I’ve mentioned in the past that I like a lot of weird, somewhat antiquated Christmas traditions, and one of them is exchanging Christmas cards. When I was a wee Kat my mother would take me to Hallmark where we would spend many hours poring through the racks to find the perfect holiday cards to buy for every single frigging member of my family. In turn I would receive a Christmas card from nearly every single frigging member of my family, so this was quite a production. This lunacy ended when I was about eight, and though I didn’t fully revive the tradition as an adult, I do enjoy getting a box of cards and giving them to everyone except every single frigging member of my immediate family because they got enough. Usually I just sign the card with something like “Hope you have a Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year”, but I had no idea what to write in a holiday card for this shitty year. It sounds trite to wish someone a “Merry Christmas” when the impact of COVID19 means that Christmas this year won’t be as merry as it usually is, but I still felt like I had to write something more than just signing my name. Finally I decided to play to my strengths by writing wishes that were warped, weird, and in slightly bad taste. Thankfully my friends and family are cognizant of my bizarre sense of humor so they all went over well. And since this is the season of giving, I decided to share (most of) my wishes here for anyone else who is wondering what to say in their holiday cards this year. Off we go then.
A good rule of thumb if you don’t know what to write in a holiday card – or any card for that matter – is that you can’t go wrong with a terrible pun. You’re probably thinking, But aren’t people suffering enough? The answer is no. You can never be suffering too much that you can’t be subjected to a horrible pun.
“A very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Let’s hope this one’s better, or else where’s the beer?”
I like this one because it not only references an iconic song, it also encourages swilling beer. I’m unable to do this myself anymore, but I’m still happy to advocate whenever possible.
“Hope that your visit from Santa Claus is a good one. Don’t worry, he can’t infect you. He’s been Santa-tized.”
I honestly just came up with this sentiment on Twitter today so I didn’t actually use this in a card, but I was so proud of it that I needed to share it here too. I don’t know how well this would work as something to write in your holiday card, but if you give it a go please let me know how it flew.
“This year was uglier than that Christmas sweater you wore.”
Now we’re entering the smartass arena. These wishes say ‘I know we’ve been taking a lot of knocks this year…so here is another’.
“Happy Holidays! Looking forward to next year when we can make plans to see each other again, and then take turns cancelling on each other.”
This wish comes with the gift of keeping it real. We both know we’re relieved when the other cancels. Let’s celebrate the fact that we care enough that we missed doing it this year.
Happy Holidays! I’m missing seeing you at an awkward family gathering this year!
My family is nothing but awkward gatherings. It’s as “Christmas” as Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and just as psychologically damaging. And much like Rudolph we keep coming back for more for some sick reason. If you’ve got cousins you like to roll your eyes with as your aunts guzzle boxes of wine, this might be for you.
Well, we’ve both made it this far, so that’s good.
This one is for your fellow pessimist. They would actually prefer this holiday wish regardless of a pandemic.
Cheers to the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. Namely, the end of it.
This holiday wish is nice because it starts with a Christmas song quote, and then it flips so that it works for Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Year’s. It’s like saying “Happy Holidays” with a lot of extra words to sound clever. Oh and if you want to hear some horrible Hanukkah puns you can revisit this post here.
Happy Holidays! Fuck this year!
I mean, it’s what we’re all thinking.
So there you go, peeps! Nine completely sane and appropriate sentiments for your holiday cards this year. Inflict them on someone you love because no matter how awful they are, they at least won’t land them in the hospital.
As is typical in most doctor’s offices, the staff at my second job is made of all females with the exception of one male whom I adore. Oliver is fourteen years younger than I am so I tell them I’m technically old enough to be his mother.
“You can’t leave, Oliver! You’re like a son to me!” I told him when he announced that he would be leaving our office since he was transferring to college near Trenton.
“It’s not funny! You’re my son, Oliver! You know why? Because we’re family!” I insisted bear-hugging him until his face started to turn purple.
This might sound like I’m the antagonist in our parental relationship but this is not the case. I’m as innocent as a baby shark lamb. Take our exchange from a few weeks ago. I was at work minding my own business when Oliver came up and demanded that I name my favorite animal and then give three reasons why they are my favorite.
“Why?” I asked him looking up from the chart that I was prepping and crooked an eyebrow at him.
“It’s a game.”
I gave him a half-lidded stare.
“You don’t have anything better to do? Aren’t there charts that need to be filed?” I lectured like the Big-Mistake Mother that I am.
“They’re all done. Just answer the question. It’s fun!”
“Fine,” I sighed. “I like horses, but if it came down to it I guess dogs in general are my favorite animals.”
“And what are three reasons that like them?”
“Because they are loving and loyal and fun to play with.” I turned my attention back to my stack of charts.
“Alright, and what’s your second favorite?”
I threw my hands in the air and shook my head. “I have to give you another?”
“Yeah, just one more,” he insisted.
“Okay, then I’ll go back to horses. And I like them because they are beautiful and graceful and strong.” I added before he could ask for my three reasons.
[Pauses story here]
Here comes the interactive portion of the post! I’ll pause and let you think of your two favorite animals and the three reasons that you like each of them! FUN FUN FUN!
“Ha!” Oliver snickered.
“What?” I demanded.
“Well I just learned in Psychology that the first animal that you name possess the qualities that you look for in a mate. And the second animal is how you see yourself.”
“No it doesn’t! You made this up!” I swatted him with the chart in my hand.
“No really! We did the exercise today!” he insisted. Then he took a step back and smirked. “So you think you’re beautiful, graceful and strong. You are really conceited, Kat!”
He took off down the hall before I could smack him again.
“This game sucks and you are a brat!” I snarled at his retreating ass.
Yes, I’m definitely going to miss my “son”.
If you are my fraynd on the Facebook then you will see that my current status is that today’s originally scheduled post was not finished due to a visiting puppy. Puppy trumps all work. This is a fact.
However as I was perusing the Interbutz wasting time, I came across this cartoon and it made me snicker and I had to share it because I’m obligated to share amusing shit and also it explains my recent lapse in posting.
This is almost exactly what I have been doing for the past week and a half only instead of chopping wood I’ve been gardening. And while most people would yell at me for procrastinating on work that needs to be done on the novel (and rightly so but that’s an entirely different egg), I say that I had a legitimate excuse for all of this gardening. Namely that my mother saw a Hummingbird in the backyard and in my world this executes into tearing a part a Bonsai tree that has been growing wild for nearly two decades. (Don’t ask, just accept that this logic is normal for the circus that is my life.)
The hours of slaving in the sun and mosquito bites aside (and oh do I have one motherfucking spectacular rage-filled post about those assholes in the works) I actually think that I did a nice job in creating “Hummingbird Garden”. Mostly it seems to have made my mother happy and she puts up with a fuckton of my *ahem* eccentricity so it was worth it.
That is all one tree that I had to tame and you would not believe the shit I found while taming it. Aside from the dude buried amongst the branches who thought that Reagan was still president, it was like an entomologist’s dream of freaky fucking insects that were jumping out of me. It was seriously like being in bloody Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Not cool since I’m still traumatized from my battle with the Carpenter Ants from Hell.
*Sorry about the picture being the wrong way. I’m still trying to remember that I can actually turn my phone.
My mother is quite the pistol. Whether she’s insisting that there is a dead cow in the road or smashing apart an entertainment center with a hammer, she’s an endless fount of entertainment. What I neglect to mention on here though is that my mother is the kindest, most loving person that you will ever meet. Seriously, Jewels can vouch for my mother’s sweet personality and super hugs. Aside from her hugs she also does things like rescuing squirrels from swimming pools (long story) and catching mice with a set of tongs and taking them outside instead of trapping them. She also puts up with my shenanigans which automatically makes her a saint., but not only that has supported my dream of being a writer and never stopped believing in it when a lot of parents would tell their daughters to grow up and get a real job. Finally she is incredibly patient and despite being half Irish she has very a long fuse and doesn’t easily lose her temper, and she rarely curses.
That is of course except during her daily trips to Farmville.
As I’m sure that anyone on Facebook knows Farmville is a virtual farm where the player can grow crops, build little buildings and complete missions. It’s simply charming. Unfortunatly the game is full of glitches and between that and Facebook’s new feed system where my mother’s Farmville friends don’t see her posts for them to help with the missions, she flips shit at least twice an evening.
Two minutes later…
One minute later…
Thirty seconds later…
And then I get my riot gear and wrestle the Oozie away from her.
This happens every single night.
I have been planning this post ever since I first heard my mother scream “Fuck you, Farmville!” but I knew that it would take me a while to create. (Yay comics!) Seeing that today is my mother’s birthday, I took the extra time to finally create her tale of Farmville angst.
Happy Birthday, to the most wonderful, supportive, amazing Mumma ever! I love you, you crazy woman!
Much like the annual Battle for the Halloween McNuggets, there is a battle that rages in my family each year as we decorate for Christmas.
(I’m sure that this surprises none of you that my family can’t even fucking decorate for a holiday without wanting to maim each other.)
This battle, however, is slightly less violent than the one for the Halloween McNuggets because it involves my brother and my mother rather than my brother and me. For years my mother has been trying to convince my brother that having an artificial Christmas tree would be just as nice as having a real one only without the hours of work that it takes to string hundreds of lights in its flimsy branches or the mess of pine needles everwhere. Of course the irony here is that my brother bitches about having a real tree but he doesn’t do shit to help decorate it.
My mother finally won the battle though because, since I’m at my mother’s this Christmas and I have a beautfiul artificial tree that would otherwise be sitting in the attic, she insisted that we use my tree this year. I was thrilled because with being the writer who works from home, a large portion of the decorating would fall to me, and not only is a fake tree easier to decorate than a real tree, my tree is also pre-lit. Boo-yah!
But then I should know that nothing is ever that easy for me.
I was opening the Christmas tree branches last week when I looked up to see a large section at the top of the tree had gone out.
What the hell?
My tree is supposed to be a closed circuit system which means that if one bulb goes out the rest of the string will stayed on.
“It has to be a bad bulb,” my mother insisted.
“No it’s a closed circuit!” I insisted right back. “It’s got to be a fuse.”
Mummas gave me a skeptical look.
“Don’t anybody move! Hold it right there! The fuse is out,” I rumbled. ((Bonus points if you get that quote.))
Thirty minutes later I walked into the dining room in defeat.
“I tried replacing the fuse, but it wasn’t that,” I grumbled.
“Where did you get a spare fuse?” my mother asked suspiciously.
“I took the one that was in the light of the Christmas star tree topper.”
“Aaaaaaaaah!” my mother shrieked.
“Calm down! I put the other fuses in it so it’ll still work… I think.”
Mumma gave me another skeptical look. “It’s definitely a bad bulb now,” she added. “You’re going to have to take out each bulb and see which one isn’t working.”
“Like hell! Those lights are a bitch to pull out!” And then I felt my pupils dialate as the truth dawned on me. “Holy shit!” I gasped. “Despite our best efforts our tree has unionized! One bulb decided not to work and they all followed suit.”
“We can just string a single set of lights in the dead zone,” my mother suggested ignoring me since she has long since because used to my absurd declarations.
“Oh no we won’t!” I yelled.”There’s no unionization in this tree! I don’t know what these fucking bulbs want since they only have to work one month a year! That’s it! I’m going maffia on Jimmy’s ass and he’s getting back to work or getting thrown off a bridge!”
And in true maffia fashion, my problem was solved with a gun.
After deciding that I wasn’t going to accept be pushed around by my unionized tree, I jumped onto the faithful Interbutz (the second time that he has saved my ass at Christmas time) and looked up the best way to find out which of my non-working bulbs was the union leader. The most recommended solution was the PROLight Keeper Gun which would test the electrical current on the string of bulbs to find where the circuit was broken.
Jimmy refused to cooperate with the first electric method where you attach the gun to the string of lights and fire away–this is supposed to be the easiest method so naturally it wouldn’t work–but then I tazered him with the metal end of the gun and he finally gave up the leader. I ripped that sucker out and I’m happy to say that the rest of the bulbs went back to work after that.
It was only later that I realized that there were more than just rebellious bulbs involved in this scandal.
Son of a bitch.
FYI, entries for the giveaway have ended and I’ll be announcing the winner later this week!
Also my latest BirchBox video is up and as usual I have to be all arrogant as usual and say that even if you don’t give a mummer’s fart about makeup, the video is rather entertaining. There’s a shoutout to my Wonder Twins in there.
(The blooper reel is coming soon.)
Despite our ten year difference in age, my brother, (known as Gator on here), and I are very close. And as with all siblings who are close, we tend to antagonize the shit out of each other. As a matter of fact, I just remembered this weekend that I found out that I liked pumpkin pie when I ate the last piece of Thanksgiving pumpkin pie only because my brother likes it and I wanted to get revenge on him for doing something (I don’t remember exactly) to annoy me and .
While there are always new and traumatizing ways to annoy each other, one battle in particular has been raging for years:
The Battle for the McDonald’s Halloween McNuggets.
The Happy Meal is one of McDonalds’ most evil schemes ever. The lure of fast food is kryptonite enough for the average American child, but throw in a toy that comes with that salt-laden, diabetes-inducing garbage and you have children’s Nirvana. In October of 1993(?) and 1996(?) the Happy Meal weapon of choice toy was a plastic Chicken McNugget dressed in different Halloween costumes. There were six nuggets, each with a different face and costume with could be mixed and matched between the nuggets. It was pure evil marketing genius. I was a teenager at that time so I managed to avoid being snared in these heinous traps but my brother was only a kid and fell for them hook, line and cholesterol. My mother was not one to overindulge us in fast food, however my brother did manage to collect all twelve Halloween McNuggets that were released in two waves.
Over the years, my brother lost interest in playing with the Halloween McNuggets and my mother grew more attached to them. They were no longer toys but my mother’s favourite Halloween decorations. She became so protective of these plastic bits of commercialism that when a house guest admired them, she counted the nuggets after they left to make sure that they hadn’t taken any.
About ten years ago–when my brother was the teenager and I was a so-called adult–my mother, knowing how much I love Halloween made a remark about my having the Halloween McNuggets after she was gone.
“What?!” my brother sputtered. “They’re mine!”
“You haven’t looked at them in years! And your sister loves Halloween,” my mother told him.
“I don’t care! And I like them, too!” my brother insisted.
I had been just about to tell my mother that she wasn’t going to be “gone” for a long time so let’s not entertain the topic until my brother became belligerent and I knew I had to check him.
“Since when do you like them?” I glared at him.
“Since always!” he glared back.
“Alright, then you can share them,” my mother replied.
“I’m not sharing! They’re mine!” my brother insisted.
“You won’t even share?” I shook my head at him.
“No! They. Are. Mine!” my brother snarled.
Thus began the battle began.
Every October, when my mother pulls the McNuggets out of the attic and decorates the television stand with them, my brother and I argue over who will have custody of the nuggets. My brother insists that they were his toys. I point out that Mom bought them and took care of them. He counters that she doesn’t even always remember which face goes with which costume so that shows that he knows the nuggets better. (And I have to tell you that in typing this out I’m even more aware of what a bunch of fucking lunatics we are in this family–especially because it only gets worse.)
“Is it true that Gator and Kat are fighting over the Halloween McNuggets?” My aunt specifically called to ask my mother this.
“Oh yes, this battle has been going on for years. I’m not worried about making provisions in my will about the house or the car, but I had better leave some clause in there about these nuggets. I told them that they had to share, though Gator insists that he won’t,” my mother replied.
“Well they were Gator’s toys so he should get them all,” my aunt told my mother. “I’m sure that Kat didn’t want them at the time or we would have bought her some.”
I happened to hear this through the phone and was thunderstruck.
“What the fuck? I was a teenager! Of course I didn’t want them then! But Gator didn’t want them for years after he had them!” I shouted back.
“Your brother and your cousin used to play with them all together!” my aunt shouted through the phone back.
“Then I’ll take Shell’s!” I threatened (though I wouldn’t really take my cousin’s nuggets.)
“I have a few of them that Kat can have!” I heard my grandmother shout through my aunt’s phone.
“This is all because Gator won’t share!” I yelled, at which point my brother entered the argument so that there were five of us having one phone conversation and yes I realize how fucking mental this all is.
And so the battle rages on.
My aunt is on my brother’s side, my cousin is on my side, my grandmother is trying to be Switzerland, and my mother is terrified that she is going to die and my brother and I will kill each in a fighting for custody of The Halloween McNuggets. It’s been pointed out to me that I could find another set on eBay, but to be completely honest, the battle itself has become more the point of contention than the actual spoils. I’ll admit that I’m being antagonistic, but it would be funny to find out that my brother was doing the same thing, and did not want the nuggets but saw an opportunity harass me when our mother made a small, innocent remark about bequeathing them to me.
UPDATE 2020: First, I cannot believe that this entry is eight years old. Second, my brother has since graduated college, completed his Masters, and has a career as a teacher. In 2017 he bought his first house, and when that October came around, the Halloween McNuggets took up residence with their rightful owner who is, I will admit, my brother.
So my mother and I went to buy a lawn mower yesterday and we met Gollum from “Lord of the Rings”.
Alright, I’ll back up a bit.
I came home from work on Saturday night to find the mangled remains of my mother’s lawn mower upside down and in the middle of the front yard. Apparently my brother and the lawn mower had a disagreement and it came to blows. The only winners in this battle though were my neighbours who got to witness the spectacular display of Irish tempertantrics. The final result was that the lawn mower was retired, my brother was exhausted from flinging it around in an effort to make it work (no comment), and my mother and I had to pick up a new lawn mower on Sunday.
We walked into Loews and were making our way to the mowers when I heard a scratchy voice ask my mother if she needed any help. I turned around to chide my mother for talking to strangers and nearly fell over a display of Tiki torches. The person who was helping her – and I don’t mean this as a slam because the gentleman was a very sweet grandfather of ten – but he was small and thin and, to me, looked almost exactly like Smeagol. It made the shopping trip more bearable since we all know how I loathe shopping.
“Do you want a mower that is self-propelled?” “Smeagol” asked us as we walked over to the display of mowers.
“That would make it easier to push, wouldn’t it?” I asked back.
“Oh definitely,” he laughed.
“Then we don’t want that. My brother is the one who does the mowing and there’s no reason to make things easier for that butthead,” I told him. “In fact do you have any of those old fashioned push ones?”
“We don’t need it to be self-propelled,” my mother cut in, “but is gas or electric better?”
“The electric works well if you have a small yard, but otherwise a gas one would be best.”
“I think we can all agree that what would be best is whichever one makes my brother work the hardest,” I said. “Now where are those old push mowers?”
To my delight, they do still make the old-fashioned, non-gas push mowers and Smeagol escorted us to where we could find one.
“There ya go,” Smeagol grinned. “And the push ones leave no carbon footprint!”
“No carbon footprint!” I repeated to my mother. “You see what a brilliant idea this is?”
“It cuts sixteen inches across at a time so it might take him a while,” Smeagol added.
“I will seriously pay for the lawn mower if you buy this one,” I told my mother.
My mother, from whom I get my short attention span, had already been distracted the display of shiny weed whackers behind us though.
“We should probably get a new weed whacker, too,” she said. “The old one has been sitting outside and rusting since Dad died.”
“Now weed whackers are another ballgame,” Smeagol began.
“The thing that you have to remember though,” I waved my hands to get Mumma’s attention from the wall of garden toys, “is that I want goats, and–”
My mother began to rudely laugh, however I continued.
“–they should be able to handle a bit of edging.”
“With goats you would only need to buy a little hand shovel. And you would get milk!” Smeagol added.
“I knew I liked this guy!” I exclaimed. “So we’re agreed on the goats?”
In the end, my mother bought a gas lawn mower, though not a self-propelled, and decided to wait on the weed whacker. And I didn’t get my goats yet. The day would have been a complete disappointment for me except that thanks to the trip I have since decided to refer to the woman who does my Brazilian waxing as a “weed whacker”.
A quick end note here, I have some potentially fucking awesome news about my long-awaited book. I am a big believer in not counting my goats before they are hatched though, so I’m not showing my hand just yet. The only thing is that you may notice is that I’ve started to update the format this blog and make it at least look more like an actual writer’s website. Believe me, content will stay the same because I am what I am–and that is to say that I’m a fucking lunatic and I like telling you about it. In addition to being a lunatic though, I am very serious when it comes to my writing, so I’ve added a new About Me section that sounds a little more professional than my original one.
(However, I’m still keeping the old one because, like I said, I am what I am and that that About Me probably illustrates who I am more than any actual paragraphs ever could.)
Christmas this year was marked by slutty shoes, squid, my dog and a bunch of hoes. And this is tame by my family’s standards. Between still recovering from a hellacious battle with food poisoning, my grandmother being sick, my brother being late, and mother being sick and late and sobbing, Christmas Eve was rather subdued. It was kinda like going into a mental asylum right after the patients’ doping drugs had kicked in.
My aunt, BFF, and Kira, however, were bouncing off the fucking walls and provided the majority of material for this sequel to A Very Katsidhe Christmas. Like that post, this one looks long, but it’s all conversation so it goes quickly.
I’d already shared the first trauma of the evening in Sixty Squid A-Screaming because finding a box full of undressed squid was enough to warrant a post of its own, so I’ll just jump right ahead to where BFF arrived and helped me clean the squid.
The sudden sound of kissy noises made through my mail slot and Kira’s subsequent furious barking heralding the arrival of BFF.
“The squid were whole!” I immediately screamed as he walked in the door. “I’m talking eyes, tentacles, sand!”
The poor boy barely had time to get his coat off before I was yanking him into the kitchen, which pissed Kira off because I was robbing her of her requisite greeting rubs.
My grandmother, aunt and cousin, M., arrived about half an hour later.
“The squid were whole!” I again screamed by way of a greeting, and then filled them in on the gory details.
“You did good cleaning up the puke stain from your carpet, Kat,” my aunt remarked eyeing the location where stomach had erupted onto it. “I cleaned it as best I could and then just dumped Mop N’ Glow on the area so it wouldn’t smell.”
“I know, that was a good idea. I felt horrible that you had cleaned up as much as you did though,” I told her.
“It was really thick, too,” my aunt continued because this is my life. “I just closed my eyes and held my breath.”
“Uh…huh, yeah I think it’s time to open the wine now,” I told BFF.
After a glass of wine and giving the savages the first course–Crab and Asparagus Soup–everything was pretty calm. Except for Kira.
When Kira was a puppy, she barked at my aunt and my smartass aunt barked back at her. Kira has never forgiven her for this and as such she barks and growls whenever my aunt moves an inch. Since I was in the kitchen, and Kira knew I was too busy to execute any threats, my shouts of “Kira hush!” were completely ignored and she continued to growl and glare daggers at my aunt until my mother showed up and distracted her.
“The squid were whole!” I screamed at my mother when she walked in the door.
I had just finished frying said squid and put them on the table along with the spaghetti and marinara sauce. My aunt got her spaghetti at which point Kira suddenly forgot her grudge and wanted to be besties with her. Basically, Kira wanted my aunt’s spaghetti.
Kira knows a number of tricks including sit, shake, high-five, and down, but one of her most impressive tricks is her ability to speak. If you ask Kira to speak, she doesn’t bark but will yodel in a way that sounds like “hello” or “hearf” which I take to mean “here” as in “put some food hearf”. Lately though Kira has been making a new sound that sounds suspiciously like “hoe”.
My cousin was well aware of this so as Kira pawed at my aunt and wagged her tail my cousin her, “Kira, what is your aunt?”*
“Hoe,” Kira responded.
(Yes, my dog has incredible timing which you know if you’ve read this entry.)
The thing is though, that Kira gets so much attention–and usually food–for saying this that once she starts she will keep saying “hoe” all night. Thanks to my cousin’s laughing, Kira continued to smack my aunt with her paw and call her a hoe.
I ignored the debacle and told BFF that the next dish was almost ready.
“I’m not eating anything called a snot-knocker!” my grandmother suddenly announced.
“What? What the hell is a snot-knocker?” I asked her.
“You just said that the snot-knockers were almost ready to come out of the oven.”
“The croissants! I said that the croissants are almost ready to come out of the oven!”
“Hoe,” said Kira as she nudged at my aunt.
My aunt ignored Kira and instead asked my mother how she could stand wearing the hooker-heeled shoes she had worn that night. (See where I get my love of slutty boots?)
“Because she’s a real woman,” BFF answered for my mother.
“Haha! And what am I?” my aunt demanded.
“Hoe,” Kira reminded her.
(My dog is a fucking genius, I swear.)
My brother finally arrived, but at that point I was getting tired and cranky, so instead of greeting him with a scream about the squid, I snapped at him that it was nice of him to finally show up.
“You’re lucky I came at all! You still owe me restitution!” he told me.
“Restitution for what?” my mother asked.
“Last week we saw that girl that Kat was going to introduce me to, and the girl told us that she had just had a three-way with her new boyfriend! If Kat hadn’t waited to hook me up with her that could have been me, but noooo she had to wait.”
“That’s sick!” my mother gasped.
“Hoe,” Kira agreed.
(I say again, a fucking genius.)
“Kat owes me restitution!” my brother pointed an accusing finger at me, and I was about to say something really snarky when my mother interrupted.
“Gator, is that the kind of girl that you really want? To do that sort of thing! And she’s not even married!”
At which point we all nearly choked from laughing so hard.
“You’re right, Mom, you should definitely wait until you’re married to have a threesome!” I howled through my laughter.
“That’s not what I meant!” my mother yelled turning red.
I returned to the kitchen to finish the last dish when BFF turned and told me, “You know, Kat if you were a real woman you would be wearing heels while you were in here cooking, too.”
“Yeah, well, we know I’m not one of those,” I told him as I grabbed a piece of Cod with my bare hand, gobbled it down whole, and finished cooking.
I’ve been asked by readers how I remember exactly what people have said when I’m regaling ya’all with conversations I’ve had with, say, my family for example.
I can answer this questions by citing a quote from “Psychology and Aging”:
Posttraumatic stress disorder is a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma.”
So there you have it.
*We were actually able to video this but it features family members who don’t want to be publisized so I’m going to try and edit it and then post it.