Some things are still alive and well.

When I'm out for 5 seconds without the baby and bump into someone I know, they always ask;
"Where's the baby?".
Me:  "I left him in the car with a pack of smokes and a lighter. That should keep him happy for a while."
Me:  "Crap! Good question!"
Me:  "Baby? What baby? Who are you?"

I demand to know if my husband ever gets asked this ridiculous question and if not, since it's no longer circa 1950, why not?

Dreamy

  This is what stood between my conscience and the mall today.  If God, the bank and the husband didn't want me to spend $170 on delicious new beauty products...wouldn't they have sent something tougher than ducks? 

Cancel the papers

  Divorce threats yesterday. Coaxing into kisses today. It started early, so we had a full day's work between screaming and forgiveness.  In that time, I reiterated three things to myself:
1) I really do love this man to the core.
2) My son is sublime and innocent in all this.
3) We can't afford to get divorced.

Wrong side of proverbial bed.

  When I came to in DCC (Department of Critical Care), my first thought was "Hell Yeah! I'm alive!".  So why does it feel like I'm in hell? Is this motherhood? No career. Brain too mushy to hold talent. My once prized relationship keeps bolting to the toilet, financial security following closely behind.  My breasts finally met gravity and then introduced their new friend to my face. I haven't slept properly since morphine. The girl in the photo is buried and the fraction of my former self is starting to feel like the Sisiphys of Greek legend; doomed to push a rock up hill for all eternity after flouting my life.

Clearly I didn't wake up this morning with the positive outlook I intended. Happiness next chance I get?

Why am I here?

  About this time last year, I died.  When I found myself undead, I had all the same epiphanies that other undead people report to have had - "life is precious", "make every day count"... But when life goes on...it really goes on.

I should be curing cancer, bunjy jumping, donating my material trappings to the destitute, renewing my vows and hearing an epic score every time I open my eyes in the morning.  But when I open my eyes in the morning, I hear a baby cry, a husband snore, the toilet beckon and the silence where the birds should be because it's still too dark to constitute morning yet.

I am not currently on a peace-keeping mission to some war-torn place I don't have time to read about. I'm currently sitting under a tree, shamefully smoking cigarettes, avoiding laundry, waiting for potatoes and my husband and child to get back from walking the dogs.  My time is precious and limited.  The little I have, I'm wasting bemoaning the  fact that I have so little time.

I used to have a career. It was crap, but it was mine. I used to be sexy, dangerous, covered in flawless skin. I used to be able to afford skin cream. I used to bunjy-jump.

My purpose here is DIY therapy, because I don't have time for the real thing.  My goal is to find a better life after death than the one I'm living. It may involve honesty, daring, perserverance, humility, compromise and jogging, but it has to be done.  And if I can get away with not having to jog, less strenuous suggestions are welcome.