My left knee is still messed up. I have an MRI scheduled for June 21. Happy early birthday, Patrick!

When I take anti-inflammatories and darvoset, it feels a bit better, but only a bit. It still hurts like a mo’fo when I pick it up off the ground. You know, like when I do ANYTHING.

My girls were already going to my parent’s house for the week because I was going to Anissa’s (*sob*), so now I’m going up there with them so my mom can take care of all three of us. I’ll be the one on the couch being served sammiches and pie.

You think I’m joking.

She’s a good mom like that.

My mom can beat up your mom in a World’s Best Mom pageant. She’d kill you with her passive-aggressive statements and near-to-tears smile.

They live just across the inter-coastal from Destin, FL where tar balls and oil sheen has been spotted, but for now, it’s 99% clear on the beach. That is MY beach.

And of course, with my bum knee, I can’t hobble my way out to the sand without possibly tweaking my knee even more.

But I must go there. I MUST see it before it’s gone. As much as I’d like to think it wouldn’t and couldn’t happen, there’s an extremely likely possibility that MY beach will be ruined for years.

I must go and see it, photograph it, smell it, feel it.

Be there.

I will find a good place to go and be there without walking too far on my bum* knee.

That or I’ll tell myself, “It will be worth it to completely wreck my knee for getting to spend time on my beach with my girls.”

___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

*Why is it that I keep wanting to add a “b” or another “m” to the end of bum? Stupid English language and its weird sometimes rules.

One of the “Getting To Know Your Body” lessons that stuck with me from elementary school is the one about self-esteem. The one where the teacher is all, “don’t be a bully” and “you’re worth it” and “when you point your finger at someone, you’re pointing 3 fingers back at yourself.” There’s also that one about “making fun of other people is really only trying to make yourself feel better.”

Well, yeah, duh. That’s why I watch “Cops” and “Rock of Love I,” “…II,” & “…Bus” and why I DON’T watch “The Biggest Loser.” I only watch shows that make me feel better about myself and not worse. It’s also why I love websites like “People of Walmart.”

I need the failures of others to make myself happy.

There. I said it.

Truthfully, it’s not the ONLY thing that brings me The Happy. I have Zoloft for what remains after I laugh at others behind their backs. And maybe a little from watching my girls grow. And maybe a little more from hearing, “I love you and you’re the greatest wife and I can’t live without you and I’ll never look at another woman again as long as you live and who farted?” from my husband. And maybe the remaining sliver of my self-worth is drawn from my inner being that sings to Bon Jovi songs with dreams of puppy dogs and daisies in my head. (I could totally be a Buddhist.)

Really, am I any different than 98% of the world? I think not. I just admit it.

I’ve read other blog posts written by the self-righteous who say, “I find my happy within myself” and “I don’t feel the need to compare myself to others to fulfill my self-worth” and “I feel the sunshine and the moonbeams on my skin, and I’m rejuvenated with all that is good and happy and holy. The End.”

Those people don’t really read my blog. Thank GOD.

So when I spot a GEM of a woman to which I can compare myself, I snap a picture.

This, my dear friends, makes me grateful I have a Mama who taught me right.

And, yes, I do feel good today, thankyouverymuch.

Wordless Wednesday

I’m outing myself as a Floridiot.

Swan or Goose?

You tell me.