Disclaimer: I say the fuck word. A lot. And other bad words.

It’s been a bit since I’ve had anything to say. That’s not quite true. I always have things to say, just maybe not quite a lot of noteworthy things to say. Don’t worry, I have nothing noteworthy to say now, either. I just figured all 3 of my adoring fans might be worried about me. Have no fear, I’m still here, still doing all the damn things, still trying not to give in to the mental breakdown that is ready to rupture at any given minute.

There are a few things I wanted to touch on; the first being lightbulbs. Why are there so many different kinds of lightbulbs? Apparently I have not had to shop for lightbulbs in quite some time. Let’s mark that under the Dead Husband Category of Things He Used To Do So I Didn’t Have to Know Anything About It. I went to Lowe’s today because I somehow forgot to buy vanity lights for my own bathroom in the new house. Because of course I did. (My brain has never really been a good brain and it is even less good post dead husband.) Anywho, much like everything else in life right now, supplies of vanity lights are limited so I chose the least ugly (in my opinion) that was actually in stock and moved on to light bulbs.

First of all, if you are buying a brand new light fixture, why in the actual fuck does it not come with lightbulbs? This is not a decorative piece. It serves a fucking purpose. It’s fucking purpose is to light up the fucking room in which it fucking hangs. So why in the double fucking hell would it be sold without all of its fucking parts? I’m gonna go ahead and declare the lightbulb is a pretty big part, possibly even the most important part, of the light fixture. And I know, it’s so we can spend more money. And it’s also to confuse those of us that don’t know a god damned thing about light bulbs. (Excuse my language.) Kudos to you, GE, I bought nearly every fucking lightbulb you had. $300 I spent on lightbulbs today. You win. Congratulations. Another fucking widow feels just a little more fucking moronic because of you and all your fucking choices and sizes and glass type and Edison style and dimmer style and LED and candelabra and whatever the fuck else you can think of.

The electricians are at my house today, doing all their electrician stuff – hanging all these light fixtures that didn’t come with lightbulbs. I got a call early this morning from my dad. And my mom. And a text from my mom. And I didn’t hear it or see it because I was having a little snuggle fest with my 6 year old – more on that later. But I called my dad back and he lets me know the electricians have decided to come today and I need to get all the fucking light fixtures that have been sitting in my garage for months and take them to the house so that they can get all done up today. So I load my car with every last one of them and drive my ass over to the house and unload them and take them exactly where they are meant to be. I open the boxes to make sure I’m putting the right fixture in the proper locations which is where I learn 1. I forgot my own bathroom and b. they don’t come with the fucking lightbulbs (which, in all honesty, my dad told me that, but again, my brain is not a good brain and I kinda forgot). So, to sum up (ha! ha!), I run to Lowe’s, buy the vanity lights and ALL the fucking lightbulbs. Then I had back to my house but I don’t want any of the 4-5 grown ass men that didn’t help me carry not one fucking ceiling fan or light fixture inside the damn house to see me or my lightbulb purchases, so I sneak up the back stairs, ninja my way through the sliding glass door in my bedroom, tiptoe across the room to the bathroom, drop off the lights and very lightly set down several bags of different sized and shaped lightbulbs and dart out of the room, back out the sliders and down the back steps, jog around front to my car and hightail it out of there before anyone knows where all the lightbulbs came from. There’s probably a lightbulb fairy is what they’re thinking.

So, yeah, fuck lightbulbs. I hate them as much, if not more, than light fixtures.

In other news, I have no other news. Father’s Day came and went and it was pretty awful but also pretty great. Jack had baseball, shockingly. And he played great. However, the game was tied, bottom of the 7th or 8th or 15th, I don’t know, it was one of those nail biter games that felt like it was never going to end. But it did end. On a ball that was hit to my son that bounced off his glove into the outfield thereby scoring the runner that was on 2nd which resulted in our team losing. On Father’s Day. Because my son made an error. There are bigger problems in the world. I get that. However, that was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life. My 11 year old son fell to his knees in the middle of the field. He got up quickly, I will give him that. He went to the dugout, gathered his belongings very rapidly (very unlike him – he’s usually the last one out – seriously, we call him Rain Delay because he moves so slow) and went and sat under a tree and Lost. His. Shit. His head was down, hands on either side of his face, rocking back and forth, letting every feeling maybe that he’s ever felt out in the form of crying and self loathing. And I just stood there and watched him, knowing in that moment that the last thing he wanted was me. So I cried with him from afar. I cried for him. I cried for Colt. And I cried for me. I know, in the grand scheme of things, this baseball game meant nothing. But that day, that play, that kid meant everything. I’m not going to lie, I was a little upset with God and Ash that day. I realize they have better things to do, but, ummm, hello, was there not something YOU could have done to make that game end a little differently?! It’s character building I guess. But fuck, how much character does my kid need?! Give someone else a chance for some fucking character. He got over it. He did good. Because he’s a bad ass that way. But damn did it suck.

Colt, on that same day, was pretty down in the dumps. He elected to stay home with his grandmother instead of go to baseball. And I’m not sure if he regretted that choice or just felt the absence of not only Jack and me, but of his father (on Father’s Day) as well. I bought him a wooden bat that day. Something he had been begging for for months. So I finally broke down in a vulnerable moment and did it. I brought it home to him, thinking I would be praised and worshipped as clearly the world’s best mother, but silly old me, I bought a blue wooden bat (because it’s all they had in his size) and he wanted a wooden bat that looked like wood. Kid doesn’t even play baseball. I mean, he did this year because I made him but next year he wants to take off to “focus on his fishing” (his words, not mine) so the wood bat is really only being used as a lightsaber and everyone knows lightsabers don’t look like wood. Don’t worry, my brother came and saved the day as he usually does and added some lizard skin which made the bat “way cooler”.

I’m a still a lonely old shrew, which was never more evident than this morning when I was laying in bed with Colt and he started rubbing my back, something that hasn’t happened since waaaayyyyyy before Ash passed away (that’s a lie, I’ve had one massage since then) and it literally felt so good that I started crying. Which seems weirdly inappropriate but hopefully it’s not? Also, it’s a little bit sad that my 6 year old touching my back brought tears to my eyes, because, let’s face it, he is really not the best massage therapist in the world. But you couldn’t have convinced me of that this morning. Such is life, I guess. We have kind of entered the phase where everyone has forgotten about Ash and me and the demise (that’s dramatic) of our family. Not that anyone has really forgotten, but I think it’s normal that I’m alone now, normal that I’m everyone’s fifth wheel, normal that my kids don’t have a dad, normal that he’s no longer around. And that sucks. Because it still doesn’t feel normal to me.

That’s enough of that depressing shit. I’m now bringing tears to my own eyes.

My final note is on TikTok. Holy black hole of hours I will never get back in my life. Seriously. I don’t get it. And I also can’t stop. I’m watching other people lip sync other people’s comedy routines. And I’m laughing. Why? Why is this a thing? Why can’t I stop? What is the world coming to that this is our source of entertainment now? I’d also like to say, holy shit are there some pretty people in the world – men and women. And apparently all of them are super single and super lonely even though they have millions of people watch them do literally nothing. It’s really mind boggling. If you don’t TikTok, don’t do it. There’s no going back.

I just looked at my phone and realized it’s July 12th. Why is it ALWAYS the 12th of the month? I am literally laughing and crying (out loud mind you – good thing I live alone and my kids are gone) at the same time. God fucking bless it.