I hate leaving my house.
I'm not afraid to leave my house, so unfortunately, I can't be a total loser and file for social security disability, or anything like that.
I can't remember what that disability is called . . . the one where you're actually afraid to leave the house . . . ?
Oh! And, God, I'm sorry . . . I'm totally not disparaging anyone who really has that disability! I know I said I can't be "a loser" and file for social security because I don't have that disability -- buy I'm ABSOLUTELY not saying that someone who does have that disability and has filed for social security IS a loser. Not for real. I promise!
What the fuck is that phobia called?!?
It'll come to me.
Anyhoo, I hate leaving my house.
I hate having to shower. I hate having to put on actual clothes, including a bra.
Ooh . . . I really, really hate bras.
I love sitting in my pajamas all day. I have, like, maybe 4 or 5 pair of comfy PJ pants -- not including the ones I never pulled out of my winter tote box this year. I love stealing and wearing my husband's t-shirts. I hate wearing socks and shoes.
I hate wearing socks-and-shoes. Not just socks. I actually have a couple pair of socks that I adore. But shoes-and-socks?
Yeah. That sucks.
I have cramps.
I do not have my period. Aunt Flo has not visited me in quite some time, now.
And no . . . don't even get it in your heads that's I've got a bun in the oven. There will never be another bun in this particular oven ever again. Not since my baking partner decided to go and get rid of all his ingredients.
Okay, I have no idea if that even makes sense . . . other than in my own head, of course. What I mean to say is that my dear husband had a vasectomy almost 7 years ago. On my own insistence, as a matter of fact! So no . . . no bun in this oven. But regardless, I still haven't gotten my period in a long time. Yet, I still have wicked cramps tonight.
My house is a mess. Laundry is backed up, because I've been having a pretty severe case of the I-Don't-Give-a-Fucks lately. My kids have shit strewn all over the place. The upstairs bathroom is positively atrocious. The downstairs one is only slightly better, but only because it doesn't have a tub/shower. And my kitchen? Dear Lord in Heaven above! It's disgusting. I should take a picture of my stove top for ya'll.
No. I shouldn't. You'd all run for the hills faster than . . . I don't know. Faster than something really, really fast.
That's what the phobia is called! The one where you're afraid to leave your house?
I knew it would come to me.
My 13-yo has sex-ed this semester. Yesterday, as I was cooking dinner, he asked me about anal sex. Then, he asked me if my husband and I have anal sex.
Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw. I honestly don't know how the hell I managed to not die of embarrassment.
The boy also thanked me the other day. He said that participation in sex-ed class is mandatory, and they do a lot of talking in there. He said that because I've been such a great mom -- translation: I've spoken frankly and openly and often about sex with my kids since even before they started asking questions about it -- he's been finding it pretty painless to speak in class . . . where a lot of the other kids are embarrassed and have a really hard time with it all.
He. Thanked. Me.
My 13-yo THANKED ME.
I think this is what it feels like to have a parenting "win".