There's Something Wrong With the Beaver

I just had a shitty weekend. Epically shitty. Nobody died or got tossed in jail.....just one of your garden variety "what the fuck has happened to my life" kinda things. I told a friend that I was in too much pain to be social and was asked what kind of pain. Let's see......physical, for starters. We learned in last week's episode that I have torn my left medial meniscus. That smarts! And because of the financial pain being meted out by this lovely economy in concert with the previously unknown shitty quality of my health insurance, I am going to have to live with the ripped up knee for the time being. Yes, I have options. I am not crying poor. But those options have been there fixing things my entire life. I am trying to fix things on my own for a change. I've been trying for awhile and don't want to run home screaming and crying just because I'm hurt. And I'm hurt emotionally too. There's pain on that front. Lots of it. Van Gogh painting pain. Raw, searing, chop your ear off pain. I'm not even going to begin to delve into that whole thing. But 'tis a shit storm alright. My life is a circle of hell right now. A regular burning ring of fire. And no, I have not been driving all day and I do not have hemorrhoids, thank you very little. At least I don't think so. Unless we have any volunteers that would like to do an inspection, any ass pain will remain a mystery. SO, I am thinking that because I have a child and cannot stick my head in the oven, I will instead drop said child off at school and then crawl under a pile of down comforters. I will not come out until it is time for him to come home from school. At that point, I will put on my June Cleaver dress, heels, apron and pearls and welcome my little darling (who DOES look strangely like the Beaver) home with a warm plate of cookies. I'm guessing June had some serious pills in that apron pocket. And I'm pretty sure that's not tea in her dainty little tea cup. They don't call 'em "saucers" for nothin'. She's got to get through the day somehow. Ward doesn't seem like much help. What does he do when he's not working or being disappointed with the Beaver (don't even go there.....it's overdone)? He reads the paper in his "den". What the fuck is a "den" anyway? A man cave? Why does the man get a cave? Let me guess.....the kitchen is the woman cave. Please. If I were June, I'd be like "Get your ass out of there and come help with this disaster of a life that you are at least 50% responsible for. NOW. Oh, it looks all nice and perfect to the uninformed but it's a flaming ball of shit that is about to hit the fan and and begin splattering all over Mapleton Drive. I do not give a flying fuck that you have been working all day. So have I. In heels. And lipstick. So bite me, Ward. Give me that newspaper and get yourself on the working end of SOMETHING before I slap you upside the head with it. Oh, and thank you dear". But that's just me. And I'm no June Cleaver. I'm the one that's crawling back into bed and not coming out until 4pm. Unless I decide to attend Boobquake. Nope. I'm not tellin'. You're just going to have to come back. This will drive up my page views, thus making my blog more desirable to advertisers of cheap wine, tequila and pharmaceutical companies. Oh, and Diet Coke. Can't forget that. With advertising dollars flowing, the Trifecta of Pain will be reduced to the Daily Double. The financial woes will ease and I'll simply have the physical and emotional shit to deal with. Piece o' cake. Yay! Anyway, come back later and I'll tell ya about Boobquake. If the double D's are rockin', don't come a knockin'.