I would like to thank everyone who left a crazy-ass message on my blog. Without you, I wouldn’t have a topic to write about each month. And the messages get better (worse) and better (worse) each time.
Hello. Are you a supplier for a wire hanger making machine?
It was hard to read this without spitting out my wine. No, no I am not. Clearly Candy didn’t spend one iota of time actually reading my blog. Nor is she a Joan Crawford fan.
What an unfortunate blog name.
What an unfortunate way to spell Jesse.
You really shouldn’t be an online blog writer. Please stop polluting the internet with your garbage.
I received this one through messenger on my private Facebook page. At 3:50 am. She took the time to find the real me. In the darkness of night. Normally, I know what someone is in all a tizzy about from the post the message is left on. But this one is a mystery. When I tried to investigate further, I could not. Because BettyAnn blocked me. I really pissed her off. My brothers are always telling me one of these whackos is going to slice my head off. They might actually be on to something.
Okay but- How about it’s time to STOP talking about depression with half-naked artistic black and white photos as representation of what the illness is like? You wouldn’t post an image like that talking about the flu, after all, because it makes it look like some kind of “beautiful, romantic suffering” instead of a legitimate illness.
Great article. But why is she naked from the waist up?
Megan and Sue I’m sorry but I just find it hard to post about my depression without including a half-naked photograph of myself. An unphotoshopped picture, I might add. It’s the only way I know. I can’t help it that I look amazingly sexy when I’m in the throes of a downward spiral.
All kidding aside, I didn’t choose that photo. The Huffington Post did. I chose a desperate photo of the empty lawn chair I sat in as I contemplated suicide in my backyard as my children blissfully ran around me without a care in the world. I guess I’m that great a writer that the editor envisioned me this way while reading my post.
I can only assume that it’s the media’s way of trying to glorify me as the sex object that I am. It’s a tactic used to get more internet traffic. I have been dealing with this my entire life. People not realizing that there’s so much more to me behind this beautiful face.
It reminds me of the story of St. Bridget.
Bridget was a very pretty young girl, and her father thought that it was time for her to marry. She, however, had given herself entirely to God when she was very small, and she would not think of marrying anyone. When she learned that her beauty was the reason for the attentions of so many young men, she prayed fervently to God to take it from her. She wanted to belong to Him alone. God granted her prayer. Seeing that his daughter was no longer pretty, her father gladly agreed when Bridget asked to become a Nun. (taken from www.catholic.org)
I had an identical childhood. Except God did not grant my prayer. The first of many unanswered prayers. So I remained pretty and got married. Because only ugly unmarrible girls become nuns. It’s a great fable to use to teach our young daughters what’s really important in life. I was left with no choice but to just take Bridget as my confirmation name and move on with my life. True Story.
Orange wedges, watermelon slices or chunks of fresh pineapple kept in an ice chest to hydrate the kids after a summer game is your answer. Great to mention allergies – but don’t forget to not buy candies as many kids have braces and won’t be able to eat it. Instead of drinks- have snow-cones ready with sugar-free syrups.
This is in response to my post about being a Snack Mom. I wrote about not having my sh!t together enough to run to Costso and grab a gross of ding dongs. So why on God’s green earth would Domino suggest I slice fresh fruit? Although I might try this next time I’m Snack Mom in hopes that I am never asked to be Snack Mom again. No Mom wants to be Snack Mom just like no kid wants fresh fruit as a snack.
Maybe I’m too patient. Easy Peasy.
Oh how I’d love to punch Julie, and anyone else for that matter that uses the term “easy peasy”, right in the face. It’s fun to write about something you are having a hard time with, only to have a condescending remark thrown back in your face. I’m glad you find it so freaking “easy peasy”, Julie. We’re all so damn happy for you.
And anyone who has kids and says they’re “too patient” is a lying pinteresty whore. My patience went out the window after my first epidural. Along with my healthy liver. And my will to live.
And last, but certainly not least, the greatest comment I have received to date.
YOU look like a man…no one is going to want to rape you.
I’m just going to go ahead and take this one as a compliment. And pray to God that none of my children ever end up with such low self-esteem that they need to troll the internet to feel better about themselves. And SabinaJoan, I do look like a man. I say it all the time. It’s my joke. Get your own.
Happy Birthday to my baby brother Dat. I swear to God I remember the day you were born.