Category Archives: Holidays

All I Want For Christmas Is Me: A Single Girl’s Christmas Ramble

Posted on by
2

At Least 12 Things I Shouldn’t Have Said This Christmas

Discussing my cousin’s bracelet made of her horse’s hair:
Me: “Well, I’m glad you like it, but it’s weird.”
Other Cousin: “It’s not weird. It’d be like if you made something out of your dog’s hair.”
Me: “Or maybe I’ll just cut off his foot and make it into a necklace… or a keychain for good luck!”

Discussing same bracelet later:
“I once donated my hair to Locks of Love. That’s sort of the same.”

Me: “So where’s your gal?”
Cousin: “Oh, we’re not together.”
Me: “What?”
Cousin: “S and I aren’t together.”
Me: “What did that mean? Like today or anymore?”
The answer was anymore and I. Am. Smooth.

“Come on. The gifts we get at the big family Dirty Santa always suck and everyone knows it.”

“Oh, no. The library carries all kinds of books. If it’s in demand and the public wants to read about his throbbing member, then that’s what we have.”

“Next year, when you play the game with us for the first time, just know that it’s tradition for the youngest member to get an adult gift, preferably from a sex shop.”

“Taste this and tell me if I’m just not a wine person or if it really does taste like vinegar… and salt… and urine.”

Discussing my four and a half year old niece:
“You know… I think she’s old enough now, that she’s gotten to the age where I really don’t like her anymore.”

“Icy Hot in the lube.”

Brother: “Why’s she crying?”
Me: “She’s being a brat.”

Aunt: “Now why didn’t L and L come?”
Me: “Because they’re selfish and self-absorbed.”

Discussing Uggs:
“I know they’re covered in sheep blood, but they’re so freaking comfortable, I don’t even care.”

Christmas Confessions

I took the batteries out of my vibrator and put them in the Furby my Gramma got me.

I danced to Michael Bluble’s Christmas CD wearing nothing but a pink sparkly Santa hat.

My dog has a Christmas stocking and I played Santa.

The gift I made for you that seemed so thoughtful? I forgot about you this year and found that in my yarn bin, leftover from last year.

It’s possible that I worked on your Christmas present on the toilet.

My Homemade Themed Dirty Santa contribution was a hat I’d made for myself and messed up.

I only gave you that peanut brittle, because it was the batch I botched.

I Made Your Christmas Present Because I’m Cheap and Didn’t Want to Buy You Anything

lily's hat

britt's hatIt’s a baseball.

cross

Proof That My Gramma Knows Me

ove gloveI burn myself every time I cook… usually while talking on the phone with her.

furby
Hellz yeah, nostalgia!

shoes

Proof That My Grandpa Doesn’t

sparkly spongeIt’s a blinging pink sponge. To be fair, I do like pink… and clean stuff.

A Single Girls’ Christmas in Photos

storm air quotesIn the Midwest, we threaten to cancel Christmas for this “winter storm.”

dog stocking My stocking… and the dog’s.

hair dryerI don’t need a boy to clear the ice off my car! VAGINA POWER!

pina colada

pink santa hat

redmecl wine glass Redneck wine glass I won in Dirty Santa. Don’t worry. There are two, so they’ll match.

“Roger, will you make me a drink?”: A Christmas Perspective on Children

Posted on by
3

santa

I know Christmas is supposed to make me want kids… but it makes me want to wash out my uterus with bleach instead.

“You know… I think she’s old enough now, that she’s gotten to the age where I really don’t like her anymore.”

My neice is four and a half and that’s apparently not something you’re supposed to say at a family Christmas party, but it is so very true. Don’t get me wrong. She’s adorable… like 50% of the time. 40% she’s midly irritating. 10% she makes me want to impale myself on something in the ovarian area.

When I open the front door and she screams “AUNT BELLE!” and runs up to me and starts ranting about the Elf on the Shelf, she is fucking precious, even if I do think the Elf on the Shelf is the creepiest Christmas trend ever. She shows me her Hello Kitty earrings and tells me about how she has to feed the reindeer with Santa. I pretend I know what the hell she’s talking about, because I don’t care and if I say otherwise, she’ll explain. She says cute and blunt things like “My momma had surgwy. She wears pajamas.” after my sister-in-law’s “mommy makeover” (an entirely different rant). She’s happy and I’m happy. It’s a pretty bitchin’ moment… for like twelve minutes.

Why does everything have to be a whine? Why can’t you just ask me to play with you? Pouting and whining “Aunt Beeeeeeelle. You said you would plaaaaaaay with me…” makes me want to kill your dog with Christmas tinsel and place the Elf on the Shelf next to it. I’m lying. It does, however, make me want to walk away without a word and ask my grandma’s slurring husband to pour me a drink.

Of course, when whining doesn’t work, just cry. A lot. And loudly. Right in my ear. You are fucking fine. He didn’t hit you that hard, if he even did in fact hit you. I want to hit you. Yes, that’s right. Go cry to grandma now, about how Aunt Belle is mean, because she insisted you were fine. I didn’t even say “fucking.”

When the kid doesn’t like the food she’s eating, she will atually make herself vomit to get out of being forced to eat green bean casserole. I mean, it’s diabolical and she’ll take over the world one day, but ew. Kids are gross. She used to be so cute and now half the time, I only love her as a biological requirement.

I have hope that it gets a little better with age, which I think my cousin’s 7-year-old boy has proven.

7yo: pretends to shoot me with his toy gun and braggingly sings “I have a real gun, you know.”
Me: intentionally antagonizing the child, because I’m bad with kids “Yeah, well I have a bigger real gun.”
7yo: “Nuh, huh! It’s like a real rifle!”
Me: “Yeah, what caliber?”
7yo: “It’s a BB gun!”
Me: “Yeah? Well, I have a .357 and BB is not a caliber!”
7yo: “Well, you know what? There are more boys in the world than girls. You know why?”
Me: “I don’t know if that’s true or not, but why?”
7you: “Because the boys have to protect the girls.”
Me: “Wow. You are a terribly sexist little kid.”
7you: Lightly hits me on the arm.
Me: “Hey now! You’re not doing a great job of protecting the womenfolk!”

Teenagers, though, I freaking love.

To step-sister
Me: “Hey, brat. Pregnant yet?”
Bea: “Not anymore.”

Children are like a fine wine. They only get better with age. Except then, they aren’t children anymore, and wine is always wine. I guess they’re not really like a fine wine. They just make me want to drink fine wine… or cheap liquor from a plastic bottle.

I’m sorry I ate your Christmas candy, but I’m joining the Marines.

Posted on by
Reply

If you’ve spent five minutes either with me or reading my blog, you know I’m wound as tightly as a fucking slinky, when it comes to school… and lots of other stuff.

Yesterday was the last day to substitute teach before Chirstmas break and the end of my three week Perpetual Work and Homework Kill Fest. It was also the day I awaited the opinion of my professor on the first essay I wrote for my Directed Reading course, which focuses on preparing me for my re-Portfolio.

So, I anxiously substituted 6th graders who were super mega-on-crack excited that Christmas break was coming. Their teacher received several Christmas gifts, which I paid little notice and set to the side. I glanced at the ziplock bag with chocolate in it and wasn’t even sure what it was.

The day wore on. I checked my e-mail. I checked my e-mail through the internet instead of the app, in case all apps were broken. I checked to make sure my original message had sent. I made sure my follow-up “I really did try to find more supplementary literature” e-mails had sent. Yes. That was plural. I re- read my essay. I re-searched for supplementary literature and verified that it wasn’t available. Then the third class of the day hit.

Student: “That candy’s probably going to go bad. Are you going to eat it?”
Me: laughing “I’m not going to eat your teacher’s candy.”

Is that chocolate covered peanut brittle? I didn’t even know that was a thing. I guess it makes sense. It sounds good. Well. Maybe just one piece. It’s not like she’s going to notice.

So I did it. I stole one piece.

I checked my e-mail again. I read my book, which was about a woman who was an ex-marine. I say that as if it wasn’t just more werewolf porn with  a tertiary plot, so you’ll think I read deep literature.

Text Message
11:33 Me: My professor has had 13 hours to read and respond to my essay. I so failed it and will never be a librarian.

Perhaps she hasn’t read it. No, no. She always responds early. Likelier, she’s grading it. If it’s taking that long, she must be pretty unhappy with it. Oh, God. What if she hates it? I didn’t find any supplementary literature. But there wasn’t any! Maybe there was. Maybe I’m just implementing poor searching tactics. That’s what a librarian is fucking FOR and I can’t find anything?!?!?

I quietly comforted myself with a miniscule piece of peanut brittle.

Text Message
11:41 Me: She so thinks I’m an idiot with no knowledge of information theory.

Oh, God. What if she’s trying to properly phrase her e-mail explaining that I’m really just not cut out for this and should probably consider another career path? What if she wants to give me my rejection over the phone?!?! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. What would I do? I could teach. Teacher’s do get Christmas candy. This peanut brittle is really good. I wonder if I could make peanut brittle. I’d likely end up in the E.R. and I can’t afford that. I only have healthy insurance for son long, though. May as well try now. Oh my god, what if I can’t be a librarian?!?!?! I won’t have healthy insurance, either! I could join the military. I could make a career out of that. I already own guns.

11:42 Me: Oh my gosh, I’m making myself sick over this.

But we’re at war. What if I join the military and I get hurt in some kind of fire fight? I don’t even know what a fire fight is, but I read it in that book and it sounded really bad, like it involved flame throwers. I doubt that’s the case, though. It’s a little irrational to assume the U.S. military employs flame throwers. I doubt that would be a sanctioned fighting tactic. It probably wouldn’t be terribly effective. It could maim me, though. I could lose a leg or an ear or they could have to fashion me a new pair of lips from my groin skin. I wouldn’t even have a vagina anymore! You can’t have sex without a vagina. No one would ever date me or marry me and I would die alone!

12:08 Me: It’s been 13 and a half hours!
12:13 Gail: Chill! She is running late!

Summary: It’s been 13 and half hours since I sent my paper. I am legitimately concerned that this means I’ll lose my lips in a horrendous accident and therefore die alone.

Oh, my god, I’ve got to calm down. I’m going to throw up or cry and I’m working… sort of. Substituting is really undemanding. One more piece of candy won’t make any difference.

Another excruciating two hours passed, where I looked up several peanut brittle recipes, read a little, and was just about to Google the U.S. Marines requirements. Ha. Like I could pass the psych tests? I noticed I had an e-mail. It simply announced that her comments were attached, along with the suggestion for my next paper. No encouragement, no defecation. The attachment, however, began with “Well done!”

Oh, fuck. She’s using the sandwich method. She’s going to offer a compliment and then criticism and then another compliment. This is bad.

Gail: mocking me “You have really nice hair. You should never be a librarian. I really like how into your computer you are.”

One: that was an odd compliment, there, Gail. Two: I was wrong, of course. She loved the paper and appreciated the literature I did include. There was no criticism at all, just a few recommendations for databases I could search next time. Finally, I could breathe easy and enjoy my piece of peanut brittle.

Fuck. I just ate 3/4 of her candy. It’s really unlikely this teacher is going to think a student left her 3 pieces of peanut brittle. Should I throw it away? No. Then she won’t thank the student. It doesn’t say who brought it to her, though. But what if they ask her about it? She’s probably not going to notice how little is in there. Besides. Her name wasn’t on it. I mean really. It’s unlikely she’ll notice and more unlikely she’d blame me, because who the fuck eats someone else’s Christmas candy!?!?! Maybe I could leave her a note saying there was some, but I spilled soda on it. Maybe I could make her more and sneak it in here on the first day back.

Gail: “Okay. If you just happened by and saw this bag, would you think it was new or that someone had been snacking on it?”
…..

…..

…..

Me: “Yeah… I should’ve just taken it.”

I did, indeed try to make peanut brittle.

becca convo
When it turned out poorly, I put it in bags and gave it as gifts to coworkers. I may as well get a pat on the back for the consideration behind my crap cooking skills. It was so chewy, you had to pick it off your teeth. My gums are literally still bleeding.

peanut brittle

My coworkers won’t be getting any of my second batch. I suppose they won’t be taking my vagina away just yet. At least not before my military fire fight days.

Conversations with Mother f*$#%*% Teresa

Posted on by
3

two-old-ladies-giggling
This is us… giggling about vibrators.

I can tell Gail anything… at all.

Text Message
Me:Totally just sat down in the bathtub before testing the water. I think I burned my vag.
Me: – photo of bleeding knee –
Me: Most painful and unrelaxing bath ever. Next time I’ll just throw the hair dryer in.

We also know each other’s humor well enough that we never have to verify when we’re kidding, even through text messages.

Text Message
Me: My first dance at my next wedding will be to I Love the Way You Lie.
Gail: What next wedding?
Me: You’re right. Your first wedding should be your ONLY wedding.
Gail: Mhmm. That’s how good people wed.
Gail: “Second weddings are for lazy and uncommitted people.”
Me: “And sluts.”
Gail: “Yup.”
Me: “If anyone will have them.”

Me: referring to the idea of keeping girls out of boys’ sports “Girls can be anything they want to be, as long as it’s pink.”
Gail: raises hand for a high-five, as the last person who high-fives

Me: “Every time I see the words ‘egg product’, I want to kill myself and everyone in this IHOP… probably a bad week to joke about that, huh?”
Gail: “Yup. Probably.”

We never have to explain where our texts and thoughts come from, because of our constant running textersation.
Gail: “No clue why the beer with Jesus song is so popular.”
Me: “Ugh.I know. ‘If I could shoot the shit with Jesus… we’d probably talk about that lady’s tits.'”
Gail: “Purdy much.”

Where most people have a beating heart, Gail has the cuddliest little kitten instead. Not even a normal kitten, but like a sleeping one with a little bow. That would be fucking adorable. She’s the most nauseatingly genuine and giving person I’ve ever met, as the only 25-year-old who actually tithes 10% of her paycheck, not because Jesus told her to in the super religious Midwest, but because she thinks it’s the right thing to do. I always joke with her that she only hangs out with me so she can be the sweet one. It’s true. She loves being the sweet one.

Scene – IHOP a few weeks ago
Gail: points to a man in army gear “Can you bring me that gentleman’s check?”
Guy in army gear: “Thank you, ladies very much.”
Me: silent… totally pretending I helped

In actuality, I figured that clarifying that I did not, in fact, pay for this soldier’s meal would only make both him and Gail uncomfortable, seeing as how I bring the finesse and it would’ve gone something like this:
“It was her. I mean, I’m glad for what you did for our country, too, but I didn’t pay for your breakfast. I mean, I don’t really have the… thank you. Have a great day.”

Scene – IHOP, today, because Gail is the fucking Fairy Princess of IHOP
Gail: “Can you bring me the check of the table that was nicest to you?”
Me: feigned disgust “I’m Gail. I shit money. You see that woman over there? Can you tell her her cancer treatment’s been paid in full? I’m best friends with Mother fucking Teresa.”
Gail: laughing “What? I make the most money at a time of year when you should be nice to people, so I’m being nice to people.”
Me: “I’ve been plenty nice. Just buy my breakfast.”
Gail: laughs “No, thank you.”
Me: “Tis the season, Gail. Don’t be a cunt.”
Me: “It’s going to be awesome if it’s like $70. They ordered IHOP to go for the week.”
Gail: “‘Yeah, they were all equally nice, so I just put them all on one.'”

She actually just bought me lunch last week. The funny part is, Gail is the cheapest person alive. Last summer, she wore the same pair of broken $1 sunglasses for the entire season, explaining that you couldn’t tell they were broken, because her hair hid the missing temple (that’s what the ear piece is called and I taught you something). After breakfast, we went to The Dollar Tree.

Gail: “It just doesn’t seem warm enough.”
Me: “I don’t know what to tell you. You probably shouldn’t buy your winter wear from The Dollar Tree.”

Regardless of the fact that she makes me look bad, she’s my sister in every way that matters outside of a CSI episode.

Me: “See ya. Love you.”
Gail: “Love you, too.”
I have no idea when we started saying this to each other.
Me: “So, when did that happen?”
Gail: “I don’t know, but it probably has something to do with the reason people think we’re lovers.”
Me: “Nah. They probably just think we’re family.”

It’s fantastic to have this best friend thing going on as an adult. I’m blessed to have someone who knows all the stories, because she was there for them; someone in whom I can confide anything at all, with no judgement. Don’t worry. I return the favor. My jokes are all exactly that.

How Nobody is Ruining My Christmas

Posted on by
2

‘Tis the season for mild stomach ulcers, yes? Christmas is, sadly, one of the most stressful times of the year for many people. This time for love, annoying music, and glitter has become the disaster of which the Mayans foretold. Pretty much every advertisement on television is designed to make me hate all children as I watch these greedy little parasites state that their parents have finally appeased them on Christmas morning. Then the parents sigh in relief, making me hate all parents. Everyone stresses themselves out trying to cook the perfect dish, putting up the perfect number of lights, and elbowing each other in the ribs to get the last IT toy of the season, because we’re all materialistic and insane. So, I’m taking a stand on the following issues to keep such madness from ruining my favorite time of year.

The Work Party
If I want to go (define: don’t have anything better to do), I’ll go. If I don’t, I won’t. Period.

The Decorations
I’m not going to lie. I pretty much had to rape that fucking Christmas tree to get it to do what I wanted. I knocked it over and broke the stand that was glued on. I hit myself in the knee with my pretty pink hammer getting the old stand off and gave up on the new one once there was glass all over the floor and the tree leaned so far to the left that it was practically horizontal. Then I tearfully texted C and told him I was the worst handyman ever and that I’d even put on a bra and pants if he’d come over and fix it. He had it up in under 10 minutes and I called him a bastard for it. But I love my tree. It was worth all of that trouble. However, aside from this, I have some glitter snowflakes on the wall, a couple of stockings, a wreath on each door, and some patio lights up. That’s it. I am not Tim The Toolman Taylor. I don’t need to prove that I have the most awesome decorations ever. I know my hot pink tree is the heroine of all Christmas trees and I don’t need a trophy for it. People fall off their houses rigging up their lights to connect to music on some random radio station and then bitch about how much trouble it was, because they didn’t even want it and only did it to make other people say “Huh, that’s neat.” Why would I stress out for a competition that doesn’t even actually exist when these minimal decorations make me happy?

beforetreeBefore and after a big strong man had to help me. Pathetic.

The Expense
I really don’t believe in credit. Maybe it’s Gail constantly talking about her dampened “I ❤ Dave Ramsey” panties (how much is too much to spend on a gag gift?), but I think it’s irresponsible to pay on time for anything that is not an actual necessity or a house. Taking out a line of credit to buy other people crap they probably don’t even want? No. I’m not doing that either. Regardless of whether or not they get a Wal-Mart credit card to do their shopping, though, the expense of Christmas is one of the biggest complaints I hear from pretty much everyone. I don’t get that. The people for whom I’m getting gifts are either people I know well enough to choose something they’ll like for $10 or… they’re not. The latter, I just feel obligated to buy something anyway, in which case, why the hell would I spend more than $10? I don’t have children, thank God, but I do have children in my life who I don’t think should be raised to be materialistic, greedy, and entitled little bastards. So… their gifts are also going to be $10. Maybe I’m not mommy, so I don’t get a say in whether or not Santa brought my niece a 32″ flat screen for her freaking third Christmas, but I can do my part by making it clear that while Aunt Belle cares, that won’t be reflected in material items and she doesn’t owe anybody anything. In general, if Christmas is getting too financially stressful, just forget it and give everyone hugs. Christmas is about family and love and stop action movies. I’d rather know that my Gramma had a fun holiday and get nothing but a kiss on the cheek than hear her tell me a week into December that she’s ready for Christmas to be over. But I can’t control what she does. I can only control what I do and that’s to spend $10 on your gift… unless you’re Gail or my Gramma, the only two people who would actually accept a hug as a gift with no hard feelings. Ironic, huh?

The Shopping
I finished most of my Christmas shopping in November… via Amazon. I spent Thanksgiving night watching a movie with my little sister, not telling the cashiers at Wal-Mart to screw themselves (read below) and have a Merry Christmas. We live in a digital age, people. Why the hell are you standing in line to buy that Furby? I even make a point to do my grocery shopping on a Monday morning, because I’m not dealing with that crap.

The Customers
Thank God I don’t work in retail anymore, because people are asshats to customer service representatives during the Christmas season. Lady, I’m sure Jesus Christ, himself, would fist bump you for trying to get that man fired for saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” Yeah. That’s a thing. Welcome to the Midwest, y’all. I’m even happier I don’t work in a movie theater anymore. Sir, if the movie reel messing up “ruined” your holiday, you have shit priorities. You’re supposed to be loving on your family and treating people well, not screaming at a teenager about how you couldn’t see the bottom two inches of Joseph Gordon-Levitt, because seriously, that guy is in everything lately. Library customers are much more mild-mannered, thank goodness, but the number of times I’ve been yelled at over Christmas candy has stuck with me. Now, I make sure to give every cashier a smile and even the occasional apology for the jackass in front of me.

I Want
One of my family members has this super tacky habit of sending out text messages instructing people on exactly what to get for her and the children. I’m not exaggerating. “We want Garden Ridge gift cards this year. The kids want Lego’s.” I didn’t even ask. My Gramma really stresses out about these detailed instructions, because she wants to pick things out and buy what she wants with her money. So, I’m ignoring any such mandates and buying what I want with my money. I don’t care if you want a Garden Ridge card. I already did my shopping and you’re all getting homemade hats. Fucking deal with it or I’ll just donate them to someone more grateful.

The Family Drama
I love my family and I’m looking forward to the 93 and a half Christmas parties that will require me to supply Oreo balls, which are a huge pain in the ass to make. We’re a fun, loud, and offensive bunch. I’m genuinely excited. However, everyone has that one family member they don’t love, but someone loves, so they’re required to be polite… even when they cause drama. Being polite, however, does not mean humoring you if you’re going to be cruel to me. I am 25 years old. I pay my own bills and take care of my own life. If I don’t want to do something, I’m not going to do it. No one is going to bully me or manipulate me otherwise. Nasty text messaging, catty voicemail, creative rumors, none of these things are going to get a response, because I don’t have to respond. I won’t yell. I won’t trade barbs. I won’t hide an insult in a smile. I will sincerely wish you a Merry Christmas and skip that get-together, because I don’t have to sit through that awkward dinner with people I don’t like while they make snide remarks. You can thow that tantrum as loudly as you want while all of your friends agree that I’m a bitch. In the meantime, I’ll be at home, eating raw cookie dough in an oversized t-shirt and my granny panties, reading trashy fiction and blogging in front of my bitchin’ hot pink Christmas tree.

me jude and treeMy view of your fit.

Elephants and a Crossbow

Posted on by
1

I had a rough week. I didn’t pass the graduate portfolio, convinced myself that I’d have to join the military when I didn’t pass next time (eye roll), and was being constantly attacked by one particularly rabid and hostile family member. By the time I got to Thanksgiving dinner, I was weepy-eyed and barely able to speak without bursting into tears. I’m not particularly emotional around People Not Gail or Gramma, so it really said something about my mental state that I couldn’t function enough to keep actual tears at bay.

Every year, my family has what they call The Water Buffalo, which is a party where only the women who’ve finished high school get together and swim. The title refers to size, as many of the women are heavier and I’m not the only self-deprecating woman in the family. This year, however, I have decided they’re not buffalo. They’re elephants.

“There’s this YouTube video where a pack of elephants circles around their young and injured, attacking any threats. After the last few years, this reminds me of the women in my family. This would be a lot more flattering were the comparison not to elephants.” – A Thanksgiving Facebook post

I don’t know that my family has actually seen me cry since I was a child. So when I teared up because someone told me I wasn’t invited to Christmas dinner anymore, every single loud and blunt woman I love went full-on Mama Bear on me. They passed my phone around, reading the text messages in horror, and my Grandma (not Gramma) loudly announced that she was “sick of hearing about her* twat all the time” referring to the tendency of this person to discuss feminine issues far too openly. I made my white-haired Grandma, who once spent a half hour lecturing me on how to hold a fork, say the word “twat”, she was so enraged by my mistreatment.

*Possibly unnecessary clarification – not my Grandma’s (nor my Gramma’s) twat

Simultaneously, I was hugged and my pain was eased about my portfolio. My Grandma (not Gramma) told me she imagined I was shocked because everything comes easily to me. My aunt (dad’s cousin) who also has an MLIS told me she understood, because the directions are always so vague. My favorite actual aunt breathed a sigh of relief, because she was really busy on graduation day anyway.

The rest of the night was spent eating myself sick, discussing sales, and watching children chase each other through the house with a crossbow. I asked my cousin if being a musicisan meant he was “rolling in the pussy”. His mom (favorite aunt) was appalled and accused me of being the drunk one running her mouth this year. Neither of us took my apology seriously. I was repeatedly told that I am always welcome with this side of the family at Christmas time and promised they’d never uninvite me. The evening came to a close giggling over the bad CGI of the daddy-funded viewing of Breaking Dawn Part II with my little sister. She was horrified at my exclamation that if I ever had sex with an old man, it would be Woody Harrelson and I’d let him stick it in my ear if he wanted.

No joke. A fucking crossbow.

I realize, I truly did get something for which to be thankful yesterday. Two years ago, I was heartbroken and miserable, married to a soulless monster, watching my life crumble around me, feeling all alone. This year, I was weepy and insecure and surrounded by my loving pack of elephants, eager to protect me from the outside threat in my moment of weakness. If only I’d realized I had that support system all along, things might have gone differently. Perhaps I shouldn’t wish for that, though. Maybe I am 25, still in school, and divorced. Maybe I’m terrible at dating and still a little broken from my marriage and the South says this means I’ll die alone. Maybe no one but my family and dear friends know Belle, while everyone else knows Winifred, the persona I hide behind when I’m feeling raw. But it feels right. I’m meant to be here. I’m on the right path… and that’s more than okay.