Category: Family

A St Patty’s Day Miracle!

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So I found myself looking for four-leaf clovers today. I needed to wait outside, and I like to find them. Plus, Saint Patrick’s Day! I did well. Once I found five, I was like well, fuck, I gotta make it seven for the holiday. So I scoured. Number seven was elusive. I had left number one on the steps and was sure it would have blown away before I got the seventh.

I was in my PJs in the front yard on a main road. So I wasn’t comfortable leaving my yard to be the crazy lady on the side of a four-lane main road in her pajamas looking creepily at the ground. I mean, my own yard is enough already. I’m still the insanely weird lady — but like, on a leash. “She’s keeping to her own yard” – ya know? Even though there are MASSIVE patches of huge clovers over there. So like, my hunting area was limited.

I was thinking to myself how I can only do this because I’m really good at patterns. I think others could if they cared to. It’s like those picture puzzles online with a ton of 8’s or something and you have to find the 9. People love those, but they don’t apply it to real life. Don’t look at the clover patch as plants. They’re all equilateral triangles. They’re all perfect 120 angles between the leaves. Just a bunch of triangles. Now find the square. It’s quite simple. I’ve spotted them from the second story of a building before, no lie. Find the 90 degree angles. With practice, they stand out as abominations.

I’m quite good with patterns. I’ve always been focused on pinning the repeats in wall paper, fabrics, carpets. How small is the repeat. It’s quite elegant how some of them work the repeats. Very interesting to break it down to the square they are repeating. You have to break images across the square to hide it well. I’ve never created my own patterns, so there’s still a bit of mystery in how they do it. Anyway, it interests me. And after a few decades of practice, you get very good. Hence my magic power of four-leaf clover spotting.

I was about to give up with my six clovers. I was thinking how I could never find any of the more elusive clovers. The fives, the sixes, the seven leaves — they wouldn’t be as obvious in the way I find them. No squares, no 90 degree angles. And then…

There she was. My seventh. With five leaves.

Amazing. In my 41 years I’ve never found one above four. Ever. And I look. This one met my pattern — it looks like a four leaf from the top — but there’s a little baby runt leaf sticking straight out of the top. I had husband come look immediately. How special! I took a video to capture it. These are actually stills from the video.

You know, it was a bit sentimental. I haven’t done a lot since mom died. I mean, I’ve done a TON – but there are things I didn’t care to do. I used to decorate for EVERY holiday — I haven’t decorated for Easter in 4 years. Back in 2020, I actually bought a very cute leather journal to keep my four leaf clovers in. I put Jack’s foot print in it. I kept my clovers in it. There’s butterfly wings. There’s even one clover that mom found after searching with me. I made her sign it. I didn’t stop right after her death. There are clovers from 2021. But nothing from 2022 or 2023. Well, I had found a few and stuck them in my little tiny notepad to dry, but I hadn’t bothered to mark the dates or put them in the leather bound journal. It wasn’t fun anymore. My happy book wasn’t happy anymore.

This year I went out and found four a week or two ago. That’s when I noticed the lack of two years in my leather book. I put the clovers I had pressed in, but obviously I could not date them. I think what caused the resurgence was Louie’s one year adopt-aversary coming up. It’s time to add his foot print. It made me think of the leather bound journal. It inspired me to go find some clovers. And today I had thought about it but wasn’t going to. But then K needed to pick up something she’d loaned me. So I was out in the yard waiting as to give it back quickly. No need for them to have to come in and get it — they did loan it to me back in October and I hadn’t returned it yet. So I decided — why not — I’ll look while I’m waiting. Then I got to the must-find-seven.

And I did. But there’s more than JUST the five leaf. I needed a new book to press them. I’ve been using a tiny 3-inch composition notebook I got for free at some convention or training or something. The pages are too marked with dates and wrinkly now. They did a horrible job of pressing the four I found earlier this month. So I thought of a journal. I’ve had it for almost 4 years. I’ve kept it as it was sentimental, but never had a use for it. I knew it was a gift from my aunt-in-law. But I’d forgotten the circumstances. Just that it was thoughtful of her to buy it for me because it’s Star Trek and she knows I like Star Trek. Well, it’s hard backed and I needed a journal to press clovers so I grabbed it.

The card she included was tucked inside. Ahhh. It was a gift from when mom died. She had been thinking about me and saw this journal and thought I could use it. That’s why I’d kept it. It was so sweet and thoughtful of her to buy it and mail it. She wanted me to know I was in her thoughts. The time wasn’t right to use it when I got it. But now the time is right. I think of moms clover when I hunt now. She was so proud to find one. And today I was so proud to find my first five-leaf.

There’s a warmth there. A time to move on a little bit more. Kinda like a sign, if you believe in those things as I do. Louie has been helping to heal my heart of my loss of Jack. And now he’s brought back my clovers and a sweet memory of my mom. And the cherry on the cake is the journal given to me to try to ease my grief a bit making a simultaneous appearance.

Maybe it’s God. Maybe it’s mom being impressed with my overwintering of last summers plants, rescuing plants I normally would have let die to nurse them back to health, and now seeding my own plants for this summer.

I’m stepping into my destiny. Not some awesome destiny where I get a sword and a birth right. Just a tedious one where I stop letting plants die every year only to replace them. One where I nurture the sick plants back to health. One that has me out in my yard in my PJs looking for plants. Maybe one were I grow my own Halloween pumpkins.

I’d kinda rather have a sword.

Gingerbread with K2!

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Today was a great day! This morning, I wrapped Christmas presents. Then this evening K2 came over to do gingerbread houses! We baked cookies, and decorated gingerbread houses while watching three cheesy Christmas movies on Netflix.

My family usually does a gingerbread party every year. This year there’s all sorts of drama in my family. I set a rock hard boundary, and well, might have been disowned? I don’t know. It’s for the best. It needed to be done. I want to talk to my SIL and see what everyone’s saying but NO — the point was to get OUT. So I must resist. But I still wanted to do gingerbread. K2 to the rescue!

We decided to get house kits. I got the Gingerbread Mansion from Target for $20. Cookies were required. I made keto cookies for me. They melted into a pan of solid raw cookie dough. I also made chocolate chip for K2 and Husband. Those worked out. We decided to put on a Christmas movie. So We set up in the living room so we could watch the movie while we worked!

Yep, I’m in my PJs. I didn’t get dressed today. I put out a plastic table cloth for easy clean up and K2 queued up the movies.

The first movie was Lindsey Lohan. She was a rich spoiled chick. Then she went skiing with her shallow finance and fell off the mountain. She got amnesia and ended up in a tiny town. She ended up being taken in to stay at the inn owned by a single dad who was about to lose everything. Yep, she fell in love. So did he. Go figure.

Then there was the Christmas Bitch movie. The lead guy was not attractive so it was kinda weird. They had a great relationship until Christmas. She HATES Christmas and he’s obsessed with Christmas. He believes Santa is real. He plans a week of activities for her and her daughter — oh yeah, single parent again. Bitch couldn’t even make it a week. She got into a big hissy fit and dumped him over loving Christmas. Like, WTF? You can’t let him have a damn week of holiday cheer? They’ve been together for months but fuck that! They ended up staying together even though they still disagree on if Santa is real. So ummmm… That one sucked.

Both of the previous movies with the single parents, the kid’s Christmas wish to Santa was for them to get together. Yall stay away from single parents during Christmas! Don’t fall for it!

Third movies a charm! Apparently, she had seen that one before. It was great! A journalist who writes a column about her terrible dating life falls in love with an online match. She hasn’t met him, but after two weeks she’s in love and she flies in to surprise him and meet him. Oh no, he used a fake picture! He’s just an asian guy! Boooooo! But she goes to the bar and see his friend, the picture he used. He promises to help her get with the hot guy if she pretends to be his girlfriend for the holiday because his family is so happy for him. She has nothing in common with the cute guy, but lies about everything anyway. Also, lets ignore that she fell in love with the guy over the phone and he’s still that guy, just asian? Which is bad? She comes around in the end and realizes that she loves him. It sounds stupid but it was actually a GREAT movie. It was hilarious. Let’s ignore how lame she was with the “weird” and quirky opinions that Die Hard is a Christmas movie (really, that whole thing is so old — everyone knows about this). Also, her favorite book was Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends.” WHAT? He’s heard of it? No way! One of the most famous children’s poetry book to exist? CRAZY! But no no no, it was still a good movie. The writers just really slacked off there.

K2 is like my favorite person to watch moves with. So we watched movies and glued candy to gingerbread. Yes glued. This aint Martha Stewart. No ones eating these things. Hot glue it together. Why yall making life difficult?

This is only the second gingerbread house she’s ever made but she did damn good. Like there was so much candy on that thing. No skimping. I went all out and tried my hardest. I actually like the back better than the front of mine, but whatever, It’s awesome and I love it.

We had a great time. And gingerbread tip of the year: I had the idea to wrap the cheap cardboard that comes with these premade houses with wrapping paper. I actually used a green gift bag. I’m a genius.

And of course, I took a fuck ton of photos of my house because I worked hard on that shit.

Merry Christmas!

You talk about your scars not your wounds.

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I’m watching a YouTube of two doctors (Family Med and a Psychologist) discussing mental health. It’s very interesting. The title comes from that. This is over and hour, but right now, they’re talking about people sharing their stories. Specifically people sharing their stories online. The psychologist said the title: “talk about your scars, not your wounds.” He expanded on that to mean, talking about things you can discuss without breaking down and having nightmares for a week. If your tik tok goes viral, be prepared for all the feedback on your trauma. So don’t talk about something that’s still raw.

Luckily I’m 40 with a fuck ton of therapy under my belt. I find that talking about my fucked up shit helps me. It gets it out there. Like it’s not a secret. It’s not my fault it happened. I’m not the only one that went through that shit. So it helps ME in being open like “hey, this is a part of who I am. There’s reasons I’m fucked up, please understand.” But also a bigger reason I talk about my mental health is to show other people, yo — “you’re not the only one.” And then there’s also a little bit of total selfishness.

How do I explain… There’s some people I know of — who have a lot of trauma of their own. And they know me very superficially through third parties. If you don’t know anything about me — but you hear my accomplishments, I sound like green pasture, right? I moved away from my family, went to college, graduated, have a great job, married, live in an amazing house, have a funny cat, post pictures of me and my friends by my own pool. One of these people was having a major psychological crisis and I found out that part of their trauma was comparing themselves to ME because we’re the same age. I was BLOWN AWAY.

So like, I want people to know, it ain’t all roses. I grew up with a lot of family trauma. When I finally moved away, I broke down. I failed multiple semesters of college. I was self harming and suicidal and agoraphobic. I finally sought out therapy. Let’s insert an *AGAIN* here. I had sought out therapy secretly when I was old enough before I moved away from my family. I was so good at having no feelings and presenting a fake front, that after two sessions with this man, he decided to give me his treatment plan. It included seeing a dermatologist about my acne and also working on losing weight and dressing better — which I took offense because I picked out my best outfit for this bullshit. It was Lane Bryant pants and shirt! That’s quality, expensive shit. I remember this so well. It was dark brown dress pants that flared but they had a rough edge on the bottom. The shirt was a green plaid button up — but one that was cut to form fit and flatter. But I mean, I was super fat, so it’s not gonna look GREAT on me. But I was wearing good clothes that fit and were stylish. It was my favorite outfit. So I pushed back. And he said this exact quote “Society doesn’t find THIS acceptable” — while using a two arm gesture referring to my entire body. Cause I was fat.

I left and cried in the car. When I got home (no one knew I was seeking therapy or even needed it – I was totally happy). I stayed in my room for THREE DAYS and just cried. I couldn’t wear those clothes ever again. It was highly traumatic. So it took a few years before I was willing to go again. But back in 2003/4ish, I was rock bottom. So I went. And they put me on meds and a standing Monday appointments with a behavioral (talk) therapist. Eventually, I started going to CODA for codependent people who come from fucked up families. So I was hitting the root of my issues finally. And it was hard but it was worth it. I only did it because I was literally going “At worst I kill myself in the morning.” In the vein of Wesley’s quote from the Dread Pirate Roberts in the Princess Bride.

And yeah, I didn’t graduate college until 10 years AFTER highschool. Even though I was in school that entire time. I was a joke. Literally, it was a family joke. There’s a Christmas ornament on my Dad’s Christmas tree of me as a graduate — from looooooong before I graduated. Because they got everyone custom ornaments like a nurse and shit but thats what they chose for me. Not something like a painter or reflecting a hobby. Nope. Also, no one told me I could have all those failed semesters wiped from my record due to mental illness so my GPA is a 2.1. Yeah, ouch.

Yall. I am rambling now. I did not intend for ANY OF THAT to be in this post. I just got going. The POINT of this post was supposed to be a very dark humor post about an incident that happened this week.

Incident is too strong of a word. Let’s just say – something that came up.

I was browsing Reddit cause that’s most of my time. There was a thread on “Ask Reddit” about what you can’t understand how people can afford. And one of the joke/maybe not so joking ones was “A second family.” Because dude, most of us are barely affording our lives — you’re gonna have a whole ass second one? Who has the money and TIME for that!? I come home and watch youtube because I’m too exhausted to commit to an actual show or movie. Yall are juggling multiple partners and kids? What?

But… MY DAD HAD A SECOND FAMILY! And I had totally forgotten until I posted about it in this Reddit thread. Like for real — LOL — Laugh Out Loud. I forgot my dad had a second family.

So I was messaging with my husband like woah, dude, I can’t believe that slipped my mind. I wonder if my psychiatrist even knows? Like would I mention my stepbrother (I wouldn’t) and be asked how it was growing up with a step family? “Oh no no, I didn’t know he existed until I was 16.” We had declared bankruptcy for the second time and lost our house for the second time (the one with the pool where I got my moms flamingos from). We couldn’t afford a three bedroom apartment, so my evil sister moved in with mom and I moved in with dad. (Getting fucked up, right?) Then my other sister had a car wreck and had to move back home so she moved into my room at dads.

Dad called a family meeting. Not in a healthy way. He does that shit in weird ways. Like he went to help at 911 as a firefighter so he could die a hero. So we had a family meeting about how he wasn’t going to come back. It was weird.

So family meeting. Over spaghetti. I hate my dads spaghetti. He buys the chunky sauce that has like whole ass chunks of carrots and onions and tomatoes and shit. That aint right. So he announces my step brother is moving in. (My older siblings were old enough to remember the initial affair, marriage, attempt to take us away from mom – so I don’t think this was huge news to them). I didn’t even know I had a stepbrother. Apparently, he was moving in through.

Listen, by this time, I was checked the fuck out. I wasn’t remotely upset mentally. I was withdrawn eventually from this situation by a charge from my sister in law that “yo — she’s not OK, she can’t live there anymore.” I was so good at hiding and not acknowledging my emotions that I didn’t know I HAD them. I was really fucked up medically. Stress will kill you. I was having episodes of stomach pain that would bow me over. I was seeing doctors and on smooth muscle relaxers. It was all stress. But I wasn’t self aware enough to know that, much less convey that to a doctor.

So this news wasn’t distressing. I don’t think I even had a “here we go again with more bullshit” reaction. I had no reaction. So I got up to get a glass of milk. Perhaps my stomach was acting up? This was read by my father as me reacting. So I got chewed out about how we’ve always been treated as superior. My step brothers always known we had it better than him and a better life. It’s not his fault and we WILL accept him. Like “OK, dude, jesus – I’m just getting some milk.” I distinctly remember the moment and where I was standing by the ugly apartments moon light over a counter between the kitchen and dining room. He moved in and slept on the couch.

So yeah, my dad totally had a second family. He had an affair while i was a baby. He got her pregnant. He named my step brother my actual brothers middle name. Then they decided to be a happy family so he decided to divorce mom. She wanted us to call her mom and for him to get full custody (probably so he wouldn’t have to pay child support). I was too young to remember though.

No idea why it just completely died and no one told me we had a step brother LOL

I’d even stay at my dads apartment sometimes (cause I didn’t know he was a bastard — and he could afford canned coke. And he had a NES). He had a spare room “for me.” But I wasn’t allowed to decorate it at all. Probably because it was also my step brothers room. So that makes sense now. I was allowed to leave one stuffed animal there. I chose my BEST ONE. It was a huge soft lion with long arms that were weighted so he could give you hugs. What a fucking waste.

Man, I bet all of this shattered my moms heart. Especially, when I bragged that dad bought me a 12-pack of cans of surge! Why didn’t she ever tell me anything? I only found out when I was adult and decided dad could go fuck himself on my own volition. She said she didn’t want to ruin my relationship with him. FUCK THAT. Mistakes were made.

But yeah, so my dad had a second family. What a weird thing. Also, what a weird thing to forget. Like I have so much childhood trauma, I forgot about that one. I mean listen, my dad is a clusterfuck. (My sister is worse in affects on my own life). I’ve gone extremely low contact with dad. Unlike my siblings, I don’t pretend to give a fuck. Because… I kinda don’t. What a bastard.

Any time they expect things from him or are surprised at something he did, I bring up Penny the cat. He fucked that cat up so much that she lost her hair and lived on the top stair by the attic. She had been the sweetest cat when I stayed at dads apartment in my fake room. My sister watched her while my dad was out of town and dad could never get her back because she hid from him and refused to be caught. She grew her hair back. Great cat. So yeah. Like if dad mentally fucked up a CAT that bad, why are you expecting him to do decent with humans? The man is incapable. Stop it. He couldn’t even meet the emotional needs of a fucking cat. He can’t meet yours.

So yeah, sorry this was so deep. I was literally amused and validated when I realized I forgot about my dads second family. Like oh yeah, that’s why I hate that guy. I’m right.

He had a motorcycle and a boat too. While we had nothing and lost two houses and mom had 4 jobs. What a fucking bastard.

Twitch Twitch

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So you’re telling me that reading reddit on my phone for 9 hours a day for the past 4 weeks and freaking out about everything is bad for me?

I’m stressed. I’ve also still not got anything to do at my job. Not for lack of trying. So until I get access to the damn training system, I’m stuck. So I just play with my phone all day and monitor my emails hoping someone has a meeting I can attend. It’s causing eye strain. ‘Cause my phone is tiny.

And I’m already freaking out about our summer plans. Well, really my sisters. I’ve recently concluded that not only do I not actually like my sisters, but I hate who I become when I’m around them. Even Mr C says I get way more snippy around them. He understands — but the point is, it happens.

One sister was abusive as fuck growing up. I mean take your pick. She used to weigh me every day and I remember when I hit 100lbs and she ran to “tattle” on me to mom. And she was bulimic — but for some reason she threw up in 5 gallon buckets in her closet. Who had to help empty those buckets with mom? Yep. It was so gross and smelly. Ugh. And she’d wake me up hitting me and yelling. I liked to sleep with QVC on and I was allowed to. I’d turn it down to the lowest setting but she’d randomly come in my room and wake me up by hitting me and screaming at me because my TV was bothering her (no, our rooms weren’t even next to each other). So yeah, I’m a really fucking light sleeper now. Ask Mr C. And I still have nightmares about her. I’M FORTY. You have nightmares about Lovecraftian creatures? I have nightmares about my sister.

Then there was Smokey. My moms birthday present — a black mutt dog. That dog loved my ass. And he hated my sister for beating me He’d try to defend me. The only thing on the planet that actually gave two shits about me at the time (Mom had 4 jobs, give her a break). I’d sleep with mom a lot and Smokey would always sleep with me. And my sister has always had this weird thing about bugging mom (Seriously. In Florida, she cant go through the living room door to get to the balcony to smoke, she has to go into the master bedroom where mom is to go through THAT door. Same with the house on Golf Road. Couldn’t go outside through the kitchen — had to go through the door in moms bedroom. And when we were little — use the bathroom literally right next to her room? Nope — gotta go use the one in moms room on the other side of the house). So she’d come in moms room at night. And fuck if Smokey was gonna let her near me and mom if he had anything to say about. Even in the middle of the night. He was pretty awesome.

She started abusing Smokey too. After school, when mom was at her second job, she’d trap him in a blanket and throw him in a closet until right before mom got home. So I mean, Smokey hated her. It was a problem cause Smokey would draw blood. So one day I got home and no Smokey. I asked what happened to him and Dad joked about how he finally tied him up and drug him out in the woods behind the house and shot him.

Yeah, fun memories. Mom swears she gave him away. I never will really know though, will I? She was never able to present Smokey to me or let me visit him. Even when I begged for my wedding present to just let me see Smokey again. But she never changed her story. Anyway, that’s why people think I hate dogs. I won’t have one. Smokey was my dog. And I couldn’t protect him. And even if they did give him away, he didn’t know I had nothing to do with it. He lost his person. He was betrayed, might as well have been me. I hated having her over with Jack. I warned Mr C and mom that I didn’t want her near Jack. Ugh.

Then there was the time she wanted to kill me. I forget the reason, but I ran to my others sisters room to hide and locked the door. She tried to break the door down with a hammer. She beat a hole straight through the door before she gave up. It was like the fucking SHINING.

Then she just became a raging alcoholic. She’d get blackout drunk and pass out and piss herself where ever. Who had to get her into bed and clean it up? Oh that’s me. Unless she passed out on the lawn where at least there was not vomit or pee but “the neighbors might see.” (Like I said, Mom wasn’t perfect. We were best friends when mom died, but there were a lot of years where we were not close after I finally moved away). I was super into Christianity back then – total bubble Christian in high school. I didn’t even curse! And she’d get really blasted drunk and beg me to read the Bible to her. I’d refuse and she taunt me. I’m pretty sure girl has demons. Like I’m serious, yall. I may not be a bubble Christian anymore, but I’m still a Christian. Might as well have been a devil taunting me.

She also used threats of suicide and self harm as emotional abuse against us. She still self harms. Wears it proudly on her arm for all of us to see. Oddly enough she’s carved a cross into her arm. See the difference is, when I self harmed I hid it. Because I’m not an attention seeker — I was just really fucked up. So when I’d rip open my own skin, no one ever saw it. Cause I have standards. Pretty sure she’s still a raging alcoholic too. Last time I was at my sisters house (she lives with my other sister. Short story is Sister never left the nest — mom moved in the sister so other sister did too) So yeah, I sit down in moms bedroom chair thinking of mom. I look into her basket of books to see what she was reading… oh a giant bottle of alcohol. Don’t think that was moms… We used to do alcohol raids but it never did any good. Other sister says she’s letting the drinking slide because she’s afraid she’ll kill herself (They’re both in black holes since mom died).

She also drove drunk all the time which led to lots of accidents. Once she ran into a parked car and got arrested. She was sentenced to live in a halfway house. It was nice while she was gone. She was diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Behavioral Disorder. She came back though. Nothing ever changed.

It’s funny. This week a deep seated fear I haven’t had in over a decade resurfaced. I used to breakdown crying to mom that what if I was like her and didn’t know it? She doesn’t know she’s like she is! What if I’m like that? Ruining peoples lives and I don’t know it? What if I’m bat shit crazy and evil too? Really crazy people don’t KNOW they’re crazy, yall! I confessed this to my husband and said I turn into a different person around my sisters. I hate who I become. He admitted I do become really snippy when I’m around them — but he understands. Wait. I already said that.

Any way, other sister used to be cool. Growing up she was cool and loving. She was away at college and worked at TCBY and when she’d come home, she’d bring me a whole cup of the toppings like reeses pieces and shit. I think she’d send me cards sometimes too.

But the past few years she’s been insufferable. She’s ripped me off financially. She’s a bitch. And she absolutely ruined my Christmas. Killed it. I know she has an autoimmune disorder that causes her sever constant pain and fatigue. And she feels like she got stuck with other sister (even though she’s done nothing to kick her out). So she’s bitter as fuck. And it ain’t pleasant to be around.

Anyway it’s Florida year. I still like going to the beach. And I love my brother and his family and want to spend time with my nephews and keep moms favorite thing alive. Our yearly trips to Florida. But damn, I don’t think I wanna stay in the timeshare with my sisters this year. So I’m like should me and Mr C get our own place? Go in with my bro wherever they stay? It’s too early for my bro to commit if he’s going. But like I don’t wanna wait too late and not have anywhere to stay booked. So yeah, that’s brought all this shit up.

Whatever. It’s past my bedtime. I still gotta lay out medicine for the week! And get my twitchy eyed ass to bed! Lack of sleep is on the twitchy eye causes too! And see, that’s another difference between me and sister — I have a psychiatrist and take my medication and try to not let my personal crazy destroy everyone else’s lives.

Also I’m married. And we’re like in a healthy relationship. Surely husband would have left me by now if I was like her?

I need a valium. Don’t worry, I take 3 a day.

Oh and I want to look for a cat but it stresses me out SO MUCH. Friends, please find me a very needy cat that just wants cuddles and constant attention. I was thinking maybe contact fosters and see if any of them have a needy as fuck cat? Like I need fuzzy snuggles.

Delusions of happy thoughts

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Today was my last day at my shitty job. They read me out a little early so I got home around 3:45. Mr C took a nap, but I had to stay “up” for the AC repair guy. After he left, I decided I wanted a nap too. I set my alarm for an hour and a half so I wouldn’t sleep too long. I ignored my alarm. Mr C got up to go fetch him some dinner and I stayed in bed kinda 75% asleep and 25% awake. Maybe 80/20. I miss Jack. Obviously, sometimes I think about getting another cat when I’m ready. So I was thinking about looking at cats. I have a long weekend between jobs as I have Friday off and Monday is a government holiday. I thought maybe mom could come up and we could look at cats together.

That would be nice. She could help and it’d be something we could do together. Maybe hit up a few Saturday adoption events. I wasn’t decided or anything, just a thought I probably wouldn’t act on. I decided to get up when a strand of Christmas lights went out on the bedroom tree changing the general cast of the ceiling from a warm red to more of a green shade – then that strand must have completely died and returned the walls to the warm red. When my feet hit the ground I remembered mom’s dead.

I saw a gently sweeping stripe of dead lights on the tree confirming my suspicions.

Wouldn’t have been as good as Jack anyway.

A Passive Aggressive Christmas

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So this year, Mr C and I spent Christmas with my family. It’s only 90 miles away but we planned to spend the night. My family does their big celebration on Christmas Eve so as to not have to fight for everyone’s time. Everyone’s free on Christmas Eve. So we went down on Christmas Eve and planned to sleep over at Sister1’s house, have Christmas brunch and head home on Christmas. Really just a formality as I feel bad that we spend a week with my in laws but only spend 24 hours with my own family. So we could at least do that.

We’d usually sleep at my brothers house, but they were full for the night. They had to take custody of SIL’s niece. Her mom was a drug addict. She’s supposed to be better now though so they’re working with her and bio-mom was sleeping over for Christmas. So they had a full house — but also a damn full plate of drama of their own. So we’d sleep at Sister1’s house — where Sister2 also lives. Plan. Not ideal because Sister1 has a big dog, but whatever – it’s one night. (Brother has 2 big dogs, but unlike the rest of my family, he trains them. His dogs are insanely well behaved.)

So dinner is at Dad’s at 5. He has forbidden present exchanges so we got to my bros house at 4 to exchange gifts. Well, Sister1 decided not to come cause she didn’t feel good. That’s fine, she has RA really bad and it really brings down her quality of life. Understood. However, since Sister1 wasn’t going to come, Sister2 decided not to either. This pissed SIL off very much because they’re having a feud right now. But whatever. We gave the nephews and kinda-now-niece their presents.

SIL explains that Sister1 is sick with a cold so that’s why she’s not feeling good. Wait, what? No one told us anyone was sick. She explains that Sister1 has had a cough for about a week now. Two things: Mr C is a germaphobe who didn’t want to be there anyway. Also, I have no PTO so I can’t get sick. It’s not an option. I gotta work. So we decide not to spend the night at Sister1’s house.

Sounds simple? Not simple. I about had a panic attack over this decision because this was gonna piss Sister1 off and I knew this would be a nuclear bomb. But Mr C is very supportive and said he’d go with whatever decision I made. So I texted them that we wouldn’t be spending then night. Then I had a mini panic attack but Mr C was very nice and let me sit in the car and calm down. Then we got out of the car at Dads. Sisters had just pulled up.

Sister1 immediately laid into me something fierce. She was furious. She said she wasn’t sick that it was just her RA and she can’t help it. So I’m being an asshole over something she can’t help. I tried to explain it was over the cough but she said she’d taken multiple covid tests and she wasn’t sick. (Which, if you weren’t sick, why did you take covid tests? Someone’s lying.) After screaming at me in the driveway in front of my husband, Bro and SIL arrive. I try to explain to SIL what is going on but she’s having major neice baby-momma drama of her own and needs a xanax and a couple of drinks. Fair. Merry Christmas.

So we go in and pretend to be a happy family, cause that’s what we do on holidays. But Sister1 is still furious. She won’t speak to me or look at me. If I move towards her, she leaves the room. At one point, she had to walk past me and went all the way around all the furniture so as to avoid me. It was really obvious. I pointed it out to my husband who reassured me, I’m not crazy — she’s crazy. But I felt like SHIT. Absolute trash.

So dinner was OK. Affair child and his family came. Dad loves to coo over affair child’s child. He was never nice to any of us or even my nephews. So it kinda just makes me sick. Like, I know he’s kinda probably got a bit of dementia, he’s bonafide insane, and is now on psychiatric medications. So like he’s different. Logical me knows this. But emotional me sees him as an evil bastard who ruined pretty much everyone’s lives just for shits and giggles. HE SHOT MY DOG.

Ok, breathe.

So I walk in the kitchen where SIL is and — just to make sure I’m not insane — I clarify that he never treated her kids so nicely and isn’t that kinda gross? She agrees. Ok, I’m not crazy. But by this point in the night she was taking shots and so was Dad’s girlfriend cause — family holidays, am I right? Oh yeah and Dad has 2 huge untrained dogs and Sister1 brought her dog, so in the background and all around you are 3 huge dogs play fighting. Also a sad little blind, deaf, and incontinent little dog but I mean, you can’t fault him. He just wants the other dogs to leave him alone.

Then girl friend actually starts talking about making him (Dad) go back to a psychologist — not just a psychiatrist who gives meds, but an actual therapist because of how bad he’s been the past two years. She’s actually started to have heart troubles because of the stress of this bastard. So I’m like girlfriend, it’s not just two years. I know for a fact he’s been an asshole for 40 years minimum, and thats just what I can actually verify first hand. Why does she stay? IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE.

So after dinner we go to the Sister’s house and give them their gifts (because again, Dad had banned gift giving at his house). I was surprised she let us in at all. It wasn’t bad. But we did go home that night. I mean after the way she had treated me all night, there was no winning. Like you want to bully me into sleeping over because you’re angry? WTF?

So we slept in our own bed which was nice. Wouldn’t have had a good nights sleep on her air mattress. And we didn’t have to drive home or do anything so we got to sleep late and chill. We opened gifts. I had eggnog and Mr C had cookies. I took pictures. Later that evening, Mr C took me to look at the Tinsel Trail Christmas lights. But Christmas was kinda ruined.

Sister1 is still so angry she won’t talk to me or respond to texts. She’s acting like I’m being ableist against her RA when I just didn’t want to catch her COUGH. But she denies ever having a cough so it’s moot. So yeah, she hates me now. She’ll hate me for a few months and then maybe get over it a little bit. We’ll see. I feel REALLY bad. So it kinda spoiled my Christmas.

Yay, family!

Gingerbread Houses Through the Years

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This is a post about gingerbread houses. And Mom. And Jack. And how Mom got her groove back through gingerbread. Just go with it.

So back in 2006, I had just moved into my own place on Golf Road. Lovely shitty apartment of my own. $545 a month. Just me and Jack. And mom visited a lot. I worked at the police department as a dispatcher and was less than a year away from starting my career (though 5 years from graduating — not the point). It was Christmas! My first Christmas in my OWN place. This called for something special. This called for … a gingerbread house!

So mom came to visit and help me make my very own gingerbread house. There were issues. We couldn’t find any gingerbread mix. So it was really a sugar cookie house. It counts, OK? It had windows! Mom showed me how to crush up jolly ranchers and melt them to make stained glass windows! We had a peppermint roof and a full length chocolate chip chimney. I cut up gum drops and made a wreath. It was glorious. This was before cheap battery-powered lights, but if we had had those, it would have glowed gloriously through my translucent blue and purple sugar windows.

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Then the next few years we’d always do something special for Christmas. Usually treats. Like chocolate dipped Oreos, or chocolate covered Ritz Crackers with peanut butter, or those fancy treats where you melt a Rolo on top of a pretzel and smush it with a peanut M&M — or if you’re going somewhere fancy — a half a pecan. Sometimes we even did gingerbread cookies and decorated them with icing.

Then, in 2009, I was feeling adventurous. I was in a much nicer apartment with a guest room and dating a cute guy who would become my husband. It was time for another gingerbread house. We had to outdo our previous effort. This had to be magnificent. We would do something with more grandeur. We would make a church.

How does one make a gingerbread church? Well, you just make the front and back taller so the roof is steeper and put a steeple on top. We’re not on the Food Network here, aint nobody got time to make templates and stuff. But don’t you worry, we got this. It would have even more jolly rancher windows! More icing! The M&Ms would be Christmas colors to look like Christmas lights! And best of all: Shingles. We would use Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal and put individual shingles on that shit. Boo-yeah!

Now, I would like to say, we kept improving on our gingerbread game. We got so good we could do competitions! But we didn’t. The church was actually the pinnacle of my gingerbread greatness. Sad, I know. But that’s not where the story ends. Those were merely flights-of-fancy in the gingerbread game of my own. Mom would take gingerbread houses and flip the script.

So take a step back. I moved away from my text-book codependent family in 2003 and got a shit ton of therapy. In my evolution of self, I turned from my father. Fuck that asshole. No, not God, my real father. THAT asshole. Sometimes the pendulum has to swing really far to right itself. Now my beloved mother had been beaten down by that motherfucker for decades. And you can be damn straight I turned my pot-stirring self to getting her to realize it. And she was really coming around by the time she kicked the bucket. I think she might have had the gumption to skip Christmas by the time she died. I’m sad I never got to see that and sneak her a wink and a high five. OK, back to the early 2000s:

So dad always controlled every holiday. Though they divorced when I was two, dad always controlled everything. Holidays were at his house. We’d go over the weekend before and scrub it clean cause he’s kinda a hoarder. Mom would make every single dish and we’d go over to dads and pretend to be happy. Even after he got a girlfriend — who thankfully took over the cleaning part. Mom would still cook for a week and haul it all over to that bastards house so he could have his happy family holiday (yes, with his girlfriend and my step brother — the kid he had while he was still married to my mother). Every Thanksgiving and every Christmas — even Easter.

At some point, she started making extra to “hide.” Is it hiding if you make it yourself, in your own house, and just don’t take it over? Not really, but in my codependent family it was rebellion. I think this started when the girlfriend would start making to-go meals for her friends and for my step brother (the affair child). We stopped having leftovers left. Mom stopped having food to eat off of for the next week after she’d spent all week cooking for everyone. No more turkey casserole! You know, where you shred the turkey and mix it with the dressing and cream-of-chicken soup? None. So mom started making extra dressings and extra mac & cheese and keeping it at her house. Come 2014 something had changed.

Now I’m not sure what triggered the change. And I wouldn’t dare say “something snapped” — nay, something clicked into place is what happened. Maybe that was after dad started putting rules on presents — how much we could spend, and then one year declaring we weren’t allowed to give gifts at all (yeah no, fuck him — yall know I didn’t listen to his shit). But 2014 was a new era. In 2014, mom decided to have her own Christmas.

Now don’t get me wrong, it was still a secret. It didn’t replace dads Christmas. Mom would just have her own Christmas on a different weekend with only her own children and we’d ACTUALLY be happy for real. There were kinks. Bitch sister banned pictures so there are no photographic memories to look back on with my blessed mother. Because god-forbid dad find out and get his wittle-feewings-huwt. So I’m a bit bitter that moms gone and I can’t go back and look at those non-existent-photos, but it happened. And I have the gingerbread houses to prove it. Recently, I took an internet deep dive to find them.

2014 was a learning year. What would we do for moms Christmas? She’d make a big meal but what should we do? Gingerbread houses! But we’re not going to be all difficult about it. This was before gingerbread house kits were a thing, mind you. Mom decided we’d make cardboard houses and decorate them! And we’d use hot glue and caulk because ain’t nobody eating these anyway. So we made cardboard houses in advance. And even one Pringles can which became a rocket of sorts. Then, when the night came, we exchanged presents and ate food and laughed and made merry in my sisters tiny house where mom lived. And after dinner, we gingerbreaded! We had tons of cheap candies and graham crackers, pretzels and cereals, all sorts of shit to glue to your box house!

I chose the biggest box house because I’m ambitious. I did not anticipate the sheer amount of time it would take to cover such a large house with graham crackers, cookies, and smarties. Much less how much time it would take me to caulk to entire roof and lay it with pretzels. It was all I could do to get a Twizzler door and butterscotch windows before the night was over. But it was a wonderful Christmas party! And mom was beaming.

I returned home with my house and eventually, I had to spiff that shit up. I had run out of time! So one night while my husband was playing D&D at the table with friends, I sat in the living room with hot glue gun and made that shit SPIFFY. Look at this. M&M Christmas lights! Lined windows! My signature gumdrop wreath — and Christmas tree Peeps. Fuck Yeah. Much better.

Oh now we had a tradition. And the next year, we found gingerbread house kits! 2015 brought a cookie roof and a ice-cream-cone tree (pretty sure mom made me that). We even started saving all the leftover candies because, again, nobody is eating this stuff. And we got better. Caulk is great for cookies and cereal, but don’t use it on the sugar candy — it melts it. Like, it never dries and the candy melts off it. Some kind of chemical reaction. I don’t know. Eventually we gave up on caulk anyway.

In 2016, I bought a whole stash of PREBUILT gingerbread houses. All we had to do was decorate. I went with a Chex roof.

By 2017, gingerbread house kits were becoming a thing. Not only were they easy to find, they started making weird shit. Mom bought me this sweet Mario castle kit! For some reason it didn’t come with a roof or second-story walls. But I’m an engineer so I hot-glued some wooden-skewer beams for supports and filled in with graham crackers. Fuck yeah. Add some Peep trees. Magnificent.

I should also point out that it started to become clear that this tradition was spreading in the family. And by family, I mean Jack. It became very clear that he was sneaking on the counter at night to eat the icing and marshmallows. I let him have at it. It was Christmas, after all. It was pretty evident on that red mushroom though.

In 2018, I brought back my cereal shingle technique. Notice the Mario-Coins saved from the previous year.

In 2019 mom really went all out. Sister had moved into a bigger house so we could set up in the downstairs game room. Multiple tables were set up and everyone was gifted an adorable little spruce tree in a gingerbread box. I’m gonna be honest, I don’t remember this year much. I had some pretty bad brain trauma and I probably barely made it there. That might also explain why the hell there is so damn much icing on the roof. Not my best showing.

2020 was one hell of a year. The party almost didn’t happen because — well, Covid. My husband wasn’t about to leave our house and he really didn’t want anyone here. But I begged and God was on my side. Everyone promised to quarantine and come up here for the party so I wouldn’t have to travel (I was still recovering). God really made that year special for us. Everyone came up. And everyone spent the night! It was so much fun. We had a full house. And mom had got us all matching PJs! We took one of the family’s most cherished photos that night. A family photo with us in our matching PJs and mom up front. Who knew it would be the last family photo we ever took? We didn’t even hardly have any family photos — maybe just my wedding photos, actually. I’m still so sad my sweet husband took the photo because that means he’s not in it. If only I had thought to ask CB to take one with him in it…

Well, we didn’t actually do houses that year. We decorated cookies to make things easier. J had bought an ugly sweater cookie kit and me and mom baked hand-cut gingerbread cookies before everyone got up here. I think it was December 19th? Just a week before she died on Christmas day. Fucking Covid.

The next year, 2021, not everyone was in much of a celebrating mood. But my sister-in-law and brother agreed to host. I found these spiffy fondant penguins at Target. My sisters didn’t come. But we kept the tradition alive. Hey, I even did a damn fine showing with a frosted miniwheats roof. And that was the last Christmas with my precious Jack. And damned if he didn’t go after that house in those dark mid-night hours. He nearly ate a whole damned Peep tree! And look how his tongue sanded down the wreath candies and the fondant door. And is that a Super-Mario star I spy from years before atop the tree?

This year, 2022 was a little better. My sisters still weren’t feeling the joy so I said I would host. And I bought us all fun kits from Publix! I honestly didn’t expect my sisters to come, but last minute they did! Not only did they come, but they stopped at the store and picked up their own gingerbread kits to make! Since I didn’t expect my sisters and I’ve been insanely depressed about Jack, I invited K2 to join us. She made her first gingerbread house in the form of a Publix. I made a moose lodge with a pretzel roof. Apparently, my husband doubted my pretzel roof. SHAME on you, husband! My pretzel roof is fantastic — I mean, there’s a lot of glue strands but whatever.

It’s not very traditional Christmas-look, but it’s there. I wasn’t feeling it as much this year without Jack. Last year we didn’t have mom, but it was still a tradition for me to make a house for Jack to eat in “secret.” This year was harder for me without mom and without Jack. But we kept the tradition alive. We KEEP the tradition alive. Long live mom and her rebellious Chirstmas parties!

Christmas Time!

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I finally got my Christmas cards ready to send! Envelopes stuffed, addressed (labels), and stamped! Look at these beauties!

I was so proud of myself that I got out our Christmas cards through the years. Look at how cute we are.

A few things. Why do I have to relearn how to make address labels every year? And why do printers hate us? Printers are a pain in the ASS. They shouldn’t be. We’re engineers. I’m not stupid, but it’s a horrible battle every freaking year. Actually, it’s a horrible battle every time we have to print something. You never win.

Lastly, I do not have a copy of the first year we sent out photo cards. It makes me sad. I didn’t think to keep one. Also, I think 2018 with the snowman was the best one. But this year has a professional photo so it’s pretty snazzy.

Oh and sad to say, this will be the last year of “Jack on the Back” 🙁

In defense of tattoos. To a Catholic MIL.

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So you’re horrified that I’m getting tattoos because they’re sinful and now I’m a heathen going to hell. Right? I willing to bet the arguments you’re going to make are that the Bible says tattoos are bad and that our bodies are a temple? Am I right? Let’s break these two down before I go further. (A) Bible says no tattoos. (B) Bible says body is a temple.

(A) Bible says no tattoos:

Leviticus 19:28: “Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord.”

OK, first of all, the word for tattoo didn’t exist until the 1700’s. The Bible wasn’t written in English. Second of all Leviticus? Come on. If we’re going full Leviticus, it says not to eat shellfish (Lev. 11:9-12), use mixed fabrics (Lev. 19:19), or harvest the edges of fields for some reason (Lev. 19:9). So how’s it going in that cotton blend you’re wearing? Comfy? Wanna throw on a polyester blend and go get some shrimp at the Red Lobster? I’ve totally seem you eat a lobster, BTW. It’s not worth all that effort.

Also, I’m gonna just directly quote this next paragraph from this page because they said it well:

“Not all of Leviticus is written to everyone. There were abominations that applied only to the Jews such as eating shellfish, rabbit, and pork, etc., which were things that typologically represented purity before the Lord. We know this because God says, “Speak to the sons of Israel saying…” He gives instructions to the Israelites, not to the rest of the nations.”

Before we leave Leviticus, lets discuss the word tattoo — which, ya know, didn’t even exist. For this, lets hop over to BibleStudyTools.com:

“Leviticus 19:28 literally translates, “And a cutting for the dead you will not make in your flesh, and writing marks you will not make on you; I am the Lord.” [….] The background of this law was that Israel, after being rescued from slavery, was between Egypt and Canaan. […] In Canaan, evidence indicates that instead of marking the body with ink, more extreme scarification measures, like branding, slashing, or gashing the skin were used. Archeology, backed by biblical texts, indicates the Canaanites would customarily slash their bodies for ritualistic purposes (1 Kings 18:28), especially to mourn their dead and honor their gods. Leviticus 19:28 seems to imply this when it says, “you will not make cuttings in your flesh, for the dead, nor print marks on you.” In light of this information from Egypt and Canaan, it would seem God was forbidding scarification, not tattooing as we know it.””

Even with out all that, I think we can agree that Leviticus is a little out of date. Especially, being that it’s the Old Testament which was overcome by the New Testament when Jesus came because everyone was too inept to follow the rules. God threw us a bone (206 of them in the form of Jesus) and rewrote everything. So yeah, enjoy your cotton blend PJs.

(B) Bible says body is a temple:

Ok, for real — this is laughable. A CATHOLIC saying I can’t give my temple a paint job? Have you ever been in a Catholic church? For real? All that gold paint and gaudiness? Yall love gold paint and marble almost as much as Donald Trump. So don’t talk to my Lutheran ass about decorating a temple. Period.

(C) The Coptic Christian Cross

The Coptic Christians almost require a tattoo of the Coptic Cross. It’s usually on the inside of your wrist. This dates back to them being ostracized and marked when everyone was forced to convert to Islam. They refused to convert and were marked for it. This way they could be easily ostracized. In some churches, they would check for the tattoo before you could even come in to make sure you were a Christian. Coptic Christians make pilgrimages to this day to get this tattoo. It’s a religious experience and part of who they are. And yeah, it’s a TATTOO.