Lazy-ass, no-good, paranoid thinking

The trouble with having parents who died in their sixties is that it's easy to think the same will happen to me, which leads to shitty thinking: I only have twenty years left to live, might as well sink into the comfy couch and lick the cheese off Doritos while watching Anderson Cooper talk about his paranoia that flu spores have set up house in his lungs and he's going to be dead before spring comes to Central Park.
Look: Danger is everywhere. I have a news app on my phone that tells me every time a kid is killed by gun violence in Kansas City, which is happening every freaking day in this city that used to inspire me. The flu? Epidemic now, that's what they say. If calm-cool-and-collected Cooper is reporting this news with alarm, shouldn't I be scared? One month ago, that whackadoo kid in Connecticut opened fire on first graders and killed twenty of them in the space of a few minutes, and six of their teachers. What the hell? His mother bought the damn things, one firearm being an assault rife. Then the NRA fanatics spout off, zealousy, that guns don't kill people, why, it's people who kill people. With what? Guns. Guns, guns, guns, and more guns. I have never heard of a drive-by fisting. I have never heard of a child picking up a forgotten yo-yo from a couch and blowing his little head off his body by pulling the string.
I feel the world is getting crazier by the minute, and I am not embarrassed to say that I would not have been surprised one itty-bitty bit that the world might, just might, have ended on 12/21/12, that the Mayans had it right all along. Actually, I wasn't even that sad about contemplating it, because I'd been drinking and smoking and spending thousands of dollars on stuff that made me temporarily happy (makeup and home decor items and candles), thinking So What? if I am further in debt because the world is ending and who will be around to hold me financially accountable. Who? Oh, that would be no one.
And then there's Donald Trump, who has way too much money and thinks because he is a tycoon that anything he says must be Golden. And at the Golden Globes, weirdo Mel Gibson is lauded by the usually cool and intelligent Jodie Foster. She then goes on to deliver a rambling and ambiguous speech that confounds the hell out of me (so is she retiring from acting? does she have cancer and this is her final letter to the world?) and instead of other people (read: experts) agreeing that her speech is strange, the internet blows up with "She's a genius, that Jodie Foster" posts.
Let's not forget that in this great country of ours, the suicide rate is nearly three times the homicide rate ... oh, wait, guns don't kill people ... then someone explain to me why so many adolescent males and former soldiers are putting the barrel of guns into their mouths and pulling triggers.
So what do I do to feel safe in this crazy-ass world? I insulate myself: I overeat and cocoon myself inside a warm coat of flesh (but this is not working as well as I'd hoped, as my gut is large and the size of a seven-month gestation and therefore I don't breathe right much of the time); I sit on the couch with a warm blankie on my lap and stroke my cat; I shop on the internet and wait for boxes to go thunk on my porch (books and cosmetics and a new skillet, a Bialetti, which will make that sixtieth grilled cheese slide right out of the pan ~); I hug my children every time they walk by me; I snuggle into my husband's neck; I spend hours and hours trolling pinterest and facebook; I drink too much coffee.
And I feel sad. A lot.
Good thing there's only twenty years left of this life.

Necessary procrastination ...

Needlework. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll awaken bright and early tomorrow and head over to a craft store and buy one of those punch kits and make something clever/cute for my kitchen. What a hooker I am I'll think as I punchpunchpunch the hook into the canvas, bright embroidery thread trailing.
Perhaps I'll head over to Border's and get lost in magazines or new fiction titles. Started reading THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA last time I was there -- even got halfway through Hemingway's tiny tome -- this time I'll finish the piece.
Could always go to the Kansas City Zoo, I suppose. Haven't been there since my own kids were small, what? ten years now? Lace up the comfort walkers and slather on the sunscreen. Maybe even wear one of those uber-ugly fanny packs. Who knows what lurks in the gift shops. Might need a polar bear keychain.
There's always grocery shopping, which I need to do, but I'm certain to see something that will remind me of him: bananas, coffee, tapioca pudding, crunchy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside bread rolls, Little Debbie's, icecreamicecreamicecream (no matter the flavor, just make it cold and creamy), Hershey's bars at the checkout. Better not head to Price Chopper. Groceries can wait another day.
I just have to find some activity to keep me busy ... some non-Dad activity that will occupy my thoughts so I won't be crying all day missing my dad.
Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of my dad's death.
Maybe I'll just skip the day altogether and stay in bed.