For reasons that will be revealed in time, last night I found myself sitting on my best friend’s couch in 4 day old pajamas, eating Hagen Daas belly flab on a stick, and waiting to watch embarrassing prime-time TV drama.
Please note that I am not an unencumbered twenty-something, lobotomized SAHM, or professional underachiever.
In my previous life, I inhabited the body of a smart, sexy, ass-kicking working Mom… doing it all and loving it!
(I’m not sure who she is or where she defected to, but if found please return to:
We Make ‘Em Crazy in Montana
81 CUT Avenue
Kaczboynic, MT )
Back to last night…
I leaned over BBF to plug in my “totally unnecessary now and above my means but I’m stuck in a cell-hell deal with the Devil so just drop it” iPhone, when she said with sad and disgusted concern “you stink”.
Followed up by “I know I told you before you went to therapy earlier that there were some issues with your breath, but MY GOD everything on you is funk, tomorrow I’m going to Lysol my couch and I’d like to suggest that by Saturday you make a plan to clean that up a bit.”
“That” being accompanied by a part sarcastic, part condescending smirk and a head-to-toe finger wag in the general direction of the unwashed pile of human barely detectable under the heap of dirty laundry that she was accusing of being me.
Now, I must pause the narrative here to present a little history on THE COUCH and its owner, my beloved BBF – we’ll call her Brittany because I hate that name. “Brittany” is notorious amongst our group as what you might charitably term “laid-back” in the housekeeping department. I have also heard it referred to as “confused”, “laissez-faire”, “minimalistic”, and a host of other not so delicate terms.
I will just say that her talents lie in other areas.
THE COUCH, is notorious amongst our group for reasons best not to delve into until I read the fine print in the “fascinating terms of service”, but suffice it to say that at any given time we expect the CDC to show up and issue a quarantine and perhaps some health violation citations. This couch is beyond the considerable abilities of Lysol and I remain affronted by the suggestion that my skanky-ass couch camping venture could do it further damage. Harrumph !
This specialized type of brutal “tough love” that my girlfriends and I have perfected might produce in others the following side effects:
Shock, anger, hurt, outrage, alcohol withdrawal, a desire for revenge, the urge to curl up and watch Twilight while pretending you can fly and set people on fire with your mind, or EGAD NO! The most despised of all reactions… Tears!
Not me. I muster up as much of a smile as my past 33 days of unemployed pants-less depression will allow and say “when the opportunity to get laid presents itself, I’ll be happy to shower”.
Then I watch TV until 2am.
SNEAK PEEK into upcoming posts…
Discover fascinating facts about my husband, kids, love affair with alcohol despite my husband’s alcoholism, love affair with shockingly inappropriate person (don’t be put-off its not as bad as you think), experiments in pathological lying, my BBF (best bitch forever), insincere suicidal contemplations, how I might be Clare Prophet of the Hot Mess Club, and a startlingly worse array of shit that will confound and amaze.
I hope that after following my ramblings for a minimal amount of time the spastic conundrum that is me will mesmerize/bamboozle/hornswoggle (or obsess you in that way that suggests a predilection to Schadenfreude) you into the realization that A.) unmedicated unpredictability is a real and hilarious thing when done in a completely different way than I will illustrate, and B.) delving too deeply into this downward spiral of shame and self-destruction might just be a fun way to spend the next few months.
Please return so I can convince you.

Hot Mess

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