Wednesday, December 24, 2014

The Annual Anonymous Winter Holiday Blog of Familial Hostility, Part Three

Hello everyone, and welcome to the third round of insanity this holiday season.  You better buckle up because it's Christmas Eve and you still have so many feelings to eat so much shopping to do.

I took several weeks off from The Klonopin Chronicles because I had a metric shit-ton of major life hurdles to, well, hurdle.   One is that I sold my house for an insane and record-setting amount of money.  You totally want to date me now, don't you.  Don't lie.  Bunch of greedy bastards, you lot.

Another is that I took a real vacation -- two weeks tripping around Mexico with my daughter, PreMed.  (A side note -- she has changed her major, but I'm still going to call her "PreMed" because "PreMBAinWorldHealthandCommunityDevelopment" is just too fucking long.)

The third and most important hurdle is that I found a new place to live and signed the first lease I've ever held BY MYSELF in my fifty-one years on the planet.  Coming up on fifty-two in a couple of months.  I will finally be playing with a full deck.  Boom.

At any rate, I owe you guys the third in the triptych of the Annual Anonymous Winter Holiday Blog of Familial Hostility, or as I like to call it, "The Qualifying Round of Passive-Aggressive Olympics."  Some of you guys have been on the podium a record-setting number of Olympiads.  It's an honor to compile your season's greetings and a joy to undercut them with snark.

I know, I know, Urban Outfitters.
Funny tho.

So without further ado, let's get started so we can finish  . . .

I’m thankful that no one is coming to our house for Thanksgiving because it looks like we’re auditioning for Hoarders.

(Through to the next round!)

Screw this dysfunctional family.

(I'd say, "fuck them" but I'm just the editor.)

It's so great to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Douchebag.

(Allow me to present Mr. and Mrs. Enema.)

Birth control is your friend. Just saying.

(! ! !)

I just stuffed the turkey full of Xanax so we can all have a relaxing and unstressful holiday.

(That's money.)

Dear MIL -- Stop glaring and rolling your eyes at me as I sit on the couch while you wash dishes. I am not lazy. I am saving you from being stabbed in the heart.

(A mitzvah, MIL - you have no idea.)

You are about to become a mother.  Please pull your head out of your butt and realize the world does not revolve around you.

(Speaking of heads coming out of butts, let's hope that baby's not breech.)

Thank you for deserting me when my husband threw me and my three kids out because he's a fucking control freak narcissist. Thanks for ALWAYS being there for me and my kids -- with a knife ready to shove into our backs.  You guys suck, for real.

(Some of this shit is just real and that's no joke.)

Hey, mother-in-law, about the "vegetarian" thing? No matter how small you chop up BACON and simmer it in sauce? It's still a fucking animal.

(She's got you there, MIL.  Your move.)

Go fuck yourselves. It's miserable spending any holiday with any of you.

(No further questions, Your Honor.  The witness may step down.)

I'd like to give thanks to my family for offering to visit US at our home for Thanksgiving before my husband, your brother and son, leaves for Afghanistan next Tuesday. I'm sure we'll be showered with your support while he's gone, too - all ten of you.

(And by "showered with support," she means "roundly ignored.")

Here's to another year of togetherness with the very people can suck the fun out of something simply by entering a room.

(And we're not talking nitrous oxide here.)

Thank you all for coming, I love you all. I hope you'll keep me in the family when I finally divorce your brother/son. Now, who needs more gravy?

(I do.  Please pass it.)

Thanksgiving used to be much easier when I was drinking heavily.

(Right?  Ain't that some bullshit?)

To My Dear Mother In Law: I'm happy you are gone and I no longer have to watch you humiliate your son because he did not become a "real" doctor like you wanted him to be. What the fuck. Thanksgiving gratitude because you are not in it.

(What kind of fake doctor did he become, anyway?)

You are not entitled to anything. Stop draining everyone around you financially and mentally. Grow up.

(Fifty-teen.  Holla.)

Well, hello, SIL.  Please come in and eat two plates of food and then take ALL the leftovers for your family of four. Guess what? We're secretly cooking up extra batches that won't be put out on Thanksgiving Day so we can have some damn leftovers of our own.

(A brilliant plan.  Expensive, but worth it.  That gravy.  Am I right?)

A lot of you are assholes.

(Succinct and universal.)

Dear Husband: Sharing the looks with the teenagers that you think I don't see. Be a parent for fuck’s sake. Don’t throw me under the bus so you can be the cool friend/parent.and I look fucking crazy. You’re the alcoholic in this family, not me.  Own your own shit as I own mine.

(Hmm.  That sounds like something I would say.  Like verbatim.)

PLEASE stop telling me to eat your food! I know where you get your groceries and I also know that you buy bulk perishables on sale because they're past the expiration date.

(Now it can be told.)

I wish my Mom would stop inviting all of you social misfits so we can actually enjoy our holiday as a family. Don't you have your own families you can torture?

(And by that I mean, how did they get rid of you and can I have lessons?)

I would like to tell my family that if they could stop judging everyone else for once in their wretched lives and use their energy for good maybe they'd wouldn’t be crotchety old wenches who are about to die alone.

(Good to know.  And it's not too late.)

Quit complaining and just SHUT THE FUCK UP! Eat the goddamn food I spent all day making, and BE FUCKING HAPPY.  IT'S THANKSGIVING, ASSHOLES.

(Yeah, Assholes.  God.)

You should not have another baby with your "baby daddy". Every other day you are on Facebook telling us how you hate him.

(You might want to adjust those privacy settings.)

Sister, I'm just as crazy as you so why don't you take some pointers from me on how to hide it better.  Mother in law - stop taking so much Oxy. You make no sense and by the way, Jesus doesn't hate black people.

(And pass the gravy.  And by "gravy" I mean "Oxy".)

If you complain again about your "double chin" in pictures when I outweigh you by 50 pounds, I’m going to punch you.

(And no jury in the world would convict her. )

Please tell my boyfriend some more about the bowel issues I had as a child.

(You mean your former boyfriend.  WTG, Mom.)

I am not even a little thankful to be here with all you sanctimonious, holier-than-thou douchecanoes that have made my year mostly miserable. But I am thankful for this food. Forgive me, now please pass me the pie.

(Pie makes it all worthwhile.  Real talk.)

And that's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.  For some of us, it's the defense mechanisms of  humor in the face of misery, snark to suppress pain, mocking to prevent murder.  The real and honest acknowledgement of  "all the feels" we go through on a daily basis.  All of us.  Even those who wish they didn't and work like hell to keep it that way.   I wish you a healthy and happy New Year, where the worst you get is probation and a suspended sentence.  We are all in this together.  Except my ex.  He's a dick.

Namaste, you Nutjobs, you.  Keep coming back.  LYLAS and all that good noise.  And I never ever do this, but - - - xoxoxoxo.

The Rolo Turtle.
Stop by the Facebook page where I posted the recipe.
In the words of Louis C.K., eat them until you hate yourself.

Saturday, December 6, 2014

The Anonymous Annual Blog of Winter Holiday Familial Hostility, National Nightmare Edition

Is there still any turkey left?   That must have been some dry-assed white meat.  Kind of like yours truly.  Anyway, here is another round of gut-wrenchingly funny and excruciatingly bittersweet holiday greetings from the readers, edited with hilarity by yours truly.   You guys make me look good, and we all know it's better to look good than to feel good.  Namaste, you Nutjobs, you.  Without futher ado . . .
The Ultimate Leftover Thanksgiving Sandwich

I am eternally grateful for my fussy-faced husband for finally stopping the 30 pack of beer a day habit. Thank you also for the fine case of genital warts.

(Guess he wasn't that fussy-faced after all)

Fuck you all very much for eating all my cheese-dip and jalapeños and blaming it on the two-year-old.

(I hope he's potty-trained because that diaper will be insanity.)

I am thankful that I have enough self-control not to get all stabby with my fork when my sister's boyfriend chews with his mouth open and food drops out of his mouth.

(That's pretty gross.  If you're not using that fork, may I?)

No mom, you cannot pray my gay away. I'm afraid my sexuality doesn't quite work like that. So! Who wants pie?

(I do!  A big gay piece of pie!  And kisses!)

Daughter-in-Law -- go right back out the front door you came in and keep on walking.  You’re a lazy slob who does absolutely nothing for your family.  My son owns his own business and works 16 hours a day all while taking care of your daughter. You need to go home to your Minecraft family and have them cook you Thanksgiving dinner.

(Could that happen?  That would be fucking awesome.)

Eat, and get the fuck out so I continuing drinking this memory out of my mind.

(Oh, Barkeep <rattles ice in empty glass> )

You are all immature, selfish assholes and I would rather eat ramen by myself. Your children are not cute. They are monsters you have created.

(Preach.  And don't forget the scrambled egg in the ramen.  Because protein.)

I'm glad you're all here to hear this together. I'm leaving my husband, and I never ever want him to come home or to be close to him and all I ever want to do is drink when all of you are around so fuck you. My lawyer and I are going to take half of your money.

(And then I'm going to pay my lawyer with the other half.)

Stop telling me how to raise my kids when I'm raising yours. Stop telling me I'm doing it wrong!

(Back off, bitch, I got this.)

Ten fucking years, you sorry son of a bitch. I have supported you, rewritten my dreams, raised children alone through four fucking deployments and now you say you don't want to be married to me anymore? You say YOU HAVE NO MOTIVATION TO SAVE OUR MARRIAGE?  Fuck you.

(Now we have no motivation to cancel that hitman.)


(So many doctors miss that Tourette's diagnosis the first time around.)

I love each of you but if you got off your ass and washed a dish I'd love you more.

(Just one from each of you would do it, I think.)

Well, another year without a loved one here. Prison does that to families. We can only trudge on and hope no one else gets locked up this year. But at least we can all be thankful another criminal is off the streets. We miss you, Cousin Craig. I hope you got the soap on the rope I sent.

(Soap on a rope is funny in and of itself, but the prison thing was inspired.)

No, mom didn't love you more than anyone. She hated us all the same.


Stop wearing men's basketball shorts and t-shirts everywhere, you're a 53 year old teacher. Lose the mullet.

(Every family has that one guy  . . . .)

Thanks for showing up empty handed. I couldn't find anything better to do with my holiday than to cook for you ungrateful, mooching, sorry ass fat fucks. Happy Thanksgiving.

(Something tells me they really DGAF about what you just said.  Wasted words -- so frustrating.)

Thank you to Diesel fuel and my Mercedes’ longevity for making this drama-free Thanksgiving possible, far, far away from the people who make me need Ativan.


To my mother in law: You are a narcissistic bitch who raised a couple of man-infants. Nice work.

("Narcissistic" is a word that gets a lot of airplay this time of year.)

As you all know, a year ago today I was inpatient for depression and suicidal ideation. As you also know, not one of you were there for me. Despite that, I have gotten much better. I am NOT going to pretend that I have my shit together. But I'm getting there. Pass the wine!

(Next year in Jerusalem!  Wait.  Wrong holiday.)

Thanks for leaving me with so much guilt I can't breathe when I sit next to you.

(I felt that in my soul, no sarcastic)

Kids, I just want to say how fucking disappointed I am in all three of you.  I know you listened to your father when he said "It's all in her head, she's a psycho.” Fuck off. Love, Mom.


I'd like to thank my mom who no longer speaks to me. I raised myself and YOU lost out. This is the last time I give you any power.


Please tell me again that I'm such a bad parent for keeping my child and raising him and giving him everything he needs, not wants, NEEDS to succeed in life, when you’re only 24 and have had so many abortions your cooter is gonna fall out?

(Crap.  Could that really happen?)

MIL: You are a self-centered narcissistic bitch. We are never speaking to you again.

(She probably didn't hear you so it's just as well.)

It would be really nice to actually be invited to dinner instead of having to call around asking which family member is hosting this year and then inviting myself.

(Oh honey, I wish I knew you IRL because I would totally invite you -- before Halloween, even.)

You are a rotten, abusive, piece of shit husband. And I am planning on divorcing your ass as soon as I can find the nastiest shark lawyer on the planet.

(Hit me up, I know someone.)

I feel guilty for feeling depressed when I have so much.

(I am hugging you so very tight right now with my mind.)

Don't be so goddamn judgmental. Happy Thanksgiving!

(And God bless us, every one.  Cheers!)