Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, Satan shudders and says "Oh shit, she's awake."

Monday, June 2, 2014

When Good Girls Go Too Short...

I am a self-professed short skirt/dress junkie.  I always have been to be honest. I have good legs and I don’t mind putting them on display as anyone who knows me would tell you.  Mind you, I don’t go for the “micro mini” anymore – I left that behind along with my twenties, where it belongs. But still, I have no problem wearing things that are “above the knee” even though I am quickly approaching the big Five OHHHHH.  The countdown has begun and we are down to 8 months.  And after Saturday evening I have been compelled to rethink my wardrobe strategy entirely.

That was when Bill and I happily hauled ourselves to one of our favorite watering holes for something slightly stronger than water. Ok, a lot stronger than water.  We have just come off a ridiculously stressful year and a half, and we were in the mood to celebrate.  I opted for pants and a funky shirt – age appropriate – brightly colored to match my happy mood.  We laughed, ran into some friends, and indulged our need for alcohol.  And that, folks, was when I saw her.  As I turned around from the bar to take a look around the room I noticed a woman standing with her back to me.  She was in a pair of impossibly high heels, a snug fitting shirt, and a skin tight skirt that was short enough to make you wonder if it was immune to the laws of gravity. It was no less than five inches above the knee so we are talking SHORT.  I hoped she was wearing underwear for obvious reasons.  She had a great figure, and for a moment I thought “damn, wish I looked like that in a tight miniskirt and heels.”  Then…then she turned around, and my jaw hit the floor.  Was she 50? Ummmm…no.  Was she 55?  Nope, keep going…was she 60?  If she was 60 she really needed to consider some Juvaderm and maybe a micro peel.  No, she was definitely more than a couple of years beyond 60.  That was when I realized you can DEFINITELY be too old to wear ANYTHING really really short.  Yes, from the back she was a knockout.  From the front, it was like looking at your grandmother wearing something that she was sure would make her look hot.  First of all, I don’t EVER want to think of my grandmother, or anyone else’s grandmother, as being hot.  When I am in my sixties, I can only hope that there are a variety of more desirable terms used to describe me.  Hot? Nope. Pass. I’m shooting for “lovely”, “elegant” or “classic beauty”.  That does not mean I don’t want to look drop dead gorgeous, but I don’t want to do it in something that is clearly meant for someone at least 20 years younger than me. 

In that moment, as I looked at her, I felt a pang of sympathy.  She wasn’t giving off that vibe of an incredibly confident older woman who didn’t give a crap what other people thought.  And that would have been just fine in my book.  She seemed to be that woman who was struggling with growing old gracefully and was grasping onto her younger years with both hands as time dragged her down the road, kicking and screaming.  She looked uncomfortable, maybe even just a touch paranoid that people were looking at her.  I bet she wished she was home in her yoga pants having a glass of wine trying to catch up on episodes of Mad Men on Netflix.  I know that would be been my thought. There is nothing worse than standing in the middle of a crowded room when clearly you are not feeling your finest.  And with that, I picked my jaw up off the floor and stopped staring.  I know, bad form on my part but the whole thing was kind of like watching a train wreck. 

So yesterday I went through my closet and packed up the last of my miniskirts and dresses.  It was like packing up my youth in a way, not that I feel old. I just don’t feel like “that girl” anymore.  I wouldn’t call my wardrobe boring.  In fact, I usually gravitate towards the “eclectic”, but I am definitely not interested in wearing anything that looks like I am trying to recapture my youth. Those days are thankfully behind me, which is good because quite frankly they were exhausting.  An inch or two above the knee?  I can deal with that.  Anything more than that?  No freaking way.

And for those who are wondering, no I am not “letting myself go.”  I’m still ridiculously vein.  I never miss my botox appointment, and I spend way too much on skincare.  But I do feel as though I have crossed over to the other side.  And honestly, it feels fabulous, so I’m to go with it.  But if I do lapse and wear something meant for the younger set, I can only hope my friends will hit me upside the head and drag me home to change into something more appropriate.  Because THAT is what friends are for.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Confessions of a 49 year old control freak...

So I submit to you, in all humility – yes, I am a control freak.  I’m not as bad as I once was, but there is still a lot of work to do in this particular category of my life.  Along with patience, it is probably my life lesson.  This past weekend was yet another example of how I can let my controlling tendencies get the best of me, and sometimes hurt other people in the process.  I’m not proud of that.  But I am a work in progress.  I figure as long as I am at least learning from my mistakes, there is something positive born out of a bad situation.

I’m not quite sure when I decided that my ability to keep track of everything and everyone around me was “the right way.”  And truly, a lot of my “knowing how this is going to turn out” comes from my own stupid mistakes.  I’ve been there, I’ve tested that hypotheses, and the outcome stinks.  Two failed marriages, countless bad relationships, and a generally bad track record when it comes to love and life decisions pretty much sealed the deal for me.  I got lucky though.  I finally stopped trying to control that part of my life.  I met Bill and he was the best thing to ever happen to me.  But still, I watch the people around me, people I love, and I can’t help but feel the need to tell them how to avoid the stupid mistakes in life, especially the ones in which I have lots of experience.  The problem is that unless you make those mistakes on your own, you never get the benefit of learning firsthand how to not fuck up.  I can’t protect everyone, as much as I would like to, it’s flat out impossible.  That little voice in my head keeps saying “they need to walk their own path.”  My heart keeps saying “you know, you could just drag them kicking and screaming down the right path and you would save them the trouble.”  I know I know…control issues.  But really?  Is it so bad to want to save your loved ones from heartbreak?  Well in theory, no, but in the end it just causes a lot of stress that no one really wanted in the first place, and then those very same people start to view you as the world’s biggest pain in the ass.  Guilty as charged, and I have the big ass to prove it.  Again, luck is in my corner though.  Usually those very same people recognize that I am a recovering control freak and they forgive quickly.  I always appreciate someone who can see me for my faults as well as my fabulousness.  Truly, it is all meant with the best of intentions, just sometimes I have really bad delivery.

I do reserve the right to exercise a fair amount of control in my daughter’s life, although I am inclined to sugar coat it so it’s not so annoying for her.  She gets it, and for right now, she deals with it like a champ.  That, of course, is always subject to change when dealing with a teenager, so I will hold out hope that things continue to be awesome around my house.  I also know there are no guarantees.  I’m never going to get Mother of the Year, but hopefully I won’t screw her up permanently.  I am positive I still have those discount coupons for therapy that I was given at the hospital the day she was born.  “Here, these are for your daughter.  She’s going to need these someday.”  Damn that hospital staff for seeing right through me.  I guess control freaks are easy to spot.  I should upgrade my “mom camouflage.”

So, I just felt it necessary to throw myself on my sword and shout out “mea culpa” to my always patient possé of family and friends.  If I push too hard, if I become too insistent, please know it’s only because I care so deeply.  Then feel free to tell me to shut the fuck up.  I promise I will stop trying to screw with your gps in life so you can walk your path without obstacles and wrong turns, at least any caused by me.  The rest of them…well, you’re on your own. 

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Butterflies would be better in a cage...or a convent...

My 13 year old daughter, Patricia, has really blossomed this year.  It’s been a joy to watch, until today.  Now, I am thinking a convent might be an appropriate learning institution for her until she’s - oh let’s pick a number – 30 years old.  Thirty is good, a nice round number. She’ll still have a lot of good years left and I will have survived what every parent fears, your teenage daughter dating.

It hasn’t begun yet, mind you.  In fact, she lamented to me over the summer that “all the other girls in school have boys that like them, but not me.”  My heart broke for her.  I told her I didn’t have a boyfriend until late in high school, and that teenage boys are nothing to brag about anyway.  (Generally speaking they are a pile of braces, bad jokes, awkwardness, and Axe body spray.) I told her they were too stupid to realize how funny, beautiful, intelligent and amazing she is.  My words fell on deaf ears.  The summer went on, and somewhere between swim team and the end of August, the caterpillar turned into a butterfly.  She went to school with an incredible sense of herself, a boatload of confidence, and a totally hot new school wardrobe which left a gaping hole in my checking account.  I was proud of her, happy for her.  I looked back on my days in 8th grade and shuddered.  She was definitely on track to a better 8th grade year than mine had been.

So last night, when she bounced onto my bed during the Monday football game, she was all smiles. To anyone with a teenage daughter, smiles are always good because if they aren’t smiling then that usually means drama.  Anyway, apparently, some boy (who shall remain nameless) who she found to be cute, walked up to her in the hallway and told her “Wow, Patricia you really look great this year.”  She was elated.  Suddenly all her hard work getting healthy and happy over the summer had paid off.  She felt…HOT.  I was elated for her as well…until I started to think about it for a bit.  Then suddenly my overriding thought was how can I find this brazen little prick, who obviously had ill-conceived designs for my daughter, so I could punch him in the face and threaten him within an inch of his awkward, smelly life.  My father hated teenage boys.  Now I get it.  Dad was right.  I didn’t say anything to her.  I just smiled, and a little something inside me died. She wasn’t a kid anymore.  She’d always be my baby, but the kid was definitely out the door.  I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.  I wanted to lock her in her room for a VERY long time, but I didn’t.  I just sat there, feeling like nothing would ever be the same again.  I hate it when that shit happens.

I mentioned it to Bill this morning, who was quick to remind me that he does, in fact, own a pump action shotgun which he would be happy to clean at the dining room table on any evening when some Axe-laden teenage predator came by to see her.  I laughed, but knew he was only half kidding.  He told me that the sound of that pump action is something many teenage boys have nightmares about.  I considered making it my new doorbell sound.  Inside I promised myself I would pull the trigger myself if any of these miscreants touched my girl.  I knew it was hardly the case, but a mother can dream.

So one more milestone down and many more to go.  She turns fourteen in October.  Next year she will be a freshman, and not too far down the road, she will be getting her driver’s license.  There will be “boy/girl” parties, and dating, and proms. What happens when she falls in love and gets her heart broken?  What happens when she leaves for college?  Ok, not thinking about those moments, it makes me teary-eyed and pathetic.  I know she is a smart kid who is far beyond her years when it comes to maturity, but I’d still like to shield her from all those awful moments when you think your world is ending and nothing will ever be the same. 

I’m lucky in the fact that she talks to me without any reservations because she knows there is absolutely nothing she can tell me that will shock or surprise me.  My teens and twenties were filled with all those memorable moments, both good and bad.  I’m not THAT old. I still remember them all, some with great fondness, and some with a cringe.

Ahhhh, to be young again.  I know that I’m not. I am however, considering getting my concealed carry permit.  And you're never too old to learn how to clean a pump action shotgun.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Down the rabbit hole, hope I don't spill my martini...

There is little in this world that drags me down more than one of my now infrequent bouts with depression.  Over the years I’ve been able to keep myself on a pretty even keel, thus not falling down that nasty little rabbit hole that can quite often seem bottomless.  I take my meds religiously, try to keep a positive attitude, exercise regularly and eat right – all the things “they” tell you to do in order to maintain the “emotional buffet” while navigating through life.  But sometimes, there is that moment when no matter how you look at a situation, it makes you want to crawl under the covers and hide, or in my case, hide in the closet with a martini…or five.

So, it would seem that this is one of those times when everything is towering over me, insurmountable situations that aren’t even really fully in my control.  Bill being laid off from his job after nearly 33 years is a big part of it, but not all of it. Yes, I am nervous about being the only breadwinner until Bill finds a new line of employment, but we have planned for it, and I can certainly keep us comfortable on my salary. Still, nerve-wrecking though.  But this time, most of my looming downward spiral revolves around family relationships, manipulation, lies and drama – all of which I cannot become truly involved in, because it’s not my side of the family. Trust me, this is not about an argument between family at the Thanksgiving table.  I’ve been dismissed, told I “don’t know anything about it”, and asked to step back.  I’ve watched these mini-soap operas grow into full length movies, complete with underlying plots…emotional rollercoasters that bring you to the top of a hopeful situation, only to mercilessly push you over the other side, and all you can do is watch and try to keep from screaming.

Anyone who knows me will tell you in a heartbeat that my tolerance for bullshit is at a level somewhere below zero.  For some reason this strikes fear in the hearts of some, but usually only those who are trying to pull the wool over my eyes.  That’s a really tough thing to do. But when the situation involves people that you have no power to say what is on your mind, then it turns into something akin to emotional paralysis.  On the inside, my mind is screaming “are you people fucking stupid???” and on the outside, I am forced to stand on the sidelines, knowing what the final chapter will be – utter disappointment and complete betrayal.   I used to be hopeful, but that ship has sailed. I don’t fault those involved for trying.  Family is family and when it is yours, you will do anything to save those involved. I get that.  But when you constantly beat your head against a wall, only to get the same response from the one you are trying to save, then it turns into an act of desperation.  I’ve made my opinion known the few times I have been asked how things should be handled, and every time my response has been the same. “You cannot save someone who has no desire or intention of saving themselves, I don’t care how good a game they talk.”  Actions speak louder than any spoken word and when they say one thing then do the exact opposite, it’s time to step back and let that person, no matter how much you love them, find their own bottom.  Their bottom is their determination, not those who are trying to help.  What may seem like the bottom to you may be nowhere near the bottom for the person in question.  Interventions only work when the person being intervened on is absolutely willing to take the steps to do the hard work to get better.  Otherwise, it’s like spinning your wheels in the sand.  You just get sucked in deeper.  When you have to witness a significant other or partner get sucked into that hole by the person they are trying to save, it is gutwrenching and heartbreaking.  But there is nothing you can do but be there for him.  I’m trying to remember that, I really am.

So this nightmare scenario, along other life-altering melodramas, has me wishing I was anywhere but along the sidelines watching it all go down. I am trying to see the bright side of things, and tell myself “It will all be just fine. It always is” but I am wondering at whose expense.  I’m not sure I can watch, so that rabbit hole is looking mighty inviting.  I bet there is room for my martini glass and maybe even a bag of Grandma Utz’s potato chips.  I can hide in there, pretend the outside world doesn’t exist, sleep as much as I want, and generally forget all about the fact that my home, and my loved ones, are about to fall apart like a house of cards…in my home, right in front of my eyes. I know it. I can feel it. But I am helpless to do anything about it.  To those who think that my life is always sunshine and lollipops, glitter and butterflies, it most certainly is not.  Today…today it pretty much sucks, and it will probably suck tomorrow.

I’m going to try to ignore that cozy rabbit hole for now.  It might be time to up my meds I’m thinking. I really need to call my damn doctor about that. I’m going to march on, smile on my face, with my wit and sarcasm to sustain me as I watch the idiocy of the world go by.  I know there are people who are in far worse situations, but right now, at this moment this is my albatross, my hell.  Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer. Wish me luck.  And if you see me around, just give me a smile and a nod.  I’ll know you “get it.”  Trust me, I will appreciate it more than you could even know.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

For the love of Lean Cuisine...

There is probably nothing more difficult than trying to cram as much crap as possible in an one hour lunch break.  Normally, I just head home and grab something left over from dinner the night before, or make a salad.  Filling? Yes. Healthy? Usually. Yummy? Most definitely.  But today, heading home wasn’t an option as I needed a manicure for an event this weekend.  A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!

Enter the Lean Cuisine.  I’m not sure what Keebler-like elf creates these things in Lean Cuisine Land, but honestly, what it lacks in total calories, it also lacks in total taste.  I opted for the “Spa Collection Thai Noodles.”  Spa? Really?  I can almost guarantee there isn’t a spa on the face of this earth that would serve up one of these babies.  The description on the box reads “Spa Collection. Gaining inspiration from wholesome and modern ingredients…made from vegetables, whole grains and no preservatives.”    My Thai Noodles gourmet extravaganza boasts a low 300 calories, 7 grams of total fat and 41 grams of carbs.  It also has about 580 mg of sodium, which I can pretty much assure you is off the chart in the sodium department.  Still, I was hopeful.  I was also hungry enough to chew my own arm off.  You’d be surprised what you’d eat when your stomach starts to devour itself.  By the way, it should be noted that there are all sorts of handy little tips about eating healthy on the back of a Lean Cuisine box.  You can even sign up for “Rewards points.”  What in the hell are they giving rewards for??? Is there some sort of prize for eating this crap?  There should be.

Upon my arrival back at the office, I popped my very “efficient” looking Lean Cuisine in the microwave for 4 minutes, remembering to cut a slit in the top of the cellophane top, lest my meal explode under such heat and pressure. I stood there, STARING at the microwave, willing time to move at a lightening pace so I could dig in with wild abandon. Waiting…waiting…did you know that watching a microwave is much akin to watching water boil?  In fact, since you are indeed watching each second tick by with amazing precision, I am pretty sure that it is even WORSE than waiting for water to boil.  I paced, I tried to distract myself. I decided that if I went to pee then perhaps time would fly by more quickly.  I had no idea I could pee, wash my hands and check my appearance in the mirror in less than 45 seconds.  Seriously, that has got to be a world record someplace on God’s green earth.  Back to the microwave.  Another minute and a half.  DEAR GOD THIS IS THE LONGEST FOUR MINUTES OF MY LIFE.

Ding!  The waiting is finally over.

As I peeled back the cellophane and peered anxiously into the microwavable dish, a wave of utter disappointment passed over me.  I sniffed it.  It smelled like really bad Thai peanut sauce from a really crappy Thai restaurant.  (I’ve been to several in my life, so I have experience with this sort of thing.)  There were EXACTLY six cubes of what I assumed was chicken breast, some anemic looking red, yellow and green peppers, and a pile of noodles plopped on top of the stinky peanut sauce.  I stirred and prayed it would all magically come together and take on the appearance of something whipped by Ming Tsi.  It did not. Was it because I did not follow instruction exactly and cook on 3 minutes, then remove the cover, stir and recover, cooking for another minute and a half? It must be my fault, because I was never going to admit that I actually purchase such a food travesty.

I took my disappointing lunch back to my desk.  Having no other option, I actually ate it.  While it wasn’t the worst thing to ever pass my lips, it was damn close.  But like I said before, you would be surprised what you’ll eat when you are pretty sure you are watching your life pass before your eyes from absolute hunger.

I know, I could have taken the time to make myself something yummy, I really could have.  But sometimes that extra 15 minutes of sleep surpasses anything else, and I opted for the shuteye.  Will I think better next time?  Yeah, probably.  But just in case, there is a Lean Cuisine Spa Collection Chicken and Tortellini with Basil Cream Sauce waiting for me in the freezer.  I’m hoping that one will present as a more satisfying lunch.  Maybe?  Nahhhhh….

Friday, July 26, 2013

30 years is a long time...

Reunions are a funny thing.  They can bring out the best and the worst in people, often simultaneously.  My 30th high school reunion is next weekend, and I am looking forward to more of the best than the worst. I went to my 20th, still thinking I had something to prove – to whom I’m not really sure. The beauty of my 30th will be the fact that I just couldn’t give a shit anymore.  We all grow and evolve on our own terms.  It took crossing over the “40” age line before I realized I was just fine the way I was, physically, mentally and spiritually.  After that, things just sort of fell into place.  Too bad we can’t take that feeling of self-satisfaction and go back to that awkward time known as the “teenage years” and spend some time reassuring and coaching ourselves through all that anxiety and self-doubt.  We were all just fine back then. We just weren’t able to see it.  At the advanced age of 48 ½ (give or take a month) I am actually pretty happy in my own skin and that’s a really incredible feeling.  I hope my classmates and friends have managed to find their “happy place” as well.  The ones that I am close to I pretty much adore just the way they are.  They’ve grown into amazing individuals, each with their own story, complete with moments of absolute celebration and tragedy.  It’s those moments that make us who we are.

There is a common thread that weaves us all together into a really beautiful fabric.  We all hail from a small town in Pennsylvania, and from my perspective and the observations of others, I think we all cherish and treasure that commonality.  We are special.  We cling to a way of life that allowed us all to enjoy that “Leave It To Beaver” lifestyle growing up, dotted with memories of memorial days parades, Friday night football games, the annual carnivals, and an extreme sense of belonging to something very very good. Life was simple.  Life was splendid.  I know I personally didn’t appreciate that when I was 18 years old and so full of myself, but now…now it has become very precious to me.  Maybe that is what has drawn me to live in another small town, much further south, but with a lot of the same values and sense of community.  They do say things like “y’all” a lot down here, and even this Yankee girl catches herself using such southern phrases, but the reality is Manassas, Virginia shares more with Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania than I ever thought it would. I find it completely heartwarming that so many of my former classmates who left our town after graduation are now back in Tunkhannock, and raising their own families there.  It’s a great life.  I just couldn’t handle those cold Pennsylvania winters anymore.

I’ve also been lucky enough to find a partner and best friend (it only took me three tries, mostly because I’m a slow learner) who shares that same affection for small town life.  Indeed, he has lived and worked within five miles of the house we currently live in (where he actually grew up) his entire life.  I love that stability and solidness about him.  I’ve been anything but grounded over the past three decades, especially the earlier two.  He keeps my feet firmly planted on the ground while allowing me to at least exercise the option to still be myself, and all that comes with that – most of it a bit on the “quirky” side.

It’s good to remember where you came from.  It will help you walk the path to where you are going.  I, for one, am thankful for Tunkhannock, and all those that remain there.  Next Saturday is going to be special, and that makes me smile.

Looking forward to seeing all of you from the Tunkhannock Class of 1983.  Cheers!

Friday, July 19, 2013

You can pick your friends,and your nose, but family...not so much...

Let me start this off by saying this is not about MY family. I am blessed with one of the most amazing families ever, and yes, I'm more than a little biased.  We’re not perfect – not even close.  We fight on occasion, but most of the time we are all about sharing a good bottle of wine and some chips/dip, and having a whole lot of laughs.  There is a fierce love and loyalty between all of us that trumps everything else.  I have gone through some incredibly difficult times in my life, and not all of those times can be attributed to being “unlucky.”  Quite frankly, a lot of it was self-induced because I’m the kind of person who can’t be satisfied with making a mistake once. I have to make it five or six times so I can consider myself an expert.  My family hasn’t always been happy with my decisions, and they aren’t shy to express their opinion, but there has never been a moment when they haven’t stood firmly behind me in solidarity. They’ve seen me through two divorces, and that was no easy task.  They were always very good at seeing what I was completely blind to in the men that I chose for myself.  But they let me walk my own path, and in the end I was lucky enough to marry a man that they not only approved of, one that they actually love and accept.  It’s been one of my greatest joys.

As for my two divorces?  Well, let’s just say I’m not very good at making things easy for myself. On the upside, it has allowed my friends to learn from my mistakes.  I’m just the BEST kind of teacher in that respect.  When my last marriage fell off the cliff, my mom and dad opened their hearts and really listened. They gave me their best advice and they helped as much as they could.  And most importantly, they made sure it was perfectly clear that they were on my side, not my former husband’s side.  It’s good to feel like you have people in your corner.

So imagine my shock when I found out that a close friend’s sister was throwing HER ex-husband a birthday party. At first I was speechless, then…then I was PISSED.  Keep in mind, this was not an amicable divorce and there have been several occasions where it has gotten downright nasty between her and her ex. It’s also a very recent divorce, one that still involves a lot of healing for everyone, including her kids. The first thing I said to her was “Now let me get this straight. They are throwing a birthday party for him???” She confirmed and added that it was a party that her two girls were invited to, but she was not. Ok, now I want to punch someone in the throat.  Seriously?  Well, that is a new level of disrespect I hadn’t really experienced or heard of in a long time.  I told her it was bullshit. I told her if she attended this party, I would personally drive to her house and escort her to a mental institution.  I was mad she wasn’t as mad as I was, but she’s all about “the high road” which I personally find overrated.  I spent many years being a doormat to anyone who chose to walk all over me.  Little did I know when I stopped my doormat behavior, I must have somehow “magically” passed my doormat on to her which she now had firmly secured on her forehead.  I couldn’t swear to it, but she may have even gone the permanent tattoo route.

My anger at her for allowing this to happen is far overshadowed by my anger at her “loving” sibling.  What a wretched excuse for a sister.  I can say with all certainty that my sister would never throw my ex a party. I couldn’t actually promise that my sister wouldn’t run him over if he was crossing the street in front of her.  Family is family and blood is blood. My ex is not blood.  Even if my sister was fond of my ex, it would be a cold day in hell before she EVER pulled that crap.  Her loyalty is firmly on my side of the fence. She’s an awesome sister, by the way.

I’m not sure why I was so shocked that my friend was put in this situation.  This is the same family that insists on inviting her ex to family vacations, even though she was absolutely against it.  Mind you, the vacations are paid for by her mother.  Yeah, I can guarantee my mom wouldn’t even let herself be within a 50 mile radius of my ex, let alone share a beach house.  How do you do that to your own family?  This is HER family, not his.  So this year, he is going on vacation with her family. She is not.  I can’t even believe I just typed that.  Two words. Fucked up. Pardon my French, folks.

The good thing is, while she has a hard time standing up for herself, she is surrounded by friends who have no problem telling her sister to go to hell, myself included.  My friend is a beautiful and wonderful person. In fact, I wish she could see the woman I see. Her sister is a bitch and a bully.  No one needs that in their life.  Getting from one end to the other in life is hard enough, without having family firmly planting a knife in your back.  I was happy to tell her delusional sibling exactly what I thought of her, as did other friends.  We propped my friend up.  I hope it gave her strength and empowered her to take a stand.  This is why picking good friends, supportive friends, is so important.

Family is difficult, sometimes frustrating, sometimes downright infuriating.  It happens in every family, including my own.  The one thing family should never be is devious, antagonistic, jealous or undermining.  I’m sad that she had to endure this utter bullshit from a family member, and I hope that through some sort of miracle, her sister realizes how much she hurt with her actions.  I doubt it, since she is pretty convinced that no one else could possibly be right about anything.  Good thing she isn’t MY sister.