EXTRA HOT HORSERADISH! THAT’LL CLEAR MY SINUSES!

I love it!

What am I? Chopped liver? No. You are mock chopped liver. Recipe by Joan Narhan, if anyone wants it.

What am I? Chopped liver? No. You are mock chopped liver. Recipe by Joan Narhan, if anyone wants it.

A little bit “normal.”

Normal sounds boring to a lot of people, but there have been so many extremes lately, that I revel in the idea of normal.

Like right now, my kids are outside, on a nice Spring late afternoon, shooting hoops and playing with the neighbors.

That’s normal.

I like that.

“He may love you. He probably does. He probably thinks about you all the time. But that isn’t what matters. What matters is what he’s doing about it, and what he’s doing about it is nothing. And if he’s doing nothing, you most certainly shouldn’t do anything. You need someone who goes out of their way to make it obvious that they want you in their life.”

this. (via housewifeswag)

Is it weird (or just pathetic) that I only care about whether or not I’m loved? I know I can’t change my life, but I want to make an impact.

(Source: a-quiet-old-soul)

Phriday

  • Phlegm. It even looks disgusting as a word. In other news, I am sick again.
  • Husband is taking Son B to see Captain America. Son A is still too afraid to go to the movies. It’s a shame.
  • Martin Savidge is the new Rick Sanchez. You will understand this only if you remember the stunts Mr. Sanchez used to pull on CNN (like being willingly tazed).
  • CHSH is next weekend! I’m not going for the whole weekend (just Saturday) but I will savor every moment of my freedom.
  • Sorry to those who wanted me to say shitstorm or crapalanche to my psychiatrist. I just couldn’t do it. 

Perspective.

Yesterday, our cleaning service came over to, well, clean.

The owner of the business was part of the cleaning crew, as she sometimes helps out her staff when needed.

Husband greeted them, and issued a standard, “How are you?” to the owner.

A few minutes later, she came up to us and said, “You asked how I was. Last week my husband committed suicide.”

He was an alcoholic who had recently lost his job, and who had quit AA because he didn’t think he needed it anymore.

Tears filled her eyes as she was talking. I instinctively gave her a hug, as did my husband. And we listened to her tell her story. She needed to share.

She found him. He hanged himself in the bathroom.

How do you go on after something like that?

You just do. You have no choice.

She has grown children, but also an eight-year-old girl. She has to hold it together to keep the business going to support her family and to be strong for her kids.

We are all so capable and strong when that is required of us.

I can’t compare her tragedy to my mess of a life. But I shouldn’t even try.

It’s not a competition.

We’re all simply trying to survive, and we do the best we can to get through the days.

Cotton candy sky.

Cotton candy sky.

I Want

azraelwrites:

I want the impossible;
that which is imaginable
and conceptually plausible,
yet completely unattainable.

I want to access
that which is inaccessible.
I want to envision
that which is inconceivable.

In a word,
I want the absurd.

I want to experience
something that’s magical
and completely impractical;
to climb the insurmountable;
to prove the unreasonable
a preposterous truth.

I want what we all want,
what each of us pine for
and fitfully whine for—

I want you,
and to know, in the end,
that you want me too.

I will soon visit my psychiatrist and express my appreciation for the beautiful medication that is helping me keep it together throughout this never-ending shitstorm. (I’ll use different words.)

I will soon visit my psychiatrist and express my appreciation for the beautiful medication that is helping me keep it together throughout this never-ending shitstorm. (I’ll use different words.)

TBT: From my sister’s Facebook page because she seems to be the one with all the old photos. :/
Must have been around 1970. We were at my uncle’s wedding. Look at how goddamn good-looking my parents are!

TBT: From my sister’s Facebook page because she seems to be the one with all the old photos. :/

Must have been around 1970. We were at my uncle’s wedding. Look at how goddamn good-looking my parents are!

A thank-you to the rebloggers.

People are always saying that they don’t like to follow people who don’t post a lot of their own material.

While I understand that, and it’s difficult to get to “know” someone who doesn’t (often) post his or her original thoughts, I am grateful to the people I follow here who have introduced me to art, humor, fashion, recipes, world events, etc. that I might not have seen otherwise.

I just want to be kissed. I want to be held at the waist and split open by someone’s mouth until I am no longer whole. I want to forget where I am, why I am there, how I got there in the first place. I want to be pressed up against walls, pinned against floors, and reclined against counters.

A good kiss is a performance—an event.

Nothing matches the way your blood pulses under your skin when someone leans in to kiss you—reaches for your heart with their mouth—and holds on to your body like they are a blind man and you are a slippery rock face. Nothing compares to someone who pays attention to how you kiss them and knows that just like love—we all kiss the way we want to be kissed.

A good kiss has its own area code.

Its own continent.

Its own fucking galaxy.

Kristen Fiore // Andromeda’s Kiss

#reblogging old feelings (via girlvswhale)

The gist of it is:

Some people don’t know how to communicate effectively, and thus piss off other people because of their poor skill-set.

Tumblr (in my opinion).

On Facebook my relatives are all, “Celebrating fourteen years with the love of my life,” or “Here is a photo of our perfect family overlooking a scenic view,” and I’m all, “My kid has problems and I hate this fucking town.”

Not real quotes, but you get the picture.

Well, SOMEBODY has to keep it real!

A big Fuck You to the family who decided to email the parents behind my back to discuss Son A’s behavior. Totally inappropriate, dude.

More on this later. I have things to do.

A big Fuck You to the family who decided to email the parents behind my back to discuss Son A’s behavior. Totally inappropriate, dude.

More on this later. I have things to do.