I swear. A lot. If you’re offended by four letter words, this is definitely not the place you want to be. I swear so frequently that I was surprised that my daughter wasn’t sent home from school for using foul language.
So yes, I swear like a sailor. A drunk one. A drunk sailor who has just smashed his balls on a dare. But that’s not what this post is about.
I mean, it’s about four-letter words, but not the ones you shouldn’t use in church (even if you smash your balls).
I told you that I got waylaid by Life last week. It happened again yesterday. The funny thing about yesterday is that I thought I’d scheduled this piece to post at 8AM, and was
really sad heartbroken when nobody commented on it. To be honest I was heartbroken by things that happened yesterday, but I was also sad because “nobody likes me liked my post.”
Yesterday was a reminder that Life’s a bitch, but so am I. It’s not necessarily a bad thing:
When I was young(er) my friends and I loved playing The Game of Life. I would spend HOURS spinning the roulette wheel and stuffing little squarish pegs into round holes. (sidebar – it just occurred to me that most of my childhood games involved cards, roulette wheels and other forms of gambling, which makes me wonder – is Las Vegas sponsored by Milton Bradley? Time to get out the tinfoil hat)
FYI Life is not a game, and she is not playing. We may get second chances, but we don’t get “do-overs” and can’t just sweep the board and start again when the game doesn’t go the way we wanted it to (not that I ever did that).
She’s a sneaky B who waits until you’ve set up all your dominoes before “accidentally” bumping the table. She’s the gust of wind that sweeps your house of cards to the floor. She’s the snake in the garden, the worm in your apple, the phone call in the middle of the night. She’s…well, you get the picture.
She also brings joy, and love, and puppies and kittens and laughing babies and spring showers – and the smell of freshly mown grass and laundry sheets.
In other words she’s a schizophrenic manic depressive suffering from multiple personality disorder who gives you priceless presents and then finds joy in pulling the rug out from under you when your arms are full of glassware.
She’s also the designer and operator of the world’s craziest roller-coaster. The ride is scary and exhilarating. It twists and turns, rises and drops unexpectedly, making you scream with laughter and then shriek in fear (sometimes at the same time). And occasionally it makes you pee your pants or puke.
And just when you’re getting used to the twists, turns, lifts and drops, the ride is over. As you stand up you realize that it wasn’t as scary as you thought it would be, and you’re saddened by the fact that it was over far too soon. You grieve for the ones who didn’t make it to the end of the ride or choose not to ride at all. You wish that you could ride it again, but then you see the long line of riders who are waiting to board so you grab the things you brought with you, and you move on to the next big adventure – but not before passing along these words of wisdom:
Sit down, buckle up and throw your hands in the air. It’s more fun that way.
P.S. I wanted to take a moment to give a special shout-out to my sisters of heart. They listened to me vent, fed me food and wine, boosted me with love and laughter, and reminded me that the EIC is a lying asshat, and that we should always be as kind to ourselves as we are to those we love.