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.

 

It's Doubly Funny because they have no idea why it's funny in the first place

When it comes to sex, and all things related, my girls know quite a bit.  I am pretty open with them and talk to them about whatever they want to talk about  Answering any questions they may have, without stumbling all over the answers and embarrassing them, or myself.  But no matter how much they do know (and god does it seem like they know a LOT for their age) I am thankful there is still a lot they don’t know.

This past weekend we were driving to a friend’s house, and it was raining, I  had the windows partially down and you could smell the rain.  But in the city, on the highways it doesn’t smell like fresh spring rain.

It smells… well, fishy.

And the girls picked up on that.

OH MOM! Isn’t it romantic!?  It smells like fish!  Get your boyfriends, call your girlfriends.  Romance all around.  It smells like fish and that’s romantic.

I am trying to keep the car on the road, and a straight face when I ask them, “So, girls, why are fish romantic?”

“I don’t know Mom but every time someone starts talking about their girlfriend they always mention it smells like fish.  For whatever reason, they think fish are romantic. Personally I think it stinks.”

I’m dying here, they have no idea what the connection is.  I can’t really tell them because they will A) be embarrassed and B) so grossed out they won’t even believe me.  So, I let it go.

Until we get to our friend’s house.  Which happens to be his stepsister’s house.  A woman I’ve never met before in my life.  And my girls, being girls with limited filters, get out of the car yelling at the top of their lungs, “It smells like fish! Isn’t it romantic!?!?”

The Universe ignores my silent begging “Please swallow my now.  Please, open a crater, and just swallow me now.”

Then they do me one better.

They go Facebook with it.

Now, all of their friends, some of my friends and our entire extended family can see that my girls think “fish smells” are romantic.

And they have no idea why.

Then, to make matters worse (because clearly, they weren’t bad enough) the kids all started playing a game.   They played the “That’s what she said” game.  But with a twist.  If one of them said “That’s what she said” they all had to name a color.  The last one to name a color?

Had to make a sex sound.

What kind of game are kids playing these days?

There have been times I’ve been embarrassed by what my girls know about sex.  This time I was almost glad to be embarrassed by what they didn’t know about sex.

Now, to go embarrass them and set the record straight.

They’ll never think of fish in the same way again.