You know, the near-freezing temperatures don’t bother me. But when you add wind to the mix, the entire state of Louisiana plunges their heads into the dirt like ostriches. I wanted to share with you my street two years go around this time:
I don’t have the right words to say– although a trusted source insists those fabled words were last spotted in a mammoth haystack behind the new Nails-Done-Did somewhere in Cork County, Ireland by an exhausted and underpaid Uber driver.
(The proverbial haystack needle, by the way, for years belonged unknowingly to a certain Mrs. Myrtle Bumwhistle, who acquired the needle after it mysteriously surfaced at a Hobby Lobby in Muncie, Indiana. Recently the needle accidentally and irreparably broke Myrtle’s $150 vacuum. The whereabouts of everyone involved are still unknown.)
True story. No, really!
So, Deb, I can’t imagine what you’re going through. You seem despondent, afraid. I bet you’re packed and ready to hop on that shuttle to Mars the next time someone posts a graphic of a teddy bear wishing you all the best.
And I’m afraid that my experiences when compared to yours are false equivalencies, with maybe one exception: I remember how it felt, not too long ago, sitting in the creepy dark office of Dr. Frankenstein’s motorized son who informed me that after 20 years of Crohn’s Disease, cancer— as I’d always been warned– finally popped up like some snotty celebrity appearing unfashionably late to a Golden Globe after-party. And when this doctor said those words, lifeless and bored as can be, my reaction, no kidding, was to flip the hoodie over my head and tighten the drawstrings like Kenny from South Park and lapse into silence, because the only recourse was the permanent removal of my entire colon.
But the following nightmare was surprisingly brief. I was fortunate enough to have my father around throughout the worst and, afterwards, the proceeding recovery. The ensemble of movie-star-looking nurses and doctors were a welcome bonus. (This was January of ’18 in New Orleans– even there the winter storms froze everything. Hurricanes, tornadoes, nitwitted U.S. Representatives? No sweat. But ice. ICE! Everybody panic!)
In the following months back home, my father had to take care of me. I had to learn to walk again, I had to learn my body’s erratic new patterns, and my father exhibited a patience of which I never imagined he was capable. Oh, I was every parent’s worst adolescent nightmare, a living curse– maybe years ago my dad defiled a mummy’s tomb, I don’t know. Still, he forgave and accepted me and more importantly, provided me with a reason to fight and keep going.
I admit that I haven’t had time yet to read your previous tweets. But I’m approaching that lull between preparatory Christmas mayhem and actual Christmas mayhem, so I look forward to settling in and hearing your story. I know I can be slightly, just barely on the brink of almost goofy, but if you need a good laugh I can be so shamelessly vulgar you’ll be washing your mouth out with soap on your way to the nunnery. Or maybe you’ll turn the tables and show me how it’s really done.
Take care. Two awkward hugs equals one successful hug, and that is what I offer.
In case you’re wondering where you are, this is my brand new blog, a subsidiary of Frustration for Dummies, Inc. If you value all the breakable items in your home, I suggest you now tiptoe gently away.
I’m sincerely glad we met. Have a great day, and have a blue swallowtail.