The end of summer was BRUTAL. It’s no surprise that I’ve lost a fair bit of weight. Gaining or even maintaining my weight is a feat of strength, but I’m weak and without appetite. Forcing myself to eat isn’t any fun. I’m convinced that some food is better than none, even if that food happens to be a chocolate bar. Chocolate is full of iron and copper! I need both of these and lots of it. More chocolate, please!
MC is on a smoothie diet attempting to maximize his vitamin and mineral intake prior to surgery. He hasn’t touched red meat in a week. This is as bizarre for him as it is exciting to me.
MIL is swooping in some time next week, because she’ll die if she can’t see her son (and her son will probably die from the stress of having her here), so I’m tasked with relying heavily on stimulants to assist me in getting the house cleaned up, and moving the contents of “my room” back over to the master bedroom. Lizard tank included. I don’t sleep with him because my spasms pummel him out of sleep. While she’s here, he won’t sleep because he’s stuck with me. We could get her a room at a hotel and that would make my life easier, but what’s the fun in that? We love to see Kara when she’s uncomfortable and ready to explode with rage. Heaven-fucking-forbid she should actually make it to the point of explosion, because then “What an awful, terrible girl! I can’t believe you married that!” Everyone has their breaking point. She’s particularly adept at lowering my tolerance threshold and trust me, it’s pretty fucking high.
I have to hide all of my Amy’s gluten-free frozen meals in the freezer out in the garage so I don’t get shit about eating packaged foods that are full of chemicals and are the very reason I’m sick (even after I emphasized that they’re organic and the only preservative they have is SODIUM – then shoved the box in her face), then all of the shitty-shit red meat needs to be moved into the house freezer so she can feed her fat ass and keep working on that coronary artery disease that will hopefully kill her very soon. Jesusfuck – someone shoot me now.
Oh, by the way, Windex doesn’t make a very good toilet cleaner. It was a waste of time and elbow grease. I should have used vinegar, but if my house smells like feet when she gets here, she’ll whine about that.
As sorry as I feel for myself about having to deal with her this coming week, and for the entire month of October while MC recovers, I feel even worse for him. After getting off of the phone with her earlier this evening, he said “Geeeeeeaaad, she’s gonna be the thing that kills me.” He said it. I was only thinking it. She’s his Mom and she cares, but what he needs right now are more zen masters like me. Not some woman who’s blitzed on hormone replacement and psychosis. Maybe she should send his Dad instead and have herself committed.