If you've read my blog for a while, you'll know all too well I try to inject a little humour (yes, that's what it's supposed to be ... now you know you're supposed to laugh) into my posts, regardless of how mundane or solemn their topics might be.
Lately, however, I've been finding it kind of difficult to come up with the funnies. I can't explain it. These crazy and strange ideas usually just fly off the tip of my skull and onto the page without much effort at all, but recently, it's been a chore. A real chore.
It's very hard being funny. And I don't mean funny-looking, because I do that real well. Funny-sounding, I also get top marks for. Especially lately, with my toiletting dilemmas. By the way, our upstairs toilet broke yesterday morning. And yes, I seem to have broken it, although Mr. Handsome thought it was his doing until I opened my big mouth and corrected him. If only I could learn to keep my huge gob shut once in a while and allow the perfect image of me to live just a little longer in his mind. Mr. Handsome said the toilet handle thingy broke right off the other doodad inside (that's Plumber Speak). Just snapped. I'm sure it's most probably due to all my recent toilet usage over the past seven weeks. Explosive and uncontrollable diarrhea will do that to a person, and apparently to a toilet, too.
My only question is: When will our plumbing woes ever end?
So, getting back to what I was actually first talking about before I got into nasty toilet talk (which I seem to do an awful lot of lately, don't I?), I was saying it's hard trying to be funny at the best of times, but when you're not feeling particularly fun or funny, it's only that much more difficult.
I'm hoping, as I do for my seven weeks of Hershey squirts, that this too is only a small phase in this huge thing called Life. Because, really? I have nothing to NOT smile about these days: both my kids are happy and healthy; Mr. Handsome is my knight in shining armour; I have the best friends in the world; we're going to Disney World in less than three weeks; I'm going to New York City for the first time in my life next spring with my friend Slut and her crew; Christmas (my favourite time of the year) is just around the corner; I have a job, and possibly two; I am warm, clothed, and have as much (and more) food than I know what to do with. And, although I can't say I'm healthy, I'm certainly doing okay and could be so very much worse when I look at the big picture. I'm not in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes, like my blogging friend and fellow cancer mom Anissa, a young mom who just had a massive stroke a couple of days ago and is struggling at the moment. Please send her your love.
I can't complain at all.
And so, although at the moment I may not be able to make people chortle with my crazy and off-the-wall sense of humour and lack of discretion, I will keep on keepin' on, and take it one day at a time, and remind myself of how very lucky I truly am.
And, I know that, in time, the humour and silliness will come back full throttle. Take this as fair warning.
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