Wednesday, November 23, 2016

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

It's that time of year again, the one we dread, especially those who made some piss-poor choices back in the day and are now regretting the consequences with every fiber of our beings.  This winter in particular, the Familial Hostility will be at an all-time fevered pitch, as a result of  . . . well, you know. 

Each year, I ask the readers to send me their secret holiday greetings.  The ones they wish they could say to their so-called families at this so-called season of giving.  This year I couldn't bring myself to do it. Reading the infotainment that masquerades as news, scrolling through scathing social media, pounding my fist on the dashboard at drive-time radio, I am heartsick.  So I thought I would dust off a post from last year, when we had no idea what horrors lay ahead of us, when we thought the worst thing about Thanksgiving was having to defend ourselves from the onslaught of familial passive (and not so passive) aggression.  Without further clichéd ado . . .

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 jalapeño cheese dip 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.

(The realest of the real.  Hang in there, honey.  I promise you, it may not get better, but it will get different.  You are not alone.)

Sláinte, you Nutjobs, you. 

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

A Dream Recounted

Other people’s dreams are never interesting.   The dream-teller will try to draw you in by adding (manufacturing) details about how you were in it a la “and then you were there wearing a polka dot dress with Birkenstocks and slouchy socks which is totally not your style.”  But you’re not falling for it and you turn around in the middle of their sentence and go to the break room for some coffee.   Please. Make it stop.

So I try really hard not to be that girl, the dream-teller, the annoying one.  It’s really the worst kind of solipsism, a dream.  Such personal, specific significance.  It’s a story your brain is telling itself.  No one else really needs to hear it.  

Having said that,  last night I had a dream that was so vivid and so interesting (and funny) and I actually remembered it (which never happens) so I’m writing about it and you can read it or not, that is totally up to you.  I dreamed that I was at a party and someone got shot.  No one was paying much attention, so I got on the phone with 911 trying to get direct them to the house, but I didn’t know the address.   My loser alcoholic bike messenger boyfriend (I know, I know, #NotAllBikeMessengers) had brought me.  He was always dragging me to parties where I didn’t know anyone and I never knew where we were.  I sometimes think he did it on purpose because he knew I couldn’t leave without him if I didn’t know where I was (this was a long time ago, when I was even more timid and paralyzed by indecision than I am now).  Other times I think that he wouldn’t have been capable of those kind of mind games, which let’s face it, are pretty sophisticated.  In any event, I never had much fun at parties.  I was always hopelessly too straight and uncool, and I never knew anyone anyway.   I was always overjoyed if the hosts had a pet, because that way at least I would have someone to hang out with.

Anyway.  I knew we were in The City and it was one of those weird places where the address is different depending on what side of the house you’re on.  I kept walking around with the cordless landline phone with the dispatcher murmuring encouragingly in my ear (you can do it, hon, just tell me what you see), looking around at street numbers placed strategically throughout the house, one number printed in gold on column in a corner in the hall, another on a wood placard by the door.  None of it made any sense, and I could feel that anxiety welling up from the pit of my stomach, you know the one, the “I’m gonna be in so much trouble for this thing I didn’t do that I’m going to be blamed for anyway” feeling.

The dispatcher keeps intoning “what’s the cross street what’s the cross street what’s the cross street” and I keep whispering “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.”  Finally she says, “Well, ask someone who’s with you” and I say “They’re all too fucked up.”  And then I gasp with alarm because I realize that I must have blown someone’s cover somehow and that as soon as the authorities figure out where we are, we are all busted.  

Seeing that I am going to be useless in establishing a location, the dispatcher tries to figure out an alternate plan.  She says, “Well, I think I know where you are and they’re never going to get the emergency vehicle in there because the streets are too windy and narrow (and I think "hold up seriously this is San Fra-fucking-cisco") so go out back and describe what that’s like maybe they can get in through there.”  So I pull back the curtains and slide open the glass door to reveal a sandy beach with the ocean about 20 yards away.   And I say into the phone, “Plenty of room, Janet, but they’re gonna need a catamaran” and I thought that was about the funniest thing ever and you could hear her chuckling as well and then in horror I remembered why I was even on the phone with her in the first place.  I was failing my mission of getting someone the fuck to the house to attend to this dying person who was almost certainly already a dead person because I was wandering around looking at indoor house numbers and making weak jokes with a benign and indulgent civil servant.  

And I’m suddenly seized with this paroxysm of grief, like it suddenly hits me, this dude got shot and it’s my fault that no one is here helping him. I mean at least I should be doing CPR or something.  The dispatcher asks me what’s wrong and I tell her “My friend just got shot” and she said “I thought you didn’t even know him.”  And I said “To be quite honest, everything is my fault ultimately and this dream is just another manifestation of my horrible self-loathing and my compulsion to take care of everything all the time because no one else around me is capable.”  And the dispatcher said, “Honey, I know just what you mean.”  

It was the clearest damn dream.  And the message it carried was resonating on every level.  And the fact that I was explaining my interpretation to someone IN THE DREAM was so damn cool that I woke up and jumped out of bed and started writing it all down.  

And you were in it, you know. Wearing a polka-dot dress with Birkenstocks and slouchy socks which is totally not your usual style.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Where Have I Been? I'm Glad You Asked.

Hey you guys! You may or may not have noticed that I took my Facebook page down for a bit. People have been asking, so I need to let you know.  I’m okay.  I’ll probably bring it back up soon. I just lost my taste for it.  Yanno?  I felt like staying on top of it was sucking me dry.  You guys need a lot of attention, and I don’t always have it in me to give it to you.  You’re like houseplants or something.  I forget to water you and you wither and I feel guilty.  So instead I put you out on the patio and hope it rains and doesn’t get too cold.  And OMG some of you (trolls I know, but still) with the negativity, misunderstanding on purpose, people who seem to feel the First Amendment applies to whatever the fuck axe they have to grind on someone else’s stage.  But it’s all good.  A little break never hurt anyone.  

What can I tell you except I’m battling the same things you guys are, watching in horror as American political-socioeconomic system (for lack of a better term) twists and writhes like an effigy in the wind.  I really shouldn’t read the news and I DEFINITELY need to stop getting in comment wars on Facebook pages, that shit is for the birds.  Roche Pharmaceuticals stock goes up five points any day I scroll through my Facebook feed, see a controversial story and wonder what gems await me in the comments section.   What is the opposite of adrenaline because I need some of that after a good verbal jousting match with fellow members of the Screedwriters Guild.  That’s not a typo, that’s me being clever.  

What I’ve been thinking about lately, because I know you’re just aching to know (dripping sarcasm):  I’m doing the math on whether it’s worse to die alone and be sad and scared about that or to die alone and give zero fucks about it, unless you count panic attacks (which are sneaking up on me with increasing and alarming frequency) in the fucks-given tally.  This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.  Thanks, Tyler Durden, Thanks, Chuck Palahniuk.  One inexorable minute, the length of the pool, underwater with lungs bursting.   Swimming metaphors. Kill me now.

I’m crying a lot lately.  Mostly it’s just something that strikes me in the moment, I hear a song maybe, or someone says something either amazing or terrible.   It just washes over me, this need to cry.  Last weekend on our hike PreMed said this about her dad, “Pretending no one could see him behind the door of the liquor cabinet doing shots while the rest of the watched TV in the next room is NOT NORMAL, Momma. You did the right thing.”  I cried when she said that because I felt so validated (i was right i was right i was right) and at the same time, miserable (i was wrong i was wrong i was wrong) that I had let it go on as long as it did before finally gathering up my “courage to change the things I can.”  How long it took me to get The Gamer out of that toxic, toxic environment, to set up a nice, quiet place for him to feel calm and safe, to be himself and not tensed up all the time as you ACOA know all too well, a groovy crib to have friends over without worrying about what they'd be walking into, a little taste of Normal-As-I-Have-Come-To-Understand-It.  

So anyway. I cry a lot.  Out of nowhere.   Whatever. I’m still a BAMF.

Back to the forever alone thing -- I’m mostly okay with it.  I was talking with my online friend the other day. (I have very few IRL friends. We'll wait while you unhinge your shocked jaw.) The conversation went a little something like this:

Me:  I really don’t need anyone in my life right now or maybe ever.  I mean, who else thinks popcorn and Coke Zero for dinner while binge-watching The Good Wife is a perfect way to spend an evening?
Him: Good point.   You should put that in your online dating profile.  
Me:  Yeah, about that.  I really only made that to gather material for the blog.
Him:  Which you still haven’t written.
Me:  Good point.

And I really do prefer it, this being alone, although I guess it would be nice to have someone in my life to make plans with that I would then dread, and resent the person for taking up so much space in my head when let’s face it, all I really want to do is lie around in sweats, drinking coffee and messing with people on the internet.   I really don’t feel lonely until I think about what my life must look like to other people. I feel their scorn masquerading as unnecessary (and unsolicited) pity for me because I prefer the richness of my solitude to wearing a bra and waiting for a bartender to notice me so he can get started patronizing me for my drink choice while making agonizing small talk WITH THEM.   

Is that so wrong?  <hint:  nope>

I'm going to post this now because I'm out of ideas (LIE - I'm really just lazy and I want to be done) and because I wanted to let you guys know I'm okay. I know you worry, but you can knock that off now -- all is well as far as I can tell but take that with a grain of salt. What does that even mean, "take it with a grain of salt?" Where did that come from? Too bad we don't have a big book or something we could look stuff up in. Someone should get on that.