The Toxic Housewife

I really did it this time:  

 As I mentioned in my last post , my mother loved putting whole, un-shelled nuts and un-peeled oranges into our Christmas stockings.  She doubled down her efforts to do so once she knew how much it annoyed her children.  (And why not?  Now that I'm a mom, I realize it can't be called "irritation"; it's called "payback".)

  So, I set myself up for disaster again: I had a booklet made from 2022's "Blog For One" posts and Santa gave it to the family for Christmas.  We've been reading from the booklet in spurts, usually with me at the kitchen table shouting each post to Bee (preparing dinner) and Mr. C (lounging with a cat in the living room). Captions are at least with the photos this time . . . but still look like part of the main body.  Sigh. The good news:

A Kitty, A Ghost, and A Banshee  We have new foster kittens . . . and maybe also a ghost.

  https://www.etsy.com/shop/LTKarts Warning: this post contains medical photos, which some may find disturbing.   It also contains poorly-Photoshopped photos, which many will find even more disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

("It was a good death." ~inane quote from Legends of The Fall) It is the end of an era: please bear witness to the Death of Ethel.    As you may recall , Ethel is my alter-ego. She is the crazy woman who swoops in the minute Bee leaves town and feeds Mr. C sugar and pizza all weekend and lets him stay up waaaay past his bedtime. 

  Aahhhh, Sundays.... Here it is, late in the afternoon on the 4th of the month, with my self-imposed blog post deadline looming . . . and I've got nothing. Some of my eagle-eyed spammers-from-Malaysia may be wondering why I'm still blogging, anyway: I had only committed to doing it until July , after all.  But then Mr. C's birthday hit, and he asked for more posts.  And, also, I just didn't want to leave my final post as one that was . . . rough .  So, here we are until Christmas!

  I have this new mantra I've been obsessively repeating: "Just give yourself some grace." It's a gentler, more-forgiving way to permit myself to let things slide.  The alternative, of course, is the mantra I've had for the last few years: "I give exactly Zero F*cks ."    It's a valid mantra, but one with angry undertones; I thought it was time to switch things up a bit.

chocolate is my happy place   Ever since reopening this blog, I've toyed with writing about deep topics like Black Lives Matter, gun control, or climate change.  But I can't figure out how to do so without transferring that pain to my kid, who is -- after all -- the main audience for this Blog For One.  So, since I haven't figured out how to write about all that, I'll instead embarrass him by discussing my latest "pregnancy".

I'm so cold, even my beverage of choice is . . . just ice. Surprisingly-enough, it turns out Mr. C's preferred blog posts of late aren't even the ones about him: they're the ones about me.  Not about what he interprets to be "day in the life" stuff (as in, when he complained that my " 0 F's "  post was all about fashion), but more when I write about my innermost thoughts and feelings .   I can't decide what I think (or feel) about this.  On the one hand, it's sweet that your kid actually cares enough to want to learn about you.  On the other hand, it just goes to show -- once again -- that I am nothing but a cold-hearted b!tch.

  #AwkwardFamilyPhotos Truly the hardest part of becoming a stepmom was figuring out my place in the relationship .  Not only was I trying to find out who I was as Bee's new girlfriend . . . then fiancee . . . then bride . . . but I had the added task of establishing myself in a 9 year-old's life when this 9 year-old didn't really need me in his life.  And I am the type of person who needs to be needed.

  Devil Bed Bee and I have a nasty habit of accidentally spending enormous amounts of money when we mean to just buy something small and affordable. This is how we ended up with an entire dining set when we had intended to just buy 1 chair for a growing Mr. C.  Or how we now have a large (but admittedly gorgeous) paved and stained concrete driveway flowing into a patio when we were looking to just get some gravel for the area outside our front door. Or, most-recently, how we became the proud owners of an entire 26-piece set of stainless-steel, American-made cookware when we meant to just buy a cheese grater.

4 teenagers   #1 fans of this blog (I'm talking to you, Malaysian spammers!) may have noticed the format change to this website.  That is Mr. C's contribution.  Since, as we established last post , I give Zero F*cks these days, I told him he could change the theme as he saw fit, as he informed me that the one I chose years ago "looked too old".  I find this amusing because I think the theme he chose looks like 1940's at the Copacabana.  But whatever: this is a blog for one , and The One has spoken.

  COVID Couture   I don't know if you can tell, but I've always been on the forefront of fashion trends.   Between work and working out (not that I take the latter seriously), I'm usually either covered in sawdust or sweat.  If I have an occasion to shower and prepare to go out in public, though, I generally try to at least look presentable.  Or, I used to try. The "looking presentable" bar has been substantially lowered in the last few years.  A few challenges are at play: 

  Can I just leave this post at that? I'm  afraid my evil plan didn't work: despite trying to embarrass Mr. C, he still wants me to write another blog post.  In fact, he seemed pretty thrilled by the last post, which -- as you may recall -- was nothing special; however, when I sent him an e-mail ('cause that's what you do now: you text instead of talk) with a link to the post, he responded back with "YEESSSSS!!"  I think that's the most-excited he's gotten about anything I've said since he was 4 (and then it was "Don't worry; you don't have to wear pants today").

The Blurry-Faced People are BAAAACK! It's been five years since I posted here, and I'm only returning grudgingly.  I really had been enjoying NOT flexing my creative wings or having to put my thoughts into well-articulated sentences (not that my previous posts were truly well-articulated).  I didn't mind NOT spending hours obsessing over a little essay no one was going to read anyway.  I had NO PROBLEMS using any free time I had to watch Netflix instead of write inane things.  But it's really my own fault that I've been forced back:

I've always felt that artists are at their most-creative when they're in angst.  There's something about that need to express the pain within that causes singers and poets and painters to produce prolifically.

You'll have to forgive my absence from blogging, but I've been lazy.  I mean busy.  But mostly lazy.

Mr. C's birthday was a few weeks ago. "What do you want to do for your birthday?" I asked the month before.  "Can you build another castle ?" he asked.

Mr. C spent last week in a playcamp at a neighborhood park, hosted by our city's recreation department.  It was a momentous week for him: not only did he spend each day outside -- with no screen time -- doing active things, but he fell in love with an older woman.