Rigteously Indignant, yup, that's me.

It's the only picture I could find besides a book I didn't want to promote.

Wikipedia defines Righteous Indignation as follows: Righteous indignation is typically a reactive emotion of anger over perceived mistreatment, insult, or malice.

Last night, I swear Rod Serling was writing the screenplay of my life.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  My life has had more than it’s fair share of the bizzaro. (please hover over that link so you can see what I’m talking about if you’re not going to click it and go read it.)

People, some of my best writing is in the notes when you hover over a link.  Please, to get the maximum enjoyment from my blog, hover over the links. (and if it doesn’t work.. let me know. I’ll cut a bitch.)

So, last night.

I was supposed to go to The Lake after dropping the girls off with their dad for the week.  Ok, I *did* go to The Lake after dropping the girls off for the week.

And when I got there, I stepped out of my car and smack dab in the middle of Bizzaro World.

I’m not going to throw anyone under the bus here.  There is a whole lot of stuff going on that I don’t even know. (Like basically everything).  In a sentence, due to everything going on, I was told I had to leave.  Whether it was or was not my fault hasn’t been determined to my satisfaction.  Ok. It’s not my FAULT, but the drama centered around me, and I don’t know why or how, or what started it, or what the hell is going on.  I just know, that everything I thought I knew going into the weekend came into question last night.

Ok.

This morning, I get up (after driving home at midnight last night) and I’m pissed.  Not at anyone specifically, just at the situation in general.  And at not having any clear cut answers.  Which is the very definition of irony coming from me.  So, I send a few text messages, trying to figure out what is going on, where things stand, blah blah blah.

And basically getting my panties in a wad.

Righteously indignant.

I set about writing a blog post screaming at the top of my lungs (ok, posting in a very loud voice) how effing fabulous I am, and how I am awesome with eleventy billion sides of awesome sauce (inflated ego much?  I know, I can barely walk into my own house.) I was all like, Look dude, I got plans, I got dreams, I got a life I want to live, and I ain’t got time to wait around for you to get your shit together and notice how fucking fabulous I am.  (ok, maybe it was a smidge nicer than that, but clearly not much.  Once I get all wadded panties and shit, I go way over the top.  Yes, really.  Have you met me?)

And just as I’m about to hit publish, and just after I sent him a text that said “Your reservation in my life expires at midnight, either confirm it or lose me forever.”

He texts.

And I feel like a total asshat.

 

Best. Picture. Ever.

So, I saved the blog post to my drafts folder.  I scrambled like eggs to look like less of an ass via text message.  In other words, his simple text took me down a few necessary notches.

Sure I’m fucking Fabulous, and all kinds of awesome, but you know what?  I’m not the end all be all of someone else’s life.  Everyone else is busy living their life, dealing with their drama, their issues, their problems.  It’s not all about me.  While I’m on my soapbox preaching “I’ve got dreams! I’ve got plans!  I’ve got a life and I don’t have time for you to figure out if you want to be in it!” he’s living his life, dealing with his drama, navigating the potholes in the road of his own damn fucking journey.

I had to sit down and think about that long and hard… not all about me.  Since fucking when?

I took a step back and looked at this whole thing and thought “Who the fuck do I think I am?” and if I had gotten that text message from him? I’d have said  ci vediamo più tardi  (Italian for see ya later)  or even baciare il mio culo (kiss my ass).

 

Let’s be honest, I suck at relationships.  I’m the perfect girlfriend… on paper.  It’s that real life face to face shit that gets me all jacked up.  On paper, behind a computer screen, I’m awesome.  I can also hide the crazy.  In real life?  not so much.

I have no real ending for this blog post.  Yes, I know, I suck at endings anyway.  Basically there is no ending because there are no answers yet.  It’s just “it’s up to you.  You know what’s going on there, I don’t.  I’ll wait to hear from you.” kind of thing.

 

Shoe Shopping with Teens. I need a sponsor. Nike I'm available.

I can't afford them, but I am not opposed to accepting samples. Size 8

Scooter needed new shoes this weekend.  He needed tennis shoes, that are actual uh, Tennis shoes.  Like Rafael Nadal would wear. (Not the ones in the picture, I just thought those were awesome and I would love a pair even though I would probably do noting more strenuous in them than shop for more shoes). See, Scoot plays tennis (for fun) with one of his friends two or three times a week.  So he needs shoes to play tennis in.  I get that.

So we all pile into the car and go to lunch (Yummy Mexican, with margaritas because I need sustenance to go shoe shopping with 4 kids, three of which are girls) and then off to the sporting goods store for Tennis tennis shoes.

Flip Flop season is almost over, and the girls need tennis shoes for gym, and they can’t be caught dead wearing last year’s shoes, because they are so last year. Clearly.  Newt got a new pair for her birthday (thanks to a 80% off sale at JC Penny earlier this month) and Tate is getting new shoes for cheerleading but she can only wear them to cheer.  She needed new gym shoes.

While Scooter and Brian are off looking at the Rafael Nadal look-alike shoes that I am oh so glad I wasn’t paying for because we wouldn’t get to eat for a week or more if I had paid for them, Tate and Newt start looking at their shoes.

I finally drag them away from the wall of the latest and greatest must have shoes and drag them kicking and screaming point them in the direction of the “SALE” table because clearly that’s the only language I understand in this store.

Lucky for me Tate was able to fall head over heals (no pun intended) in love with settle for a pair of Nikes that were on sale for $30, which would allow us to eat this week and most of next.

Newt on the other hand had found her heart’s desire in a pair of Nikes with a glorious price tag of $168.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my girls, but they have never in their life been $168-for-a-pair-of-shoes active in any kind of sport.  Granted they were pretty awesome and amazing looking and I’m willing to bet they felt like a dream on your feet and not at all like my stilettos.  But $168 for a pair of shoes?  Really Nike?

So, to all you Nike PR people out there who might happen to read my blog, when you come out with a pair of $20 shoes made specifically for laying around the house doing nothing more physically exerting than looking awesome and training to be a diva, I’ve got your spokes person right here.  (She wears a size 5. Just saying)