holy shit, we’d be like the Straight Outta Compton squad.)
However! Yesterday (Monday), I did not have fun (which can be both a good and a bad thing). But I did have good news: The flat tire just had a nail in it. It cost $0 to fix it, because Amy 2013 bought that tire and its passenger side friend with road hazard insurance. I feel like there’s a life metaphor in that somewhere, but I’m going to watch another Jessica Jones episode to get through this insomnia. I’m on episode 11; two more left to watch (and miles to go before I sleep).