Can we limit the bad news to just one piece a day? Can that be the new policy with my life? Finding out that I'm too rich for food stamps AND learning how a criminal can admit to several people that they have committed a crime but still plead innocent (talked to the victim advocate guy who is helping me with my "stop-drop-and roll law degree") is just crazy-making. On top of that, calling the fine folks down in the cities who pay out money to therapists for victims and witnesses of crime and learning that THEIR process can take four to six months before you can get going talking to someone, is even more crazy-making.
"Yes, I know that you can't sleep at night. I know that you have horrible visions in your head. I know that you have to talk yourself out of violence on a daily basis. I know that your STBX has cheated on you, molested your daughter, and now wants money from you, I know all this. But you don't understand that I need form XJ682-Z and until I get that from the police department, I don't owe you squat. Have a nice day"
I would love to be able to join a boxing gym as was suggested by someone. I would if it weren't $55 a month. My kids aren't feeling the need to pummel things but I think it would be fabulous. I've already talked to my former boss at the YMCA and as soon as we get this year's tax info back, we'll be getting a scholarship membership there. Unfortunately, they're all against taking people out into the middle of a ring and beating the ever loving shit out of them. (Let's be realistic, I think I may be overestimating my ability to beat the ever loving shit out of someone. Is it legal to bring a baseball bat into the ring? That's how we did it back in Flint, Michigan.)
I usually hate the flippant remark about how resilient kids are but when I feel the top of my head starting to blow off, my kids bring me back to my senses. We are hopeless smart asses to begin with but their searing gallows humor can take me from shaking with rage at what is in my head to snorting orange juice out my nose with laughter. FYI: Orange Juice can hurt. Use it wisely.
My daughter and I were talking about places I could go to meet guys and how you know you're in trouble if you visit an internet dating site and the first guy you see looks like Goerge Costanza with no shirt on, draped across his skanky bed. We were laughing like idiots when I started listing all the places that I would normally meet people. We determined that with my present social life, I was akin to Francis McDormand in Burn After Reading.
Perhaps instead of looking for a decent guy, I just need to go to Home Depot and get me some equipment for a project like George's.